by Myra Johnson
It didn't. Instead, it encircled her throat and squeezed. She leaned on the padded chair arm and fixed her gaze on the lamp's golden reflection on the surface of her tea. “It was late March. Mom and I were alone on the farm. Dad had to drive a Friesian mare he'd been training back to her owner, and the round trip would take all weekend.”
“And your brother?”
“He was away at college.”
“So you must have been … how old?”
“Sixteen.” Natalie swallowed. “Mom had a huge art showing scheduled at the Dean Gallery here in Fielding. Critics and buyers were expected from all across the Midwest.”
Dr. Sirpless gave an appreciative nod. “She must have been very good.”
“She'd just finished three new paintings and a sculpture, possibly the best work she'd ever done. She'd planned to add the new pieces to the collection when she drove over for a gala reception that afternoon.”
“But something kept her from going?”
“A storm was brewing. The horses were uneasy.” Natalie pinched her eyes shut. Thunder. Wind whistling through the barn rafters. Horses stamping and whinnying. “Mom didn't want to leave me alone, but I couldn't let her miss her show.” She aimed a pointed gaze at the doctor. “I've helped my dad with the horses all my life. I told her I'd be okay.”
“But she stayed home with you anyway.”
“She could be so stubborn—” A new emotion corkscrewed through Natalie's chest. She clamped down on it before it could find a name.
Dr. Sirpless kept her face impassive as she jotted something on a steno pad. “Go on, Natalie.”
“The storm hit around four. Mom had the weather radio on in the house—tornado warnings all across the state. She wanted me to come in from the barn, but I couldn't leave Sunny.”
“One of the horses?”
“Our Appaloosa mare. She was with foal, but she wasn't due for another month. Daddy promised me we could keep this one, that it would be mine to raise and train. I could hardly wait.” Her heart lifted momentarily. She sniffed and continued. “I got all the horses into their barn stalls, but Sunny wouldn't settle down. I was afraid she'd hurt herself and lose the foal.”
The events streamed through Natalie's mind in crystal clarity—rain pounding the barn roof, wind rattling the siding. “Sunny kept pacing and neighing. I could see her sides straining, and I knew she'd gone into labor. Mom called the vet, but he had emergency colic surgery and couldn't come right away.”
She pictured her mother, still clad in the chic watered-silk pantsuit she'd planned to wear for the opening. Strands of silver-streaked hair had come unpinned from her French twist and danced around her face. Mom rested her forearms on Sunny's stall door and offered words of encouragement while Natalie stroked the mare's distended belly and tried to keep her calm.
“The mare went down, and I knew she was about to deliver. I checked her and realized the foal hadn't turned yet. If I didn't act quickly, they could both die. I needed help—I couldn't do this by myself—but Mom was the only one there, and she's been uneasy around horses ever since she was thrown as a child.”
Dr. Sirpless gave a sad smile. “It must have taken no small amount of courage for her to marry a horseman.”
Natalie lifted her chin. “My mother is the bravest person I know.”
“Yet you were only sixteen and about to deliver a foal. That sounds pretty brave to me.”
Natalie closed her eyes against the undeserved praise. She could still see Sunny on her side, straining and tossing her head. She could still remember how frightened and helpless she felt.
“Go on with your story, Natalie.”
“Mom kept insisting I let her do something. She thought maybe she could soothe Sunny and keep her attention diverted while I tried to turn the foal.”
She wanted to skim past what happened next—the thunderous clap, the lighting strobe that for a split second lit the entire barn with white-hot brightness. Sunny whinnied and tried to throw herself to her feet. Mom, kneeling at her head, fell backwards, her right wrist striking the rim of a metal water trough with a violent smack.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
“I'll be all right, Natalie. Do what you have to do.”
Natalie turned all her attention then to the struggling mare. The full length of her arm swathed in a veterinary surgical glove, she reached into the birth canal, found the foal's forelegs, and guided it into position. Half an hour later, Natalie's little filly Tailwind—“Windy,” as she came to be called—made her stormy debut into the world.
