The 24 Days of Christmas

by Linda Lael Miller

  Three-ten.

  She fired back an e-mail, just in case Toby, true to form, was shallow enough to take a laptop on his honeymoon. He was irresponsible in just about every area of his life, but when it came to his loan-brokering business, he kept up.

  WHERE IS HENRY? Addie typed furiously, and hit Send.

  After that, she drank coffee and paced, watching the screen for an answer that never came.

  At five minutes to four, she was waiting at the Texaco station, in the center of town. The bus rolled in right on time and stopped with a squeak of air brakes.

  The hydraulic door whooshed open.

  A middle-aged woman descended the steps, then an old man in corduroy pants, a plaid flannel shirt and a quilted vest, then a teenage girl with pink hair and a silver ring at the base of her right eyebrow.

  Addie crammed her hands into the pockets of her coat and paced some more.

  At last, she saw him. A bespectacled little boy, standing tentatively in the doorway of the bus, clutching a teddy bear under one arm.

  Henry.

  She’d been afraid to hope. Now, overjoyed, Addie ran past the gas pumps to gather him close.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Henry sat at Eliza’s table, huddled in his favorite pajamas, his brown hair rumpled, his horn-rimmed glasses slightly askew. “So anyway,” he explained, sounding mildly congested, “Elle said I was incrudgible and Dad had better deal with me or she’d be out of there.”

  Addie seethed. She hadn’t pressed for details the afternoon before, after his arrival, and Henry hadn’t volunteered any. They’d stopped at the supermarket on the way home from the Texaco station, stocked up on fish sticks and French fries, and come back to the apartment for supper. After the meal, Henry had submitted sturdily to a bath, a dose of children’s aspirin, and the smearing on of mentholated rub. Then, exhausted, he’d donned his pajamas and fallen asleep in Frank’s childhood bed.

  Addie had spent half the night trying to track Toby down, but he might as well have moved to Argentina and taken on a new identity. It seemed he’d dropped off the face of the earth.

  Now, in the chilly glare of a winter morning, Henry was more forthcoming with details. “Dad and me flew to Denver together; then he put me on the bus and said he’d call you when he’d worked things out with Elle.”

  Addie gritted her teeth and turned her back, fiddling with the cord on the percolator. The Advent calendar dangled in front of her, a tattered, colorful reminder that there was joy in the world, and that it was often simple and homemade.

  “Hey,” she said brightly, turning around again, “it’s the second of December. Want to see what’s in the box?”

  Henry adjusted his glasses and examined the length of ribbon, with its twenty-four colorful matchboxes. Before he could reply, a firm knock sounded at the front door.

  “Come in!” Addie called, because you could do that in Pine Crossing, without fear of admitting an ax murderer.

  A little girl dashed into the kitchen, wearing everyday clothes and a tinsel halo. Addie was struck dumb, momentarily at least. Frank’s child, she thought, amazed to find herself shaken. This is Frank’s child.

  Addie had barely had time to recover from that realization when Frank himself loomed in the doorway. His badge twinkled on the front of his brown uniform jacket.

  One of her questions was put to rest, at least. Frank still had all his hair.

  He smiled that slow, sparing smile of his. “Hello, Addie,” he said.

  “Frank,” she managed to croak, with a nod.

  He put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “This is my daughter, Lissie,” he said. “She’s impersonating an angel.”

  The brief, strange tension was broken, and Addie laughed. Approaching Lissie, she put out a hand. “How do you do?” she said. “My name is Addie. I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting an angel before.” She peered over Lissie’s small shoulders, pretending to be puzzled. “Where are your wings?”

  The child sighed, a little deflated. “You don’t get those unless you’re actually in the play,” she said. “Shepherds aren’t allowed to have wings.”

  Addie gave Frank a quizzical look. He responded with a half smile and a you’ve-got-me shake of his head.

  “I made the halo myself,” Lissie said, squaring her shoulders. She’d been sneaking looks at Henry the whole time; now she addressed him directly. “Who are you?”

  “Henry,” he replied solemnly, and pushed at the nosepiece of his glasses.

