A Family-Style Christmas and Yuletide Homecoming

by Carolyne Aarsen

  His expression didn’t change and Sarah couldn’t look away. Couldn’t tear her eyes from his. He moved his hand. Just a little. Then, just past Logan, she saw Donna looking at both of them with displeasure in her face.

  She and Logan never really had a chance and probably never would.

  With a sigh, Sarah looked away and turned her attention back to the minister, who had begun the familiar refrain about God’s eternal and unfailing love.

  * * *

  Billy was playing the worst game of his life. She had to concentrate. Focus.

  The blast of the whistle pulled her back into the game, and with a guilty start she glanced at the ref, relieved to see him make a call against the other team.

  Her next glance, of its own volition, shot to Logan sitting off to one side, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands, alternately watching the game and her.

  She couldn’t help but think of that almost moment in church a few days ago. She forced herself to look away, memories and old yearnings crowding over her battered defenses.

  Concentrate. Concentrate.

  The game proceeded and this time Sarah kept her attention on Billy. She had warned him once, earlier on in the game, to either play smart, and with the team, or be benched.

  If Logan hadn’t been here she would have pulled Billy four plays ago.

  Maybe she should quit. Let Alton Berube take over. Maybe he would do a better job.

  And then what? Hang around that booming, empty house? Leave Riverbend and make it look as if she was the most heartless daughter on the face of the earth?

  Bad enough that she hadn’t visited her father since that horrible day. She didn’t want to face him.

  Basketball had been her life, her salvation when she left here. It was all she had then and, it seemed, all she had once again. She didn’t want this taken away from her and it wasn’t going to be. Not without a fight.

  Unfortunately, in this case she was relying on this team to help her win that fight and so far things were not looking good.

  She looked at the scoreboard; the team was down. She chanced another glance at the bleachers and saw a few other parents talking among themselves.

  Probably thinking the same thing Logan and Trix Setterfeld were: she wasn’t doing her job.

  Stop. Stop right there. You can do this. You can help these boys win. You can help them work to their potential. You’ve already seen so much improvement.

  Billy had the ball again and Sarah saw him checking to see where his other teammates were. Okay. Maybe this time...

  An opponent swung around him, deked him out, stripped the ball away, charged down the lane and made an easy layup.

  Sixty-four to fifty.

  Sarah signaled a substitution and then crooked a finger at Adam, who bounded to his feet.

  When she called Billy’s number he stopped, frowning at her when he realized what was going on, and slammed his fist against his thigh. He came charging across the court toward her, but she looked down at her playbook and ignored the angry young man who stormed past her.

  She felt like throwing the ball at him herself. He had promised he would do what he could and he had failed. From here on in the ball was, literally, in his court. If he didn’t want to play, then he should quit.

  And wouldn’t that make his brother happy.

  Sarah didn’t dare look at Logan for the remainder of the game. She had to remove herself from what she might read in his face. She had to remove herself from the opinions of the people around her.

  She made a few more lineup changes on the fly, mixing it up, subbing in players, using plays they’d only touched on in practice. She cajoled and urged and used every trick ever used on her by her own coach, trying to read the opposing team and get her players to respond. Slowly they inched ahead, gaining ground point by point. And the whole time they did, Billy sat on the bench, glowering at her.

  Five minutes to go and the game was tied.

  The other team called a time-out and Sarah took the opportunity to give her boys a last-minute pep talk.

  “Great work, guys, good hustle. Stay on top of these guys. Box out. Use your feet and hands, but don’t lose sight of the guy you’re guarding. You guys are doing great.”

  The whole time she spoke, Billy’s anger and frustration seethed from him. Then, seconds before the time-out ended, he pushed himself in front of her. “Put me in, Coach.”

  Sarah shook her head. She was not going to be intimidated by this young man.

  The referee lifted his hand to signal the end of the time-out.

  “Please, Coach. My brother and mom are here,” Billy said. “I promise, I’ll put in a hundred ten percent.”

  As if her eyes had a will of their own, they drifted to where Logan sat hunched on the bleachers, his face set in hard lines, his mother sitting beside him.

  She remembered again the faint stirring of attraction between them, so fragile that a breath could put it out. Logan caught her gaze and for a sharp moment it was as if he was the only person in the gym.

  She closed her mind to those tantalizing possibilities. Closed her mind to all the things peripheral to what she had to deal with right now.

  “You better brush up on your math, Carleton,” she said, turning her attention back to the game. “I expect one hundred percent every minute of every game, no matter who is or isn’t in the stands. Sorry.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sarah bounced the basketball a couple of times and looked around the empty gym. Only moments ago it had been ringing with the sound of parents and friends and classmates, shouting themselves hoarse with encouragement.

  I made the right call. I made the right call. Sarah repeated the words to herself even as she considered that losing this game would come back to haunt them. But for now she had to concentrate on the next game and figure out what to do about Billy Carleton. This half-effort business wasn’t doing them any good—and it was giving more ammunition to Logan’s “get rid of the Westerveld coach” campaign.

