Christmas Bells (29 page)

Chorus

Lucas watched Sister Winifred bustle cheerfully away, reluctant to face Sophia, to ascertain how horrified, amused, or repulsed she was by the elderly nun's unwittingly devastating remarks.

“Do you think she meant us?” Sophia asked.

“I think she did,” Lucas replied cautiously.

Sophia uttered a small, helpless laugh. “Well, that was embarrassing, wasn't it?”

Stung, Lucas managed to keep his voice light. “How so?”

“To be called out like that. For her to assume we're a couple—not only that, but a couple in love.”

Lucas shrugged, put away the last of his sheet music, and zipped his bag shut. “Is it really such a bizarre assumption? We're friends, we spend a lot of time together—”

“I didn't say it was bizarre—”

“Merely insulting, then.”

“Lucas—” Sophia studied him, confused and hurt. “Why are you acting like this?”

“No reason.” Lucas pulled on his coat and slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “I'm sorry. Never mind. See you at the concert.”

“Lucas, don't.” Sophia caught him by the sleeve as he passed her on the way to the door. “Let's talk about this. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I was insulted. I'm not. I was just surprised. It was—” She paused, thinking. “It was an unexpected comment from an unexpected source.”

“Fair point,” Lucas admitted. “I expect unexpected comments from Sister Winifred, but maybe not the matchmaking kind.”

Sophia winced from embarrassment, but even then she was beautiful. “Do you think that's what she was doing?”

Lucas sighed. “Not exactly, since she thinks the match has already been made.”

“Right.” Sophia nodded, and her features relaxed into a tentative version of her usual smile. “Are we still on for dessert and coffee after the Christmas Eve concert?”

“I'm up for it if you are. Crema Café?”

“Don't they close at nine?”

“Right.” He tried to come up with another option, but suddenly he felt so overwhelmingly frustrated and weary that nothing else came to mind. “We'll think of something.”

“Maybe Turkish coffee and baklava at Café Algiers?”

Lucas thrust his hands into his pockets and managed a smile. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Lucas,” said Sophia, pensive again, “you're not angry with me, are you? I'm sorry if I acted weird about what Sister Winifred said, but it was just so—”

“Unexpected. Yes, I know. You've said.”

“Wasn't it unexpected for you?” she countered. “You've never been interested—”

“No, Sophia.
You've
never been interested. I've always been
interested. Even when you were with someone else, when I was with someone else—” He took a deep breath and spoke as clearly as he could, because he had said too much already not to make absolutely sure she understood him. “I will always be interested, Sophia.”

Sophia stared. “Lucas, I—”

“You don't have to say anything. Actually, I think it would be better if you didn't.” He forced a smile, but it felt like a grimace. “I'm going to leave now, before I do any more damage.”

She nodded, speechless.

“I'll see you Christmas Eve.” Lucas turned and strode from the church, silently berating himself. It was impossible to be angry with Sister Winifred—she was kind and sweet and hadn't meant any harm—and as he thought about it as he trudged home through the snow, she had done him a favor. His secret was suffocating him, and if the truth ruined their friendship, he would have to live with that. He would rather endure rejection now than suffer in silent hope waiting for—what? For Sophia to read his mind and discover how he felt, for her to suddenly fall in love with him? As Father Ryan had said, Lucas had never given Sophia any reason to think of him as more than a friend. It was far more likely that she would have remained oblivious, and eventually, when she got over her broken engagement, she would start dating someone else, someone brave enough to tell her that he loved her.

Thanks to Sister Winifred, Sophia knew Lucas was interested—the understatement of the century. He couldn't leave it at that. He would tell her the whole truth and hope for the best.

•   •   •

“Thank you for taking my call, Richard,” said Camille into her cell phone. “Please give my love to Julia and the boys. Merry Christmas.”

“Sounds like that went well,” Robert remarked from the driver's seat as she ended the call.

“Absolutely. He's going to make locating Lieutenant Moran a top military priority, and no one will want to disappoint him.” Camille settled back into her seat, smiling. “Richard has so much on his plate that I hate to impose, but what's the point of having the personal cell phone number of the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff if you don't call him every once in a while?”

“I'd say it was for a good cause.”

“The very best of causes—locating a lost soldier, reuniting a husband and father with his family.” That was the outcome Camille hoped for, although she knew there were other, crueler possibilities. “The chairman promised that the search will be thorough and it'll continue until Lieutenant Moran is found. He says it may just be an unfortunate paperwork error, and that at this very moment the lieutenant might be recuperating in a hospital in Kabul or Germany with no idea that he's officially missing.”

Robert nodded, but Camille had studied the back of his head and the set of his shoulders for too many years not to know when something troubled him. Sure enough, after they drove a block or two in silence, he said, “Mrs. Barrett, I hope the general's right, but if Lieutenant Moran's been at an army hospital all this time, wouldn't he have gotten in touch with his family by now?”

“If he were conscious and able,” Camille acknowledged. “If he knows who he is. Remember he was involved in a deadly attack. He might have been seriously injured.”

“I'll keep him in my prayers, ma'am.”

“As will I.” Camille tapped her cell phone against her palm, thinking. Richard wasn't her only friend with connections in the region. Three of her former colleagues from her reporting days had gone on to become foreign correspondents, with networks of contacts and informants not only in the military but in the villages and marketplaces. Civilians often quietly confided to the
press when they would not speak to any military authority. Surely someone had witnessed the attack and knew what had become of the lone American soldier left behind. Someone knew and someone would talk.

