Evergreen

by Susan May Warren

  “Thank you, Edith. We’ll make sure the parts are filled and everything is perfect.”

  “Oh.” She pressed a hand to her chest as if to pat her heart back into place. “Okay, then.”

  He refused to surrender. He did, however, glance at Ingrid.

  Her lips froze in a forced smile, her jaw drawn so tight he thought she might be grinding molars.

  “Way to do an end run,” Nate said quietly. He made a fist and held it out for a congratulatory bump.

  John met it. Yeah, that’s right. Nothing—not even Ingrid—would stop him from giving his wife the best Christmas of her life.

  If John wanted any hope of seeing his stupid football game, he’d better stop hanging around the church kitchen, looking at his watch.

  And his phone.

  And the clock.

  As if the Vikings might be waiting for him to show up and save the day with a fourth-quarter eighty-yard run.

  From his armchair.

  Ingrid sprayed more water on her baking pan and attacked the barbecue residue with renewed vigor. Around her, other ladies on the hospitality committee finished unloading the commercial dishwasher, packing up leftovers, and cleaning out the coffeepots.

  “You know who would make a good couple for the Nativity display is Ivy and Darek,” Annalise Decker was saying as she emptied the load of clean silverware into a drawer. “Although maybe we should wait a year for them—by then they might have a live baby to lay in the manger.”

  Ingrid glanced at her and found a smile. “Maybe.” Another grandbaby. The thought really should seed some warmth in her heart, but . . .

  Well, since that day when her family fell apart, when she saw her two youngest sons brawling on the morning of her daughter’s wedding, a slow chill had turned everything inside her to January.

  And Mr. Hurry-up-or-I’ll-miss-the-game wasn’t helping. She’d wanted the floor to open up and take her when he suggested not being around for the live Nativity.

  Not that she felt especially keen on coordinating and staffing the town’s feeble hold on the tradition either. In years past, the entire town of Deep Haven had gathered on Christmas Eve for a moment of community solidarity, with carols and a cookie exchange. However, every year fewer showed up to celebrate. And why not? Everyone was leaving home, lives changing.

  No one wanted to stand around for an hour in the snow, watching a mock Mary and Joseph shiver in the cold.

  “Are you all right, Ingrid?”

  “Yes. I’m just thinking about the live Nativity.”

  “It’s so sad that no one attends anymore. Pastor Dan was saying that the ecumenical board nearly voted to discontinue it. Maybe they will if we don’t get anyone to attend this year.” Annalise picked up a towel. “I remember my first Christmas in Deep Haven. The live Nativity felt so fresh to me. I’d never truly understood the story before. If only we could figure out a way to put new life into it.”

  “I just hope it doesn’t storm like it did a few years ago.”

  “And that we can keep the angels from fighting.” Annalise winked at her, and Ingrid’s memory returned to a chilly night long ago when she discovered Casper and Owen, dressed in sheets, wrestling in the snow, their wings cast off and bent.

  Acid filled her chest as she mustered up a smile, cheery words. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll be the best live Nativity ever.” She turned back to the pan. “I don’t know why I forgot to line this pan with foil, but I think it’ll take a chisel and hammer to get this barbecue sauce off.”

  “Let it soak at home, honey,” John said from the door.

  She ignored him and the edge of impatience in his tone. The Vikings rarely won a game against the Packers. Fighting words hung on her lips, but—

  No. Marriage called for patience. Especially for football widows.

  “I’ve nearly got it.”

  “Leave it here,” Annalise said. “It does need to soak, and you can pick it up tomorrow at women’s Bible study.” She handed Ingrid a towel, glanced at John. “Go Vikings.”

  “Rah,” Ingrid said, but she gathered her purse and followed John from the church.

  Outside, the afternoon sun cast shadows across the dirt parking lot, and the loamy tang of autumn seasoned with the piney tartness of the north shore scented the air. The church overlooked the deep-indigo waters of Lake Superior, the clouds thin and high. Another week or so and the days might start turning cool, but for now, they beckoned her out onto her deck to read, or to the dock to watch the loons paddle in the lake.