  The angry buzz of departing fans slowly had faded away, the crowd taking their disappointment with them. But her neck still felt warm from Logan’s blazing glare. Sarah wished she could tell them all she felt the failure more keenly than

  they did.

  Even when she could no longer play the great game, she would always remember charging down the court, the thrill of the game singing through her blood—ducking, spinning, guarding, blocking and making those glorious shots, the sight of the ball arcing through the air and, in spite of the countless practices, the thrilling uncertainty of her aim.

  And that moment of perfection when the ball would fall through the net without touching the rim.

  She remembered Marilee standing up, waving her scarf and getting her friends going.

  Sarah tested the memory of her sister, explored it like touching an old wound that had scabbed over.

  It hurt to think of her, but below that a deeper, harder ache throbbed.

  “I forgive you.” His words resounded so clearly in her mind, it was as if they had just been spoken.

  Sarah bounced the ball once. Then again.

  “I forgive you.”

  She grabbed the ball, took two steps and launched it high into the air. It bounced off the backboard, her shot wild.

  Playing with the wrong emotion, she could hear Mr. DeHaan’s voice remind her. He was always helping her channel her hidden frustration with her father and turn the burning in her belly into focused energy.

  She grabbed the ball again, other memories blending, layering over the most recent, painful one.

  Logan watching her, cheering her on. The sight of his dark head, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, just as he watched Billy play, always gave her heart a hitch.

 
Logan. Marilee. Her father.

  Too intertwined. Thinking of one brought up memories of the others. She dribbled the ball again, focused on the net, ran to the side, pivoted, jumped and sent the ball out and up.

  Retrieving the ball, she ran across the gym to the other side. Back and forth she went, scoring, running, purging her father’s skewed confession from her thoughts and her heart.

  She didn’t need him. She had her purpose here. She could prove herself worthy here on this court, with these boys.

  Forgiveness grants us freedom. The words from last Sunday’s worship service rang in her ears. Did her father feel free? She didn’t.

  She ran to the other side of the court, her hand working the ball furiously, her feet darting, dodging imaginary opponents. She was in charge. This was her court. No one was going to take this away from her.

  She would finish what she had started. At the end of the season she was going to get these boys to the provincial tournament. If only for them, somehow she was going to make this work, by force of will if she had to.

  There was going to be a happy ending. It was going to be like those sports movies where the team comes from behind and wins, and then everyone appreciates all the hard work the coach put into the team, and the parents say they’re horribly sorry and everyone is happy and the soundtrack swells.

  Panting now, Sarah paused, then took a long shot from a third of the way down the court. The ball soared through the air, seemed to hover over the net, then dropped through, creating a perfect, whispering swish.

  The ball bounced off the floor a few times and rolled away.

  “Good shot.”

  The deep voice sent her heart into her throat and she spun around to see Logan loitering in the doorway. Just as he used to when she was in high school.

  His dark eyes were on her and she couldn’t look away.

  Sarah snatched herself back from the brink of memories and turned away, breaking the fragile connection.

  “Billy should be done,” she said, walking over to retrieve the ball.

  “He said he was going to a friend’s place.”

  His little girlfriend? Sarah wondered.

  “So did you come to talk to me about quitting again?” Catching her breath, she bent over, scooped up the ball, walked toward the basketball cart beside the player’s bench and tossed it in. “Because I’m not.”

  Logan pushed himself away from the doorway and once again was walking toward her. Only this time he stopped at the player’s bench and sat down.

  “I’m just wondering why you pulled Billy.” He straightened the books, aligning them, then pushed them a few feet over.

  Sarah lifted her shoulder to her cheek and wiped away a trickle of perspiration. “I should have done it earlier in the game.”

  Logan sat back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his feet crossed at the ankles. “So what’s the problem? He was doing okay.”

  “Okay isn’t good enough. Not if he wants to get to college like you want him to. He’s holding back, and I think you know it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Sarah thought of the little brunette that made Billy smile. Unfortunately, that wasn’t her secret to tell. Billy had to make up his mind what he wanted, just as Sarah had told him that same afternoon. She wasn’t going to tell tales. “Have you asked him?”

  “He’s been avoiding me.”

  Sarah sat down on her end of the bench, keeping her distance from Logan. The past few days he’d been on her mind and she preferred not to think about him.

  “Something tells me you know a bit more than you’re letting on,” Logan said.

  “If Billy doesn’t want to tell you, I can’t.”

  “But something is going on, isn’t it?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s having trouble keeping his marks up.”

  “Billy’s marks are okay.” Logan’s tone was defensive.

  “Not according to Uncle Morris.”

  “That stinker.”

  “Uncle Morris, or Billy?” Wow. She had just made a joke.

  Logan even laughed. “I mean Billy.”

