One Imperfect Christmas (25 page)

When Natalie left the office, she had no particular destination in mind—she just drove, with her thoughts spinning out as fast as the tires on the pavement. She was
not
a person who made careless errors.

No, you're an incorrigible perfectionist. Nothing is ever good enough for you. Everything has to be perfect.

And where did I get that?

From her dear, stubborn—yes,
stubborn
—mother. No denying it any longer, or the anger it evoked, either. Mom was always a stickler for detail, a woman who held each of her children accountable, who always kept her promises.

Only there was one promise Mom couldn't keep—the Morgans' fiftieth perfect Christmas.

Rage welled up inside Natalie. Hot, writhing, suffocating rage at a world tilted so far out of balance that she felt she'd never find solid ground again. She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop on the gravel shoulder. Angry tears seared her cheeks.

“It's not fair, Mom! You promised!”

Crumpled over the steering wheel, she gave in fully to the fury, fear, and guilt. When the worst of the sobs subsided, she reached across the console to pull her cell phone from her purse. Her next appointment with Dr. Sirpless was still a few days away, but she needed to talk, needed to—

The sound of a knock on her window made her drop the phone. Sucking in a quick breath, she lifted her head in bewilderment. Her brother peered through the glass, his expression etched with worry. Hastily, she swiped at her wet, burning cheeks and then unlocked her door.

Hart pulled it open and leaned in. He touched a gloved hand to her face. “You okay?”

“Yes … no … ” She shuddered. “Hart, I think I'm losing my mind.”

“Hey, I always knew you were crazy.” He laughed without humor and rested his knees on the doorframe. “Okay, Nat, talk to me.”

In halting words she told him about the bizarre series of mistakes at work. “This may sound even crazier,” she went on, “but I'm starting to wonder if God is trying to tell me something.”

“Then maybe you should listen.” An icy gust of wind whistled around the door, and Hart shivered. “Mind if we go somewhere warmer to talk? My next appointment isn't for another hour or so, and I'll bet Dad has the woodstove stoked.”

She glanced at her surroundings and realized they were less than half a mile from the farm. Curling up under an afghan next to the warm glow of a fire sounded inviting. “Let's go,” she said, reaching for the gearshift. She followed her brother's mud-stained pickup and parked behind it in their father's driveway.

They found Dad in the kitchen rinsing out the coffee carafe. He looked up from the sink in surprise. “Thought I heard someone drive up. Just got home, myself.” He cast Natalie a concerned look as he set the carafe in the drainer. “What's wrong, Rosy-girl?”

She opened her mouth but could utter only a muted sob.

Hart answered for her, his tone sympathetic. “Nat's having a bad day.” He took her coat and briskly rubbed her shoulders. “How about some hot chocolate to warm this girl up?”

“Coming right up.” Dad brushed her forehead with a kiss on his way to fill the teakettle.

In the living room, Natalie and Hart scooted armchairs close to the woodstove. Sky, the hulking Great Dane, drowsed on the braided rug at their feet. A few minutes later Natalie heard the harmonic trilling of the teakettle, and shortly afterward Dad carried in two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

“Just sit here and enjoy it.” He hovered for a moment, lips pressed together, and then gave his hands a brisk rub and turned toward the kitchen. “Got some things to finish up. Be back in a few minutes.”

Natalie gave a weak smile as she wrapped her hands around the huge ceramic mug decorated with laughing snowmen. It felt good to be coddled, to soak up the warmth of hearth and family. She hadn't felt so drained since those long, excruciating hours while she sat outside the ICU waiting for updates on her mother's condition.

She leaned her head back and let her gaze drift around the familiar room. Dad had turned on the tree lights for them, and their childhood Christmas stockings dangled from a narrow shelf above the stove. A few feet away, on an antique library table draped in forest-green velvet, the delicately painted lifelike figurines of her mother's ceramic nativity scene portrayed the first Christmas.

Natalie's stomach twisted with fresh grief. The starry backdrop, usually in place until Mom painted the newest star early on Christmas morning, was missing.

Then she saw it, leaning on an easel in the alcove, a small area off the living room where Mom used to paint because of the excellent natural light.

Natalie's throat closed. “It looks like it's waiting for her.”

Hart followed her gaze. He shook his head sadly. “Dad must have put it there. He just won't give up hope.”

Their father ambled in from the kitchen, hands thrust into the pockets of his corduroy jeans. “Sore yet from yesterday?” He shot Natalie a knowing wink.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “What do you think?”

Hart grinned. “Daniel said you were looking pretty fine out there.”

The secondhand compliment swathed her in unexpected warmth. How Daniel even remembered how “fine” she looked after his little adventure on Pokey, she couldn't imagine. In her mind's eye she replayed the image of Daniel barreling toward her on the mangy old horse. He must have been watching them for a while before his ridiculous shout startled the poor animal.

She refused to think beyond those next few minutes to the point where Daniel had tried yet again to get past her defenses. To the point where she panicked under the pressure of his pleading gaze and tore off to the barn.

Dad patted her shoulder. “Always knew you couldn't stay away from the horses forever. Riding's in your blood.”

Natalie shifted in the chair and rubbed her backside. “In my blood, and a few other places I don't care to mention.”

