by Jill Barnett
When she was a few feet away, she smiled. “We’re gathering shells.”
“I can see that.”
She pushed a strand of wind-whipped hair out of her eyes. “I guess you can.” She looked down, then asked, “You want to help?”
He shook his head and smiled with a touch of irony. “I have fish to catch.” He pulled on the line for a moment. “You need something to cremate for dinner.”
“Yes, well, at least I’m consistent.” There was laughter in her voice. She glanced at the fish lying beside him. “How would you like them—charred, incinerated, or just plain scorched?”
He laughed with her.
“I intend to master that skill, you know.” Her voice was filled with both humor and determination but no offense.
He had realized over the past few days that their goading and teasing had changed. From the first moments in the lifeboat and on the island, their conversations had been meant to irritate. Now the teasing was mutual and had become something to ease the tension between them. Something they could laugh at together. He wasn’t certain there could be another woman like her—one he could talk to the way he could tease Smitty. She could laugh at herself.
She had her hands behind her as she stood next to him. The wind pressed her thin clothing against her figure. The ragged hem of her skirt showed her tanned legs and feet. He watched her dig her toes into the sand, a habit of hers he’d begun to notice.
He looked out at the water because he was struck by his reaction to her, a reaction that seemed to grow in intensity.
He wanted her. But he wanted her with more than just his body. He wanted her with his mind as well. And looking at her only made him more uncomfortably aware of it.
She cleared her throat, then cocked her head and gave him one of her direct looks. “We have a problem.”
He waited, then said, “Yeah, sweetheart, I think we do.”
“Good. I’m glad you realize it. We have to do something about Santa Claus.”
That hadn’t been exactly what he was thinking about. He looked up at her. “Like?”
“We need to make some kinds of gifts, toys, something to put in their stockings.” She paused. “I think after all they’ve been through we should try to make this special. For the children.”
He looked at her face, the perfection of it, the smooth honey color of her skin, her golden eyes, a mouth a man could die in and be happy. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“Me, too.” She smiled. When she turned and walked back toward the children, he watched her walk the way he had wanted to watch her before. But what he saw wasn’t her hips slowly swaying. What he saw was the image of her smile.
That evening, no one was more surprised than Margaret when Hank walked into the hut carrying a fresh island pine tree that was taller than he was. It was straight and lush and green, with a tinge of blue on the needles like the noble fir her father always had delivered to the house the day after Thanksgiving.
Margaret watch him maneuver the sturdy pine tree through the doorway and around Theodore. The boy was so excited he all but danced a jig around the tree and Hank.
The tree had that Christmas smell, the sharp, clean scent of pine. So despite the heat, despite the tropical humidity and the intensity of the sun, it only took a few minutes for the subtle scent of Christmas to fill the hut.
It was difficult for her to believe that he was the same man in the lifeboat. She looked at him for a moment and suddenly felt a sharp pang of guilt because she realized something else.
What she had just thought about him was incredibly unfair. Hank had saved their lives before they even got into that lifeboat.
She was guilty of doing to him what had been done to her. A preconceived notion that the outer shell was the person. Because Hank was rough, he couldn’t have a heart. Because she was pretty, she couldn’t be smart. Because he was poor, he didn’t deserve respect. Because she was rich, she couldn’t hurt. Because he was a convict, he couldn’t be of value. Because she was a woman, she couldn’t be a lawyer.
She had fought those prejudices by trying to be perfect. He fought those prejudices by trying to be exactly what they thought—trouble.
“Where do you want it?”
That deep voice caught her as it always did. The sound seemed to wash right over her skin. Margaret blinked, then his words actually registered. He was holding the Christmas tree and asking her opinion. She almost laughed at how things had changed. “Right there is fine.” She stood and walked over to the tree. She ran her fingers over the fresh needles, then turned to him. “Where did you ever find it?”
He shrugged. “There are island pine trees all over the higher hills of the interior.”
