by Lexi Eddings
She’d been surprised when Asher Elkin, the stoop-shouldered, bespectacled owner of the small bookstore on the Square, had come to audition. The Jewish shopkeeper had told her outright that he wanted to be one of the wise men.
“You see,” he’d said, “my people are still waiting for the Messiah to come.Why shouldn’t I play a soul who seeks him?”
It made sense to Angie and she was thrilled that Mr. Elkin had read well and, like Dr. Gonncu, would lend an air of gravity to the proceedings. She was sure Junior and his menagerie would deliver all the comic relief they’d ever need. Casting Mr. Elkin made even more sense when Seth told her a little about the bookstore owner after the audition was over.
“He loves Christmastime, and not just because it’s good for business. I think it’s the lights and decorations and family gathering and such,” Seth had said. “In fact, he helped my parents keep the secret of Santa Clause going long after my friends stopped believing.”
“How’d he do that?”
“Mr. Elkin has lived next door to my folks for years. My dad would often pop over on Saturdays to do things for him. He used to call my dad his Shabbos goy,” Seth had told her.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Yiddish for a non-Jew who does work on the Sabbath that an observant Jew can’t. I thought my dad was a pretty good guy just doing those things out of the goodness of his heart until I learned he had a secret deal with Mr. Elkin.”
“What kind of deal?”
“They worked out an arrangement so that when our family took off for the Christmas Eve service at church, Mr. Elkin was supposed to let himself in the back door.” Seth had smiled that crooked smile of his at the memory. “My mom had told him where all our presents were stashed, and he played Santa for us by arranging everything under the tree so it would be there when we got home from church.”
“That’s a piece of evil genius.” Angie hadn’t ever believed in Santa Claus. By the time she was moved to a home where her foster parents played along with the yearly ruse, there had been too many years in her past when she’d never had a Christmas. There’d been nothing in her stocking too often to believe in a jolly old elf. “Your parents are kind of sneaky.”
“Yeah, but it was fun,” Seth had said with a grin. “Even when I was eight and Tommy Thompson swore up and down that Santa Claus was really just our moms and dads, I was ready to knock him in the creek. I had the evidence of my own eyes. Neither of my folks ever left the Christmas Eve service early. They couldn’t be Santa.”
Maintaining such an elaborate fantasy for a kid struck Angie as questionable parenting, but the ruse was reinforced by the entire culture. And it had meant something to Seth when he was a boy. Now that he was grown, he appreciated the lengths the adults in his life had been willing to go to keep the magical side of the holiday alive as long as they could.
But what’s more magical than the idea of God becoming a human being?
Angie was a little surprised at the number of times she’d had what she was beginning to call “God thoughts” lately. She was an indifferent churchgoer, making it to service maybe once a month. She chalked up these “God thoughts” to all the time she had to spend researching the Christmas story and its traditions.
When Seth had told her about his parents’ scheme with Mr. Elkin, she thought they sounded like they’d be fun to know and she’d made the mistake of saying so. He immediately jumped on the idea of taking her over to his mom and dad’s for dinner on Sunday.
She’d begged off. It seemed far too soon to meet the parents.
She loved being with Seth. He was terrific, actually. But she’d fallen hard and fast with Peter. She was determined not to repeat that mistake. In fact, she always made sure they said good night at her door.
Seth’s kisses were still hot enough to make her toes curl, but she sent him on his way before she unlocked her apartment. She wasn’t sure she could trust herself to make him leave if she let him in. Angie ran her fingertips over her bottom lip.
A soft rap on the frame of her classroom door jerked her out of her “Seth thoughts,” and made her look up. Emma Wilson was there, leaning on the doorjamb as if she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to come in or go out.
“You wanted to see me, Miss Holloway?”
“Oh, good. Come on in, Emma.” She was the last of the cast members Angie was planning to meet with that evening. Then Seth was taking her someplace special, but he wouldn’t tell her where. It was a surprise, he’d said.
She couldn’t wait.
But Emma apparently could.The girl lingered in the doorway, her eyes averted, her lower lip trembling. “I . . . I can’t stay. I just came to tell you I can’t be in the pageant, Miss Holloway.”
“But I’ve already cast you as Mary.”
At this news, Emma burst into tears.
Chapter 20
Beautiful mistakes happen.
—Angela Holloway
Angie flew across the room and, against her usual inclination to avoid physical contact, she put her arms around the weeping teenager. Emma clung to her, sobbing as if the world were ending.
“Come now,” Angie said, patting her back. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Oh, yes, it can. Worse, even.” Emma snuffled loudly as she let Angie lead her over to a desk on the first row. Angie handed her a tissue and the waterworks subsided a bit.
“Did you and Tad break up?” Angie hoped so. Emma deserved better.
“No, but we will. He’ll dump me for sure this time.” Emma’s eyes filled again. “I’m pregnant.”
How many times had a young girl’s life been changed forever with those two words?
It was usually the kiss of death for her education. So many girls dropped out of school because they were embarrassed by the changes in their body or felt tired all the time or suffered from morning sickness when they ought to be in Algebra class.
