by Karen Welch
Nevertheless, Milo had sent John back to Scotland with a generous sum of cash. In exchange he wanted Harry's assurance that he would not come near Stani without first obtaining Milo's permission. He never told Jana about the cash, though of course she understood why John Kimble had become a member of their household. Nothing more was heard from Harry Moss.
They had been in New York for over a year when Milo received a letter from John, with a newspaper clipping enclosed. John wrote that he thought Milo would like to know what had become of the man who claimed to be Stani's father. The clipping was a piece from a small local paper, detailing the death of a familiar figure in the community. Harry Moss, long known for his fine fiddle playing, had been killed one night recently. While walking along a dark road, coming home from playing his fiddle in a nearby town, he had been hit by a car. The driver had stated that he never saw the man until he stumbled into his headlights. Harry Moss and his music, the article concluded, would be missed. John closed his letter with a reminder that he would always be available should Milo need his services for Stani again.
When they had moved to New York, Stani had chaffed at no longer having John to play chess or cards with. He worried that without John he would never learn to get around in a strange city. Even Jana said she would miss having a man about who knew how to use a hammer and take out the garbage on the proper day. Now Milo wondered if John would be interested in making an unexpected trip to the States over the Christmas holiday.
Chapter Thirteen
Christmas Eve dawned clear and very cold. Emily was thankful for the constant soft rumble of the furnace, knowing today her fire would be no match for the near zero chill. She had enjoyed a long hot shower, dressed in her last clean clothes, and devoured a stack of toast and jam by the time Jack's car pulled through the gate. He came to the door, his arms loaded with boxes and bags all bearing the familiar logo of “Martha Jean's Boutique” and a broad smile creasing his face.
“Good morning, Miss Haynes. I see you're up with the birds.” His eyes traveled from her still damp hair, to her William and Mary sweatshirt, and stopped at her fuzzy pink bedroom slippers.
She tried to relieve him of some of the packages, but he pushed past her to the table by the window. “Wow, you sure gave her holiday sales a boost! What is all this?” As quickly as he set down his load, she began to peek into the bags.
“Now wait just a minute. Some of these can't be opened until tomorrow. It's not Christmas yet!”
Her eyes wide, she stepped back. “You bought me presents? Oh, Jack, you didn't have to do that.”
“Sure I did. You may not have a tree, but you can still have presents.” He nodded toward the decorations on the mantel, at the same time pulling out two large boxes. Handing her one, he said, “Here, try this on, just to be sure. And take this too. I have no idea what's in here. Martha Jean took care of the unmentionables.” Again, his face was stretched in a wide grin, as he passed her a small bag rustling with tissue paper.
Within minutes she returned from the bedroom, standing at the foot of the stairs for his inspection. The dress, red and gray plaid trimmed in black velvet, was perfectly suited to her tall, slender form. Jack paused for a minute to take in the effect, caught off guard.
“This is beautiful, Jack. I would never have chosen anything so nice. Does it look all right?”
In answer, he held out the other box. “Try these on.”
She sat on the couch to pull on the tall, black high-heeled boots. Standing, she smiled into his eyes. “I'm almost as tall as you are.” Twisting and turning, she inspected herself with a look of increasing awe. “This must have cost a fortune. I'll pay you back, I promise.”
He frowned down at her. “Don't be silly. We're family, remember? You're the only person I'm going shopping for. You can count on that. I must say, we didn't do too bad, me and Martha Jean. You look like. . .what is it I want to say? Like a young lady? You've grown up, Jiliand Emily.” His tone was half-teasing, but there was a hint of disappointment, too.
Emily giggled. “Ugh! No one's called me that in a while.”
“They were very proud of that name. 'J and D surrounding Lilianne, and Emily because it has a nice literary ring'. . .,” he quoted sternly.
“. . as in Emily Bronte or Emily Dickinson.” She chimed in. They laughed together at the shared memory of her parents' frequently repeated explanation of their choice of names for their daughter.
“I haven't felt so spoiled in a long time. Thank you, Jack.” She hugged him, sensing that they were both dangerously close to tears.
“You've more than earned a little spoiling. Now I've got to get back to work. I'll pick you up at ten tonight, okay?” He watched as she walked gracefully toward the bedroom. “Your folks would be proud of you, you know that. You've turned out just like they planned.”
She wanted to say “thank you,” but the words wouldn't come. She was sure he understood.
When dark came, she prepared her supper, thinking it was a sad day when her Christmas Eve feast was yet another in a long line of ham sandwiches. She switched on the radio and sat at the kitchen table to eat, listening to a live holiday broadcast from Washington. When the operatic soprano had concluded the program with “O Holy Night,” the announcer returned, and Emily turned up the volume to catch what he was saying.
“We regret that Stani Moss was unable to appear tonight as planned. The young violinist was seriously injured in an automobile accident several days ago and is currently being treated in a New York hospital. All of us here wish Stani a speedy recovery.” She turned off the set, trying to grasp what had been said. He was gone, hundreds of miles away. She might never know how he was now. A sudden sense of loss, of bereavement, flooded over her. Seeking some way to relieve the ache in her chest, she told herself she would pray for him. Instead of torturing herself over his well-being, she would place him in God's hands, where he had really been all along.