She glanced at the children, who were wide-eyed and excited. She placed her hand on his forearm. “Thank you, Hank.”
He seemed a little embarrassed but didn’t say anything. He turned to the kids. “Come on. I need some help.” As he strode toward the doorway, Lydia and Theodore were right behind him.
They came back laughing and lugging a fat barrel filled with wet sand. He potted the tree, talking to both children, letting them help and telling them about island trees—how they grew and where they grew. He would turn every now and then and wink at little Annabelle, who touched the tree with a child’s look of awe, who clapped her hands and giggled and laughed.
Margaret watched with a strange kind of comfort. This tall man with the massive shoulders, his back criss-crossed with whip marks, a man who in the beginning had all the gentleness of a runaway train.
He was a man who had value, who deserved respect even if he tried to make people believe it didn’t matter to him. It did.
Looking at him now, she knew with certainty that he had a heart. No matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Chapter 27
The morning of Christmas Eve arrived without fanfare. Another cloudless sky where the sun was a lonely stranger and a light trade wind rustled the leaves, cooling the sun’s heat from humidity-dampened skin.
A few hundred feet inside the thick jungle was a small area where the ebony trees weren’t as thick and a small brook of fresh water trickled down a rock wall.
Spread upon the thick tufts of monkey grass were a menagerie of handmade toys—the sort of stuff that might plump up Santa’s bag were Santa stranded on a tropical island. Ball and cups were carved from ebony with long handles that had rocks attached to them by long pieces of string. Tops were not symmetrical, but nature-made from thick seashells with tiger stripes that blurred when they were spun on the shell tips.
Clappers weren’t made of wood and colorful cloth but instead made of coconut shells and thick leaves. A flat plank of wood had little niches hand carved with a penknife—an island version of a Wahoo game—only since there were no marbles, small pearls made do.
Hank glanced at the board game. He figured it was worth a fortune. He and Smitty had dived for two days to get enough pearls in each color—blue, black, pink, and white.
He found none of them. She had found all of them, including the last pearl, which was too big to use in the game. It was a deep rose color, perfectly spherical, rare and huge, as big as his thumbnail.
She’d grinned and tossed it in the air while he’d buried his head in his hands and groaned. The woman had amazing luck.
Early that morning, she had brought him some things she had made for the kids. An Indian headband she made of woven grass with a thick row of gull feathers, a tomahawk made from a flat sea rock tied with coconut twine to a driftwood stick, and two dolls with coconuts for heads, coconut fiber for hair, seashells for eyes and noses, and pieces of string for smiling mouths.
Their bodies were squares of cloth filled with sand and tied to a stick that served as necks. Driftwood twigs formed the stiff arms and legs. Compared to the bisque dolls in the fancy city toy stores, these dolls were primitive. But they had been made with love by the hands of an attorney whose expertise lay in the courtroom, not in a toy work
shop.
Hank picked up a canvas sack and filled it with the toys, then slung the sack over his shoulder. He stopped at a nearby rock and picked up the fishing pole he’d made for Theodore. He tied another knot in the line and tested it for weight, then set it down. Next to the rock was a spinning toy he’d created for Annabelle and a set of ebony combs he’d carved for Lydia. These were his gifts to the children.
He’d made an identical set of hair combs for Smitty. But even after he’d finished them, something told him that wasn’t what he wanted to give her. The right gift, however, escaped him. He stared at the combs but still couldn’t think. He shrugged, slung the sack over his shoulder, and walked back toward the beach.
Not too far from the clearing stood a large Poinciana tree in full bloom. At first glance it looked like a giant red umbrella. The lush red blossoms parted like the Red Sea, and a purple turban poked through the blooms.
Muddy sat on a sturdy branch watching Hank pace and mutter in front of his silver bottle. It sat in the sand, isolated and alone. The stopper lay next to it.
But apparently Hank hadn’t noticed. He stopped pacing and stared down at the bottle. He picked it up, his expression tense. “Hey, you!”
