A Magical Christmas Read online

  Apparently, she had heard him.

  She hurried into the house.

  The older kids muttered good night.

  He stood by his car for a few minutes, staring up at the sky. A feeling of hopelessness suddenly invaded him. Where the hell had it gone so wrong? They should have had everything. He did have a great job—even if he’d liked the D.A.’s office better. They had a good home with a decent, payable mortgage. He and Julie had their own cars, and they’d planned on buying one for Christie when she graduated from high school as long as she kept up a B average or higher.

  Their kids were healthy. Damned healthy. And they both knew they had to be thankful for that.

  How the hell had they managed to have everything and yet be so miserable?

  He walked into the house. It was already in darkness, only the night-lights on. He went into his own bedroom, shedding his jacket and shirt as he did so.

  Julie was already in bed. All the way on her own side of it—in fact, it looked as if a sudden breeze would roll her onto the floor. Well, she didn’t want to touch him. And she didn’t want to be touched by him. It was surprising that she didn’t throw a pillow and blanket out on the sofa.

  But then the kids would have seen that. And somehow Julie was always the one who came out smelling like a rose to the kids.

  He stripped down to his briefs and crawled into bed.

  His side of it. No sense touching her.

  “Congratulations on selling the house,” he told her.

  “Thanks,” she said curtly. Then she made a point of yawning. Fine. He didn’t have anything else to say anyway.

  He was shocked, minutes later, when she spoke.

  “I made that reservation.”

  “What?”

  “I made the reservation for Christmas. For that place. Oak River Plantation.”

  Jon lay very still. He exhaled after a long moment, his feeling of absolute hopelessness fading. In fact, something close to warmth filled him.

  He loved his wife.

  He didn’t even want to love her anymore, but he did.

  He loved his wife.

  “That’s great,” he heard himself say.

  “That’s just Christmas,” she responded firmly. He rolled over, touching her shoulder, trying to talk to something other than her back.

  But she cringed. Cringed, just at his slightest touch.

  He swore, loudly, angrily.

  And he left his bed.

  The hell with her, and the kids. The damned couch was starting to look mighty fine.

  Chapter Four

  Christmas Eve

  1862

  The greatest sin seemed to be that it was such a beautiful day.

  A beautiful day in which to die.

  The captain stood upon the hastily erected scaffold on the rise by one of the oaks in front of his own property. It was a good oak, a strong oak. The men would be taken along the scaffolding one by one, and hanged from that oak.

  He listened while the chaplain droned on. He felt both the courage and the fear of the men lined up by his side, and when he opened his eyes, he could see the anguish in the faces arrayed before him, both the faces of friend and foe, for even their enemies were heartsick at their duty.

  Not one of his men was blindfolded, nor as yet were they bound. No execution had ever been carried out with greater dignity, perhaps because the executioners were nearly as shaken as those about to die. He could see the noose, hanging over a strong limb of the old oak tree. The rope didn’t touch him; it was many feet away. And still, he could feel it as if it already chafed against his neck.

  Life.

  Just minutes now remaining…

  Snow lay on the ground. A light snow, a new-fallen snow. Clean and clear and pure. A soft crystal blanket of ethereal beauty. The sun shone upon that snow, dazzling in its brightness. The sky was blue, breathtakingly blue. Not a cloud marred the perfection of it. The air was cool and crisp; the day not the kind of cold that was uncomfortable, just chilly enough to wake a man up with each breath, and let him know that he did breathe, that he was alive.

  The sheer beauty of the day, the touch of sun and sky and snow upon his senses, told him that life itself was precious. And now that he was about to lose it, he wondered if he had ever thought to be thankful for it. Yet he could leave life behind, the blueness of the sky, the crystal beauty of the hills and valleys that rolled so gently in their winter blankets. He could close his eyes and say that he had seen the beauty, and he could let it go.

  If he could just see her face one more time again.

