An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (111 page)

Megan found a tea bag in a cupboard, but no kettle, so she boiled water in a saucepan and poured it into a mug. As the tea steeped, she took inventory of the kitchen and made a shopping list. When the tea was ready, she carried it to him and said, “I’m going to run to the grocery store. Is there anything you need?”

“A new set of lungs and some sinuses would be nice.” He took a drink of the tea. “Thank you. This is great.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait,” he called after her. “The front door locks automatically. There’s a spare key in the drawer of that table in the entry.”

“I found it,” Megan called back after a brief search. “Drink your tea and try to rest. I’ll be back soon.”

She tucked the key into her purse and drove to a grocery store she had passed on her way to the house, where she bought more milk, some tea and honey, a quart of orange juice, crackers, and the ingredients for chicken noodle soup. When she returned to Adam’s home, she let herself in with the key as quietly as possible, left the grocery bags in the kitchen, and tiptoed into the living room to check on him. He was asleep, the empty mug on the floor beside the sofa.

Megan decided sleep was probably better for him than a glass of orange juice, so she carried the mug into the kitchen and left Adam alone while she prepared the soup. She checked in on him from time to time while the soup simmered, but with the exception of a few fits of coughing, he slept peacefully. She remembered seeing a newspaper on the front porch and went outside for it, then pulled up a stool and read it at the kitchen counter, pausing every so often to check the pot on the stove. Just as she decided the soup was finished, the phone rang, startling her with its abrupt shattering of the silence.

She snatched up the receiver, hoping the noise hadn’t woken Adam. “Hello, Wagner residence.” There was a pause, and then a dial tone.

As Megan hung up, she heard Adam call to her from the other room. When she joined him, he was sitting up weakly. “Who was it?”

“A wrong number, I guess. They hung up. Was it all right that I answered? I was hoping you’d sleep through it, but maybe I confused them.”

“That’s fine, thanks. I’ve been getting a lot of hang-up calls lately, mostly on my answering machine. I think something’s wrong with my line.” He paused. “What is that wonderful smell?”

“Chicken noodle soup. Are you hungry?”

“I didn’t think I would be, but I am.” He started to get up, but Megan ordered him to stay where he was, and she brought him a bowl of soup, some crackers, and a cup of tea. When she returned with soup and tea for herself, Adam had settled back against the sofa cushions, eyes closed. At first she thought he had fallen asleep again, but then he opened his eyes and said, “This is without a doubt the best soup I’ve ever tasted.”

Pleased, Megan settled herself on the floor beside him. “Thanks. It’s my mother’s recipe.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat soup from a can again.”

“That’s my mission in life, to remind people of how food tastes when it’s not made in a factory.”

He laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough, and he fumbled for the box of tissues on the end table. “How’s Robby doing?” he asked when he was able to talk again.

“He’s almost finished with the book you bought him last weekend. Which reminds me, I need to pay you back for that.”

“You’re kidding, right?” He nodded at his bowl, now nearly empty. “After all this?”

“How about if I leave you the leftovers, and we’ll call it even?”

Adam agreed, then finished his soup and set the bowl on the end table. Still weak, he lay down on the sofa again, then watched her as she finished her meal and placed her empty bowl beside his. “Do you want any more?” she asked.

“Not now.” His eyes were still red-rimmed, but he looked more comfortable and rested. “How do you do it?”

“How do I do what?”

“How do you do everything you do so well? You’re a rocket scientist, a real one, you’re a wonderful mother, you’re beautiful, and you make home-made soup. It’s hard to believe you’re real.”

“I think we should take your temperature. You’re delirious.”

“I mean it.” He watched her so steadily that she wanted to look away, but found herself unable to. “I would really like to kiss you right now, but I don’t want to give you the plague.”

Megan’s heart jumped, but she said lightly, “I don’t think you have the plague.”

“Whatever it is, it’s killing me, because otherwise I could be kissing you.” He considered. “Of course, without this fever, I probably wouldn’t have started this conversation.”

“Probably not,” Megan said gently.

“I still wish I could kiss you, though.”

Her eyes locked on his, Megan slowly kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his cheek. He raised his hand and held it over hers, then clasped it and brought it to his lips and then to his heart. Then, slowly, his eyes closed, and he fell asleep again.

Megan eased her hand free, then returned to the kitchen, where she stored the leftovers and washed their dishes. When she finished, she poured Adam a glass of orange juice, placed it on the end table, and sat down on the sofa beside him. She woke him by touching him lightly on the shoulder and telling him she had to go.

“I wish you could stay,” he murmured.

“So do I,” she said. “But Robby’s waiting.”

“Would you tell him I’ll see him next week?”

“Are you sure? So close to Christmas?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll tell him.” She squeezed his shoulder and stood up.

“Megan—”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for everything. The soup, the company—everything.”

Megan smiled at him. “It was my pleasure.”

Outside, night had fallen, and light flakes of snow were drifting down and dancing in the winter wind. She closed her eyes and raised her face to the dark-ened sky, feeling snow crystals fall like kisses, cool and gentle upon her skin. She almost laughed out loud. “Snow crystals,” she whispered, knowing at once what block she would create to represent the changes she wanted to make, and was making, in her life. Snow like a soft quilt blanketing the earth, clean, fresh, and new, as hopeful as a mother’s dreams for her child.

Donna’s first thought when she woke Christmas morning was that Lindsay was coming home. Her heart light, she threw off the covers and hurried to shower and dress. Lindsay was coming home, and they’d have an old-fashioned family Christmas as they always did, Brandon or no Brandon.