Prayer, as always, calmed her. She wasn't sure how prayers were answered, but she knew the act of praying invariably eased her fears and cleared her mind of worry. She asked God to guide the doctors caring for Stani. She prayed that he would find comfort and strength as he went through the pain of recovery. And, if it were part of the plan for her own life, she added the request that maybe, someday, she would know he was well again. She felt better about Stani, knowing he was in far more capable hands now. As to her own bruised feelings, she was confident they would heal in time as well.
Ready long before Jack's car pulled through the gate, Emily ran out to meet him. As soon as she slammed the car door against the bitterly cold wind, he said, “I have some news about your patient.”
“So do I. You go first.”
“He was taken by private ambulance to New York yesterday afternoon. His family must have arranged it as soon as they got word he'd been found.”
“I heard it on the radio. He was supposed to have performed in DC tonight. I guess that's the last we'll hear, now that he's gone.” Her voice trembled in spite of her efforts at control.
“You okay with that?”
“Sure, as long as he's being taken care of. That's all that matters,” she said bravely, wishing she could manage to sound more convincing.
“It's only natural that you'd be worried about him, Em. Give yourself some time, okay?”
For most of the fifteen-minute drive, they rode in silence, Emily staring out the window as they turned off the highway and the car slowed, making its way along the quiet streets into town. The lights of the church were coming into view. Taking a deep breath, she turned her attention to the sight of people making their way to the open door, holding onto one another as they navigated the slippery stairs, laughing and talking. Calls of “Merry Christmas” met her ears as she stepped out into the cold night air. Taking Jack's arm, she took her place in the procession, aware of a growing tingle of excitement as they climbed the steps. This was her church; she had been baptized here, attended worship every Sunday with he
r parents. Her mother had served as church organist and her father had taught a Sunday School class for as long as she could remember. She loved the cool interior of the little stone church, the rich sound of the pipe organ and the comfort of friends and neighbors in nearby pews. The church was like a second home, always welcoming and always the same.
In the narthex, the smell of pine boughs and the glow of candlelight wrapped around her, drawing her in. The sanctuary was already crowded. Local families swelled with out-of-town guests, sleepy children in the arms of proud grandparents, several young men in uniform, their mothers or sweethearts clinging to their arms, all gathered in anticipation of the hour to come. From her seat next to Jack, she searched the familiar faces. Down front, Sara McConnell sat between sons Peter and James. Peter had let his hair grow longer, now that he was at college, and the blonde mane was very becoming. He was even better looking than the last time Emily had seen him, which must have been almost two years ago. James, home on leave from Southeast Asia, was in uniform. Thin and deeply tanned, he looked older, and there was a tense, haggard expression on his face as he gazed down at his mother.
They had been close friends; Peter and Emily the same age and James four years older, they had played together as children. She had even dated Peter briefly during their sophomore year, ending the relationship with an uneasy truce after some awkward attempts at romance. She smiled as she recalled telling a red-faced Peter that he could keep his sweaty hands to himself if that was all he was interested in. But they had put that aside during their senior year, when she'd been struggling to adjust to life alone and James had been preparing to go overseas. The three of them had supported each other, finding comfort in the fact that they were each moving into a future filled with uncertainty.
Slipping closer to Jack, she looked around in amazement. This gathering looked like every other Christmas Eve service she'd attended through the years. The same smiling faces, some looking a bit frail now with age; the same murmur of voices, using every moment to visit before the first notes sounded from the organ. There were smiles of surprised recognition, and she knew the news of her presence would spread through the congregation by the end of the service.
Behind her, a man and woman were deep in soft-spoken conversation, commenting on the artificial trees with their tiny electric candles that stood grouped behind the crèche figures at the front of the church. The man was saying what a pity about those cedar trees. His wife whispered, “You did your best.”
“But it's still a shame not to have real trees. I just couldn't get to 'em before the ice came. Guess they're still stacked up on the side of the road by the springs. Pity, wasting all those trees.” The woman shushed him softly.
Emily gasped at the vision of a black clad figure, sailing through the darkness and coming to rest on a nest of soft cedar branches. She looked at Jack's profile, but he seemed not to have heard. Could that have been what happened? If the trees intended to decorate the church had indeed cushioned his fall, how could anyone deny that Stani had been saved by an act of God?
The organ came to life, and she saw Pastor Mike step to the pulpit, raising his hands for silence. Over the soft music, Emily listened to his warm, strong voice as he called the people to worship.
“This is the night of our savior's birth. Let us open our hearts in welcome as we come together to worship God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit on this most miraculous of nights.”
During the ride home, Emily told Jack what she had overheard. Skeptical at first, he agreed that certainly something had broken Stani's flight from the car. “He had to have been thrown clear before the car rolled and hit the tree. I've seen a lot of accidents, Em, but this was one for the books. And since there were no witnesses, unless he remembers what happened, we'll never know for sure.”