Quickly Camille called her old friends, speaking with one and leaving urgent messages with the others. By the time the car pulled up to the Fairmont Copley Plaza, Camille was satisfied that some of the cleverest people she knew were on the case.

Robert assisted her from the car, and the doorman swiftly welcomed her in from the cold. She was a few minutes late, but not unfashionably so; by the time she checked her coat and entered the ballroom, they were still serving cocktails and passing the hors d'oeuvres. Before she had a glass of white wine in her hand, she had been greeted warmly by several friends and twice as many acquaintances. Other people she had never met, but who had known or admired Paul, came forward to offer their condolences, which Camille accepted graciously. Although it pained her to be forcibly reminded of his absence—as if she could forget, as if she were not constantly aware of it—she was nevertheless moved to see how much Paul had meant to so many of his constituents and colleagues, and how they wanted to comfort her and honor him.

Just as the master of ceremonies invited the guests to be seated for dinner, Camille spotted the governor in the crowd and gracefully maneuvered to his side. “Governor,” she greeted him, smiling, feigning pleasant surprise at a chance encounter. “How very nice to see you.”

“Camille, hello.” He took her hand and kissed her cheek, smelling faintly of cigar smoke and gin. “You're looking lovely, as always. It's good to see you back in Boston.”

“It's good to be home,” she said, emphasizing the last word ever so slightly. The governor had once famously accused Paul of being a Washington insider, which was absolutely ridiculous. “I
had hoped we'd be seated at the same table so we could chat. But alas—” She gestured to a table just ahead. “I'm there, and you're much closer to the front.”

His eyebrows rose, and there was a hint of wariness in his smile. “Something on your mind?”

“Yes, actually, there is.” She slowed her pace to prolong the conversation, and he obligingly did the same. “I understand you haven't made up your mind about whom you'll appoint to finish out Paul's term.”

“No, not yet, although I have a short list.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Do you intend to lobby for someone in particular?”

“Yes, Governor. Myself.”

He stopped abruptly. “You?”

“Why not? I know the job; I've been doing it for many months now, some might argue for several years. I know Paul's constituents and I care deeply about the future of our state.” She touched him on the arm and leaned forward confidentially. “And I think we can agree that nothing will show your commitment to bipartisanship and transparent governance more than if you were to appoint someone who is not in your back pocket. Appointing your brother-in-law sends quite the opposite message.”

“He's not on the short list.”

“That's not what I hear.”

She could see the wheels turning in his mind as he studied her appraisingly. Paul had always been more popular than the governor among Massachusetts voters, and Paul's approval ratings with registered members of the governor's party were remarkably high. The governor surely was aware of the long and honorable tradition of widows finishing out their late husbands' terms; the practice had become less common in recent decades, as women had proven themselves able to campaign and be elected on their own merits, but for more than one hundred
years, it had been the only way a woman could serve in Congress.

“That is an inspired idea,” the governor told her. Almost everyone else had taken their seats, and their conversation was in danger of becoming conspicuous. He held out Camille's chair, and as she smiled and seated herself, he bent low and said, “Let's talk soon and work out the details. I'd like to make an announcement Monday morning.”

“Certainly. Shall I call you tomorrow?”

“Why not have dinner with me and Julia instead?”

“I'd be delighted.”

“I'll have my assistant call yours.” He straightened and, ever the consummate politician, he addressed the others seated at her table, offering a few cordial remarks that left everyone feeling pleased and appreciated, as if he had come by especially to meet them. Then, with a last nod for Camille, he went off to find his own place.

Elated, she took the first opportunity to slip away between courses, and from a secluded corner of the lobby, she phoned her assistant and told her of her impromptu meeting with the governor.

Kendra was guardedly optimistic. “Are you sure you have the job?”

“I'm sure. From his perspective he has as much to gain by appointing me as I do.”

“He wants to bask in your popularity,” Kendra speculated, undoubtedly correct. “Are you
sure
you have the job?”

“I'm so sure that I want you to phone everyone on Paul's staff and tell them to report to work as usual on the first Monday morning after New Year's Day.” With a gasp, she said, “Most of them have probably found new jobs already.”

“I've kept track of those who haven't, in case we heard of any
openings. If we consolidate your staff and what remains of the senator's, you'll have everything covered, and I don't think you could find a more qualified, more dedicated team anywhere.”

“I like the sound of that. Thank you, Kendra.”

“You're very welcome,” she replied. “Well, Madame Senator, what will be your top priority once you take office?”

“Funding for education,” Camille immediately replied. “It's absolutely essential that we provide the children of Massachusetts with the best possible chance for success in life.”

She knew it was what Paul would have wanted.

•   •   •

Charlotte watched the passing scenery as her mother drove her and Alex home from rehearsal. “Mom,” she eventually said, “I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?”

“The bad news,” said Alex eagerly.

“I asked Mom.”

“Oh, I don't know, honey.” Their mother sighed and glanced down the street to her left before making a right turn on red. “I could use some good news. Let's start with that.”

“Okay.” Charlotte steeled herself with the memory of Sister Winifred's praise. “Remember that Christmas story I was working on?”