  Life was precious; love was the gift that made it worth living against all odds. He didn’t hear the words that the chaplain was saying, but he thought in his heart that it was a sad time indeed to die, for Christmas had been the hope and the promise of life everlasting, the greatest gift of love. Oh, God, if he could just see her face…

  Talk with her, laugh with her, one last time. Hold fast and tight, knowing then that the little things were just petty things, that love was strong, love was what mattered. If he could just see his son…

  Stroke his daughter’s cheek, see her eyes.

  If only.

  While the chaplain continued with his prayers, the company about the scaffolding, Yanks and Rebs alike heard the coming of the horsemen.

  No cry of alarm was given by the Federal lookouts, nor was a cry necessary, for the men who rode toward them were a company of Yanks. Standing very still, the captain realized the company was being led by a brigadier general, and the brigadier general, in charge of the command, was now dismounting from a fine sorrel horse.

  He started suddenly, realizing that he recognized the man in the Union army brigadier general’s uniform.

  The man was an old friend.

  They’d gone to school together.

  His name was Peter Tracey, and he hailed from a township not far away. They’d ridden together, hunted together, drunk brandy together…

  Shared dinner together. At this very house. And more. They’d entered into a special association together, the brotherhood of Freemasons.

  Freemasonry was an ancient brotherhood. George Washington had been a member, but the founding of the Masonic organization went back further than the founding of the country; many historians theorized that the rites went back as far as the days of the ancient pyramids and Egyptians. Then, perhaps, it had stood for the work-related industries of man. Now, of course, it was far more a gentlemen’s club, but one dedicated to the good of its members and the world around them. Being a Mason demanded certain secrecies of its members, and called upon them to help one another in times of need.

  The brigadier general—whose rank equaled that of George Armstrong Custer, who had ordered the hangings—was staring at the captain. The captain could hear him demanding to know what was going on that Rebel prisoners should be executed on Christmas Eve. Young Yank Lieutenant Jenkins was explaining the situation.

  And watching the brigadier general’s eyes, the captain saw dismay. He would have little right to gainsay Custer’s orders. The captain was grateful that his hands were not bound, for his friend was staring at him now with horrified eyes. Rebs and Yanks lost friends frequently in battle. Brother had been called upon to fight brother; sons and fathers had taken different positions in this wretched war.

  Yet to see a man, a friend, hanged for no greater crime than fighting for his own convictions was a hard sight.

  A bitter one. The captain suddenly found himself praying. He wanted to live. He wanted to breathe the cool, fresh air, touch the icy smoothness of the snow.

  He wanted to cherish the gift of love he had known, and forgotten to value.…

  The captain offered the brigadier general a signal.

  The ancient Masonic signal that he was in distress.

  Any Freemason would have been obliged to help.

  The brigadier general watched the captain.

  The captain barely dared breathe.

  He waited.
…

  Chapter Five

  When she stepped into the living room the following morning, Julie was relieved to see that her husband had awakened early.

  The sofa was clear of both pillow and blanket. Jon was already dressed for work, brewing coffee, popping toast, and on the phone in the kitchen when she emerged from the bedroom. He was in a suit and tie, his customary outfit, but this morning she was somewhat startled to realize how nice he looked in it. Jon was a nice height, and the shoulders of the suit emphasized the fact that he’d kept himself in good shape the last twenty years. He was brisk, businesslike, and competent on the phone, all appealing qualities. His auburn hair was freshly washed, smoothed back, his green eyes were sharp and aggressive as he spoke, and he moved about the kitchen with a strange domestic grace as he dictated a memo to the secretary who was apparently on the other end of the line.

  He was good. When he chose to be. When he opted to give the family his time, he could do it with impressive agility. Not only was he managing, he was managing well. His focus and energy were high. What he didn’t understand was that it was easy to be at a high level one morning every three weeks. When she was solely responsible for mornings every single day, day after day, was when it got tough. He was great at stepping in once in a while—then wondering why she complained when he was so damned perfect at the same tasks.

