“One of the neighbors is getting foreclosed. Your dad and I are collecting donations to help their kids have Christmas.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of bad news all in one night.”
“It is.” My mother turned to look at me, her hand on the door handle. “Not everything is perfect and cheerful in Snow Valley, Jessica. You accuse us of that all the time, but you aren’t the only one sad or grieving.”
Her words were like a slap in the face. “That’s cruel!”
“Is it? You’re either moping around the house, in your room ignoring everyone, or acting like you have the entire world’s suffering on your own poor shoulders.”
“Ouch, Mom. What is this, tough love?” I couldn’t hide the resentment in my voice.
“Maybe it is. I hate to see you hurting yourself.”
“Who says I am?”
“It’s so obvious, and you can’t see it, honey. Because you’re too wrapped up in feeling sorry for yourself. And too bent on pushing everyone away. Too eager to live on a pedestal of pity.”
I was speechless for a moment. “That’s not true—” I started, eager to deny her accusations and prove her wrong. But my mother had already exited the vehicle and shut the car door on me.
As I watched her walk through the glass doors, my whole being simmered with offense. Reaching over, I opened her door and slammed it shut again. There. How dare she say those things to me and then gently close her car door and walk away like she was Mother Theresa?
When I got home I couldn’t get out of my cold jeans and boots fast enough. I threw my coat across the room, then peeled off my mittens and hat and watched them knock over a perfume bottle on my bureau. Down below, I heard Catherine’s family come in the front door, chattering and laughing and giggling.
I stuffed my legs into my flannel pajamas then crawled into bed, turning up the thermostat on my heated blanket. Wrapping my pillow around my head, I cried real tears for the first time in a year. Not burning tears I blinked away. Or sniffing back emotion. Or hiding a drop when one accidentally slipped out. But buckets of hot tears that hurt my throat and made me feel a little bit sick.
Chapter Eleven
ON SATURDAY, I MADE SIX DOZEN cinnamon rolls. Mixed flour, eggs, sugar, and yeast by hand, kneaded for exactly twelve minutes, and then, when the dough had risen and was overflowing the bowl, I rolled them up, pinched the ends, then used a ruler to measure each one so they’d be exactly the same size.
By the time I was finished I was covered in flour, with dashes of brown cinnamon under my fingernails. Cream cheese icing sweetened the fly-away strands of my long hair.
“Those look good enough to eat just as they are,” Dad said, grabbing a still-rising roll off a cookie sheet and chomping right into the raw dough laden with brown sugar and cinnamon.
“Dad!” I chided. “Those are for—other people.”
“You mean I pay for the flour and cinnamon and oven electricity and I can’t even have one?”
“Okay. One.”
“Call it a tax.”
“Some of these are going into the freezer for Christmas morning next week.”
“That’s probably the only reason I’m not having a second one. Call me your official taste-tester.”
“So?” I folded my arms, flouring my shirt. “Do you approve?”
“I think they will go down in history as your best cinnamon rolls ever.”
“You always say that.”
“It’s always true, honey.” He kissed my cheek, leaving a sticky spot. I handed him a glass of milk and he went off happily to peruse the morning paper and Mom’s Saturday To Do List.
My stomach did a little flip-flop. I wasn’t meeting James Douglas for an official date. But I was still meeting him. And I realized that I’d made my sweet rolls with a certain amount of care, knowing he’d be judging them.
But why did I care? Being a “homemaker” was not on my list of priorities, goals, or aspirations. I only baked to eat my product.
After devouring a second roll myself and downing two glasses of milk, I was bloated and exhausted. When they were baked and cooled, I swathed the rolls in plastic and aluminum foil for freezing. Then I spent the afternoon wrapping a stack of gifts and stowed them under the tree.