“And your mother? Was she badly hurt?”
Natalie lifted her gaze to meet the doctor's. “Her wrist was broken in three places. Only we didn't know it until the next morning when she finally let me take her to the emergency room. Afterward the arthritis got so bad that she could no longer paint for more than an hour or so at a time.”
“I'm so sorry.”
A rush of fiery passion propelled Natalie to her feet. She whirled away in anger. “If she hadn't been so stubborn. If she'd just gone to the gallery—”
“That's the second time tonight you've used that word.”
Natalie dropped her hand from her forehead. She turned to face the doctor. “What word?”
“Stubborn.” Dr. Sirpless glanced at her notes. “Twice now, you've called your mother stubborn.”
“No, I—” Heat infused her face. She shook her head in confusion.
The doctor rose and rested a hand on Natalie's shoulder. “I want you to think about something, Natalie. I want you to consider the possibility that it isn't only guilt you're feeling. I want you to ask yourself if you might also be feeling anger.”
“Anger? Of course I'm angry. I let my mother down.”
“I don't mean anger at yourself. I think you're really angry at your mother.”
Natalie drew her brows together in disbelief. “Of course not! How can you suggest such a thing?”
Something cracked then—something hard and cold and ugly inside Natalie's chest—because Dr. Sirpless was right, and it hurt too much to admit it.
6
Angry at her mother? Natalie chewed on the idea for the rest of the long weekend. She didn't know which pained her more—the guilt she felt over letting Mom down, or the anger that her mother (yes, her very stubborn mother) had gone ahead with the after-Christmas chore Natalie had pleaded with her to postpone.
Not that she could blame the stroke on Mom's putting away the Christmas decorations. But what if Mom had already experienced signs a stroke might be imminent? Natalie couldn't deny her mother's history of brushing off her own health concerns when anything else took precedence.
During her next couple of visits, Natalie allowed Dr. Sirpless to help her explore these thoughts. The powerful emotions they evoked often left her shaken, if not terrified. Still, she sensed she might be nearing a breakthrough, glimpsing a flicker of hope at the end of a long, dark, devastating year.
And then December hit.
“Hart, I'm glad I caught you.” Phone receiver tucked against her shoulder, she hammered on the keyboard and then mouse-clicked a Christmas holly graphic and resized it. “I've been thinking about tonight.” She swiveled toward the window and inhaled a shaky breath as her gaze fell on the immense Christmas tree near the center of Fawn Ridge's town square. Her heart suddenly felt as cold and hard as the frozen pond beneath the tree's lengthening shadow. Quickly she glanced away. “I'm sorry for disappointing everyone, but I don't think I can do this. Please, Hart, talk to Dad. Make some excuse for me … something that won't upset him too much.”
“Come on, Rosy-Posey.” Her brother's drawl oozed through the phone line like thick syrup.
Leave it to Hart to dredge up her hated childhood nickname. “Hart—”
“Don't argue. It's your birthday. You know how important tonight is for Dad. He's cooking up Grandma Hartley's chili recipe just for you.”
Her throat constricted at the poignant image of her father stirr
ing a pot of chili, attempting to follow Grandma's detailed recipe instructions. Dad was usually all thumbs in the kitchen. How had he managed this past year without Mom?
For the hundredth time that afternoon, she brushed aside the limp strand of hair that kept falling across her left eye— one more irritation in her out-of-control life. She backtracked to focus on Hart's annoying reminder of her nickname. “You didn't score any points by calling me Rosy-Posey, you know.”
He chuckled. “But Natalie Rose, you blush so beautifully when you're flustered.”
And, of course, he knew she was flustered. How could he not know? If there was one day she'd been dreading all year even more than Christmas, it was today. Couldn't her family skip her birthday just this once?
“Okay, then,” Hart said, “you rather I call you Nat? How about Nacho? Maybe Nettie, or—I know—Nuttie!”
She slammed her open palm on the desk. “Just stop. Things are crazy enough around here without your juvenile kidding around.”
