On Christmas Eve

by Thomas Kinkade

  “Okay, see you,” Lucy said. She tried not to sound too forlorn but couldn’t hide her feelings. She was sure Charlie had blown this interview and ruined their chances for approval, even as temporary guardians.

  Lucy hadn’t thought that much about it beforehand. She had almost felt as if she were doing the social services agency a favor by taking care of Zoey while Rita Schuman looked for a new family for her. But now it seemed all turned around—and important that she and Charlie pass some . . . some test.

  Charlie left quickly through the front door and when it closed behind him, Lucy let out a long sigh. She glanced up at Rita Schuman, who was writing something more in her binder.

  “My husband works very hard,” Lucy said finally.

  “I can see that,” Rita replied.

  “He feels a lot of pressure running his business. He doesn’t have a lot of patience for small talk. Or big talk either,” she added honestly.

  Rita glanced over with a slight smile. “I can see that, too.”

  “I hope what he said didn’t ruin everything,” Lucy went on. “But he was telling the truth, more or less. This wasn’t his idea. But he’s going along with it. For my sake, mainly.”

  “You don’t intend to apply as permanent foster parents for Zoey, is that correct?”

  “No, we don’t,” Lucy said quietly. “That’s just not a possibility for us right now.”

  She would have liked some time to think about it and get to know Zoey better, but she knew Charlie would never agree in a million years. It would be a major responsibility and commitment. Lucy honestly wasn’t sure if she was willing to take it on either.

  Rita stood up and closed the binder, then slipped it into her briefcase. “I’d like to go up and visit with Zoey for a while now.”

  “Right. Of course. It’s the third floor, the only room up there besides the bath. I think I’ll fix her something to eat. It’s almost time for her pills.”

  “Good idea. Come on up whenever you’re ready,” the social worker said as she climbed the stairs.

  Lucy went to the kitchen and heated some chicken soup she had cooked the day before.

  The benefits of chicken soup weren’t just an old wives’ tale. Scientists had proven that there was a compound in the soup that fought viral infections and helped clear congestion.

  When the tray of food was ready, Lucy carried it carefully up the two flights of stairs. She found Rita sitting in a chair near Zoey’s bed, chatting quietly. The social worker turned and smiled when Lucy walked in. Zoey just stared at her with big, dark eyes.

  Lucy could tell the girl felt self-conscious, being the subject of so much attention. Maybe she even felt a little apprehensive, wondering what was going to happen and if she was going to be sent away. Lucy felt the same way.

  “Here’s some soup and crackers, Zoey.” Lucy set the tray on the bedside table. “Careful, it’s still hot.” Lucy helped Zoey sit up and fixed the pillows behind her. “There we are. The pills are in that cup. You need to take them after you eat.”

  “That looks good, Zoey,” Rita said. “It looks homemade.”

  “Would you like some? I can fix you a bowl downstairs,” Lucy offered.

  Rita got to her feet. “Thank you. But I have to get back to the office. Zoey, I hope you feel better soon. Call me if you want to talk about anything.”

  The women went downstairs, and Lucy retrieved Rita’s coat from the closet. “She seems to be doing a little better every day,” she told Rita. “But this bug really knocks you off your feet.”

  “I can see she’s getting excellent care, Lucy. There’s no question about it.”

  “Well, I am a nurse. That helps.”

  Rita shrugged into her overcoat and slipped her briefcase strap over her shoulder. “You’re a very good-hearted person. That helps even more.”

  Lucy didn’t know what to say. Did that mean they’d been approved? Or was the social worker just trying to be nice to her, knowing it wasn’t going to work out?

  “I need to make a recommendation to my supervisor. But it won’t be long. I should call back by tonight,” Rita said.

  “Call anytime. We’ll be home,” Lucy told her. “And thanks for your time,” she added politely, hoping her gratitude wasn’t misplaced.