Chuckling, Dad pulled over the ottoman and sat down. He extended his hands toward the heat radiating from the stove. “You may be a little achy for a few days, but getting back on a horse is like riding a bike. Even if it's been awhile, your body remembers. The muscles just have to be reminded.”

“Right now,” Natalie said with a grim laugh, “my muscles would rather forget.”

Hart wadded up the Christmas napkin beneath his mug and tossed it at Natalie with a smirk. “Don't count on that happening for a few days.”

The friendly banter faded to comfortable silence. Watching the glowing embers through the smoky glass, Natalie felt a languorous peace settling over her. She wished she could stay like this forever.

Dad's quiet voice edged its way into the stillness. “Rosy-girl, I was hoping to talk with you and Hart about something yesterday, but you both left before I had a chance.”

Rosy-girl.
Coming from Dad, the pet name sometimes comforted her—sometimes sent a warning chill through her. With effort she drew herself out of the dreamlike trance. “What is it, Dad?”

“I've been thinking.” He reached down to stroke Sky's head, and the big dog looked up at him with soulful eyes. “I'd like to bring your mom home for Christmas.”

His statement banished the last of Natalie's brain fog like a gust of winter wind. She sat forward. “Dad, are you serious?”

“I wanted to ask how you both felt about it first.”

Hart braced his forearms on his knees. “If you think she can handle it that sure would be nice. It would mean a lot to the whole family to have her with us for Christmas Day.”

“Actually,” Dad began, clearing his throat, “I want her home to stay. I'm working on arrangements for a live-in caregiver.”

Natalie laid her hand on his shirtsleeve, a tightness gripping her chest. “Oh, Dad, I want Mom home, too, but is it really a good idea? And would she even know she's here?”

But then she remembered the watercolors; her mother tried to paint. Could it really be possible, after all? Could Mom recover enough to be home with her family for the promised fiftieth Christmas?

Her father spoke again, but Natalie didn't hear him over the buzzing in her ears. She set her mug on the floor and tossed the afghan across the chair arm as she stood. In a daze she crossed the room to the Christmas tree. She found the little Appaloosa horse ornament and cradled it in her hand.

The muscles just have to be reminded.

She felt her father's hand at her elbow. “I need to know what both you and Hart honestly think about the idea. It would mean everything to me to have your mom home again, but I won't do it without your support.”

A bright bubble of hope rose in Natalie's heart. She turned and wrapped her arms around her father, relishing the soft brush of flannel against her cheek. “I think it's a wonderful idea, Dad. Yes, let's bring Mom home, where she belongs.”

15

Of
course the path to statehood required significant sacrifice—”

A light tapping at Daniel's classroom door interrupted his history lesson.

“Hold that thought, class.” He laid his lecture notes aside and strode to the door.

Mr. Lattimore, the assistant principal, stood in the corridor, his face grim. “Sorry to interrupt your class, Mr. Pearce, but you've had an urgent phone call.” He held out a slip of paper.

With a nod of thanks, Daniel took the form and scanned it:

To: Daniel Pearce

From: Dr. Hartley Morgan

Message: Please call ASAP. Need to talk.

Hart's clinic phone number followed. Daniel pondered the cryptic message, his stomach tightening. Hart would never bother Daniel at school unless … . Had something happened with Belinda? With Natalie?

Mr. Lattimore stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked on his heels. “I can take over your class if this is something you need to handle.”

Daniel nodded. He stepped inside the classroom and cleared his throat. “Small family emergency, kids. Mr. Lattimore's in charge until I get back.” He ignored the collective groan. “Please take out your books and work on the questions at the end of chapter eleven. And be prepared for a quiz on this section tomorrow.”

An even louder groan followed him out the door. He couldn't suppress a grin at the guilty pleasure it gave him, one of the few rewards for having to teach a subject he didn't feel much passion about just to keep his coaching job.

In the teachers' lounge he took a steadying breath before dialing Hart's number and then paced in the small room while waiting for the receptionist to get his brother-in-law on the line.

“That was fast.” Hart sounded out of breath. “Didn't expect to hear from you till after school.”

“Your message seemed urgent. Is it your mom?”

“Yeah … sort of.” Hart paused. An ominous edge crept into his tone. “Any chance you could get away for lunch?”

Daniel looked at his watch—eleven-thirty—then raked a nervous hand across the back of his head. His fourth-period class ended in twenty-five minutes, and Mr. Lattimore had it covered. The school allowed only a half-hour lunch break, but he didn't think Lattimore would mind if he asked Carl to take his P.E. class that started right after lunch. “Yeah, I think I can arrange it, but it would help if you could meet me somewhere here in Putnam.”

They decided on Casey's Diner as soon after twelve as both of them could get there. Daniel had already claimed a corner booth when Hart arrived. The lanky veterinarian shook off his khaki barn jacket and tossed it on the bench seat as he slid in across from Daniel.

“After yesterday's fiasco, I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon.” Daniel absently rubbed the tender spot below his ribcage. “In fact, I was counting on it.”

Hart cocked his head, looking appropriately sheepish. “Sorry things didn't go better.”

“Yeah, me too.” Daniel laced his fingers atop the laminated menu that lay open before him. “So what's up? I can't believe you'd drive all the way over to Putnam just to get on my case again about Natalie. Talk about beating a dead horse.”