  Was she just incompetent? Or was she simply worn out?

  Or was she still simply so angry that nothing he could ever do would be right?

  He was definitely on this morning. Not only was breakfast going, lunches had been made. And he was already in business mode, showered, dressed, immaculate, and disturbingly attractive.

  Julie was, in contrast, in her threadbare corduroy bathrobe. She hadn’t hopped into the shower yet; she’d been too concerned about waking him up before the kids could rise and find him on the sofa. Her hair was everywhere. Jon looked like a million bucks. She in turn looked as if she should be shot and put out of her misery. Sometimes, a voice taunted her, it might be easy to understand why your husband had had an affair.

  It wasn’t an affair. No matter how angry she could get with him or herself, it couldn’t actually be termed an affair. It had been a one-night stand. And if Jon’s accounting of it was true, it had been a rather pathetic evening at that. Maybe what had hurt the worst was that he’d been with a woman who had claimed to be one of her best friends. And maybe what had hurt even worse than that was the fact that she’d only found out about it a few months ago because Jon had accidentally told her. The incident had occurred nearly seven years ago, when they’d separated for a few months. Jon couldn’t begin to understand how she could be so angry with him now for what had happened then. She couldn’t begin to make him understand that it all had to do with trust. Her trust in him had been shattered. She’d never know again when he was telling the truth. She’d never know if he had told her all the truth. And that wasn’t their only problem, of course. Life was their problem. Yes, he made good money, but it didn’t mean that she shouldn’t have the right to pursue a career as well. They’d separated the first time because it seemed that they couldn’t get out of debt, with him working in the D.A.’s office. But his work still kept Julie from managing to get to her own job—in a dental office, back then—with enough frequency to maintain employment. Jordan had been sick with a virus that had caused all kinds of complications; she had spent her time running ragged between the hospital, home, work, and school, and trying to keep things halfway normal for Christie while she was at it.

  She’d lost her job, and she’d asked Jon to leave the house. Just until she could pull herself together. And she’d pulled herself together; he’d taken on his new high-paying job as a defense attorney, and she’d gone to real estate school.

  Ashley had been born, possibly a result of the very first night that Jon had come home. They’d laughed a lot; they’d drunk champagne and made all kinds of promises for the future. He’d failed to mention that Jennie Scott, one of her best friends from way back when they’d all gone to school together—who’d been trying to convince her that Jon was awful and the only way out was a divorce—had, in the meantime, been consoling Jon for his wife’s neglect.

  Jon, still talking, the receiver wedged between his shoulder and ear, was buttering toast at the same time. Julie felt his eyes on her. There was no warmth in his green gaze this morning.

  She wondered if she’d managed to destroy last night what was left of their marriage, and she wondered if she cared. But if she didn’t care, she wondered why she felt a stirring of jealousy watching her husband. He was a handsome man. A successful man, an attorney. And this morning, he looked like Mr. Mom.

  If only the help had come a little more often.

  If only he hadn’t slept with Jennie.

  She didn’t know where the real problem lay, but she suddenly decided she didn’t like the way she looked in her ragtag robe.

  She didn’t say a word. She quickly escaped the kitchen to shower.

  When she emerged and reentered the kitchen, dressed for the day herself, makeup and hair in place, the morning was no longer moving along quite so gracefully. All three of their children were in the kitchen, giving Jon a hard time.

  Even Ashley was protesting.

  “No T.V., Daddy? No videotapes, no stereo, no movies to go to, no Chuck E. Cheese’s?”

  “It’s an adventure, Pumpkin,” Jon was trying to tell Ashley. “We can bring some books, we can color—”

  “She can color right here at home,” Christie said.

  “We can’t go away for Christmas. I was going to spend the day with Trevor and Mike; we’re all three getting new in-line skates,” Jordan protested.