I’d finally gone shopping the day before. The last Friday before Christmas in Billings was a zoo, but I managed to get everything on my list. Amber and Joanie were going to be thrilled with their baby dolls and cradles. I’d found a beautiful blouse for Mom, a book on Civil War history and a deep red tie for dad—yeah, boring—but I was pretty sure he’d like them. A gift card for CDs and movies for Sam and a family game for Catherine and Alan, with a side of Catherine’s favorite perfume.
Plain, simple gifts, but I hadn’t been around my family much the past three years to know their current particular tastes or wants. A funny pang struck me. I’d missed a lot living in New Orleans.
And now that life seemed very far away.
I’d gotten another email from Zach Howard; Christmas jokes. And deleted them.
What I did miss was dancing. My dancing was like breathing to me.
I got into warm leggings and a loose shirt and headed to the basement. This room was better than the gym. It had privacy.
Lovingly, I ran my hand along the length of the barre Dad had installed for me when I was thirteen.
Going through my warm-up, I did the basic routine every dancer began with. Dance positions one through five. Pliés, turnouts, arabesques, spins, holding tight.
Then I moved onto the floor and ran through my pirouettes and leaps and tour jeté’s.
By the time I was done it was almost five o’clock.
I heard the family creaking around upstairs and pounded up the carpeted steps.
“There you are, Jessica,” Mom said. She leaned forward. “You’re flushed.”
“Just finished my workout.”
Mom fluttered her eyelashes. “I suppose a dancer never really gets a vacation.”
I shook my head. “Headed up to take a shower. Winter Carnival tonight—yay.” I gave a half-hearted fist pump, playing down the fizzle of anticipation that was growing stronger each hour. I paused, trying not to be so self-centered. “Um, how’s the Taylor family?”
“Doing okay. A lot of sadness, but there’s always hope.”
“Hope for what? He’s gone forever.”
“Well, dear daughter,” Mom said, stepping closer to put a finger under my chin. “At Christmas we think about the hope of the Savior. His life and the resurrection. The hope that we’ll live again with our families. That hope.”
“Yeah, Mom, I know.” Or did I? I’d heard it all my life, but when Michael was killed I lost the surety of those words. Of all the people I knew, Michael was the good one, the kind one. The one who shouldn’t have died. My anger at God had overwhelmed me for so long. But I was finally growing weary of being angry all the time.
“The baby’s funeral will be on Tuesday, the 23rd.”
I winced, and my throat closed up. The same day Michael’s funeral had been three years ago.
“So hard to lose a child,” Mom murmured. “A life cut so short.”
I wondered who she was thinking of. Olivia’s grandchild—or Michael’s parents? Both had lost a child now.
“Mrs. Gibbons? Do you think she could eat some cinnamon rolls with strep?”
“That’s a great idea, sweetheart. I’m sure she’d love them.”
“I’ll drop off a plate on my way to the carnival.”
I had no idea what made me say that, but Mrs. Gibbons had worked for my dad my entire life. She was an icon in that dentist office. “Better hurry now,” I said, not wanting to talk any longer. My mother’s words the previous night still stung. I’d been playing it cool with her all day. I wasn’t taking goodies because of her. I was doing it for Mrs. Gibbons, who was practically like a second grandmother to us kids, and always had a coloring book stashed under her desk when we showed up after school whi
le Mom was at a meeting.
After I showered and blow-dried my hair, I slipped into a pair of new jeans, thick socks, boots, and a new down coat—since the one I’d brought with me was made for fifty degree weather, not zero.
Hurriedly, I put together three plates of cinnamon rolls. One for Mrs. Gibbons, one for our neighbors losing their house, and one for James. James Douglas that is. Pastor-in-training.
My heart thumped harder after each of my deliveries. I pulled into the parking lot for the carnival and shut off my engine. James had called before I left the house to say he was going to pick me up, but I’d turned him down, citing my errands. Besides, it wasn’t a date. I didn’t need him to drive me.