He snorted. “Girl, you need to lighten up. I was only—”
“I mean it, I'm swamped, and I don't have time for this … for your … ” She didn't intend for her voice to break like that. If she gave in to her churning emotions, she'd never get through the day, much less the Christmas season.
She cleared her throat. “All the businesses in town want their end-of-year promos printed and in the mail this week. At this rate I'll never get done.”
Stiffening her spine, she wrestled her attention to the computer screen. She adjusted the font size on a line of text and studied the overall effect—just the right blend of whimsy and sophistication. Miss Fellowes at Moonbeams Bookstore should be pleased. She saved the file and password protected it.
Hart broke the strained silence. “You've got to come, Nat. Dad will be crushed if you don't. He's been planning this for days.”
“Oh, Hart … ” The slanting afternoon sun glinted through the fake snow her recently hired assistant had sprayed around the edges of the office window—one more holiday reminder Natalie wished she could have avoided. But Deannie, who also happened to be Jeff Garner's niece, apparently had nothing more productive to do, like maybe helping Natalie get caught up before the holidays.
She mentally shook herself and tried to keep her voice steady. “Please, Hart, don't make me do this.”
More silence.
Then, “Ah, I get it. It's because Dad invited Daniel.”
Natalie's stomach lurched. Until that moment, the thought that Daniel would be included in the family gathering hadn't even entered her mind. She closed her eyes against the memories—closed her heart against the pain. “Daniel's coming?”
“What did you expect? That Dad would have him drop Lissa off for dinner and leave?”
“No, I—”
“As far as I'm concerned, Daniel will always be a part of this family, whether you two stay married or not.”
Tears sprang unbidden. Of course she wouldn't want it any other way. She loved her husband and always would. But the laughter, the dreams, the hopes they once shared—it all seemed so long ago. Could they ever reclaim that happiness, start fresh, and put this whole horrible year behind them?
Her gaze drifted across the desk to a framed school photo, where Lissa's image, a younger version of her own face, smiled back at her. But the blue eyes, fringed by silvery-yellow bangs, held a flat, vacant look. The emotional distance between Natalie and her daughter had only increased after Lissa chose to stay with Daniel. Natalie sometimes felt like a helpless spectator, watching her world crumble around her, piece by precious piece.
“Natalie?” Her brother's tone bristled. “Are you listening to me?”
She swallowed her tears. Somehow she had to make her brother understand—make the whole family understand. “Hart, you know it's not just Daniel. I'm afraid if I go out to the farm tonight, I'll—” The words lodged in her throat.
Hart's voice became gentler. “Do you think it's any easier for Dad? He's trying so hard. Come to your birthday dinner. Please don't let him down.”
“I don't want to hurt him, honestly I don't.” She locked her gaze on the ceiling in a vain attempt to staunch the pathetic, self-indulgent tears she had no time for. “It seems like Dad's trying too hard, like he wants to pretend nothing's changed.”
“He's trying to get on with his life, the way Mom would want him to. Don't you think she'd want us to celebrate your birthday and enjoy the Christmas season the way we always have?”
She couldn't answer over the ache in her chest. Dr. Sirpless might eventually help her cope with the massive guilt, and now this anger. But all the therapy in the world would never change the fact that this time of year, a season when the whole world should be joyful and full of love, would never be that way for Natalie again.
“Come on, Nat, talk to me. Haven't you heard a thing I've said?”
Her cracked words came out in a ragged rush. “How many times do I have to say this? I can't deal with it now. Birthday, Christmas, any of it. Please.”
“Fine. If you don't want to come to dinner, then don't. Happy birthday, Natalie Rose.” The phone slammed in her ear.
Don't you cry, Natalie Pearce, don't you dare cry.
She sucked in a breath and gripped the arms of her desk chair. She had entirely too much work to do, and she couldn't let herself be sidetracked by Hart's disappointment. Blinking several times, she watched the Christmas shoppers bustling in and out of shops along the sun-dappled town square. Despite all the holiday advertisements she'd prepared for clients, she hadn't let herself think about her own Christmas shopping. She should find something for Lissa, at least, but she wasn't sure she even knew what her daughter wanted this year.