  Ingrid climbed into the truck. She didn’t need John to shut the door after her but smiled in his direction anyway when he did. No reason to pick a fight.

  John backed out of the lot. “I thought I’d swing by Darek’s and maybe we’d finish the game there.”

  Darek had moved to town with his new bride, Ivy—at John’s suggestion, of course—beginning the transformation of her house into a tomb. Then Grace moved to Minneapolis to be closer to her fiancé, Max. And in the two weeks since Amelia’s departure, the morose quietness of their resort home had begun to press like mud into her bones, turning every day a little swampy and thick.

  “We need to get home. Butter has been trapped in the house all morning, and she needs to go out.”

  John glanced at her.

  Ingrid didn’t have to actually turn her head to see it; after nearly thirty years, she could predict his movements, read his mind. “I left her in the house for church because I thought it might rain,” she added.

  “She’s a dog.”

  “She’s a sixteen-year-old dog.”

  “She can wait.”

  “John, be fair. She’s house-trained, and she won’t go inside. Which means she’s going to be in pain. Or worse, she’ll piddle on the floor and be upset. Her bladder isn’t what it used to be. Do you want to clean it up?”

  John sighed. “Maybe it’s time to think of putting—”

  “John! We are not putting Butter to sleep.”

  He frowned. “I was going to say putting in a dog door.”

  Oh.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s so much to ask to go home to let her out. You can watch the rest of the game from there.”

  “If there’s any of it left.”

  She heard the mumble, although he probably hadn’t tried to disguise it. “Sorry. But I think it is important to keep our commitments. We are members. We should attend the business meetings.” And do our part to run the Christmas Nativity.

  “I wish you hadn’t volunteered us for that Nativity project.” Apparently he could read her mind too.

  “I saw you put my name down for the Salvation Army—”

  “That’s different. It’s one hour, maybe two. And we can do it together.”

  She shot him a look. “Aren’t you going to help me with the live Nativity?”

  He sighed, and she braced herself. But his soft tone unseated her. “It’s just that . . . I was hoping we’d . . .” His hands tightened around the steering wheel as they turned off the main highway onto their road toward Evergreen Lake.

  At his stalled words, she looked at him, frowning. Hoping they’d . . . what?

  The low-hanging sun, the gold cascading through the cab of the truck, illuminated, just for a moment, the man he’d been, the one full of hopes, dreams. His wide shoulders still strong from his football days, built lean and tough and ready to conquer the world for her.

  He’d fed her with stories of the life they’d build together and beyond. Hopes of family and adventure. And he’d given her most of it. Enough of it, at least. Then why, suddenly, since Amelia walked out the door, did she feel so empty?

  She wanted to blame it on the recent fight between her children. Or simply the melancholy of being left behind as her children launched into their lives.

  Yes, certainly that was it.

  He sighed again. “Of course I’ll help you with the live Nativity.”

  Ingrid looked away at the litter of bejeweled leaves scattered alo
ng the ditch of the dirt road. “You don’t need to help, John.” In fact, she didn’t need him to have the best live Nativity scene Deep Haven had ever seen.

  They pulled up to the house and he got out. She didn’t wait for him to open the door but headed inside.

  Butterscotch met them at the door, whining, and shot past Ingrid the moment she opened it.

  Ingrid dumped her purse on the bench by the door, and John headed toward the den.

  She heard the cheers of the game before she reached the kitchen. Nice. Maybe she’d make some cookies, bring them to Darek and Ivy’s for Tiger.

  She noticed a missed call on the caller ID. Didn’t recognize it.

  Butter appeared at the back door and Ingrid opened it, then decided to join the dog outside.

  The wind cast barren leaves onto the path leading to the dock. The twelve new cabins, winterized and nearly ready for guests, still fragranced the air with the smell of sawdust and fresh paint. Hope for a rebirth of their resort.

  So much had burned to ash that day over a year ago when a massive wildfire took out nearly everything they’d built.

  Nearly. Sometimes, however, she didn’t know how to salvage what they had left.

