The Red Gloves Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  It was nearly midnight, but Casey didn’t care. He picked up the phone, punched in Megan’s number, and waited. She answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Megan, it’s me, Casey. I’m sorry to call so late.”

  “No … no, it’s fine. I was up.” She hesitated. “Are you okay? You sound like something’s wrong.”

  “Everything’s just fine, actually, but I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Anything, Casey.” He could hear the relief in her voice. “Whatever you want.”

  Casey kept his words as slow and calm as possible. “Have your mother watch Jordan tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Meet me at the East Meadow, at the bench near the big slide.” He stopped himself from saying anything more. “Please, Megan.”

  She paused. “Of course. I’ll be there at ten.”

  After they hung up, Casey found a blank Christmas card and began to write. When he was finished, he searched his top dresser drawer until he found an old velvet box. His heart raced as he checked the contents. It might not be a perfect fit, but it would work for what he wanted to do.

  Sleep came slowly, in fits and starts, but Casey didn’t mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened, and more than that, how the timing was so utterly fitting. Everything was coming together on the most beautiful day of the year, the day when miracles truly did happen all around them.

  Christmas Day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Megan arrived at ten o’clock exactly.

  It was cold and windy, a Christmas morning when nearly everyone else was still opening gifts and enjoying the warmth of their families. Megan looked beyond the empty play area to the bench at the back near the big slide, the one nestled against the bushes. She pulled her long wool coat tight around her neck, and lifted the collar to ward off a gust coming off the reservoir.

  Casey was nowhere.

  She checked her watch and saw that it was a minute after ten. Strange … Casey wasn’t usually late. Careful on the icy gravel, she slowly made her way toward the bench. She was ten feet away when she saw it.

  Sitting squarely on the middle of it was a wrapped gift. Megan’s heart beat faster, and again she glanced around, looking for Casey. Had he already come and left her this present? It seemed an odd thing to do. After all, he’d brought her roses the night before, and if he’d had another gift, he would’ve given it to her then.

  She shivered and walked the remaining distance to the bench. The gift was large, about the size of a big book. On the top was a card with her name written across the front, and tucked beneath the ribbon was a small pressed azalea, pale purple and tinged brown around the edges of the petals. Megan brought it to her face and breathed in the faint musty smell. Something about the flower was strangely familiar. Where had she seen it before?

  She lowered the gift and turned enough to scan the play area. “Casey?” She waited, but there was no response. He must’ve left the gift, but why? Why here, and why hadn’t he waited for her?

  She opened the card, pulled it from the envelope, and began to read.

  I’ve prayed for you a thousand times, Maggie Howard. Open your present and turn to I Corinthians, chapter 13. Then you’ll know what I mean.

  Megan’s hands began to shake, and once more she glanced around, looking for Casey. A wind gust played with her hair, and she brushed it away from her eyes. Whatever did he mean, he’d prayed for her a thousand times? And why had he referred to her by her maiden name, the name she’d used as a little girl? She took the delicate pressed flower and set it in the card, then slipped them both into her pocket.

  Without waiting another moment, she slid her fingers into the seam in the paper, and pulled it off the gift. Beneath the wrapping was an old, worn Bible, cracked and faded from the years. And embossed at the lower right corner was the owner’s name.

  Kade Cummins.

  Megan gasped and nearly dropped the Bible. With her free hand she brought her fingers to her mouth and stared at the cover as everything around her began to tilt. How had Casey gotten Kade’s Bible? And what about the flower? Was that the one she’d picked twenty years ago, the one she’d asked Kade to hold on to so he wouldn’t forget her? And what did Casey mean by having her open it here, now?

  She tucked the Bible beneath her arm and checked the card once more, 1 Corinthians, chapter 13. Megan slid the card into the front part of the big book, and after a few frantic moments she found the place. There, written in fading ink, were words that made her heart stop.

  Pray for a miracle for Maggie Howard.

  Nothing made sense, and Megan wondered if she might faint. If this was Kade’s Bible, then how had Casey gotten it? And why had he said in the card the prayers had come from him, and not Kade? She was about to gather the Bible to her chest and sit down on the bench when she heard something behind her. Her heart jolted into an unfamiliar beat and she turned around.

  “Merry Christmas, Maggie.” Casey was coming toward her, his eyes sparkling as he made his way.

  “Casey … what … how’d you get this?”

  He stopped a few inches from her, lifted the Bible from her arms, and set it on the bench. Then he took her hands in his and spoke words that made the blood drain from her face. “Kade, Maggie. My name’s Kade.”

  “No … ” she shook her head. “That’s … that’s impossible. Kade was … he was blonde and skinny and freckled and … you’re Casey … you couldn’t be … ” Her voice faded, and she could no longer find the words. As strong as Megan Wright could be in court, she was suddenly thirteen again, desperate to believe in a love that wouldn’t fail.

  “Maggie, it’s me. I promise.” Casey must’ve known she was about to fall. He pulled her closer, let her lean on him for support. “I lost the blonde hair and freckles when I turned twenty. And everyone’s called me by my initials since high school.”