Muddy laughed silently and gripped the branch in his hands. He leaned slightly forward and waited.
Hank started to lift the bottle to his eye, then paused and swore. He looked left, right, then barked, “Will you get the hell out of there?”
Muddy crossed his legs carefully, so his bells wouldn’t ring. He rested an elbow on a knee and his chin in his palm. This ought to be interesting.
Hank stood there, kneading the back of his neck with a hand. “Hey, you! Genie!”
Nothing.
“Uh . . . Muddy!”
Muddy waited.
“Dammit!” He raised the bottle to his eye and scowled into it.
“Looking for me?”
Hank spun around. He looked at the tree, then frowned down at the bottle. He dropped the bottle. “Yeah.”
Neither said another word for a good three minutes.
Finally Hank broke the silence. “Are you coming the hell down?”
Muddy shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
Hank stalked over to the tree and looked up. After a minute in which he worked his tight jaw but didn’t say a word, he barked, “I need a favor.”
Muddy just looked at him. “No wishes.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with wishes.”
“I’m not taking you inside the bottle again.”
“No thanks, ch—” He stopped. “No thanks.”
Muddy rubbed his goatee. “What kind of favor?”
Hank began to pace. “Smitty thinks the kids need to have a visit from Santa Claus tonight.”
Muddy wasn’t going to make this any easier for him.
Hank crossed over to where he’d been pacing. He picked up a canvas sack, came back, and dropped it at the base of the tree. “I want you to put this stuff in their stockings and stomp around the roof tonight. You know, make a lot of noise.”
“Like Santa’s reindeer.”
“Yeah. I can’t do it. I’m too heavy. I’ll fall through the roof and give it away.”
Muddy waited, then took a phrase from Hank. “Let me see if I have this straight. You want me to fly up on the roof, pretend to be Santa and his reindeer, then fill the children’s stockings.”
“Yeah.”
Muddy watched him squirm for a moment longer. It was just too good to pass up. “As a favor for you.”
“For the kids.”
Muddy waited, took a deep breath, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll do it.”
“Good—”
“On one condition.”
Hank’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You must teach Theodore how to play baseball.” Hank swore viciously and began to pace again. “I’ll supply the bat and ball. You supply the knowhow.”
He stopped and glared up at Muddy. “You’re a sneaky bastard, aren’t you?”
“Me?” Muddy poked his chest, then he shrugged. “I just want to see my master happy.”
“Yeah, and I want to eat this tree.” Hank stood there for a long time, then turned back, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked at the sack, then said, “You win. I’ll do it.”
“When do you want the performance?”
“I’ll give you a signal.”
“What kind of signal?”
“I’ll whistle a song.” Hank paused, then said, “Jingle Bells.”
Muddy gave him a mock salute. “Okay . . . chump.”
Hank stood there as if he wanted to say something, but he shook his head and started to walk away. He stopped at the edge of the clearing and grumbled, “Thanks.” He walked a little farther. “Chump.”
On Christmas Eve, the hut was aglow with over a hundred candlenuts, each one lit like Christ’s candles. They sat on trunks used as makeshift tables, lighting up the tops with a warm glow. Candlenuts burned atop a squat barrel used for an occasional stool. They sat as clusters of golden light in what had been dark corners of the hut, flickered near woven mats and circled the base of the Christmas tree like a ring of stars, casting golden twinkling light on the gifts stacked beneath. And the gifts were many, wrapped in banana leaves with flower vines tied around them as ribbon, and bright fresh orchids served as Christmas bows.
Wreaths made of lush green ferns and bright red and pink flowers were sprinkled with sand that caught minute fragments of the light and looked like a dusting of tropical snow. Sand glistened from the tree branches, too—an island Christmas tree. Different, yet oddly traditional.