  “My dad got married, and his wife says I’m incrudgible.”

  “Oh,” Lissie said with a knowing air.

  Frank and Addie exchanged glances.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Frank said, nodding toward the Advent calendar. A smile lit his eyes. “Lissie was hoping she could be around for the opening of Box Number 2.”

  Addie’s throat tightened. Those memories again, all of them sweet. “You do the honors, Miss Lissie,” she said with a grand gesture of one arm.

  Lissie started toward the calendar, and once again Frank’s hand came to rest on her small shoulder. Although they didn’t look at each other, some silent message traveled between father and daughter.

  “I think Henry should open the box,” Lissie said. “Unless being incrudgible means he’ll mess it up.”

  Henry hesitated, probably wondering if incrudgibility was, indeed, a factor in the enterprise. Then, very carefully, he dragged his chair over to the counter, climbed up on it, and pulled open the second box. Lissie looked on eagerly.

  Henry turned his head, his nose wrinkled. “It’s a ballerina,” he said with little-boy disdain.

  Addie had known what was inside, of course, knew what was tucked into all the boxes. She’d been through the ritual every Christmas of her childhood, from the time she was five. Eliza had let her choose that tiny doll from a shoe box full of small toys, the very first year, dab glue onto its back, and press it into place.

  She looked at Frank, looked away again, quickly. She’d been so jealous of him, those first few weeks after his arrival, afraid he’d take her place in Eliza’s affections. Instead, Eliza had made room in her heart for both children, each lost and unwanted in their own way, and let Addie take part in the tradition, right from the first.

  “We’d better be on our way,” Frank said, somewhat gruffly. “Lissie’s got school.”

  Addie touched Henry’s forehead reflexively, before helping him down from the chair. Despite the aspirin and other stock remedies, he still had a slight fever, and that worried her.

  “Are you going to go to my school?” Lissie asked Henry. “Or are you just here for a vacation?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said, and he sounded so bereft that the insides of Addie’s sinuses burned. Damn Toby, she thought bitterly. Damn him for being selfish and shallow enough to put a small boy on a bus and leave him to his fate. Did the man have so much as a clue how many things could have gone horribly wrong along the way?

  Frank caught her eye. “Everything all right, Addie?” he asked quietly.

  She bit her lower lip. Nodded. Frank didn’t keep up with gossip; he never had. It followed, then, that he didn’t know what she’d been accused of, that she’d staked her whole career on a big story, that she’d almost gone to jail for protecting her source, that that source, as it turned out, had been lying through his capped and gleaming teeth.

  Frank looked good-naturedly skeptical of her answer. He shrugged and raised a coffee mug to his lips. It was white, chipped here and there, with an oversized handle and Frank’s name emblazoned in gold letters across the front, inside a large red heart.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Addie had lost track of the conversation, and it must have shown in her face, because Frank grinned, inclined his head toward the Advent calendar, and said, “It means a lot to Lissie, to open those boxes.”

  “Maybe you should take it back to your place,” she said. Henry and Lissie were in the living room by then; one of
them was plunking out a single-finger version of “Jingle Bells” on Eliza’s ancient piano. “After all, it’s a family heirloom.”

  “It seems fitting to me, having it here,” Frank reasoned, watching her intently, “but if you’d rather we didn’t come stomping into your kitchen every morning, I’d understand. So would Lissie.”

  “It isn’t that,” Addie protested, laying a hand to her heart. “Honestly. It was so sweet of you to remember, but—” Her voice fell away, and she struggled to get hold of it again. “Frank, about the rent—you didn’t say how much—”

  “Let’s not worry about that right now,” Frank interrupted. “It’s almost Christmas, and, besides, this is your home.”

  Addie opened her mouth, closed it again. Her father, the judge, had quietly waited out her ill-fated engagement to Frank, but he’d been unhappy with her decision to go into journalism instead of law. When she refused to change her major, he’d changed his will, leaving the main house and property to Eliza. A year later, he’d died of a heart attack.