  FOR THE NEXT FEW HOURS, LUCY DISTRACTED HERSELF WITH HOUSEWORK. Then Jamie came home from school, and she helped him make a poster for his social studies class. He was gluing on pictures that he had cut from a magazine when Zoey called out and asked if she could take a shower and wash her hair. “Are you okay on your own for a while?” Lucy asked her son.

  “Totally,” Jamie told her.

  Lucy convinced Zoey to take a bath. All she needed was to have Zoey get a dizzy spell and fall in the shower. The girl was still weak and feverish and felt light-headed every time she got out of bed.

  After the bath, Lucy washed Zoey’s hair in the kitchen sink. This was something she had missed, having a girl to fuss over. The boys had long since outgrown her help and fussing. The truth was, she adored her sons but she’d hoped for a daughter, too. Although Lucy had put away that wish long ago, now it came back to her. A mother’s relationship with a daughter was just . . . different.

  “You have beautiful hair, Zoey,” Lucy told her. “It’s so thick and pretty.”

  Zoey rolled her eyes. “I hate my hair. It’s totally gross. Sometimes I want to just cut it all off and shave my head.”

  Lucy feared she might not be exaggerating. Zoey was the type of kid who would shave her head.

  “Oh no . . . don’t do that. Your hair is really beautiful,” Lucy said. She meant it, too, discounting the red and blue streaks. “When I was your age, I didn’t like my hair either. I hated standing out with this carrot top. I used to get teased a lot, too. Kids can be so mean if they see anything different about another kid.”

  “Tell me about it,” Zoey said knowingly. Lucy guessed that she had been teased a lot, moving to different schools, coming from a foster family. “I like your hair,” the girl went on. “I think it’s cool. I didn’t think that was your real color, though. I thought you dyed it.”

  “There’s a little gray in there now if you look closely. It’s all for real.”

  “I’d like hair that color. I might try it someday,” Zoey said casually.

  Lucy stood behind her, combing out her wet hair and rubbing it with a towel so she wouldn’t get a chill again. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?” she asked when she hit a small tangle.

  “I’m okay. It feels good. My grandmother used to comb out my hair like this for me. Then she would make a braid.”

  “I bet you looked really cute.”

  Zoey shrugged. “It was just neater that way, easier for her. My brother and I lived with her for a while, in Gloucester. But she got sick, so we had to go live with my aunt.”

  Lucy felt a wave of sadness, hearing Zoey tell her story. It was different from hearing it from the social worker. “Yes, Mrs. Schuman told me about your grandmother . . . and your aunt.” And your mother, too, she wanted to add. But that seemed too private and sad somehow.

  “What’s your brother’s name?” Lucy asked.

  “Kevin. He’s five years younger than me. He’s a cool kid. But I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  Lucy couldn’t imagine her two boys living separately, falling out of touch. Even though they fought like cats and dogs at times, they were still close and always would be, she believed.

  Kids love their siblings in a different way than they love friends. It was a pity that Zoey and her brother had been split up that way.

  The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. Lucy froze and she saw Zoey stiffen. They were both wondering if it was Rita Schuman with the verdict; Lucy was sure of it.

  Jamie picked up the extension and called down to her. “It’s for you, Mom. Someone named Mrs. Schuman?”

  “I’ve got it, honey,” Lucy said, grabbing the phone in the kitchen.

  “I handed in my report o
n the home visit and spoke to my supervisor,” Rita began. “We’ve approved you and your husband as Zoey’s temporary guardians.”

  Lucy felt relieved—and happy. “That’s great news. I’m very pleased. Thank you.”

  “I know your husband has reservations, but he seemed more or less neutral to me. And your positive, caring attitude, I thought, more than compensates.”

  Lucy could have laughed out loud. Wasn’t that her life story? Or rather, the story of her marriage? “Charlie has a good heart. He just has a hard time showing it.”

  The social worker didn’t comment. “There are some papers you both need to sign. I’ll bring them by later. And we’ll speak on a regular basis. I need to know how Zoey’s coming along with her recovery, of course, and adjusting to your household. If you have any questions about dealing with her, or if anything unexpected comes up, please call anytime.”