The tree was decorated with strings of seashells—conch and cockleshells. Coned shells of all sizes hung like island icicles from the plump ends of its branches. Sand dollars served as white snowflakes and bright flowers of red and purple, pink and orange, were arranged inside the branches like finely crafted German glass ornaments.
Orchid vines draped in luscious garlands and coconut shells held green angels shaped from banana leaves. But the crowning glory was a Christmas gift from the South Seas—a bright red and yellow starfish that hung from the very top of the tree.
Muddy lounged back on the hard top of a trunk, enjoying the most unique and comfortable holiday celebration he’d experienced.
There was a sense of peace and joy inside the hut, in the laughter and smiles of those within. He played the observer, as he was prone to do, just watched them while he relaxed, his heart and head light, his belly full.
For some reason, probably a Christmas gift from fate, Margaret hadn’t burned dinner. They had eaten fish that Theodore had helped catch, fruit Lydia had gathered, and yams Margaret had accidentally baked to perfection before they gathered around the tree, and just sat there, watching it, each person lost in their own thoughts.
The peace of Christmas was upon them.
Then Theodore pulled the harmonica out of his pocket and held it up in the flickering holiday lights.
Muddy winced. There went the sense of peace.
Hank and Margaret exchanged a worried look. But Theodore got up, walked over, and handed the harmonica to Hank. “Can you play Christmas songs?”
Everyone sagged back for a relieved second, then Hank lifted the harmonica to his mouth and began to play “Silent Night.” By the second verse, Margaret was singing in a clear and lovely voice. She waved to the children and to Muddy to join in.
So they sang Christmas carol after happy Christmas carol, each one louder than the last and each one making them laugh when they were done. Until they hit the one song with a happy melody that was clear and clean. Without a thought, they began to sing, “We wish you a—”
Hank dropped the harmonica and bellowed, “Don’t sing!” He clapped his hand over Theodore’s open mouth.
“Merry Christmas . . . ” Margaret and Lydia’s voices faded suddenly.
Theodore looked at them over Hank’s hand, which was cover
ing his mouth while Hank and Margaret both exhaled a large breath of relief. Hank slowly removed his hand.
Theodore blinked, then frowned at Hank. “I don’t know the words to that one.”
Hank rested his head in one hand, rubbed his forehead, then took a deep breath. “Let’s try ‘Jingle Bells,’ then it’s time to get some sleep.”
“I’m not tired,” Theodore informed him with childish indignation.
Hank nodded at Annabelle asleep in Margaret’s arms. “It’s time for bed, kid. The quicker you go to sleep, the sooner morning will come.”
“Why? Does morning come faster when you’re asleep?”
Hank and Margaret exchanged looks of how-do-I-answer-that. Hank turned back to Theodore. “Yes.”
He played the last carol. The song ended, and Margaret went to put Annabelle to bed. Theodore was just getting his second wind, his eyes bright, warning that he was ready to stay awake all night.
There came a rustling on the roof. There was a loud thud and some of the palm fronds fell down to the ground.
Everyone looked up, suddenly silent.
“It’s Santa Claus,” Theodore whispered, the whites of his eyes as wide as gull eggs.
Hank stood up so quickly it almost made Muddy dizzy.
Margaret placed her hand on Hank’s arm. “What’s wrong?”
Hank stared at the roof with a look of amazement. He whipped his head around and gave a narrowed-eye look at Muddy, who didn’t say a word. Muddy just slid his arm around Theodore’s shoulder, crossed his legs, and stared up at the roof. His shoe bells rang as he nonchalantly swung his feet back and forth, and he quietly hummed “Jingle Bells.”
Hank turned and ran outside so fast that Muddy gave a small chuckle.
A choice swear word echoed back into the hut followed by Hank’s deep voice saying, “This is not happening.”
In the distance, there was a new sound. Not the small tinkling of Muddy’s bells, but the clean ringing of brass sleigh bells.
And if one listened very closely, if one tried really hard, it was there . . . a deep and jolly bit of laughter that drifted across the great Pacific sky.