  An explosion of feelings went off in Megan’s heart. Disbelief and shock and the overwhelming sense that she was dreaming. “You … filled out.” She remembered to breathe.

  “Yes.” A low chuckle sounded in his chest and he stroked her hair.

  “I can’t … is … is it true? You’re really him?”

  “I am. And see, Maggie, I was right all those years ago, wasn’t I?”

  She was still too shocked to answer, too amazed that she was in the arms of a man who so long ago had given her a reason to hope, a reason to believe in love. And now … now he’d done that all over again before she’d even known it was him.

  “Remember the secret prayer Jordan and I had for you?”

  “Yes … yes, I remember.” Strength was returning to Megan’s knees, and now her shock was being replaced by an explosive joy and a hundred questions. “What did you pray?”

  “We prayed for a Christmas miracle, that you’d believe in love again.”

  “You did?”

  “Uh-huh. Not so different from the way I prayed for you every day back when I was a boy.”

  Megan peered into his soul. “Kade Cummins, is that really you?”

  He didn’t answer her with words. Instead, he took her face in his hands and kissed her. Not the momentary kiss from the night before, but a kiss that silenced her doubts and her questions as well. When he drew back, he whispered her name against her cheek. The name he’d known her by nearly two decades.

  “Maggie, I have something else to tell you. Something about Jordan.”

  She was lost in his embrace, falling the way she hadn’t believed it possible to fall. Still, she forced herself to find his eyes again, to search them for whatever he had to tell her. “Okay … ”

  “I can’t be Jordan’s special friend anymore.” Casey pulled back and studied her face. “Because after all of this, I could never be just a special friend to him.”

  Megan stared at Casey, not sure what he was saying. Why had he kissed her if he wasn’t planning to stay? “You … you mean you’re leaving us?”

  “No, silly.” Casey took her
hands and kissed her again. “I didn’t say that.”

  “you said you couldn’t be his special friend anymore.”

  “No. I can’t be his special friend.” Casey locked eyes with her once more, and she felt her heart come to life within her. “Not when all I want … is to be his daddy.” He let go of one of her hands, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out something small and shiny. “This … ” he held it out to her, “belonged to my grandmother.”

  It was a diamond solitaire, brilliant and set in band of exquisitely etched white gold.

  Her gasp was soft, but loud enough for him to hear. He smiled at her, his eyes glazed with tears, and suddenly she knew what was coming, knew he was about to say the words that would change all their lives forever.

  And rather than fear it or dread it or doubt it in the least, Megan could hardly wait to say yes. Casey held the ring to her finger and slipped it over her knuckle. Then he kissed her again and spoke the words she was dying to hear.

  “Marry me, Maggie Howard. Marry me, and let me love you the way you’ve always wanted to be loved. Let me be a daddy to Jordan, and let me show you that real love never fails.” He hesitated, and she felt tears in her own eyes now. “And together I promise we’ll spend forever remembering this moment and believing that yes … Christmas miracles really do happen.”

  EPILOGUE

  It was October again, a year since he’d written the first letter, and now he could hardly wait to write this one. Jordan’s parents were in the next room, so he took a piece of paper from his desk drawer—the place where his third-grade homework lay stacked neatly inside. Then he picked his nicest pen from the box on his desk, and steadied his hand over the paper.

  Dear God …

  He smiled at the way his letters looked, then he sucked in a big breath and began again.

  I’ve wanted to write you for a long time, but I wated so I could tell you how good everything is. Plus also my spelling is better so I can write more stuff now. I hope you get this letter, because the daddy you sent me is the best daddy in the whole wide world. And plus something else. My mommy believes in love again. I heard her tell that to Daddy the nite before they got married.

  I got to ware my nisest clothes for the wedding, and everyone said they could feel you there with us. I could feel you, too, and not just because it was Valentines Day. Because your kind of love is there every day of the year.

  I know it because Daddy says so, and Daddy knows a lot about love.

  Anyway, I wanted to tell you thanks for reading my letter and making everthing turn out so great. I’ll write you again next year. Love, Jordan.

  P.S. Thanks for hearing my prayer about a baby sister. Mommy says she’ll be here before Christmas.

  Sarah’s Song

  To Donald, my prince charming—you know the words to my song and sing it with me whenever I forget.

  To Kelsey, my only daughter—your heart is laced together with mine; I feel it even when I’m a world away.

  To Tyler, my music lover—you dream of Broadway and sing the soundtrack in the fairy tale that is our life.

  To Sean, my tender boy—look over your shoulder at how far you’ve come, and try to imagine the rainbows ahead.

  To Josh, my gentle giant—your strength is surpassed only by your ability to love. How glad I am that God gave you to us.

  To EJ, my wide-eyed wonder—you are becoming everything we knew you could be; the sunbeam of your life keeps me warm on the coldest days.

  To Austin, my miracle boy—your every heartbeat is testimony to God’s grace and mercy. I see your fist raised to the sky after a soccer goal, and I can only think that somewhere in heaven the angels are doing the same thing.

  And to God Almighty, who has—for now—blessed me with these.

  Sarah’s Song

  It’s not too late for faith to find us.