Hundreds of colorful lights glittered against the dark, winter sky. Rides spinning, a tilt-a-whirl with screaming passengers, a tall Ferris wheel rotating slowly, and a colorful carousel with bejeweled horses riding up and down. I caught a glimpse of Catherine and Alan standing next to Joanie and Amber who were riding purple and pink horses. The girls clapped their hands and giggled. I could practically hear them from the inside of my car.
Carrying my plate wrapped in plastic and strands of green curling ribbon, I headed to the entrance, and sucked in a breath borne of nerves and a strange, eager anticipation when I spotted James Douglas waiting for me.
He leaned against the fence railing, his legs stuck casually out in front of him, bare hands in his jeans’ pockets, his face with a two-day beard under the casual knit cap. Looking all rugged and too handsome for his own good. His slacks were gone. The overcoat and black hat was not in sight.
I swallowed and strode toward him. “Didn’t think Pastors were allowed to wear regular people clothes.”
“You’re not paying enough attention, then.”
I blushed and stuck the plate of cinnamon rolls out. “Here. Eat them and get a stomach ache. I made them with twice the sugar just for you.”
“Ah, that means they’re just as sweet as you.”
Darn him. He never let me get one up on him. Ever.
I made a face—just as he leaned forward—as though he was going to kiss me. I stepped back, thinking how impertinent he was, when he took a lock of my hair and frowned. Then his eye trailed down my arm to a small glob smeared along my wrist.
“I spy a bit of frosting right here.” He stuck a finger in his mouth. “Hm. Homemade, even. I can tell the difference.”
“So you’re a food connoisseur, huh?”
“When it comes to cinnamon rolls, yes.” I forced myself not to smile in return. That just made him smile all the broader.
I pulled my hand back when he took the plate and our fingers brushed. I ignored the rush of electricity. “Probably smeared some when I put together the plates and touched up the frosting. I was kind of in a hurry.”
“Why?”
I realized the implication of what I’d just said and hoped my face hadn’t turned a Christmas red. “I wasn’t hurrying here if that’s what you’re thinking. I had deliveries to make.”
“So under the tough New Orleans façade, you are a Christian. Good to know.”
I growled and gave him a shove off the fence railing.
He flailed for only a moment, and then grabbed one of my hands in his, standing up and looking down at me. He was rock solid. Steady as an ox. Warm as a bonfire.
I tried to tug my fingers away, but he didn’t let me. Just tucked my hand into the crook of his warm elbow and pulled me into the carnival.
I nearly stumbled in surprise, but put on a nonchalant air. As if I didn’t care that his palm was enclosing my smaller hand in a protective gesture.
His fingers were warm despite not having gloves on. A tiny blister on his wide palm, fingers there had clearly seen some hard work recently. “You don’t have office-type fingers,” I noted.
“I helped install a fence today.”
“So you practice what you preach?” There was more to this guy than school studies and reading scriptures.
“Hey, let’s ride the Ferris wheel,” he suggested, as if he didn’t want to talk about the service projects he did for others.
“It’s probably cold up there.”
“Are you afraid of cold?”
I shook my head. No, I thought. Just afraid of the body next to me. So close. Afraid of memories of past carnivals with Michael. Afraid of new memories, with a new guy.
Chapter Twelve
BEFORE WE BOARDED, James ordered two hot chocolates with lids and tiny straws to poke through the top.
“Rain-check for our cocoa.”
“You paid that up on Monday, remember?”
“Monday was forever ago.”
“You sound like a kid who can’t wait for Christmas morning.”
“I am at that.” He squeezed my fingers as though I was his Christmas morning. Don’t do that, James Douglas. I’m not up for grabs. I’m taken, I thought.
I jerked as though I’d been hit. What was I thinking? A hard realization hit me with a velocity that robbed my breath. I still thought of myself as belonging to Michael Grant. I’d spent three years thinking that very thing, but now it was starting to feel a little odd.
“You’re not crazy,” James whispered as he leaned close, his lips brushing against my ear.