  “Let Jordan and me stay home,” Christie pleaded.“I’m nearly eighteen, I’m an adult, I can watch out for myself and my brother—”

  “Oh, right!” Jon snapped angrily. “You and Jamie Rodriguez—looking out for Jordan, is that it? Should I leave you my car as well?”

  “Yeah, Dad, that would be nice,” Christie snapped back angrily.

  “Christie, we’re going away for a family vacation.”

  “Count me out.”

  “Christie, you’re coming.”

  “Why on earth are we going?” Jordan demanded. “You and Mom hate each other—”

  “We don’t hate each other,” Jon and Julie protested simultaneously.

  Yeah, sure.

  Jordan didn’t say it out loud; Julie could tell he was thinking the words. He didn’t miss a beat, though, he just continued with, “Christie only tolerates any of us when she has Jamie around, and I can only stand Christie when Jamie has her locked up in the bedroom.”

  “Thanks, you little toad head!” Christie snapped at Jordan. Julie didn’t think that Christie meant to do it, but she had been eating her low-fat cereal while talking to her brother, and her spoon was suddenly flying across the room.

  Jordan ducked.

  The spoon hit Ashley squarely on the nose. Ashley was dead silent for a second, then with a shriek, she began to cry.

  “Ashley, Ashley, I’m sorry!” Christie said, but by that time, Julie was on her way into the kitchen, scooping up her youngest child and giving her eldest a narrow-eyed look of fury. “I didn’t mean to hit her, Mom. Jerk face ducked—but I didn’t even mean to hit him, the spoon just flew. I didn’t mean it, honestly—”

  “You hit her in the head, Christie!” Jordan bellowed.

  “Right, yeah, like you’re so good to her!” Christie yelled back.

  “Christie, can’t you just run away from home, elope or something, and live on love and food stamps?” Jordan demanded.

  “Jordan!” Jon barked.

  “She’s a witch when she’s on the rag, Dad.”

  “Jordan!” Julie snapped. “That sounds just horrible! I won’t have you saying things like that!”

  “At least there’s an excuse for my personality,” Christie jumped in. “Jordan’s just a jerk-faced dick head and
—”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” Jon jumped in angrily.

  The doorbell started to ring.

  Christie let out a shriek. “It’s Jamie; I’m going.”

  “I told you, Christie—” Jon began angrily, standing, staring furiously at his daughter, then striding out to answer the bell.

  “Dad, please!”

  Christie stared at Julie, alarm in her wide blue eyes, then went tearing out after her father. Ashley was holding her nose and sobbing in big gasps.

  Jordan had quit with the argument. Head down, he was diligently finishing his cereal.

  Julie, with Ashley attached to her skirt, hobbled her way out to the living room. Jamie Rodriguez was in the foyer. He was a tall, lanky, attractive boy. His hair was very dark, his eyes deep-set and also dark brown. Julie was sure he set many a young female heart to fluttering. But there was a serious side to the boy, and despite her deep reservations about Christie getting so serious so young, if pushed, Julie would have to admit that she liked him. But her daughter’s relationship with him was scary. Jamie spent time with his divorced mother, and with his little sister and brother. And there had been a shooting just down the street from his home a few weeks ago in which people had been killed and a child had been injured. He came from a very bad part of town where drug deals were a daily occurrence.

  He and Jon were talking. It was a surprisingly civilized conversation. Jon was laying down the driving law. Jamie was listening politely. “Daddy, Jamie is the best driver I know,” Christie insisted. “You don’t need to harangue him—”

  “It’s okay, Julie,” Jamie said.

  “Home straight after school,” her father said.

  “No Coke, no fries, do not pass go, do not pause to collect your books!” Christie muttered.

  “Christina—” Jon began.

  Julie stepped forward at last—Ashley still attached to her, still whimpering. “You’d better get going before you’re late,” she advised. “Jamie, drive carefully; I know you will.”

  “Bye, Mom.” Christie gave her a kiss on the cheek. She waved in her father’s general direction. She practically prodded Jamie out of the house.