The Christmas Cradle

by Linda Warren

  Reed stood in the doorway. “You’re determined about this?”

  She paused for a moment to glance at her brother. “Yes.”

  Reed walked inside. “I’ve been sent to talk you out of it.”

  “I figured that.” She zipped up the suitcase.

  “They love you. They’re just a little overprotective.”

  She set the case on the floor. “I don’t feel loved,” she told him. “They’re smothering me and sometimes I can barely breathe. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I’m going to get a job. I have to find out if I can survive in this world, away from the support of my parents.”

  “Get a job?” Reed echoed. “That’s absurd. You have a trust fund and you can do whatever you want. Travel, do charity work, help the poor—but there’s no need to join the workforce.”

  “You sound like Father.” She pushed her hair back.

  “Oh, God,” Reed groaned, but quickly shook off the comparison.

  “Marisa… You’ve been obsessed with this man, and now that you’ve seen him again, you’re not thinking rationally. I’ll admit Father went over the top calling the police, but we were all very worried. Please don’t do something you’ll regret.”

  She drew a long breath. “I haven’t been ‘obsessed’ with Colter. I’ve been obsessed with the loss of our child. You’ve never experienced that, so you don’t know the emptiness, the loneliness that never goes away. When I saw Colter again, I thought if I told him about our son, that feeling would leave. But he’s not interested in anything I have to say. It made me realize, though, that he’s moved on, and I have to do the same. I can’t do that under the watchful eyes of our parents. I need time, space and my freedom. Please, Reed, help me.”

  He wavered, but not for long. “Go out the back and I’ll stall them.”

  She kissed his cheek and grabbed her suitcase and clothes bag. “Thanks, Reed.”

  “Call and let me know you’re okay.”

  “I will,” she promised, and ran down the hall to the back stairs.

  RICHARD PACED HIS STUDY, downing whiskey. He heard a noise and walked to the window in time to see Marisa driving away.

  “Goddammit.” He ran for the control panel to the gate.

  Reed stood in front of it. “Let her go, Father.”

  “Get the hell out of my way.” He pushed Reed aside and hurriedly punched in some numbers. He and Reed stood at the window and watched as the gate closed behind Marisa’s car.

  “Goddammit, Reed! Look what you’ve done. A split second more and the gate would’ve locked and she would’ve had to stay here, where she belongs.”

  “And what? Lock her in her room? She’s not seventeen anymore.”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Richard yelled. “She’s going straight to him and he’ll destroy her—again.”

  “What’s going on?” Vanessa asked, coming into the room. “Why are you yelling?”

  “Marisa’s gone and your son helped her leave.”

  Vanessa glared at Reed. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because she needs some time and she needs her freedom. I see nothing wrong with that. You two act insane when it comes to Marisa. Let her live her own life, for a change.” He stalked out of the room.

  Vanessa stared at Richard. “She’ll see him again. You know she will.”

  Richard nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Stop it before she gets hurt.”

  Richard reached for his whiskey. “I plan to.”

  Chapter Six

  The weather had cleared and the ice had all melted, leaving the streets wet and slippery. Marisa drove very carefully. She knew that in a matter of minutes her father could have someone following her, so she had to think fast. She wouldn’t let herself be brought back like a disobedient child. It didn’t take her long to figure out a plan. She headed for Dalton’s and parked in her usual spot, then called a cab using her cell phone. Once the driver had dropped her at a small café, she phoned Cari.

  Marisa walked into the restaurant with her suitcase, clothes bag and purse, and found a booth in a corner facing the entrance. She ordered coffee, which she drank while she waited. Maybe she shouldn’t have called Cari, but she desperately needed a friend right now.

  Ten minutes later, Cari came through the door and hurried toward her. She wore jeans and a heavy sweater, although her dark hair was still damp. She’d obviously just showered.

  “I’m sorry,” Marisa apologized, getting up and hugging her. “But I need to talk.”