  Addie had never been close to her father, but she’d grieved all right. She hadn’t needed the inheritance. She’d buckled down, gotten her degree, and landed a promising job with a California newspaper. She’d been the golden girl—until she’d trusted the wrong people, and written a story that nearly brought down an entire chain of newspapers.

  Frank raised his free hand, as though he might touch the tip of her nose, the way he’d done when they were young, and thought they were in love. Then, apparently having second thoughts, he let it fall back to his side.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Addie awoke to silvery light and the sort of muffled sounds that always meant snow. She lay perfectly still, for a long time, hands cupped behind her head, grinning like a delighted fool. Snow. Oh, how she had missed the snow, in the land of palm trees and almost constant sunshine.

  Henry was trying to make a phone call when she got to the kitchen. After a moment’s pause, she started the coffee.

  “I hate my dad,” he said, hanging up the receiver with a slight slam. “I hate Elle, too.”

  Addie wanted to wrap the child in her arms and hold him close, but she sensed that he wouldn’t welcome the gesture at this delicate point. He was barely keeping himself together as it was. “No, sweetie,” she said softly. “You don’t hate either of them. You’re just angry, and that’s understandable. And for the record, you’re not incorrigible, either. You are a very good boy.”

  He stared at her in that owlish way of his. “I don’t want to go back there. Not ever. I want to stay here, with you.”

  Addie’s heart ached. You have no rights, she reminded herself. Not where this child is concerned. “You know I’d love to have you live with me for always,” she said carefully, “but that might not be possible. Your dad—”

  Suddenly, Henry hurled himself at her. She dropped to her knees and pulled him into her arms.

  There was a rap at the front door.

  “Addie?” Frank called.

  Henry pulled back and rubbed furiously at his eyes, then straightened his glasses.

  “Come in,” Addie said.

  Frank appeared in the doorway, carrying his coffee cup and a bakery box. He paused on the threshold, watching as Addie got to her feet.

  “Do you sleep in that stupid halo?” Henry asked, gazing balefully at Lissie, who pressed past her father to bounce into the kitchen.

  “Henry,” Addie said in soft reprimand. He wasn’t usually a difficult child, but under the present circumstances . . .

  “You’re just jealous,” Lissie said with cheerful confidence, striking a pose.

  Frank set his coffee mug on the counter with an authoritative thump. “Lissandra,” he said. “Be nice.”

  “Well, he is,” Lissie countered.

  “Am not,” Henry insisted, digging in his heels and folding his arms. “And your hair is poofy.”

  “Somebody open the box,” Frank put in.

  “My turn,” Lissie announced, and dragged over the same chair Henry had used the day before. With appropriate ceremony, she tugged at the little ribbon-pull at the top of the matchbox and revealed the cotton-ball snowman inside. He still had his black top hat and bead eyes.

  “We could build a snowman, after school,” Lissie told Henry, inspired. “And my hair is not either poofy.” She paused. “You are going to school, aren’t you?”

  Henry looked up at Addie. “Do I have to?”

  She ruffled his hair, resisted an impulse to adjust his glasses. He hated it when she did that, and, anyway, it might call attention to the fact that he’d been crying. “I think you should,” she said. She’d had him checked out at the Main Street Clinic the day before, and physically, he was fine. She had explained his situation to the doctor, and they’d agreed that the best thing to do was keep his life as normal as possible.

  Henry sighed heavily. “Okay, I’ll go. As long as I get to help build the snow-dude afterwards.”

  Frank refilled his coffee mug at the percolator and helped himself to a pastry. “Sounds like a fair deal to me,” he said, munching. He looked at Addie over the top of Lissie’s head. “You going to help? With the snowman, I mean?”

  Addie flushed and rubbed her hands down the thighs of her jeans. “I really should look for a job.”

  “School doesn’t get out until three,” Lissie reasoned, climbing down from the chair. “That gives you plenty of time.”

  “I’ll take a late lunch hour,” Frank put in, offering Addie a bear claw. Her all-time favorite. Had he remembered that, or was it just coincidence? “I heard there was an opening over at the Wooden Nickel. Receptionist and classified ad sales.”