Or they opted to abort the baby and go on with their lives. Sort of. Angie had done a paper on it for one of her graduate classes. Teens who’d had an abortion were much more likely than their peers to abuse alcohol and drugs, probably to self-medicate their depression. Compared to adult women who’d had abortions, girls in Emma’s situation who chose to abort were two to four times more likely to attempt suicide later.
“Tad doesn’t know yet. He’s gonna freak when I tell him. And then it’ll be over for good.” Emma blew her nose loudly.
“Maybe not.” Even as she said it, she knew it was a kind lie. If the conversation Angie had overheard between them in the Green Apple was any indication, Tad Van Hook had already left Emma Wilson. She simply refused to pick up on the signals of benign indifference he’d lobbed halfheartedly in her direction. “Have you told your parents?”
Emma shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You should. They’d want to know.”
“Not about this they won’t.” She studied her scuffed boots with absorption. “My folks have trouble enough of their own. They split up last month. Dad’s in Muskogee with his new girlfriend. Mom is . . . well, she’s sort of a mess right now, trying to hold it together for me and my little brother and sister.”
Angie’s heart ached for the whole family. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to go back in time and not get pregnant,” Emma said softly. Then she met Angie’s gaze directly. “I don’t know what I want to do now. Tad will want me to get rid of it.”
It. Angie was a stickler about the specific meaning of words and their misuse always annoyed her. “It” was so impersonal. The pronoun was used for a thing or maybe an animal if you didn’t know the sex of the beast. Not for a person, no matter how small and incompletely formed.
“You’re the one who gets to make that decision, not Tad,” Angela told her. “You shouldn’t let him pressure you one way or the other.”
Emma swiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “What would you do, Miss Holloway?”
Angela blinked in surprise that E
mma would ask her such a personal question. To be honest, she’d had a pregnancy scare of her own once. Her period had been a week late, but it turned out to be just stress from the all-nighters she’d pulled to prepare for finals. She was incredibly relieved when the test stick showed only one pink line. At the time she’d been finishing up her freshman year and had miles to go before she earned her degree.
A baby would have put everything she was working for on hold, but she knew she’d never abandon a child to the system. Somehow, with or without Peter’s help, she’d have kept the baby.
She was grateful she hadn’t had to broach that topic with him. The question was moot anyway. He’d broken it off with her the very next week, never knowing what a narrow escape he’d had with fatherhood.
“I don’t think I can answer your question,” Angie told her. “It’s the sort of decision you can’t make until you’re faced with it. And I can’t make it for you. No one can. I can only help you consider all your options.”
Emma sighed. “If I decide to have this baby, I’ll have to quit school.”
“No, you won’t.” In the middle of the last century, girls who were found to be pregnant, but not the boys who helped them become that way, were summarily expelled from high school as a deterrent to others. Angie thought the policy was ridiculous when she first read about it.
As if a pregnant girl could get another one pregnant!
“Maybe not this year, but if I keep the baby, I’ll have to quit school next year. I’d have to stay home to take care of it.” Emma’s brows drew together in a frown and she began fidgeting with her hands. “My mom has to work. Especially now that Dad’s lit out. And I’d have to find a job, too, something at night so maybe Mom can watch the baby. If she will. You think she will?”
However the child had come into the world, Emma’s baby would still be Mrs. Wilson’s grandchild. A newborn was a bit of the divine, sent to remind the world there was always hope. At least, that’s how Angela had always felt. How she thought everyone should feel.
Some of her foster parents hadn’t.
But surely Mrs. Wilson would help her daughter care for the baby.
“That’s one of the things you need to talk over with your mom.” Angela gave her an assessing look. Emma’s eyes were not only listless; there were dark circles under them no amount of concealer could hide. She probably hadn’t slept in a while. The girl was clearly overwhelmed and needed the support of someone who loved her. Angie fervently hoped her mother would be that someone. “Look, you don’t have to make all the decisions now.”
“I do, if I want to have an abortion,” Emma snapped.
“And if you do, you have to get your parents’ permission. You shouldn’t make all these decisions alone. How old are you Emma?”
“Fifteen, but I’ll be sixteen next May.”
Younger than the age of consent. “How old is Tad?” If he was eighteen, he could be in serious trouble.
“He’ll be eighteen in a couple of weeks.”
Just skated by a possible statutory rape charge.
“Tad can’t be somebody’s father. He’s going to college on a basketball scholarship. It’s all he talks about. If I’m gonna have an abortion, I need to do it quick. Right now, I can just take a pill, or maybe two, instead of having surgery.” Her lips drew into a tight line. “We learned about it in health class.”
There was more involved in a medical abortion than just taking a couple of pills. It would mean cramps from hell and bleeding for weeks, and if Emma waited until she was at ten weeks gestation, there was a chance she’d recognize the grape-sized shape of a baby in the tissue her body rejected. But Angela was trying to keep her opinions on Emma’s options carefully neutral.
“You still don’t need to rush to a decision. Whatever you decide, it’s not something to be chosen lightly,” Angie said, trying to project calm for Emma’s sake. Inside, she was heartsick for her. “Every decision in life is a fork in the road. Every new choice puts you on a different path from the one you’ve been traveling. A door closes behind you, but new ones open.”