  “No problem.”

  “Has my father called?”

  “Oh, yes, and I have strict orders to call him the instant you show up. What on earth is going on?”

  Marisa heaved a sigh. “It’s a long story.”

  “Where are your shoes?” Cari asked, staring down at Marisa’s feet in her heavy socks.

  In her haste to leave, she’d forgotten to put on shoes and hadn’t even noticed. “Ah.” Marisa smiled. “I gave them to the sweetest little girl you’d ever want to meet.”

  “You gave your shoes away?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  Cari frowned. “Are you okay? You’re acting a little…strange.”

  “I feel a little strange.”

  “Let me get some coffee, and you can tell me this long story. Do you want some more?”

  “No, thanks.” Marisa resumed her seat.

  Cari signaled a waitress, ordered coffee and slid into the booth.

  For the next thirty minutes, Marisa told Cari everything that had happened since she’d left Dalton’s yesterday.

  “Oh, my. Your father sent the police out there. That’s unbelievable.”

  “The deputy arrived, and I never got the chance to tell Colter about our son.”

  “So all of this was for nothing?”

  Marisa fingered her cup. “No, not really. It made me see that I have to change my life. My parents control me like the proverbial puppet—they always have and I’ve let them. I’m finally breaking free. I’m quitting Dalton’s and finding my own place to live, and next week I’ll be looking for a job.”

  “A job?” Cari asked in disbelief. “Your family’s wealthy and you have what everyone thinks of as the American dream. You don’t have to work.”

  “The American dream, I believe, is making it on your own in this land of opportunity, and that’s what I plan to do.”

  Cari shook her head. “I don’t understand. I’ve had to struggle for everything I’ve gotten and sometimes the struggle’s exhausting.”

  “But you feel good about succeeding by yourself—you’ve told me many times.”

  “Yeah. I only have a high school education but I took some business courses. I was determined to be more than a sales-clerk.”

  “I want the same thing. To be a productive human being.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “I have to find a place to live.”

  “You can stay with me,” Cari offered.

  “If I did, you’d lose your job—the one you’ve worked so hard for.”

  “Hmm.” Cari sipped her coffee.

  “When you get back to your apartment, call my father. Tell him you saw me and that I refused to tell you where I was going.” She smiled at her friend. “Because I’m not telling you. That way you won’t have to lie.”

  “Marisa…”

  “Sorry, no exceptions.”

  “But…”

  “No,” Marisa said, refusing to budge on that decision.

  “Okay. You will call me from time to time to let me know how you’re doing?”

  Marisa nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  Cari watched her for a moment. “So you gave your heels to Colter’s daughter?”

  “Yes. She’s just a delight.”

  “You didn’t feel any resentment toward her?”

  “Not for a second. She has nothing to do with the past.”

  “Did you resent Colter?”

  She gripped
the cup more tightly. “At first I did. He and Shannon got married so quickly, and that hurt, but I have to take some responsibility there. That’s what healing’s about—admitting fault and taking responsibility.” She pushed her cup away. “I’d better go before my father shows up.”

  “Marisa…”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  Marisa called a cab and left. She switched cabs several times, in case her father checked with the companies, then she bought a paper and checked into a motel. She didn’t plan on being found too easily. After taking a shower, she scanned the want ads, looking for a place to stay. There were lots of apartments, but she felt the rents were too high. She wanted something she could afford on a working girl’s salary. She was about to give up when she noticed a section describing rooms for rent. That would fit her requirement more closely; she wouldn’t have to worry about furniture, and the rent would be lower.

  She talked to a couple of the homeowners, but they didn’t sound very appealing. The third one seemed pleasant, so she decided to have a look. The room was in an old Victorian house in an older part of Dallas. Getting out of the cab, she studied the house, which was attractive and well kept. The grounds, too, were nicely maintained, and the whole place had a warm, homey air.