“How do you know what I’m thinking—or feeling—or anything! You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
James Douglas just nodded, his face solemn, his blue eyes penetrating my mind.
“Stop that,” I ordered.
“Stop what?”
“You know what.”
“Why do I get the feeling we’re talking to each other like we’re still in high school?”
“Maybe you never grew up,” I retorted.
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “No, but I think you’re still stuck in your senior year.”
“And you’re an impertinent know-it-all. When does this ride stop?”
“It just started. First rotation just finished.”
Feeling my temper rise, I tried to pull my hand away.
James Douglas didn’t let me. He kept a firm grip, pulling me close. “I’m not going to let you jump out.”
“I’m not that crazy!”
“No, you’re not.”
We didn’t speak for the rest of the ride, but I lifted my head when we spotted my brother, Sam sitting in one of the carriages just above us. With a girl. The same girl James had been with on Wednesday at the Polar Express train event. How strange was that?
Sam and the girl waved at us, laughing, giggling, Sam’s arm around her shoulders. Was that—Lydia? Sam’s girlfriend?
Breaking our silence as we got off the ride at last, James said, “She’s my younger sister.”
“Are we talking about the same person? You mean Lydia is your sister?”
“Yep, she’s a junior.”
James pulled me along just as the line for a sleigh ride opened up. He flagged down the attendant and in moments we were bundled into the sleigh, a lap rug covering us. “Hold on, Jessica,” he said, as our driver slapped the horses’ rumps with the reins.
Just like that, we were gliding across the snow under the silver full moon.
“I thought these rides had more than one couple in them. Like a double seat or something,” I said, sitting up straighter.
“Nope. You’re stuck with me.”
I sniffed. “Well. I could always jump out.”
“Not if I tell the driver to go faster.”
The horses’ hooves kicked up swirls of soft, fine snow. A cold wind whistled past my ears and I wanted to bury my head in James’ warm coat sleeve, but I braved the cold. Even if my nose was about to break off from frost bite.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I cried as the driver spun us around the river’s edge.
James threw me a big grin, all glittering white teeth and swoony handsomeness. “No, I don’t think he’s sure at all.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked as our silent d
river, hunched over in his own coat and muffler, expertly maneuvered the sleigh through a thicket of fir trees, and finally slowed down a bit.
“Just innuendoes.”
“You’re good at that,” I observed.
After cruising down a sloping hill, the horses were taken down to a walk.
The pair of chestnut geldings knew the path and the driver sat back, the reins loose in his lap. I listened to the slush, slush of the snow beneath the sleigh. A million stars blanketed the fields, reminding me of tiny spotlights twinkling on a dark stage. It was spectacular and I felt very small and vulnerable. Not because of James, but vulnerable to life and pain and loss. Thinking about how Michael was missing life, all of this wonder and beauty.
“Here’s a non-innuendo,” James said, touching my hand lightly with his. “A straight-forward question. Let me see your cell phone.”
“Huh?”
“Just give it to me for a sec.”
I dug it out of my pocket and handed it over. Expertly, he went to my Contacts and input his own name and number. “There. Now I know that if you ever need me, you can call. Anytime.”
I gave him a small smile, knowing I would never call him. I was still one of those girls who didn’t call a guy. Except if he was my best friend, like Michael had been. We’d called each other since we were nine and just had to go frog hunting by the river. Or play old PS2 games.
Finally, I spoke, “I didn’t realize you had family here in Snow Valley.”
“Remember Pastor John, my uncle.”
“I mean besides him,” I said, catching his eyes in the darkness. “Your sister.”
“Lydia got here at the start of the school year, and then I arrived after helping my father settle things at home. Now Lydia is living with me. I’m renting a little house close to the church.”
“But what about your—” I stopped, realizing that I was asking way too many personal questions.
“Our parents?”
I nodded, chewing away at my lips.
“Hey, don’t do that,” James said, running a finger gently along my mouth. “Looks like it hurts.”
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