  Addie lowered the bear claw.

  “Kind of a comedown from big-city journalism,” Frank said. “But other than waitressing at the Lumberjack Diner, that’s about all Pine Crossing has to offer in the way of employment.”

  She studied his face. So he did know, then—about what had happened in California. She wished she dared ask him how much he knew, but she didn’t. Not with Lissie there, and Henry already so upset.

  “I’ll take the kids to school,” Frank went on, raising Addie’s hand, pastry and all, back to her mouth even as he turned to the kids. “Hey, Hank,” he said. “How’d you like a ride in a squad car?”

  * * *

  The snow was still drifting down, in big, fat, pristine flakes, when Addie set out for the Wooden Nickel, armed with a truthful resumé and high hopes. The Nickel wasn’t really a newspaper, just a supermarket giveaway, but that didn’t mean the editor wouldn’t have heard about her exploits in California. Even though the job probably didn’t involve writing anything but copy for classified ads, she might be considered a bad risk.

  The wheels of the Buick crunched in the mounting snow as she pulled up in front of the small storefront where the Wooden Nickel was published. Like most of the businesses in town, it faced the square, where a large, bare evergreen tree had been erected.

  She smiled. The lighting of the tree was a big deal in Pine Crossing, right up there with the pageant at St. Mary’s. Henry would probably enjoy it, and the festivities might even take his mind off his father’s disinterest, if only for an evening.

  Her smile faded. Call him, Toby, she pleaded silently. Please call him.

  Mr. Renfrew was the editor of the Wooden Nickel, just as he had been when Addie was a child. He beamed as she stepped into the office, brushing snow from the sleeves of her coat.

  “Addie Hutton!” he cried, looking like Santa, even in his flannel shirt and woolen trousers, as he came out from behind the counter. “It’s wonderful to see you again!”

  He hugged her, and she hugged him back. “Thanks,” she said after swallowing.

  “Frank was by a little while ago. Said you might be in the market for a job.”

  It was just like Frank to try and pave the way. Addie didn’t know whether to be annoyed or appreciative, and decide
d she was both. “I brought a resumé,” she said. She had only a few hundred dollars in her checking account, until the money from the sale of her furniture and other personal belongings came through from the auction house in California, and now there was Henry to think about.

  She needed work.

  “No need for anything like that,” Mr. Renfrew said with a wave of his plump, age-spotted hand. “I’ve known you all your life, Addie. Knew your father for most of his.” He paused, frowned. “I can’t pay you much, though. You realize that, don’t you?”

  Addie smiled, nodded. Her eyes were burning again.

  “Then it’s settled. You can start tomorrow. Nine o’clock sharp.”

  “Thank you,” Addie said, almost overcome. Her salary at the Wooden Nickel probably wouldn’t have covered her gym membership back home, but she blessed every penny of it.

  Mr. Renfrew gave her a tour of the small operation and showed her which of the three desks was hers.

  When she stepped back out into the cold, Frank just happened to be loitering on the sidewalk, watching as members of the volunteer fire department strung lights on the community tree from various rungs of the truck ladder.

  Addie poked him good-naturedly in the back. “You put in a good word for me, didn’t you?” she accused. “With Mr. Renfrew, I mean.”

  Frank grinned down at her. “Maybe I did,” he admitted. “Truth is, he didn’t need much persuading. How about a cup of coffee over at the Lumberjack?”

  She looked pointedly at the mug in his right hand. “Looks as if you carry your own,” she teased.

  Something changed in his face, something so subtle that she might have missed it if she hadn’t been looking so closely, trying to read him. Then his grin broadened, and he upended the cup, dumping the dregs of his coffee into a snowbank. “I guess I need a refill,” he said.

  They walked to the diner, on the opposite side of the square, Frank exchanging gruff male greetings with the light-stringing firemen as they passed.

  Inside the diner, they took seats in a booth, and the waitress filled Frank’s mug automatically, before turning over the clean cup in front of Addie and pouring a serving for her.