She decided she would accept her own theory until someone could prove otherwise. It was comforting to think that a divine hand had been there to save him. She would choose to believe that God had a plan for Stani Moss. Believing that made giving him up so much less painful.
Chapter Fourteen
Milo realized immediately following the surgery on Christmas Eve that he and Jana would never be able to provide all that Stani would need in the weeks and months ahead. Stani's doctor had taken Milo aside, while Jana kept her bedside vigil, and talked frankly of what they might expect during his recovery.
Obviously, the shoulder injury was of primary concern, given Stani's profession. Once it had sufficiently healed from the surgery, there would be weeks, possibly months, of rehabilitation. Not only had the joint been separated and the collarbone fractured; but the arm had been severely twisted, wrenched from the shoulder; and the resulting damage to soft tissue, muscles and tendons, as well as nerves, would need time to heal. Nerves could take as long as eighteen months, he said. So they could not expect to see immediate results but rather slow recovery of strength and motor function over time. Refusing to consider anything less than full recovery, Milo had not asked questions about the possibility of permanent damage.
Going on to describe the head injuries, the doctor explained that X-rays showed Stani had suffered multiple blows to the front and back of his head, as well as the wound above his ear. Fortunately, there was no sign of skull fracture or bleeding in the brain. Concussion took time, but usually healed without long-term effects. It would not be surprising for Stani to experience some difficulty with balance at first, and headaches might persist for an extended period. The laceration, while certainly responsible for a significant loss of blood, was superficial.
There was another area for concern, one which might not be immediately evident, the doctor went on—the emotional and psychological impact. First, Stani had survived an accident where others involved had died. Such survivors often experienced depression, even guilt; Stani might well need help coping for a time. Secondly—and here the doctor acknowledged that Milo must be aware of this possibility already—was the effect of losing the ability to play the violin, even for a short time. For someone like Stani, whose life centered on his extraordinary talent, the fear of no longer performing could be devastating. He urged Milo to be as encouraging as possible, without offering any guarantees for the future. It would require patience and hard work before they could be certain what the outcome might be. Everyone around Stani should be aware of the need for support and encouragement during the lengthy recovery.
Milo knew that Jana would not leave Stani's bedside unless she felt sure he was being cared for by equally loving hands. She would need someone else, someone she trusted, to relieve her from time to time. Milo himself needed someone to gather information and help protect Stani's privacy during his recovery. He would prefer to have someone who already knew Stani and understood the nature of his talent and the demands of his career, rather than bringing in a stranger just now.
The day after Christmas, Milo received a telegram from John Kimble. News of Stani's accident had reached London. He asked that Milo let him know the details of Stani's condition and how he might be of service. He could be in New York in a matter of days.
While arrangements were being made for a plane ticket and accommodations for John in New York, Milo received a message via his answering service from Peg Shannon. She was returning from Florida the following day and would come straight to the hospital, prepared to remain for as long as she was needed. He was surprised, though he had hoped Peg might offer her services in some way. Milo knew she had been fond of Stani and devoted to his success when he was still just a boy. From the time she had been enlisted to raise funds for his first major tour, Peg had remained Stani's staunchest supporter. Milo had suspected that there might have been a more personal involvement as well but had not wanted to pry, for fear of insulting Peg and losing her as a valuable ally. Now she was offering to sit by the boy's bedside, knowing that Jana would need a partner in Stani's care.
John arrived and after a brief visit to the hospital had gone off in the company of Robert to retrace Stani's
movements and gather whatever information he could; anything that might shed light on the almost two days before Stani had been found and returned to New York. Peg had come as promised, bag in hand, and established herself in Stani's room. After persuading Jana to go home and rest for at least twenty-four hours, she had sought out Stani's doctor, insisting on being told first-hand what would be needed to restore him to health.
With John dispatched to Virginia and Peg on hand to relieve Jana, Milo could turn his full attention to the press coverage of the accident. The death of one of the sons of a prominent politician was sensational news, particularly given Mark Stevenson's already high profile. It was fortunate, Milo considered, that most of the articles that appeared over the Christmas holiday dealt with Sen. Stevenson's statements to the press, the recapping of Mark's colorful history, and speculation regarding his relationship with a little-known actress. Those articles gave only one line to the fact that Stani Moss, concert violinist, had been injured in the accident.
Milo knew that the news of Stani's injury had been announced over the radio on Christmas Eve. He had issued an official statement that afternoon, once Stani was safely out of surgery, emphasizing their appreciation for the concern expressed for the young artist and requesting respect for his privacy at such a difficult time. He had also extended condolences to the grieving families of the other two young people, refusing to comment on the relationship between Stani and the others, out of respect for the tragic nature of the events.
Milo had always sought carefully constructed publicity for his young charge. He knew how quickly one name could be replaced by another in the minds of the concert-going public. While avoiding overexposure, he had never allowed too much time between interviews or press releases. Now he needed to keep Stani's name out of the ugly tabloid press that was certain to be generated by the accident that killed Mark Stevenson. As for Betsy Mason, he had no idea what to expect. He would have John look deeper into her relationship with Stani as soon as he returned from Virginia.