  Not too late for right to win.

  Not too late, let love remind us.

  Not too late to try again.

  In my life the straight and narrow had a face, and it was yours.

  I took crooked paths around you, shut you out, and locked the doors.

  Long I wandered tired and aimless, seeking all the world might hold.

  There you waited, true and blameless, soul of goodness, heart of gold.

  Nothing lasting came of those days, months of bitter feezing rain.

  I was blinded, couldn’t see you, choosing sorrow, living pain.

  Then one day I looked behind me, at the way life could’ve been.

  Suddenly I had to find you, had to see your face again.

  Somewhere in my mind I see a place for me and you.

  A place where faith might find a future, give us both a life brand new.

  Together in God’s mighty grip is where we both belong.

  Find me, know me, teach your heart the words to Sarah’s Song.

  It’s not too late for faith to find us.

  Not too late for right to win.

  Not too late for love to bind us.

  Not too late to try again.

  PROLOGUE

  THE RITUAL WAS SACRED, drawn out for twelve days, the same every Christmas.

  Sarah Lindeman looked out the smudged window of her cramped room at Greer Retirement Village, and already she could hear the music, feel her tired, old vocal chords coming together to sing again. The way they came together every thirteenth of December.

  The box was opened, its contents spread across the worn bedspread. Twelve envelopes, yellowed and faded by the years, the way all of life was faded now. All except the memory of that single year, the year when heaven cracked open and spilled Stardust and miracles into the life of a young woman who had given up hope.

  She was that girl, and the year was 1941.

  Patched together, the events of that time created a journey, a story she remembered still, every teardrop and smile, every exchange of words, every bit of laughter. Every impossible twist and turn down the alleys of a yesterday even time couldn’t touch.

  Sarah had broken the story into twelve parts, created twelve paper ornaments, each with a single word or words to remind her. Over the years it became the ritual it was today. Twelve ornaments, one each for the twelve days of Christmas, a chance each December to drift back through the decades, back to 1941, and remember it all again.

  And there was the song, of course, playing in the background, standing like an anthem for all they’d known, all she missed now that he was gone. The notes, the melody, the haunting refrains pulled from the story of their lives. Always she would sing the song. She would hum it at first, and then as the days of December wore on, the words would come. They would come as they had at the beginning, born of despair, desperate for a second chance.

  All of it, every word, every note, for Sam.

  Sarah turned around, leaned hard into her aluminum walker, and shuffled to the bed. Distant voices filled the hallway outside her room, staff assistants talking to the elderly residents the way young people did these days, loud and condescending; someone going on about the cooking staff and its bland version of lasagna.

  And somewhere above it all the piped-in refrains of “Silent Night.”

  Sarah eased herself down next to the envelopes. The bed seemed lower all the time. Her hips hurt worse this year, and each breath came slower, with more effort. No doubt her time was short. Death wasn’t far off.

  Not that Sarah minded. Dying, after all, would reunite her with Sam.

  Had it been thirteen years since his death? Thirteen years since she’d shared this Christmas ritual with the man who had made it possible? Back then they’d gone through the twelve days together—taking out the ornaments, finding their way through the days and months and years back to 1941, remembering their story.

  Singing the song.

  She was eighty-six now, and if Sam had lived he’d be ninety-one. Instead, cancer had taken him—not slowly over a course of years, but in six months. That May he was traveling with her to Los
Angeles to see the kids, to welcome the birth of a great-granddaughter. A sluggish few weeks, a bad blood test, and he was gone before Thanksgiving.

  At first Sarah lived alone in the old house where they’d raised their two children and entertained grandchildren. The house was as much a part of the glorious past as anything else because it was walking distance to the park, the place where it had all come together.

  But more years passed and she grew tired, too tired to dress in the morning or take a walk or shop for groceries. Heart failure, the doctor told her. Nothing imminent, just a slow and steady decline that would worsen over time.

  After her diagnosis, the kids had taken a week off work and tried to talk her into moving to LA. Sarah was gracious, glad for their concern, but only one place could possibly serve as her final home, the place where she would live out her days.

  The facility was built across from the park the summer after Sam died. Greer Retirement Village. Assisted living, they called it. An oversized bedroom with space enough for a recliner and television. Also a kitchenette with a sink, a microwave, and small refrigerator. The staff organized bingo on Tuesdays, Bible study on Wednesdays, low-impact aerobics on Thursdays, and old movies on Fridays. Meals were served on china and linen twice a day in the dining room, and on weekends they had live entertainment in the form of Mr. Johnson, the assistant manager who also played the piano.

  Most of all, each room had emergency buttons near the bed and in the bathroom, and staff assistants who came by to remind residents about their medication—how much and when to take it.

  And so, after a few days’ discussion, the kids had come around and reserved Sarah a place at the village. A room on the first floor overlooking the park and the bench. The very same bench where Sarah had written the song in the first place.

  “I’ll never leave,” she told the kids before they returned to LA. “This—” She waved toward the window and the park and the bench beyond. “—is where I’ll feel your father every day.” She hesitated. “I’ll come see you; don’t worry.”