Prayers of a Stranger: A Christmas Story

by Davis Bunn

  And what of Chris? That was the question she had not yet faced. Because it was not just about loving her husband with a full and giving and joyful heart. It had never been about that.

  To give Chris what he wanted, she had to face her greatest fear of all.

  She had to accept the risk of becoming pregnant again.

  She had to want this.

  But how was this possible? How could she give herself to any such impossible quest? How could she put aside her fears and her awareness of the bleak dark pit that loomed nine months beyond that moment?

  The song ended, and in the echoing silence that followed, Amanda heard the words as clearly as if they had been spoken directly into her ear. Straight to her heart.

  Because she was not alone.

  Because the healing and the strength were already hers.

  The same gift that the angel had offered to Mary was given to her as well. Freely and unconditionally. The strength to face tomorrow.

  Amanda whispered the words on the page she could not read through her liquid veil, the words that echoed down two thousand years, from mother to mother. “I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me according to your word.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Chris puttered around the house until it was time to leave for the airport and meet Emily’s flight. While he watered the hydrangeas, he had a long meandering phone conversation with Kent Avery. They discussed who should be promoted into Chris’s current job. They discussed meeting with the outside auditors the following week. Chris listened carefully but heard no suggestion of regret from Kent over his decision.

  He weeded the flower bed and trimmed the hedges at the back of their yard. He painted one of the gutters and replaced a couple of lights. He cleaned the kitchen counter and vacuumed the living room carpet. He had always liked spending his downtime doing small chores. It reminded him of growing up, when he and all his siblings were expected to pitch in around the house. When it was time, Chris showered and dressed. He started down the hall, when his footsteps were slowed by a sudden desire to enter the forbidden zone.

  There had never been any discussion about what to do with the room at the back of the house. The door was only opened by the cleaner who came once a week. Chris retraced his steps, passed their bedroom, and reached for the door. The knob felt cold to the touch. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  He and Amanda had painted the room blue, as pale and clear as the Florida sky at dawn. The two windows were sheltered by palms lining the side of their backyard. The room smelled vaguely of disinfectant. Chris walked over and ran one finger along the crib’s frame. The tall table for changing the baby was polished and as bare as the walls. Chris stood in the center of the room and did a slow circle. He felt slightly hollow, a faint whisper of regret. But otherwise it was just a room. As he shut the door behind him, he decided his visit had been necessary to moving on.

  If only Amanda could feel the same.

  Chris was locking his front door, on his way to the airport to meet Emily, when he decided it was time to phone his sister and say for certain that they would not be coming for Christmas. He went back inside and seated himself at the dining room table. Chris knew Amanda would go if he asked. Especially now, after what sounded like such an important personal time in Israel. And sitting there at the table he realized just how much he personally wanted to go. He loved his family and he reveled in these gatherings. But this needed to be done.

  He took a long breath and dialed his sister’s number.

  “Well, finally.” Claire’s hands were busy; he could hear her clattering about some dishes as she greeted him. “Please tell me you’ve phoned to say you’re coming.”

  Chris could hear the kids in the background and felt a sudden pang over missing the chance to watch them explode into their presents on Christmas morning. He could almost smell the roasting turkey. Claire made a traditional stuffing, starting with chestnuts she ground herself and smoked Virginia sausage. “I’m sorry, Claire. I want to. But it just isn’t possible.”

  She was silent a long moment. Chris dreaded the eruption, the anger with which Claire responded to everything that encroached on family time. Instead all she said was, “Here I was worried you might be delayed because of the snowstorm. They’re predicting a blizzard.”

  Her soft disappointment caught him unaware. He hated causing her such sadness. “Claire, I need to do what’s best for my wife. And she needs to be here. In our home.”

  “Isn’t she off traveling somewhere?”

  “Yes, she is. As a matter of fact, I’m driving to the Orlando airport as soon as I get off the phone. The friend she traveled with is returning early from Israel. Her husband has gone into the hospital. He had an emergency hip replacement.”

  “Isn’t Amanda coming back with her?”

  “No, she’s staying for the remaining two days. Like they’d planned.”

  “Your wife is across the ocean in a foreign country and she’s alone?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Not at all.” Chris thought back over their most recent conversations and added, “Matter of fact, I’m proud of her.”

  “What could possibly be so important that she would want to stay longer?”

  “She is healing.”

  “Can’t she come up here and heal too?” A trace of her normal heat rose in her voice. “Explain to me why your wife can travel to Israel but can’t come up to have Christmas with family!”

  Chris had to stop and swallow hard. “Amanda has a gift. She lost it when she lost our baby. Since she’s been gone, I’ve had a chance to see her as she was, and see us in that same light. And now I know her making this journey was important to us both. For the first time since last year she’s looking beyond her loss and healing. Now she needs to come home, have some space, and cement these lessons into her life here.”

  Claire was slow in responding. “You sound different.”

  “I only know I want to be,” Chris replied. “For Amanda.”

  “I’ll miss you, little brother. We all will.”

