Home For Christmas. Catherine Lanigan
Adam had met physicist Amie his senior year at Purdue. She was pretty and bright and they shared common interests. She’d got pregnant on their honeymoon in Chicago. They’d had little money back then, which had bothered Adam. In two years, his midnight “tinkerings” had resulted in patents for his geothermal plans and then sales of the units themselves. Two years after Titus was born, Amie was diagnosed with leukemia. The progression was fast.
“It worked out in the end. I have Titus.”
“We all adored Amie. And Titus is a true blessing. I love every minute he’s around.” She looked at Titus. “I really have, honey.”
“Thanks, Miss Sarah,” Titus said, slipping his hand into Adam’s.
“Speaking of which,” Sarah went on. “Why not let Titus come home with Timmy and the girls and me? Miss Milse is making pies for Thanksgiving. The kids can play video games while you get your errands done.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to impose.”
“Dad.” Titus yanked on his hand. “Please? Can I go?”
Adam had to smile. “It’s not much fun hauling cement and nails around, is it, Titus?”
“Not really and the building supply place is so dreary.”
“Dreary.” Adam grinned. Another new word. He wondered if he shouldn’t buy a second thesaurus for himself, to keep up with his brilliant son. No wonder the kid wanted to write plays.
“So? Can I?”
“Sure.” He ruffled Titus’s hair and dislodged the Pilgrim hat. Titus righted it, smiling at his dad. “Thanks for this, Sarah. I really have a lot to do at the greenhouses. For Frank.”
“I know.” She held out her hand to Titus. “C’mon, honey.”
“Titus,” Adam said. “Get your coat and zip it up this time. Don’t forget your knit cap. It’s getting cold outside.”
“Dad. I know.” Titus pouted.
“And you mind Miss Milse. Don’t poke your finger in the pies, and stay away from her Cuisinart.”
“I know, Dad. Sharp knives. Mixers. All off-limits.”
Sarah laughed. “He’ll be okay.”
“I know. I know. It’s just…”
“Hard to be mom and dad?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
“Okay. Let’s go find the girls.” She started to walk away. She looked over her shoulder. “Just text me when you’re on your way to pick him up.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
“No worries.” Titus and Timmy raced ahead of her, both boys yelling for Annie and Charlotte.
Adam chuckled to himself, leaned down and grabbed his sheepskin jacket and slipped it on. Most of the parents and children had left by the front doors to the auditorium. Adam found a couple folded playbills that Mrs. Cook had printed up. He’d come in late, a bad workaholic habit, so he hadn’t grabbed a playbill earlier.
As he started up the aisle, he noticed Titus’s name in bold print. Above his name was that of Mrs. Mary-Catherine Cook.
Above that was the title: PLAYWRIGHT.
Adam halted. “Titus’s teacher gave him writing credit for his little speech.” He was both awed and humbled.
His son was growing up far too quickly. And he wasn’t ready for it.
He put the playbill in his inner jacket breast pocket and walked out into the November cold.
He wasn’t ready for a lot of things. Titus growing up. Frank dying. And he especially wasn’t ready to see Joy again.
JOY HAD JUST deplaned at O’Hare Airport when her cell phone rang. “Hello, darling.”
“Darling? Who’s that?”
“That would be you, Chuck. Us being engaged and all, I was thinking we should have endearments for each other.”
“I don’t like it.”
“How about ‘baby’?”
“Nope.”
“Sweetie? Cutie? Chuckie?” she joked.
“Don’t go there. Look, Joy. Seriously, talk to me. The Taylor account…”
She shouldered her way into the throng of people moving toward baggage claim. “The Taylor account is on your desk. I sent an email to Lessings Acoustics, too. They’ll contact you directly. Until I get back.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know, but not long.”
“This is putting a lot on me, you know,” he groused.
Joy rolled her eyes. Looking up, she saw huge Christmas wreaths above the concourse. An enormous Christmas tree with thousands of lights rivaled the Rockefeller tree. Surrounding the bottom of the tree was a sea of lush, tropical poinsettias.
Joy pulled to a stop, her roller bag banging the backs of her legs. She felt the jagged edge of sorrow in her heart as hundreds of loving moments with her grandfather flashed across her mind’s eye. Her head dipped, and she let her tears drop to the terrazzo floor. She pulled out a tissue and blew her nose, remembering that Chuck was still on the phone.
“Joy? Joy? What’s going on?”
“Sorry. Big crowds.” She glanced up at the signs directing her to baggage claim. It would have been easy to fall apart, but she needed, no—had to stay strong now. She couldn’t lean on Chuck.
“So, how long till you get to Indian Lake?”
“An hour and a half. I hired an Uber.”
“Call me from the car. I have half a dozen more accounts to go over with you.”
“Sure.”
Chuck hung up without another word. Joy got on the down escalator. She held the phone up to see that the call had ended.
“I love you, too, Chuck.”
Joy shoved the phone in her purse and saw the Uber driver at the bottom of the escalator, holding a sign with her name on it.
She walked up to him. “Hi! I’m Joy Boston.”
The middle-aged man nodded. “I’m Roy. Happy to see you. I’ll take your bags for you. Do you have more luggage to claim?”
“No, this is it. I won’t be staying long.”
“Oh, that’s a pity,” Roy said, as he politely ushered her toward the outer door.
“Why’s that?”
“Indian Lake is so lovely at the holidays. So many decorations and activities. The Christmas Concert. The symphony. The children’s Christmas pageant. The caroling parties. The Candlelight Tour…”
They walked outside to the cold. “They still have all that?”
“Of course. I take my grandson to the Christmas parade every year, and then we mail his letter to Santa at the Elf Mail Station.” They walked to Roy’s black SUV, and he put her bags in the back as she got in the back seat.
As much as Joy had struggled to make a new life for herself in New York, with new friends and new holiday traditions, the old days and the old ways of celebrating flooded her.
Just thinking about Indian Lake released anger she hadn’t felt in years. Anger toward the townspeople