  She met Hazel Hackleberry, the owner, a short, plump friendly older woman whom Marisa liked the moment she shook her hand. Within minutes, Marisa had become her boarder. The room itself was white and pink with a lot of frills and lace, but Marisa didn’t care. It would be her home for now.

  The next day she moved in, and bought a used car because she couldn’t continue to spend money on cabs. On Monday, she began searching for a job. She spent the entire week submitting applications and attending interviews, with no luck. She had a business degree, but once a firm became aware of her connection to Richard Preston, she was no longer considered a viable employee. Her father had put the word out—don’t hire her.

  Meanwhile she settled comfortably into Mrs. Hackleberry’s house. Hazel was the motherly type, and although she’d told Marisa that meals weren’t provided, she invited her to dinner almost every night. Hazel’s only son had been killed in Vietnam and her sister lived next door. Other than that she had little family, and Marisa knew she was lonely.

  There was a large Steinway in the living room. Every time Marisa passed it she itched to play. One evening, without really thinking about it, she sat down on the piano bench and ran her fingers across the keys. She hadn’t touched a piano since her son’s death. It felt so natural, though. So right. She played a Chopin piece, but the piano needed tuning. Still, she was lost in the music.

  “Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Hackleberry said, listening. “You play beautifully.”

  She turned on the bench. “Thank you. Do you play?”

  Hazel shook her head. “Good Lord, no. My aunt left me the piano. Why, I don’t know. I never played a day in my life.”

  “Do you mind if I play while I’m here?” Marisa couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. For years, she had ignored her training and avoided anything to do with music, but now she felt liberated. Maybe it was seeing Colter again. Maybe it was her bid for freedom. Or maybe she was finally letting go of the past.

  “No. I’d enjoy it.”

  “Do you mind if I get it tuned?” she asked, then quickly added, “I’ll pay for it.”

  “Go ahead,” Hazel replied. “It’s time someone used that old thing.”

  The next day Marisa had the piano tuned. On impulse, she stopped by the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. She was almost high with excitement when the conductor granted her an interview and then an audition. He seemed pleased with her work and said he’d be in touch after the winter season. She intended to pursue her music—her way this time. But now she had to find a job.

  That night after dinner, Marisa played for Hazel, then sat at the table going through the want ads again, searching for a job.

  “You can’t find a job?” Hazel asked.

  “No. My father’s pretty well closed most doors.” When she’d rented the room, she’d told Hazel some of the reasons she needed it. Later, she’d confided more. Hazel was easy to talk to, and Marisa felt she was lucky to find this place.

  “I wish I could help, but I used to be a seamstress and that’s all I know.”

  “Oh. Who did you work for?”

  “Madame Hélèna.”

  Marisa’s head jerked up. “You worked for Madame Hélèna, the designer?”

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “Just her work. She’s very famous.”

  “We dressed some of the most important people in the world,” Hazel said with pride. “When Hélèna first started, it was just the two of us sewing, but now she has factories full of workers turning out her designs.”

  “I love her work,” Marisa said. “Her line is sleek yet simple.”

  “Would you like to meet her?”

  “Oh, Hazel, no. I wasn’t fishing for an invitation.”

  “It’s not an invitation. It’s an offer. Hélèna’s always looking for good help.”

  “That would be wonderful. Do you think she’s hiring?”

  “I’ll give her a call and find out.”

  Marisa waited, her heart in her throat, hardly able to believe her luck. She needed this. She needed a break.

  Hazel wrote something on a piece of paper and laid it in front of Marisa. “That’s the address. Be there at nine and don’t be late. Hélèna likes a responsible person.”

  “I won’t—and thank you.” Marisa got up and hugged her. Marisa had trouble hugging her own mother, but with Hazel it was so easy. She knew the healing process had started now, and sometime soon she might be able to talk to her parents again. They had left her alone, which she found rather suspicious, but she was grateful for it. Marisa supposed they were waiting for her to fall on her face. She wouldn’t, though. She was going to make it.