  “Likewise. Pray for us, will you?”

  “For your information, I’ve never stopped praying.”

  He grinned into the sunlight. “Thanks, Claire.”

  “You’re welcome.” Another pause, then, “What is this gift of Amanda’s?”

  “She carries other people’s burdens.” Chris felt his throat turn raw by the effort it took to fight the words through the sudden lump. “She makes them her own.”

  His phone rang just as he was passing their church and approaching the causeway bridge. He assumed it was Claire calling back. “This is Chris.”

  Instead, the lawyer representing Campaeo said, “Evan Crouch here, Mr. Vance. Your secretary was kind enough to give me your cell phone number.”

  “Just a moment, please.” Chris could feel his body clenching as though preparing for an incoming blow. He pulled into the church parking lot and cut the motor. He sent up a quick prayer, a silent plea that he would find the strength not to lose the joy that filled his heart. Then he took a long breath and said, “What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you might come by our office.”

  “Do we have an agreement on terms?” When the lawyer hesitated, Chris went on, “Yes or no, Mr. Crouch. Because if your clients have accepted our requirements, then I would be happy to meet. But not until then.”

  “Give me a moment, please.”

  While he waited, Chris stared out the front windshield. The inland waterway sparkled beyond the palms rimming the lot. He felt a vivid sense of satisfaction, as though he had taken a tremendously important step. He could not control the other person’s attitude. He could not declare what would happen to his company. All he could do was his best. And part of his best was asking God for help.

  The lawyer came back with, “Where are you now, Mr. Vance?”

  “On my way to the Orlando airport.”r />
  “Can you give us fifteen minutes?”

  “My friend is coming back from Israel for a family emergency. I can’t be late. Besides, I don’t see—”

  “We’ll meet you there. Do you know the Hyatt inside the airport? There’s a restaurant to the right of the reception area. We’ll be at a table by the window.”

  Despite its location in the main airport terminal, the Orlando Hyatt possessed a molded elegance. The hotel rose like a four- sided sculpture above the west departure gates. The hotel’s lobby was tucked discretely away, directly over the largest security checkpoint in Florida. Chris entered the hotel lounge and marveled anew at how silent the place was. No walls separated this space from the constant din below. Yet the only sound that pierced the natural buffers was a child’s cry, there and gone.

  He headed down the long hall connecting to the convention rooms and the restaurant, gave his name to the hostess, and was ushered to a table overlooking the runways. The three men and one young woman rose to their feet at his approach. But this meeting was all about a rotund brawler with a lion’s mane of gray hair. Chris knew this was Jorge Coelho, owner of Campaeo, because he had researched the man carefully. Coelho was known as a man who loved a good fight almost as much as he did fine food and beautiful women. He personified the Latin way of life, living large and taking pleasure in almost everything he did, including the crushing of all opponents.

  “But this cannot be!” the man boomed. “Chris Vance is a dragon! He breathes fire and walks away unsinged! He is not this young athlete who stands before me!”

  “Mr. Coelho.” From another supplier Chris had learned the man liked to use his bone-crushing grip to force an advantage. So he rammed his own hand in overly fast, a tactic that had been shown to him by a friend and self-defense fanatic. Chris set his thumb and forefinger on the hand’s pressure points and clenched with all his might.

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise. Chris then broke off the grip, sweeping his hand down and away. Showing with grim determination that he was not to be controlled. Or handled. Or intimidated.

  Coelho smiled thinly. “You must tell me, Mr. Vance. Is it necessary for us to speak as adversaries?”

  “Not at all. It is totally your choice.”

  “Good. That is very good indeed. Because in my country, life is to be lived at all times. In every hour of every day. Pleasure is a flower to be plucked and smelled and enjoyed. Including in the work. To live and dance and sing. With friends, yes, friends! That is the Brazilian way.”

  Chris was tempted to ask if it was also the Brazilian way to cheat and lie and swindle. But he decided that could wait. He remained silent.

  Jorge Coelho must have seen something of the unspoken, for his demeanor changed. A tight, hard gleam surfaced in those dark eyes. But his smile remained in place. “Shall I start with a question, I wonder? Yes, why not. Tell me, Chris. May I call you Chris? Excellent. And I am Jorge. Tell me. How can a man succeed in business if he does not test the boundaries? How else can he learn how far he can go, how high his profits?”

  Chris did not need to think that one over. “By building trust. By creating an ethical business structure. By seeking to grow in a way that gives profit and hope to everyone involved.”

  “Sit, sit, please. Will you take coffee? Here, let me pour you a cup. Sugar and cream? It is most interesting, what you say. But tell me this. Whose company is succeeding, and whose is faced with bankruptcy?”

  Chris found himself genuinely liking this man. It was ridiculous, he knew. Jorge Coelho was an international charmer, an elegant destroyer of companies and dreams. Chris might as well climb in the cage with a hungry leopard. But the Brazilian was also cheerful and exuberant. His energy infected everyone around him.

