The Promise of Christmas

“He hit his head.”

Oh. That could be serious. But dead?

“Les?” Kip’s grip on her arms tightened. He drew her closer. She didn’t want him to hold her, but rested her head on his chest for just a second anyway. So she could think. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

He was sorry for her. She couldn’t have that. Leslie nodded, gripping the front of his shirt with both hands. “I’m sorry you had to do this.” She found a way to speak. “He was your best friend. I know you’ve got to be in shock….”

His only reply was a single movement of the chin that rested on top of her head. And the brief sob that shook the body so close to hers. Leslie tried to stand outside herself and watch. As she searched frantically for the still, calm place that brought her peace, she felt a sympathy sob coming on. Just one. For Kip.

After that, she didn’t remember much.

“DEARLY BELOVED, we are gathered here this Thanksgiving Day to mourn the passing, celebrate the life of, and be thankful for having known Calhoun Olmstead Sanderson, a young man who…”

Dressed all in black, suit, shirt, tie, shoes, Kip stood between the two Sanderson women in a small corner of the barren and brown cemetery in Westerville, Ohio, warding off the chill. That gray November day God had been considerate enough to postpone the cold spell that would consume the state of Ohio for most of the next several months. It was a balmy forty-eight degrees. It could have been below freezing for all Kip noticed.

“…At the age of twelve young Calhoun lost his lawyer father in a drive-by shooting and from that point on took up the reins of man of the house, often voluntarily forgoing his own teenaged pleasures to serve the needs of his small family—mostly, at that time, babysitting his nine-year-old sister, Leslie…”

The jolt next to him was his cue. Kip slid an arm around the slender body of his best friend’s little sister. She’d broken down the night before at the viewing, and at the funeral home a couple of days before that, and when she’d walked by the room in her mother’s house that had been her brother’s when they’d all lived there together.

Cal had practically raised Leslie. She’d idolized him. Kip had expected her to take his death hard…

“…A scholar, a gifted football quarterback who gave up his shot at the NFL to follow in his father’s footsteps in the legal profession so he could be close at hand in the event that either his mother or sister needed him…”

Leslie slumped and Kip held her against him. She was crying quietly again, not making a sound as the tears poured down her cheeks. He swallowed, his throat thick.

Kip Webster had felt a lot of things for a lot of different women in his thirty-three years. He loved everything about women—their emotions, the combination of intelligence and intuition, the softness. His idea of heaven was being the only man among a universe of happy women. Not many men could handle such a feat—keeping that many of them happy. He was pretty confident he could.

Or he had been. Until four days ago, when Calhoun Sanderson’s little sister fell apart in his arms behind the very impressive desk of her very impressive office in the swankiest building in downtown Phoenix. He would help her. Handle whatever needed to be handled. He’d take care of everything. His friend would have wanted that.

Clara Sanderson’s best friend, Mary something-or-other, stood to the right of the casket and started to sing. “Oh, Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds thy hands have made…”

Needing both arms to take Leslie’s full weight, Kip pulled her up against him. It would all be over soon and she could get out of there. He’d carry her if he had to.

“…I see the stars, I hear the roaring thunder…”

He licked lips so dry they hurt. He couldn’t believe Cal was really gone. A loyal friend, attentive son, adoring older brother, he was one of the few men Kip truly respected. He’d been the reason Kip had made it to college; he’d cajoled Kip to go with him to the University of Michigan, to get out of the Columbus life of hard living, drinking too much, doing expensive drugs, drag racing—all things his father’s money had provided and his father’s neglect had allowed.

Cal had moved home to Columbus after graduation. Kip had stayed in Ann Arbor, got on with SI, and the rest was history.

“…When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation to take me home…”

Leslie’s head fell gently against his shoulder. Her body felt so unbelievably good. Familiar—though, other than a teasing punch on the shoulder, he couldn’t remember ever touching her before.

She felt…genuine. A safe harbor.

That seemed crazy when she couldn’t even stand on her own.

The minister said a few final words, and then it was time for Leslie and her mother to take one last walk by the casket, to leave their roses on the grave.

“Les?” He pulled away, glanced down at the face streaked with makeup and tears. She stared vacantly back at him—reminding him for one scary second of someone in a state of shock.

“It’s time,” he said softly.

She nodded. Kip supported her as she said her final goodbyes to her only sibling and then stumbled back to the car. She didn’t even seem to notice the people watching her, those judging her ability to cope, those offering love and support. She was lost someplace. On her own.

With a last glance back at the only real friend he’d ever had, Kip sent up a silent promise. He’d watch out for Leslie and Clara.

“WHO’S THAT OLD LADY, Nana?”

Ada King tightened her grip on the bony little shoulders of the five-year-old boy beside her. They stood at the back of the small crowd gathered at the Lakeview cemetery.

“That’s your daddy’s mama.”

“She doesn’t look mean.” Jonathan’s childish voice belied the wisdom in his tear-drenched eyes.

“She’s not mean, child.” Ada adjusted the little girl draped over her right shoulder. Kayla had fallen asleep shortly after they’d arrived. Ordinarily that would’ve been just fine, but at sixty-two Ada’s bones weren’t as able to withstand the two-year-old’s weight as they might have twenty-five years ago, when she’d been raising the children’s mother.

“But she won’t let me be up there with Daddy.”

Ada’s arm dropped from Jonathan’s shoulder. “Come, child,” she said, turning toward the sedan Calhoun Sanderson had bought for Abby right after she’d had Jonathan. Jonathan was too smart to be just five. And Ada was tired.

Too tired. The children needed someone with a body that didn’t ache every minute of every day, someone whose legs could still run and whose eyes could still see all the little things that tiny fingers reached for.

“She’s white.”

“Yes, child.”

“Like Daddy.”

“Yes, child.”

“Is she mad ’cause me and Kayla ain’t?”

Ada unlocked the car, transferred the sleeping girl to her car seat in the middle of the back. Kayla’s frizzy little braids were glued to the side of her head with sweat.

“Aren’t, child. Not ain’t.” She double-checked the safety latch across Kayla’s chest.

Jonathan stared at her as he climbed in to the front passenger seat. “You say ain’t.”

“I’m old.”

The skinny little black boy buckled his seat belt around the church slacks she’d laid out for him that morning and stared out the side window at his father’s grave.

Ada ached for a good long cry.

“THANK YOU ALL FOR COMING,” Attorney Jim Brackerfield stood at the door of the conference room in the downtown Columbus office that housed his firm. It was Friday morning. Leslie barely gave her brother’s partner a glance; she was more concerned with her mother’s comfort, with breathing calmly through the next few minutes. She could hardly believe only four days had passed since she’d been standing in her own office congratulating herself on a South Seas deal that now seemed far more distant than mere miles away—despite her daily calls to Nancy.

Kip pulled out chairs at the conference table for her and her mother. Smiling her thanks, Leslie smoothed the gray wool skirt beneath her and sat facing the north wall, the window of which looked out toward Ohio State University. Her alma mater.