  She followed the dog to the end of the dock, then sat and dangled her bare feet into the water. The wind brushed the trees, a whisper rippling across the lake. The cold nip of waves tugged at her toes. Too soon, the water would sheet over, turn to ice. In their younger years, John would clear a square and they’d spend Sunday afternoons skating. Probably how their children fell in love with hockey.

  Butter settled down beside her, sighed deep and long, then put her head in Ingrid’s lap. Ingrid ran her hand over Butter’s yellow fur. Rubbed under her ear. Butter pressed back, moaning a little with pleasure.

  “Yeah, I know, that’s what you like. Right there.”

  Butter lifted her head, her brown eyes meeting Ingrid’s. A pained sadness burrowed inside her expression as if to mirror Ingrid’s.

  Silly tears edged Ingrid’s eyes. Oh, good grief. She needed to snap out of this. Despite the recent wounds in her family, everyone would survive. Amelia loved Prague, Eden was living happily ever after in Minneapolis, and Grace was finally reaching for her dreams. Best of all, Darek had made peace with his past, begun a future.

  And . . . Casper and Owen would make up. Someday. She had to believe that her family wouldn’t stay broken forever.

  But she knew, too, that some things could never be fixed.

  The dog leaned forward, gave Ingrid’s chin a lick.

  Ingrid laughed. “I love you too, sweetie.” She leaned back on her hands as Butter rolled onto her back. Needing just a bit more love.

  Maybe that’s all her family needed too, to come back together.

  Ingrid rubbed the dog’s belly. “Don’t you worry, Butter. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  BY THE FOURTH QUARTER of the Sunday night game, John had unknotted the problem of the live Nativity and its threat to his Christmas trip.

  Darek. John would enlist his eldest son to take over the project. Sure, John would help Ingrid construct the set, but Darek could be there to oversee the event, just as he had the rebuilding of the resort. Together, they’d built twelve sturdy cabins, not to mention resurfaced the basketball court and planted a line of pine trees to cordon off their property from the blackened remains of the forest surrounding it.

  Darek was ready to helm the preparations for the grand reopening. And if anyone would understand John’s need to take Ingrid away and surprise her, Darek would.

  Maybe it would ignite a new flame between himself and Ingrid.

  Not that the passion in his marriage had died—it simply needed to be restoked, maybe some new kindling added.

  Especially after the cold snap in the car. Yes, of course he’d help her with the setup of the Nativity scene. He just wouldn’t stick around for the standing-in-the-cold-for-an-hour part. And he’d have to draw a line in the sand, cut off any hope that he might be willing to play the role of Joseph, the doting husband.

  He’d be doting enough in seat 5B, winging their way over the Atlantic to Paris, then Prague.

  However, maybe he couldn’t wait until Thanksgiving to surprise her with the tickets. Clearly she’d start asking questions—and short of lying to her, John didn’t know how to keep her from discovering the secret.

  The Steelers kicked off to the Patriots with two minutes remaining, and he decided to tell her on Friday, over dinner. Someplace nice, in town.

  Yeah, she’d forget all about their little squabble in the car and the recent chill between them. He’d fix it all by cheering her up, and everything would go back to normal.

  No, better than normal.

  He turned off the set when the Patriots scored again and headed upstairs. He expected to find lamplight puddling over the bed, Ingrid nose-deep in a novel. But she huddled on the far side of the bed, already sunk into slumber, the room shadowed and nippy.

  John climbed into bed, and she stirred as if not quite asleep.

  The urge to draw her into his arms swept through him, and he rolled over, intending to rest his hand on her hip.

  She emitted a soft snore.

  He couldn’t wake her. Not when she’d slept so poorly since the family fight this summer. He rolled back, switched off the light.

  Friday. He’d fix things on Friday.

  He pulled the covers up to his chin, let his brain relax, and imagined Ingrid and him in Paris, on top of the Eiffel Tower. Conjured up her expression as she grinned at him, the sadness vanished, the youth of their romance in her eyes.

  “John! Wake up!”

  He crawled through the swaddle of sleep and opened his eyes.