She sang carols as she made blueberry pancakes for breakfast, anticipating the day with great joy. She had spent Christmas Eve baking, and the whole house still smelled of gingerbread and apple pie. The tree in the living room was beautifully decorated and surrounded by colorfully wrapped gifts, snow was falling outside, and the day promised to be festive and fun, full of love and laughter with the people she loved most.

Paul and Becca came downstairs for breakfast, smiling and teasing each other. Paul liked to pretend that Becca still believed in Santa Claus, and Becca went along with it to amuse him. “I think I heard reindeer on the roof last night,” he said, and Becca bounced up and down in her chair as if she were six rather than sixteen. Donna laughed, enjoying their closeness, and told herself that Lindsay’s presence was all she needed to make the day complete. She brushed aside any worry that Lindsay would cancel as she had at Thanksgiving. Lindsay would be there; Donna refused to believe otherwise.

But when the phone rang and Becca answered, her heart began to pound. She prayed it was her brother calling from California to wish them a happy holiday, but when Becca told her flatly that Lindsay was on the line, she steeled herself for the worst. “Merry Christmas, honey,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “I thought you’d be on the road by now.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.” Lindsay’s voice sounded strained. “I thought we would have left by now, too, but we’re running late.”

“You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss Christmas. What time were you planning to have dinner?”

“Around two.”

“Okay. We’ll be there by one thirty.”

“But we were going to open presents first.”

“Can we do that after?” Donna heard a low voice speaking in the back-ground, and a hollowness while Lindsay covered the mouthpiece and murmured a response. “It won’t take long, will it?”

Donna’s throat tightened. “Tell Brandon it will take as long as it takes. It’s Christmas, and I’m not rushing through it to please anyone.”

Lindsay was silent for a moment. “Okay. We’ll be there at one thirty. Bye, Mom. See you soon.” She hung up.

“Is she canceling again?” Paul asked.

“No. She’ll be here.”

Becca looked relieved, but Paul merely nodded grimly.

Donna pretended that nothing was wrong and went about fixing Christmas dinner.
They’re only delayed
, she chided herself. Anyone could be delayed driving in Minnesota in December. She was overreacting. But Paul and Becca also seemed ill at ease, for instead of returning to the family room to watch Christmas parades on television, Paul put carols on the CD player, and they stayed in the kitchen, assisting her when she asked, and talking about some of their favorite Christmases of the past.

At a quarter before two, Brandon’s car pulled into the driveway. “They’re here,” Becca called out, running to the front door to meet her sister. Lindsay entered, shaking snow from her blond hair, carrying gifts in one arm and hugging Becca with the other. Paul went to greet her, too, but Donna hung back in the kitchen, listening to the reunion in the foyer with uncertain relief. Because of Lindsay’s phone call, she had expected Brandon to be in one of his bad moods, the kind he always seemed to be in whenever Donna phoned her daughter. She dreaded that he would be unpleasant and ruin the holiday.

But when Lindsay led Brandon into the kitchen, he was smiling, and after Lindsay hugged her, Brandon did as well. “Merry Christmas,” he said cheerfully. “Thanks for having us. Everything smells great.” His enthusiasm was so unexpected that Donna could just barely manage to stammer a Christmas greeting in reply. She caught Paul’s eye, and he shrugged, clearly as surprised as she was.

Brandon asked Becca to show him to the Christmas tree so he could leave some gifts beneath it. Lindsay watched them go, then turned to give her mother another hug. “I’m sorry we’re late.”

“It’s all right,” Donna said, and now that Lindsay was there, it was. She held her daughter at arm’s length and looked her up and down. “Goodness, honey, you’re getting so thin.”

Lindsay rolled her eyes, smiling. “No, I’m not. You say that every time I visit.”

Donna let it go, but Lindsay did look thinner, and she had always been slim. Her face looked tired, too, as if she’d been ill or had slept poorly. “You need a good home-cooked meal,” she said, wishing that Lindsay would be spending the night in her old bedroom so Donna could see to it she had a hearty breakfast, too.

The turkey was ready, so Donna and her daughters quickly set the dining room table with the good china and served the meal. Her family praised her cooking, as they always did, declaring this Christmas feast the best yet. For his part, Brandon said her turkey was perfect and her stuffing the best he had ever tasted. Pleased in spite of herself, Donna thanked him, and gradually, as he joined in the dinner conversation as pleasantly as she could have wished, her apprehensions ebbed away. She had to admit that Brandon was handsome and charming, and she understood why her daughter was attracted to him. The worst she could say was that he tended to interrupt when others were speaking, but she could hardly condemn Brandon for something Paul had done to her at least twice daily throughout their nearly twenty-five years of marriage.

After supper, Donna, Lindsay, and Becca cleaned up the mess while Paul and Brandon went into the family room to watch the last quarter of a football game. From the kitchen Donna heard them talking and, every so often, laughing out loud. “They seem to get along well,” Donna remarked to Lindsay, who glanced toward the family room and nodded in a distracted way as she wiped off the countertop.

When they finished tidying the kitchen, Donna and her daughters joined Paul and Brandon in the family room to exchange presents. Lindsay explained their tradition to Brandon: The youngest person would give a present to the second youngest, who would unwrap the gift and then give a gift to the next oldest. When the oldest person had received and opened a gift, he would give a gift to the youngest. The pattern would repeat, each person giving a gift to the youngest person they had not yet given a gift to, until all the gifts were distributed.

Brandon shook his head and grinned. “Sounds more complicated than necessary.”

“It’s a tradition from my side of the family,” Paul said.

“Which explains why it’s so confusing,” Becca added. “And why I always have to be last.”

Everyone laughed, but Donna defended her husband, saying, “It’s better than what we did in my family. Everyone just tore into the packages at the same time. Wrapping paper flew everywhere, and you could never see what everyone else had received. This way it lasts longer.”