by Meg Muldoon
Daniel and I strolled along the quiet streets on our way to the shelter, admiring the bright and cheerful Christmas lights of the neighborhoods we passed through. Huckleberry trotted out in front of us. Daniel let the leash slack whenever the pooch wanted to sniff around the bushes.
We weren’t in any hurry to get there, enjoying the Christmas lights and the cold fresh air of the night.
“So, I have a question for you, Cin,” Daniel said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Well, it’s very serious, so prepare yourself.”
“All right. Go ahead and ask if you’re gonna,” I said.
He paused dramatically.
“When did you find out that there was no Santa Claus?”
I gasped, feigning shock.
“How dare you say such a thing!” I said, slapping his arm playfully. “No Santa? What kind of Christmas Riverite are you?”
He chuckled.
“No, really. When did you discover that the big man didn’t really exist?”
I shrugged, thinking back to Christmases of my childhood.
We never had a lot of money, but my mom and Warren always made a point of making the holiday special for me.
I grinned.
“I must have been about nine,” I said. “I caught Warren putting some bars of chocolate into my stocking. You see, I’d been asleep, but then I heard this crinkling sound coming from the living room. I thought it was Santa. So I slipped out of bed and snuck out of my room. That’s when I saw Warren there by the fireplace, snacking on one of the chocolate bars and putting the rest into my stocking.”
Daniel smiled and shook his head.
“That sounds like your grandfather, all right.”
I laughed.
“It does at that.”
I felt a sharp pang deep in my heart.
I couldn’t help think about the old man’s age. He was getting up there, and no matter how much I didn’t want to think about it, I knew he didn’t have as many Christmases left in him as he used to. And that he was spending this one on the other side of the world.
Still, it had been his decision to stay in Scotland for the holidays. He was following his heart, spending the holiday with Aileen and her kids. And no matter how much I missed him, I couldn’t hold that decision against him.
But I just didn’t want to think about it anymore.
“So when did you find out there was no Santa Claus, Sheriff Brightman?” I asked.
“You want to know the truth?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I never believed in Santa,” he said.
“You never believed in Santa Claus?”
He shook his head.
“My folks weren’t really into the whole idea,” he said. “My brother and I didn’t even have stockings.”
I gasped, almost stopping dead in my tracks.
“That’s terrible!” I said. “So you’ve never known what it’s like to write the big man in the suit a letter? Or to leave him cookies? Or the excitement of Christmas Eve, waiting for him to come down the chimney, hoping he won’t miss your house. You never had any of that?”
“Nope.”
“That’s so sad, Daniel,” I said.
He shrugged.
“Never bothered me much,” he said. “I never had the letdown of finding out that he wasn’t real.”
He stopped walking as we came up to a house that was particularly beautiful. Red and white bulbs danced around the edge of the roof. Lighted reindeer frolicked in the front yard. And up on the chimney, an inflatable Santa Claus was landing an inflatable helicopter.
We both admired it for a spell in silence.
Then Daniel turned toward me.
“But you know what, Cin?” he said. “It all worked out just fine, growing up without all that. Because these days, I do believe in Santa Claus.”
“What?” I said.
The lights from the house sparkled in his eyes, and he smiled warmly.
“Ever since I met you, Cinnamon Peters, I believe in Santa Claus,” he said, rubbing my cheek. “I believe in all sorts of things that I never thought possible before you came into my life.”
Even though it sounded cheesy, the way he said it, all serious and sweet, really got to me.
I grabbed his hand.
“Aw, you’re just a big ham tonight,” I said.
“If you can’t have ham on Christmas, then when are you gonna have it?”
I laughed. Then I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips.
We started walking again, Huckleberry leading out in front.
A couple of blocks later we had arrived at the Humane Society.
Chapter 63
“I’ll be right back,” I said, walking up the steps and through the glass doors.
Deirdre, the ever hardworking shelter manager, was sitting at the desk, shuffling through papers.
“Hi, Cinnamon,” she said, looking up and smiling. “What are you doing here? We’re about to close up for the night.”
“I just thought I’d stop by and see if you’ve heard anything about Chadwick,” I said, digging my hands into my pockets.
A sad expression came over her face. The answer was self-evident.
“I’m sorry, but his microchip hasn’t registered anywhere, and I haven’t heard a thing about any Cocker Spaniel,” she said. “But you know, you shouldn’t lose hope, Cinnamon. I’ve been in this business a long time, and things never work out the way you expect them to. For all we know, Chadwick got picked up by somebody and is having himself a nice Alpo Christmas Eve feast.”
She said the words, but I knew that she didn’t even really believe them.
“Yeah,” I said, playing along. “Maybe you’re right.”
I tried to picture Chadwick inside a nice cozy home, eating happily. But as hard as I tried, I just couldn’t conjure up the image in my head.
It just felt too farfetched.
“Will you let me know if you hear anything?”
“Of course I will,” she said.
I pulled the envelope of money from my pocket, and handed it to her.