  She had to get this job.

  Later, she picked out clothes for the interview, took a shower, then crawled into bed. Excitement trickled through her and, try as she might, she couldn’t keep thoughts of Colter at bay. All week she’d tried not to think about him and his little girl. At times she succeeded and at others she didn’t. She’d had his sister’s clothes cleaned, packaged and mailed to him, with a note that said simply, “Thanks for lending me these.” No signature. Her own clothes were still at his place, and she was sure he’d probably thrown them out.

  She turned over in bed and smiled, imagining Ellie in her heels. She hoped Colter let her keep them. Flipping onto her back, she wondered if Ellie was still searching for a mother; she’d never know, because she’d never see them again. Her excitement turned to sadness but she fought it. She had to. There was no other choice.

  MARISA WAS AT Madame Hélèna’s office at 8:45 a.m., and she couldn’t believe how nervous she was. She straightened the jacket of her dark green suit three times before she forced herself to stop.

  Madame Hélèna walked in promptly at 9:00 a.m. Marisa had only seen pictures of her and was surprised she was so petite. Barely five feet, she was slim and elegant, with auburn hair worn in a knot.

  She stared at Marisa. “So you’re Marisa Preston?” She spoke with a slight accent.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marisa answered, and shook her hand.

  Bracelets dangled from Hélèna’s wrist, and she wore a beaded choker that complemented the sleek raw silk dress with its V-neck. Marisa recognized the style as one of Madame Hélèna’s.

  “Have a seat.” Hélèna sat, too, putting on a pair of glasses, and looked through some papers on her desk. “Hazel says you’re looking for a job.”

  “Yes.”

  Hélèna leaned back. “Why, chérie? Your father is rich.”

  “I’ve been pampered and smothered all my life. I need freedom and I need to make it on my own.” Marisa tried to be as honest as she could.

  “I understand that. I was born in Paris and I met an American GI and
fell in love. He brought me to Dallas and I thought I was in hell. I hated it here, but I loved the man more. I gave birth to a son and became very domesticated—and then my husband died. I didn’t know what to do. I could sew, so I started sewing for people—anything to feed my son and me. Dallas women were willing to spend extra money for an original dress. I tapped into that. Word got around and soon my business was flourishing. But there were a lot of people who tried to stop me.” She paused. “Richard Preston was one of those people.”

  Marisa swallowed. “Oh.”

  “He resented that I was taking business away from Dalton’s, but I stuck it out, and today I have shops here, in New York, Los Angeles and in my beloved Paris.”

  Marisa was unsure of how to respond, so she nodded. “Yes, I know. Your designs are very popular.”

  “Ten years ago, I would’ve hired you in a second to settle that score with Richard, but I don’t have time for revenge anymore.”

  Marisa’s heart sank. “Are you saying you’re not hiring me?”

  “I’m saying I won’t indulge your whim to get back at your father.”

  Marisa slid forward, perching on the edge of her chair. “Madame Hélèna, this isn’t about getting back at my father. It’s about my independence. I have to work to pay my bills and, before you ask, I’m not taking money from my father. I have to find out who I am— All I’m asking for is a chance.”

  Hélèna studied her for a moment, then leaned forward. “What do you know about fashion?”

  “I know what I like.”

  Hélèna stood. “Come with me.” They went through a door into a large studio crowded with easels, rolls and rolls of fabric, mannequins and everything else a designer might need. Hélèna went to a drawing board. “This is a dress I’m working on. What do you think?”

  Marisa looked over her shoulder at the drawing—a straight black dress with long sleeves and, again, a modified V-neck. “Very nice,” she murmured. “Simple but classy—something that could be worn to almost any formal occasion. And that neckline works for practically every woman.”

  Hélèna picked up a pencil. “Yes. I’m debating whether to put the slit up the back of the skirt or on the side.”