It’s just a pity so many life-changing choices hit us when we’re too young, too trusting, and too stupid to realize how important they are.
“Well, my old choices weren’t good. I certainly made the wrong one with Tad.”
Angela took this as a positive sign. Emma was beginning to evaluate things realistically. Teenagers didn’t do that very often. It gave her hope for the girl.
“It takes two to make a baby,” Angie reminded her. “Don’t lay all the blame on yourself.”
“Everyone else will.”
Oh, how I hate the “boys will be boys” mentality. “Not everyone. I don’t.”
“You’re not from around here, Miss Holloway.”
And if Angie lived in Coldwater Cove till she died, she still wouldn’t be from around there. Small towns were like that.
Her cell phone rang and Seth’s number flashed on the caller ID screen.
“Go ahead and take it if you want,” Emma said, rising from her seat.
Angie shook her head and let the call go to voice mail. Emma’s problem was urgent. Seth would wait.
“No, just a minute, Emma. I still want you to be Mary in the pageant,” she told the girl.
“I couldn’t.”
“You gave the best audition, hands down. This baby doesn’t change that. And honestly, I think you know better than most how Mary must have been feeling at first.”
Jesus’s mother, too, had been young, and probably scared, despite her great faith. In biblical times, Mary might have faced much worse than unkind gossip from those around her. She might have been stoned to death if Joseph hadn’t been a just man.
Too bad Tad was an irresponsible, self-involved kid.
“Yeah, but I didn’t get an angel visitation. And it’s kind of obvious I’m not a virgin,” Emma said wryly.
“That may well be what Mary’s neighbors thought about her, too. Maybe that’s why she went to visit her cousin Elizabeth right away. She needed to see some family. Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“All right.” Emma stood and followed her out of the classroom, her boots shuffling along on the polished vinyl flooring. “You know you might get into trouble for casting me as Mary. Folks won’t like it.”
Emma was probably right. Angela hadn’t even considered how the folks of Coldwater Cove might react to an unwed pregnant teenager as Mary. Since Angie had accepted the assignment, she’d fretted on and off about how her Christmas pageant would be received, and whether she was making too many changes in the town’s tradition for its residents to absorb.
Suddenly, she didn’t care what anyone else thought. Emma had given the best audition. She deserved to be Mary, no matter who didn’t like it.
“You let me worry about what people think about that, Emma.” She decided not to add, You’ve got enough on your plate.
* * *
Angie’s phone went to voice mail again. Seth was starting to worry. It wasn’t like her not to pick up. He started to punch in her number again, but figured if she was ignoring him on purpose, she’d just ignore him again. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong.
Lately.
A few days ago, he’d rushed her about meeting his folks. He knew it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. She’d seemed to shrink away from him. It was like watching a little turtle retreat back into its shell.
“What’s eatin’ you, Seth?” Lester asked as he straightened the silverware at the table Seth had asked the old veteran to set up in the sunroom of his ranch house. Because of Lester’s experience waiting tables at the Green Apple, Seth had hired him to serve the catered meal that evening. Having once been a homeless alcoholic, but now clean and sober and reunited with his wife, Lester was always looking for ways to earn extra cash. Seth was happy to oblige.
“Nothing’s eating me. I’m just wondering when Angie’s getting home so I can go pick
her up,” Seth said, hoping tonight would go as planned. He had a lot riding on it.
If meeting his family was too hard, maybe Angie would be more comfortable with the part of Seth’s world that didn’t involve people. He’d decided to bring her to his home for the first time. It was situated on forty arable acres just outside of town. Seth had built himself a brick residence with an open floor plan and low horizontal lines, reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright’s prairie homes. Snugged in the elevated oxbow of a meandering seasonal river, the house seemed to blend in with the bluffs and trees around it.
He’d been to Angie’s place countless times. Even before they became a couple, he’d learned so much about her just from seeing what she surrounded herself with and how she lived in her apartment.
Angela kept her small space scrupulously clean. She craved order and loved books. One evening when he helped her bring in her groceries, Seth had caught her alphabetizing the cans in her pantry. She claimed it was on account of laziness. She didn’t want to have to hunt through everything for a can of chicken soup. If it wasn’t in the space where it was supposed to be, she knew she didn’t have one.
Others might have said that quirk was a little OCD, but he thought it was adorable.
Seth wondered what his place would tell Angela about him.
During their dinner tonight, he planned to return the copy of Sense and Sensibility to her. He would also confess that he’d read it cover to cover, but he was more than a little confused by the ending. Willoughby didn’t really get his in the end. After seducing one woman after another, that waste of skin was challenged to a duel yet lived to tell the tale. Then he got to marry an heiress.
And Seth wasn’t completely sure Colonel Brandon, the character he most closely identified with, ended up with the right Dashwood sister.
Judging from Angie’s scribbles in the margins, she wasn’t so sure either.
Anyway, in the novel, the ladies were always suitably impressed by a man of property. Seth figured it wouldn’t hurt his chances to let Angie see his answer to Delaford, Colonel Brandon’s country estate.