“Pepper Posey wanted me to drop this off, too,” I said. “Merry Christmas, Deirdre.”
She furrowed her brow and then took the envelope.
“You too,” she said slowly, opening it.
I backed away, leaving Deirdre to her dogs.
As the door closed behind me, I heard her shout something.
“My goodness!”
I smiled, thinking about all the food and supplies $500 would buy for those cute little pooches in the shelter.
Chapter 64
“You ready to go home?” he asked as I hurriedly walked down the Humane Society building’s walkway.
The night had turned downright frigid. Another storm was set to roll on through the area tonight, and the temperature was plunging quickly.
“I guess it depends on what’s at home,” I said, taking Daniel’s arm.
“A couple of filets mignons,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said as we started walking down the street. “That’s a decent start.”
“A rip roaring fire.”
“Better.”
“A bottle of champagne.”
I smiled.
“Sold.”
Huckleberry led the way, and we hooked a right down Mistletoe Road, the street that ran behind the Humane Society and would take us straight home. I rested my head lightly on Daniel’s shoulder while Huckleberry trotted out in front of us.
“Are you sad about Warren not coming home for Christmas?” he asked.
“Sure I am,” I said. “But you know, I’ve come to terms with it I think. I’m kind of looking forward to it being just the two of us this year. After Thanksgiving, I don’t much mind a quiet evening at home with just you and—”
The slack that Daniel had given Huckleberry on the leash tightened. Daniel’s arm went forward as Hucks started pulling hard on the other end.
�
�What the—” Daniel said, pulling back the leash.
Huckleberry started whimpering. Daniel played tug-of-war with him and the leash, his knuckles growing white with the effort, but the dog was pulling with all his weight, his nose pointed out toward the woods behind the shelter building.
“C’mon, Hucks,” Daniel said, gritting his teeth. “We’ve got some steaks at home to get to.”
Huckleberry quit pulling for a minute, and looked back at us. There was a look in his little brown eyes I didn’t understand. He let out a long, lonesome whimper, and started pulling on the leash again.
“What do you think he means?” I asked.
“Something probably died over there in the woods,” Daniel said. “Probably a raccoon or skunk. C’mon, Hucks.”
But the dog was determined. He let out a desperate howl this time and then started barking loudly. Daniel was having trouble keeping his ground, and was slowly being pulled off the sidewalk and into the woods.
There was something in Huckleberry’s howl, something that sounded desperate and needy. As if he was trying to tell us something. Something important.
“Dammit, Hucks, stop—”
But just as Daniel said that, there was a loud snap. Huckleberry’s old vinyl leash ripped, and the dog bolted into the woods.
“Son of a—” Daniel mumbled, taking off after Hucks.
A moment later, I found myself running too, chasing both of them through the shadowy, snowy, moonlit woods, my heart pounding hard. Huckleberry getting farther and farther out in front of us.
Hucks was usually such a well-trained pooch. In the three years since adopting him, he rarely even tugged on the leash during our walks, let alone tried to break free. He always listened, and he was the kind of dog that if you told him to come back, he’d listen to you.
But something had come over Huckleberry this cold and frosty Christmas Eve. Something that I couldn’t understand.
Up ahead, by the milky blue light of the moon, I could see that the dog had stopped running. He started barking, rearing up on his back legs, that same wild desperation in his cries.
I ran faster, my legs pumping hard through the soft layer of snow. Up ahead, Daniel had stopped dead in his tracks where Hucks was barking, but made no motion to try and grab the dog’s collar or leash.
Daniel was staring at something on the ground.
Huckleberry’s barking had turned into blood-chilling whimpers.
My heart pounded even harder, the blood thundering in my ears.
“What is it?” I said breathlessly, running up behind him. “What’s he—”
I stopped talking, following Daniel’s gaze.
“Oh my…” I started, trailing off.
A small, frail creature lay curled up at the base of a large pine tree, not moving. In the moonlight, I could see that its long fur was dirty and muddy. Ice gleamed off the pink pads of its paws. Its face was buried in its matted coat.
But despite the fact that he hardly looked himself, I recognized the small creature.
My jaw came unhinged and nearly hit the forest floor.
I gasped.
“It’s him!” I shouted, louder than I needed to. “By Kris Kringle, Daniel… Hucks found him!”
Huckleberry was still whimpering, sniffing around the little creature. But the frail animal wasn’t moving.
A thick, fearful lump started growing at the back of my throat.
He was so still and small, lying there like that. He hadn’t moved at all, almost as if he’d always been lying there, part of the landscape. Like he was a rock sitting at the base of the tree.
Daniel kneeled down, scooping the creature carefully up in his arms. Its head limply hung over Daniel’s shoulder.
I swallowed back hard, the walls of my throat as rough as sandpaper.
“Oh, no,” I said, my voice quivering. “Oh no.”
Daniel looked down at the little dog.
“Is he…?” I started saying.
Daniel held the creature’s head up.