  Chris replied, “The concept is not mine. It has guided American companies for five generations. Henry Ford paid his employees enough that they could buy the cars they made, and thus fueled the nation’s growth. My company’s aim has been to treat all our employees and customers and suppliers with the same level of honesty and fairness. Hopefully Avery Electronics will weather this economic crisis. But regardless of my company’s future, the principles of ethical business will remain.”

  “And how, pray tell, can you speak these words with such certainty? Perhaps the time for your business model is over, and the Campaeo method is the future.”

  Chris smiled. “Worlds may pass away. But these principles will remain.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because they are grounded in the eternal.”

  The fierce metallic glint descended from his gaze to his smile. “I want you to come work for me.”

  “I . . . what?”

  “Executive vice president of the new Melbourne plant. My company’s name, Campaeo, you know what this means?”

  “Champion.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” He prodded Chris with a stubby forefinger. “Come and work for a champion. That is my offer.”

  “Thank you, I . . .” Chris forced himself to his feet. “I will consider . . .”

  “Sit, please. I dislike looking up at people.”

  “My friend’s flight is due in soon.”

  “My assistant can see to this.” He motioned to the young lady seated at the table’s far end, who rose instantly to her feet. “What is your friend’s name?”

  “Emily Wright.” His voice sounded faint to his own ears. “She’s coming from Israel, but this flight started in London.”

  “Lovely country, Israel. We do much good business there.” He smiled away the young staffer. “Now then. Please do sit and tell me what you think of my invitation.”

  Chris knew he was being offered a huge opportunity. A chance to walk away from a failing company and start a new life with a successful one. But all he could think to say was, “My good name is all I have.”

  “Yes? I’m sorry, this means precisely what?”

  Chris licked his dry lips. He reached out and took the cup of coffee. He was glad to see his hand did not shake. “In order to work for you, I would require complete financial independence. The subsidiary pays all its bills on time. It honors all contracts as they are written. I meet the letter of all obligations. I have total control of hiring, firing, subcontractors, and quality.”

  Jorge’s gaze tightened. He drummed his fingers on the table. Across from him, the attorney made rapid notes. “And your terms?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Come, come, Chris. We are adults here. Your terms. What you want. For yourself.”

  “What difference does that make? We’re not even talking the same language.”

  Jorge’s jovial mask slipped away, and the hungry predator was revealed. “Your company faces ruin. You know this as well as I do. I am throwing you a lifeline. Perhaps the only one you will receive in these difficult times. I ask you for your terms.”

  Chris had to jack himself to his feet by pressing hard on the table. “I have just told you.”

  Chris rode the escalator down into the terminal’s chaotic din. From the calm façade of the hotel and its elegant chambers to the reality of an airport and families and stress and life. He reached the bottom and realized he had no idea where to go. He searched the massive arrivals board but could not make heads or tails of the words. The flights and times might as well have been written in Sanskrit. He could not bear the thought of meeting Emily. He had to sit down. Just for a moment. Put some space between what had just happened and whatever came next.

  He walked over and seated himself on an empty bench by the central fountain. The noise of children in the security lines rose up behind him. His life was just like this, chaotic and messy and filled with a thousand different voices, all clamoring for his attention. And Monday he was to begin his new job. President of a company that could very well soon fail.

  He was so tempted to ride the escalator back up and accept the Brazilian’s offer. The sense of isolation and fear was almost overwhelming. Chris pr
etended to rub his eyes. And he prayed. Or tried to. Though the words were as clogged in his brain as they had been upstairs on his tongue. He asked for some sign that he had done the right thing. And for the strength to get through the coming days. Please.

  “Mr. Vance?”

  He dropped his hand and turned around. He knew he should recognize the young woman. But just then he could not place her.

  “Jane Sayer. I work with Campaeo’s new US division. Mr. Campaeo sent me to meet your friend.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry . . .”

  “Her flight has been delayed, she won’t get in for another forty-five minutes.” She hesitated, then added in a rush, “Sir, I just wanted to say, well, thank you.”

  “You . . . What?”

  The young executive was probably in her late twenties. She had a runner’s tight frame, balanced against deep plum-colored circles under her eyes. She wore a typical dark suit with a bolero tie and a silver brooch on her lapel that matched the tie-clasp. She was poised and intelligent and attractive. And, Chris suddenly realized, she was very close to the edge.

  “I was responsible for researching you. I did it like I do a hundred other assignments. I was thorough and I was discreet. And I was crushed by what I learned.”

  The fountain’s constant rush created a baffle that kept her words from escaping to the people flowing all around them. But there was nothing that could be done about the way she struggled for control, or hid the occasional tear, or the way she struggled against whatever was pressing up inside. People kept glancing their way, first to her, then to Chris, clearly wondering what he had done to upset her so badly.

  Chris asked, “Would you like to sit down?”

  She only managed to find the bench because he took hold of her arm and guided her down. “You are everything I was raised to be. And I want to ask you how you did it. How you maintained your standards. How you didn’t give in.”

  Chris slid back to the bench’s far edge so as to see her clearly. “You’re from a believing family?”