  “I will. Thanks,” Lucy said again.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Schuman replied. “And good luck. May I speak with Zoey now?”

  “She’s right here.” Lucy handed the phone to Zoey, who had obviously overheard the news. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, but Lucy sensed she was pleased—or maybe just relieved to know she didn’t have to start all over someplace new.

  “Yeah. . . . I’m okay with that. It’s cool.” Zoey looked up and met Lucy’s glance. She didn’t exactly smile, but did look as if some of the heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. And Lucy remembered again why she was going to all this trouble for a stranger.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “GOOD SHOT! TRY TO BRING YOUR RACKET BACK A LITTLE MORE. You’ll get more power.” Alex returned Betty’s midcourt volley with a smooth, effortless backhand. He was an excellent tennis player. He could have sent the ball smoking over the net, into a deep, unreachable corner. But he was trying very hard to be considerate of her rusty form, keeping the ball in play and giving her every chance to reach it.

  Betty ran from one side of the court to the other, trying her best not to look foolish or out of shape. Which, under the circumstances, was a real challenge. She couldn’t understand it. She worked out at her gym several times a week and hadn’t put on any extra weight, even with her catering work. But tennis was more demanding than it looked. All that starting and stopping.

  It didn’t help that she was also dealing with Alex’s helpful—but relentless—instructions.

  “Back to the baseline,” he reminded her. “It’s always easier to run up to the ball than to try to chase it behind you.”

  She forced a smile and moved to the back of the court. She knew he was just trying to be helpful. And her game was rusty. But his tips would have been more palatable if she didn’t already know how to play and had not taken lessons for years at the country club where she and her ex-husband, Ted, had once belonged.

  You brought this on yourself, a little voice reminded her. You told him you wanted to start playing tennis again. He’s just trying to accommodate you.

  Definitely a case of “be careful what you wish for,” Betty decided. And how was she supposed to know that he enjoyed being a tennis coach so much?

  They had the court for an hour, and Betty had a feeling Alex would keep them playing until the next duo stood waiting on the sidelines. She watched the big clock at the other end of the courts. The minute hand moved painfully slowly. But after they volleyed awhile, she felt herself warming up, her old form coming back. She surprised Alex with a passing shot that zipped by him before he could even react, bouncing an inch or so before the baseline.

  “Nice one . . .” He stared at the ball and then over at her, looking quite surprised. “That had a lot of topspin.”

  Betty smiled and picked up a stray ball. She was sure he thought it had been beginner’s luck. Little did he realize, that had been her money shot when she played in the annual doubles elimination tournaments.

  And rose to the top of the ladder.

  “Feel ready to keep score?” he asked politely.

  “Sure. Why not? Don’t worry, I’ll be easy on you,” she joked.

  “I appreciate that,” he joked back. “You serve first,” he suggested, giving her the advantage. He tossed a few balls over to her side of the court before she could reply.

  Betty picked up two and pushed the others aside. Then she took a position behind the baseline, in the middle of the court.

  “Want to take a few to warm up?” he asked.

  She shook her head, bouncing the ball near her right foot to get her rhythm. “I’m okay. I’m better when I don’t think too much about it.”

  And in a sneak attack, Betty added silently.

  He smiled at her warmly and got ready to receive the serve. He liked her sense of humor, she could tell. And that made her like him a bit, too.

  Betty tossed the ball up and took her swing. The serve went wildly out of bounds, and she felt embarrassed. It had been a while, she realized. She should have taken those practice shots, after all.

  Alex smiled encouragingly. “Just relax and take your time.”

  Betty kept her game face and didn’t show she was rattled. “Second serve,” she called out. She tossed the ball up again, focusing more and thinking less, and then came down with full force.