Sighing, she allowed Deannie's elaborate Christmas window art to distract her, and once again gratefully transferred her prickling irritation from herself to her capricious red-haired assistant. If Deannie so desperately needed an outlet for her creative energies, she could do something useful instead of wasting office time and resources.
Oh, great, Natalie, you're starting to sound like Ebenezer Scrooge.
Still, picking on Deannie gave her a moment of perverse pleasure. Who could deny that Jeff Garner's niece had grown into the classic underachiever? She'd been a problem child ever since Natalie used to babysit her some twenty-odd years ago. Several years later she and Daniel made the mistake of trusting Deannie as Lissa's babysitter, only Deannie couldn't keep her mind on her duties and off her many boyfriends. She'd taken almost seven years to finish college, changing her major at least that many times, and then flitted from one dead-end job to another, trying to “find herself.”
In October, when Deannie expressed an interest in learning the printing business, Jeff had hired her as Natalie's assistant, over Natalie's protests and against her better judgment. Someday, somehow, she'd get back at her partner for this. He owed her. He owed her big-time.
As she toyed with how she could plot her revenge, her gaze settled on Deannie's window stencil of a horse and sleigh. The horse reminded her of the farm, which reminded her of the birthday dinner, which reminded her of Mom.
Face it, Natalie, you've let down your mother. You've let down your husband and daughter. And now you're about to let down your dad.
You can change things, a voice in her head seemed to whisper.
It sounded too easy. Was it even possible that one birthday dinner with her family might be the beginning of a way back?
She pressed shaking hands to her cheeks. For the first time in months, a genuine prayer filled her thoughts. Dear God, please give me the strength to do the right thing … for my family and for myself.
Summoning her courage, she picked up the phone and dialed Hart's number at the veterinary clinic, but almost changed her mind again as she waited for his receptionist to get him on the line.
Too late. “Hey, Nat, I'm sorry for picking on you. This is a rough time for all of us. If you're not up to celebrating your birthday this year, Dad
will understand. We all will.”
“It's okay. I'll come. What time?”
A pause. She could picture the satisfied grin accompanying her brother's intake of breath before he asked, “When do you close up shop?”
She glanced at her watch and tried to control the tremor in her voice. “I should be out of here by seven.”
“Great. See you at the farm at seven-thirty.”
Daniel unsnapped his Putnam Panthers jacket as he sidled into the chair opposite Superintendent Luper's polished desk. “Thank you for making time to see me, sir.”
The balding man swiveled sideways in his executive chair and stretched out his legs. “I appreciate the fine job you're doing with the middle-school athletes. Coach Moreno has told me on countless occasions he doesn't know what he'd do without you.”
“I think the world of Carl too. When I heard there might be an opening for a freshman coach over at the high school, he told me to go for it.” Daniel shifted and cleared his throat. “I realize it wouldn't mean much of a pay increase, but—”
“That's the thing, Pearce.” Luper's avoidance of eye contact should have been a warning from the moment Daniel entered the office. “Putnam's budget is so tight that we're not even planning to fill that vacancy. The other high-school coaches will have to take up the slack.”
“I see.” Disappointment settled like a rock in the pit of Daniel's stomach. He stood slowly. “If something should change … ”
“You'll be the first to know.” Luper rose and offered Daniel his hand. “Great game last night, by the way. You've done wonders with those boys.”
Praise but no raise. Why should he be surprised? Shoulders hunched with disappointment, Daniel slogged out to his Bronco. He made it back to school in time to surprise his afternoon history class with a pop quiz, but when his puberty-challenged, seventh-grade basketball team hit the gym floor for practice, he turned the warm-up drills over to the team captain. “Back in fifteen,” he said, heading to his office. He needed a few minutes of quiet to get his head back in the game.
Carl found him there. “How'd it go, bro?”