  Light fell across the comforter, and Ingrid stood above him, wrapped in her pink terry robe. “I need your help.”

  Huh? He glanced over, just in case he was dreaming, and found her side of the bed empty.

  “C’mon, John, please. Help me.” She grabbed his arm, and he got up. Outside, the wind howled, rain spitting against the window—a sudden squall. He found his slippers and his robe, pulling them on as he followed Ingrid out of the bedroom.

  “What’s the matter?” Maybe she wanted him to help close the windows.

  “It’s Butter. She’s sick. She’s retching, but nothing’s coming up. Her stomach is distended and hard and she’s whining. I saw this movie about a dog who had this and died—”

  “Honey, I’m sure Butter is fine. She probably ate something in the yard . . .”

  Butterscotch lay in the hallway on her side, groaning, her eyes closed. Saliva pooled under her snout on the wood floor.

  “She’s having trouble breathing,” Ingrid said, her voice tight.

  John knelt next to the dog, put his hand on her belly. It felt hot, swollen.

  Ingrid knelt beside him. “We need to take her to the vet.”

  “Now? Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He touched her arm. “Honey, Butter will be fine. It’s storming outside. We don’t want to go out in this—”

  “I don’t care if it’s a category-5 hurricane! Butter needs to go to the vet!” She got up and headed to the bedroom. “If you won’t take her, I’ll take her by myself.”

  Oh, for cryin’ in the sink—“Okay, just calm down. I’ll get dressed.” He glanced back at Butter, who opened her eyes and stared at him.

  Like he might be the grim reaper.

  Nice.

  John threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, socks. Then he went downstairs and pulled on his work boots. Ingrid had already found a stack of old towels. She took them outside, running through the rain to arrange them on the middle seat of her old Caravan.

  He put on a rain slicker and tromped back upstairs. “C’mon, let’s get you in the car.”

  The dog tried to bite him as he lifted her into his arms. Figured. “Shh, Butter. It’ll be okay.”

  He held the animal against his
chest as Ingrid came back inside. She, too, wore a slicker, the rain dripping from her face, her eyelashes.

  She ran her hand over the dog’s head as John moved past her. He dashed out into the night, ducking under the lashing rain, and settled the dog on the middle seat. Butter whined as he shut the door.

  Ingrid followed, shoved the keys into his hand, and climbed into the car.

  “I already called Kate, and she’s meeting us at the clinic.”

  He didn’t want to consider what an emergency visit might cost. Probably the vet would give Butter some fluids and send her home.

  As they pulled out, Ingrid turned and put her hand on Butter’s head, speaking softly.

  “Remember the night when Casper drank that potion Grace and Eden concocted?” John said, more of a murmured memory than a question.

  “Yes,” Ingrid said quietly. “I still want to kill them for that. Poor kid could never turn down a dare. I thought for sure he had appendicitis.”

  She glanced up and met John’s eyes, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “I’m surprised, frankly, that we didn’t have more late-night trips to the ER.”

  He wanted to reach out then, catch her hand, but she turned back to Butter, speaking comfort to the animal.

  John drove to town in silence.

  The outside light of the vet’s office—more of an attachment to Kate Snyder’s home—shone hazy and bright through the rain.

  He pulled up near the overhang of the porch, got out, opened the sliding door, then climbed into the Caravan and took Butter into his arms.

  Ingrid followed him out, and he spotted Kate outlined in the door of her office. The sound of kenneled dogs—now awake—rose from the back of the building.

  Ingrid followed John and Kate into the clinic, and Kate directed them to a room. He passed a very pregnant beagle in a cage, lying on her side. So maybe they hadn’t dragged Kate out of bed.

  “I found her on my way to the bathroom, collapsed in the hallway, moaning,” Ingrid was saying. “She tried to throw up a few times, but nothing came out. And her belly, it’s so hard . . .”

  John set the dog on the stainless steel table. Butter moaned again as Kate took a stethoscope from the wall. She pulled up Butter’s lips, inspecting her gums. She pressed them, watched the blood refill. Even to John’s unpracticed eyes, they seemed gray.