  The ball zipped over the net, hit the court just inside the line, and smoked right by the good doctor. Alex lunged, swinging his racket in an awkward motion and missing the ball by a mile. He’d been totally caught off guard.

  “Fifteen, love,” Betty called out, moving to the other side of the court to serve again.

  She couldn’t help swinging her hips a little under her short blue skirt.

  Beginner’s luck? I don’t think so, pal, she said to herself. I’m back.

  They played on, with Betty winning most of the games she served and even taking one game that Alex served. She could tell she was playing well when he finally stopped giving her instructions and looked as if he was really trying.

  Finally, the bell sounded to mark the hour. Another couple stood nearby, waiting to take the court. Betty felt relieved but realized she’d had a good time—a much better time than she had expected.

  “That was fun, Betty. Good match,” Alex said as they walked off the court. “You had me fooled there for a while. I thought you said you hadn’t played in years.”

  “I haven’t. But it started to come back once you gave me a few tips,” she said, trying to be a good sport.

  “I can see that. You’d be dangerous if you played every week,” he predicted.

  “I doubt it. But I had a really good time.”

  “We’ll have to play again soon. Would you like to?”

  “Absolutely.” She nodded, feeling as though she had made it through the tryouts. It had been nice to get out and play again—after the initial embarrassing moments. Betty had forgotten how much fun tennis could be and how good you felt afterward. It was a different kind of workout from jogging mindlessly on the treadmill at the gym.

  They changed and met in the lobby of the tennis club. Alex had made reservations at a new French restaurant in Hamilton.

  The restaurant looked like a country house inside, decorated with Provençal fabrics and traditional yellow and blue patterned pottery. It was casual yet elegant and a romantic spot, too. It made Betty wonder if perhaps Alex liked her more than she thought, taking her to a place like this on just their second date.

  They were seated at a table in the corner, a quiet spot where they could talk easily. Alex took out his glasses and then examined the menu. “Hmm, all my favorites.”

  “Mine, too. The specials sound delicious,” Betty said.

  The waiter came by and took their orders and then brought a bottle of wine Alex had selected.

  “So, how is your business doing these days?” Alex asked. “I guess you’ve been affected by the recession.”

  “It’s fallen off a bit. But it’s definitely not as bad as it could be. Luckily, we have a low overhead. It’s just me and Molly and a f
ew hourly employees. The shop is small, and we don’t pay much rent so ...”

  Alex sat listening with interest. But suddenly his phone sounded, and he pulled it from his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry. I have to take this,” he apologized. He listened intently to the caller then answered a few questions. Finally, he wound up the call. “I’m so sorry. I have a few patients in the ICU right now,” he explained. “I have to be available for any situations that come up.”

  “It’s okay, I understand,” Betty said. She did, too. He was a doctor. He didn’t have a nine-to-five job. She’d been around Matt and Molly enough to know how demanding the medical profession could be.

  “So . . . you were saying . . . you have a low overhead?”

  “Yes, we try to keep costs down. That’s where I come in. Molly is a genius in the kitchen, but she was never the best manager or great at figuring out her profits. But I had all that experience from the real estate brokerage. So we make a good—”

  The phone rang again. Alex rolled his eyes and sighed. He reached over and patted Betty’s hand. “Just another minute . . . my daughter. I guess she doesn’t realize I have a life, too.”

  Betty smiled at the joke and sat back on the banquette, watching discreetly as he spoke to his daughter. He was high-energy, very animated and expressive. She liked that in a person. It showed that they weren’t cut off from their emotions. Though in Alex’s case she was starting to feel as if he were a bit of a moving target. It was like trying to watch TV when someone kept switching the channels.

  Betty, just stop. You’re being too critical. What are you griping about? He’s a smart, successful, charming guy who likes you. And he’s good-looking, too. She did like his beard, clipped close to his face but dense. He had straight white teeth and hazel eyes. He was bald on top but that didn’t bother Betty. If she had to eliminate suitors for that reason, she would never leave the house at this age, she thought with a secret grin.