Once Upon a Christmas

Because the view belonged to her.

Today, the trees stretched their empty, dark limbs like waiting fingers saying, Where’s the snow? We’re waiting.

It was her town. Just like the trees, she intended to put down roots, grow, thrive, make a home, never leave.

Please let this be a forever kind of place.

Even now, in the predawn light, her town was waking up and starting its day. Just like she was doing.

Across the wide street was a drugstore. It had the old-timey chairs but the only thing the owner served up was Thrifty ice cream. Maggie dreamed of a soda fountain. Next to it was a hardware store that Maggie avoided because the only things she liked to fix simply needed a needle and thread. Then there was an antiques store she couldn’t resist. The owner, one Henry Throxmorton, was unlocking the front door. He had a newspaper under his arm. She’d never seen him smile, but she knew his wife was sick a lot. Maybe that was why.

Just two days ago, Maggie had found in Roanoke’s Rummage—an awful name for an antiques store if you asked Maggie—the pair of red cowboy boots she’d been looking for. Looking unloved and extremely dusty, they’d been on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. There was no rhyme or reason to how Henry arranged his store. But, had they been on display, maybe some other enterprising mother would have found them.

All it took to make them look almost new was a thorough cleaning with saddle soap and then applying a cream-based polish of the same color. They were already wrapped and under the Christmas tree.

On the same side was also a small real estate office. Maggie sometimes dawdled by the front where there were pictures of homes for sale. The ones with big lawns attracted her the most, but she didn’t really do yard work. The ones with no backyards didn’t appeal at all.

Looking at the photos also exposed a curiosity Maggie had finally acted on. Her mother had been born in Roanoke in 1967. Could one of the houses have been her childhood home? Maggie didn’t have a clue. All she remembered of her mother was a woman who smoked cigarettes and cooked a lot of noodle soup.

Maggie hated noodle soup.

Life had handed Maggie’s mother an itinerary that she didn’t intend to follow. It included the destinations marriage and motherhood. The only reason Maggie knew about Roanoke was her mother’s birth certificate. Natalie had been seven pounds, six ounces, and twenty-one-inches long: a live birth, Caucasian. She’d been born to Mary Johnson. Either Mary had chosen not to put down a name for the father or she hadn’t known who the father was.

So, some help that was. In Roanoke, Johnson was the second-most popular name, nestled between Smith and Miller.

Moving to Roanoke to find a connection to an errant mother was akin to looking for a needle in a haystack and made about as much sense. But Maggie had two choices. Stay in New York with Dan’s mother or strike out on her own.

She didn’t regret her choice and there was nothing wrong with living above one’s place of business. It was very convenient in fact. But Cassidy needed a backyard, a place to run, a swing set, the dog she kept asking for. No, not the horse. And Maggie wanted her own bedroom.

Maybe in a few years.

Maggie shook off the daydream. This morning was a school day and tonight was a holiday party at Beth’s church. Cassidy had begged to go, had already planned what to wear. Maggie had too much to do to dawdle in front of the window any longer.

After brushing off the paint—she really needed to do something about sanding and repainting—she scooted back to her computer and started to push away some of Cassidy’s school papers. Why they were on Maggie’s desk, she didn’t know. Cassidy’s stuff seemed to have a mind of its own and liked to spread to every nook and cranny of their tiny apartment.

Cassidy’s letter to Santa was under a page of math homework, and it looked like her list had grown to three. Underneath the word puppy was added baby brother.

Great, another item that couldn’t be purchased at a discount store. Cassidy needed to start thinking of affordable alternatives or the red boots would be it.

If only the red boots could bark and be named Fido.

While Cassidy slumbered, Maggie—sitting next to the old wall heater and thinking about turning on the oven—updated the store’s records on her computer. Under her breath, she reminded herself that any small business needed four years to establish. Right now, thanks to her alteration business, she made enough to pay the bills and a few, very few, extras. Oh, it caused some late and restless nights, but with the economy the way it was, Maggie was just glad she had a way to make a living. So what if she went to the library instead of the bookstore. So what if they ate hamburgers instead of steaks.

Maggie had enough money for the essentials.

The used red cowboy boots under the tree were proof of that. She’d priced new red boots. Not this Christmas. Good thing hugs were free.

Finally, at seven, Maggie turned off the computer and headed for the kitchen to make breakfast. Cassidy still slept and Maggie wouldn’t wake her until the blueberry pancakes were ready, one large circle for a face, two small ovals for ears, then banana slices for eyes, a strawberry nose and raisin teeth.

It was a tradition that Maggie knew would end all too soon as her little girl grew up. Just when Maggie picked up a spoon, the doorbell rang.

Maggie quickly glanced at the calendar on the refrigerator. Two reminders were penciled in.

The only pickup Maggie had today was Rosalind Maynard. She’d wanted Maggie to find a 1930s denim chore jacket for her husband. They were getting their photo made for their seventieth wedding anniversary. Apparently, Rosalind’s husband came from a long line of farmers. His parents had also had a seventieth photo taken way back when, and George Jr. wanted to look like his dad, even down to the jacket.

It was the second notation that made Maggie frown. Yesterday, Jared McCreedy had called. He wanted to talk. She’d agreed, and she’d said any morning was good, but she hadn’t planned on this soon.

No, not possible. This morning was too soon for it to be Jared.

She hoped.

Quickly, Maggie hurried down the stairs and skidded, barefoot, across the cold, wooden floor. Maybe she could open the door, usher in Mrs. Maynard, grab the jacket, ring up the sale, usher out the customer, and still get her kid fed and to school on time.

Only it wasn’t Mrs. Maynard.

Jared McCreedy stood on the threshold, three boys by his side and cap in hand. He didn’t say a word when she threw open the door. He pretty much just stared.

His son Caleb wasn’t so shy. “Wow, I think you like pink.”

“Hush,” Jared said.

Hiding a smile, Maggie stepped back and let the entire clan in.

“Pink is a good color,” Maggie said to Caleb, “which is why I’m wearing it. I call this my Jane Fonda look.” Granted, leg warmers were very seventies, but she did own a vintage store, so she could get away with it.

“I like red,” Caleb admitted.

An older boy shook her hand, the only McCreedy she hadn’t met personally, and then sat on a chair right by the entry and whipped out some sort of handheld gaming device.

“That’s Ryan,” Caleb announced. “He’s in fourth grade.”

Matt looked around suspiciously. “Where’s Cassidy?”

“Upstairs asleep.”

“It’s time to go to school.” Matt was completely aghast.

“I was just making her breakfast when you rang the doorbell. We’re fast eaters and dressers.”

Matt, way too mature for a second grader, clearly had more to say on the subject, but Jared jumped in. “We don’t need to be keeping you. I saw your lights on, we were running early, and I don’t know what I was thinking stopping by unannounced. I’m so sorry. I can stop back by once I’ve dropped the boys off at school if that’s okay. I got up at five and thanks to the party tonight at church, I have a whole list of things to do. That’s no excuse, though. I simply forget the rest of the world can sleep in.”

It had been a week since she’d last seen Jared. He still managed to have that my-time-is-too-valuable-for-this look on his handsome face, but right now there was a hint of something else, maybe humbleness.

“I get up at five, too, Monday through Friday,” Maggie responded. “It’s when I do the books. That way my evening belongs to Cassidy.”

Jared shook his head. His dark hair, combed to the side, didn’t move. He opened his mouth, but instead of addressing Maggie, he looked past her and said sternly, “Caleb, those stairs do not belong to you.”

Halfway up the stairs Caleb paused indecisively, but before the little boy could make a decision, a loud thump, the sound of something breaking and then a howl came from above.