The dog’s eyes were closed.
“Chadwick?” I said, holding his little head between my hands. “Chadwick, wake up.”
The pup’s eyes remained closed, and I realized that I was crying.
“Chadwick?”
I looked back at Daniel. He looked helpless, holding the small, frail body in his arms.
“He’s cold,” Daniel said. “He’s awfully cold, Cin. I can’t feel a heartbeat.”
I bit my lower lip until I tasted blood.
“No,” I said. “It can’t end up like this. It just can’t—”
But the little dog wasn’t moving.
I felt a sob rise up from somewhere down at the base of my soul.
The little pooch had traveled so far to get here. So very, very far. Miles and miles, just to end up like this. Dead just a few feet away from—
I thought I saw Chadwick’s eyelids flicker ever so slightly. So slightly, I couldn’t even tell if it had happened, or if my eyes were playing tricks on me.
“Daniel,” I said, placing a hand on his arm, my voice suddenly trembling with hope. “Daniel, he’s—”
The faintest, quietest of whimpers escaped the little dog’s mouth.
My heart jumped, a feeling of hope surging up like a geyser inside of me.
He was alive.
Chadwick was alive!
Happy tears streamed down my face as the dog’s lids opened further, and he rolled those large, hollow eyes of his up in my direction.
His eyes were dull and glazed-over, but there was still a spark of life left in them. If only just a spark.
Somehow, the dog had found his way back to the Humane Society. Through snow and ice and bitter temperatures, the little dog had faced countless dangers to find his way back home.
“We need to get him inside,” Daniel said, glancing up at me quickly.
I nodded, noticing that Daniel’s eyes were glassy.
Chapter 65
I awoke Christmas morning to the heavenly smell of pancakes.
I turned on my side, noticing that Daniel wasn’t there. I stared out the window for a few moments, watching large chunks of snow fall from the timber grey sky above.
There had been no filet mignon for us on Christmas Eve.
No champagne. No cuddling up by a warm fire. No long kisses or exchanges of “I love you” for our first wedding anniversary.
Instead, there was the cold, muddy smell of the Humane Society and hours spent nervously pacing the concrete floors.
We could have just dropped Chadwick off there and checked back in in the morning. But neither one of us wanted to leave.
Chadwick was half-frozen when Huckleberry had found him, clinging to life after days of wandering those cold and snowy woods. Balls of ice had grown on his feet and it was impossible to tell how long he’d been there, under the tree, only a few feet away from the shelter. Having somehow traveled the distance between Julianne Redding’s shed to the Humane Society on his own.
Deirdre had called in the shelter’s vet for the emergency, and she had taken a long time inspecting Chadwick. But finally, the vet had come out and given us a verdict.
“He has mild frostbite on his paws and he’s severely dehydrated,” she said. “But he’s lucky. If you hadn’t found him when you did, he probably wouldn’t have made it.”
I almost collapsed into Daniel’s arms then and there out of sheer joy.
I didn’t know how it happened, how little Chadwick had found his way through the woods, all the way back here. Reappearing in our lives in such a sudden and miraculous way.
I didn’t know how we ended up at the Humane Society at just the right time. How Huckleberry had sensed that a dog near death was out in the woods, maybe even knowing that it was his buddy, Chadwick, himself.
I didn’t know how any of that had happened.
But it didn’t really matter.
All I knew was that it had been a miracle. One of those rare moments in life when eve
rything comes together right. When you no longer have to wonder whether or not there was a greater reason behind it all. Because you knew, deep down in your bones, without a doubt, that something like this couldn’t happen if there wasn’t a greater reason.
You couldn’t explain something like this away with words like coincidence, or fortuitous, or luck. There was more to it than any of that.
We were meant to find Chadwick that night, just in time.
I sat up in bed, took in a greedy breath of Christmas morning air, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I nestled my feet into my slippers and threw on my red checkered robe. Then I wandered down the hall, following the mouthwatering smell of gingerbread pancakes and hot maple syrup, and the sound of Dean Martin playing over the speakers.
Daniel stood with his back to me over the griddle, a spatula in his hand. He was whistling along and hadn’t heard me, and for a while, I just watched him there. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the moment: Daniel had made breakfast in this house dozens of times on the weekends. But there was something about the way the soft grey light fell on him there, something about the way the snow-covered trees outside swayed gently behind him, something about the way he flipped those pancakes. Something about the way he whistled, off tune but not caring one bit. Something about all of it… that I knew that this image would be one of the ones that burned in my mind forever, that I would one day look back on when I was old and think… I sure lived a full and beautiful life.
After a moment, I snuck up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist.
“Merry Christmas, baby,” I said.
He smiled, looking back at me.
“Merry Christmas, darling.”
He kissed the bridge of my nose.
“How’s the hero doing?” I said.
“I fed Hucks the first few pancakes,” Daniel said, smiling. “He gorged himself and now he’s passed out by the fireplace.”
I chuckled.