  Sarah relaxed, pleased that she had sent Logan off on another scent. She leaned back against the wall as the weariness she’d been fighting off slowly made itself known. She wished she were home now, relaxing, perhaps reading a magazine that regaled her with the antics of people with whom she had zero emotional connection.

  Logan laid his head back against the wall. He seemed tired, as well. “You looked upset when you came in for the game. Everything okay with your dad?”

  For a split second she wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and tell him everything. To put it all on someone else.

  As she used to when she was young.

  She looked away. Six years had elapsed since she had been that girl. How does one go back? So much had changed. They had each created their own lives.

  And yet...

  “No,” she finally whispered.

  “So what happened?” he pressed on.

  Sarah sighed, fully aware of him sitting at the end of the bench, similar to when they had sat side by side in church. The soft note of caring in his voice hearkened back to another time....

  The moment lengthened and, as they sat in the quiet, separated by three feet of bench, Sarah felt a gentle peace suffuse her.

  “I’ve had some personal trouble with him...” she said finally.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Sarah turned her attention back to the basketball she still held. “When I left, he wrote me...he wrote me a note saying that he needed to talk to me.” She stopped there and bounced the basketball once. “Every month he sent me a check and that was all. No note, no letter. Nothing.”

  “Did he at least phone?”

  “On my birthday. It was often short and awkward. But he did his duty by me.”

  Logan shook his head. “Your dad has a perverse sense of duty and a twisted sense of right and wrong.”

  Sarah chose to ignore the harsh note in Logan’s voice. “And he saw his duty as that monthly check. Even though after the first year I always ripped up the check, I would still open the envelope with some small piece of hope that this time he would send something personal. I got letters from the rest of the family, but never him. Then my aunts started telling me how he had stopped going to church. How he seemed so distraught. Of course he wouldn’t tell them or confide in them. He has his pride.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Then, one day, I got a note with my check. And all he had written on there was, ‘Come home. I need to talk to you.’ This was such a radical thing for my dad, after six years of simply sending money, that I added it to my aunts’ and uncles’ concern and packed up and came here.”

  “So that’s what brought you back?”

  “Yeah. That tiny piece of paper with those few words.” She gave the ball another bounce. “It was the first time since I was young that I ever got the sense that he needed me.”

  “And...”

  “And then I came home and the last and only things I hear him say are angry words directed at you.” She couldn’t talk about her father’s misplaced forgiveness.

  “I’m not surprised.” His eyes searched hers. “Nor should you be. Your father has never liked me or my family.”

  “I know. I wish I knew why not,” Sarah said softly.

  Awareness arced between them, as tangible as a touch.

  “Do you know?” she asked. “Do you know why my dad has harbored this strong anger toward your family?”

  Logan didn’t reply, but a gentle sigh sifted out of him as he reached across the bench, spanning the distance to touch her hand. His fingers lingered for just a few seconds. Then abruptly, he pushed himself away from the bench. “I gotta g
o.”

  Sarah experienced a moment of confusion at his unexpected departure.

  And as he left the gym she felt as if a part of her left with him.

  She waited a moment, trying to sort out her feelings, unsure of what to put where. Then, shaking the emotions loose from her fuzzy mind, she got up and walked over to the end of the bench where Logan had been sitting.

  Someone’s books were there on the ground. She picked them up and flipped open the cover.

  Well, big surprise, they were Billy’s.

  * * *

  As the Carletons’ driveway came closer, Sarah’s foot eased off the accelerator. What was she doing here? She should have just given Logan the books at church.

  But she hadn’t gone to church this morning. She’d spent most of her time looking over the game tapes, checking the stats and reminding herself again and again that she had done the right thing. Even if she had kept Billy on the court, they probably would not have won that game.

  But it was the niggling question of the “probably” that kept her here, waiting at the end of the Carletons’ driveway. She knew Billy was upset with her. Donna had made her feelings quite clear both of the Sundays she was at church. Neither of them would be killing the fatted calf for her if she showed up unexpectedly at their home.

  As for Logan...

  She let her mind slip back to that moment of quiet connection they had shared in the gym.

  And what do you hope to do about that? Build on it? Rekindle old feelings and old emotions?

  She shook her head free of the entanglements she was creating. She had simply come to bring Billy his books. She didn’t need to turn it into a soap-opera moment.

  With a decisive motion, she stopped on the accelerator, but was distracted by the marks she saw in the snow coming out of the Carletons’ driveway.

  Were those the tracks of a sleigh?

  Sarah slowed down as she came nearer, trying to get a better look at the parallel lines punctuated with what looked like hoof marks of horses breaking the fresh snow.

  Intrigued, she turned up the driveway and faced a captivating sight, straight out of a Currier and Ives painting. She was looking at red wooden sleigh being pulled by a team of perfectly matched bay horses, heads bobbing as their trotting feet kicked up snow behind them. Entranced by the sight, she followed them all the way to the Carleton house and stopped when they stopped.