The Promise of Christmas

“I know. Me, neither.”

“But you’re going to take her, aren’t you?”

His breathing stopped during the second she nodded her head.

IN A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR, she was going to meet Cal’s children. Leslie didn’t have any idea how one prepared for such a thing. Should she just be herself? Wear a pantsuit and fancy jewelry and pretend she wasn’t afraid, at least in some measure, almost every minute of every day?

Or should she put on the one pair of jeans she still owned—left behind from a visit to her mother six or seven years ago, when Cal had been white-water rafting—and top it with the pink sweater she’d brought to wear under her black suit? Her black boots would be fine with jeans. And she could wear the butterfly necklace from her Purple Rain collection—it had blues and pinks and violets. Little girls liked butterflies.

Oh, God, how do you expect me to do this? In bra and panties, Leslie sank onto the white eyelet coverlet on the double bed she’d slept in as a child growing up in her mother’s house. She’d handled incredible pressures during her thirty years on earth, but somehow none of them seemed as insurmountable as the decision before her now. Her eye caught the rose-colored angel night-light she’d had since she was a child.

It had burned the night before. Just as a similar one burned in her own home every night. Angel, where’s your calm?

A call to Jim Brackerfield just after breakfast that morning had resulted in this Saturday-afternoon visit with the children. Her mother was coming, too. If all went well, Leslie could take Kayla home with her to Phoenix the next day.

Staring at the white eyelet curtains, the yellow walls with their pictures of butterflies and tacked-up posters of “feel-good” quotes from her teen years, she wondered who’d be supplying the definition of “well.” If it was her, there wouldn’t be one.

KIP, FRESHLY SHOWERED, shaved and dressed in jeans, a beige sweater and an open brown leather jacket, was standing outside by the rental car when Leslie and her mother left the house.

“You’re coming?” she asked, afraid to hope. She was determined not to sway Kip, make him feel guilty or give any indication of how much she wished he’d take her nephew—to love him. Even more than that, she wanted him to do whatever he needed to do.

“I didn’t put you down as a driver on the car,” he said, referring to the rental they’d brought from the airport.”

“We can take mine,” Clara said.

Kip opened the front passenger door for the older woman, who slid in without another word.

Leslie climbed in back, thanking God for giving her the strength Kip’s presence offered—even it was only for the afternoon.

ADA KING’S WRINKLED FACE and arthritic fingers looked more like those of an eighty-year-old woman than the sixty-two they’d been told she was. Her smile was gracious and genuine when she opened the door of the three-story condominium.

“The children are downstairs in the playroom,” she said. “I thought it best for you to meet them down there….” She stepped aside as they entered. “Then, if you all have any questions…”

She had a million of them. And couldn’t think of one. “I’m Leslie,” she said, holding out her hand.

“The picture your brother had was old, but I recognize you,” Ada said, gripping her hand. “Your brother thought the sun rose and set on them curls of yours.”

Leslie blinked back the tears she’d been fighting all the way across town. Oh, Cal. How can I possibly miss you so much? How can you still matter to me? How am I ever going to love your children and not lose myself?

After shaking hands with Clara and Kip, Ada led them toward a staircase at the back of the living room they’d entered.

“Kayla’s toys are all down here,” she said. “It’s best to keep plenty of things handy for that one to do.”

Leslie’s heart started to pound. “She’s active?”

“She’s two,” Ada said as if that explained everything, glancing over her shoulder at Leslie as they slowly descended the stairs. Kip and Clara were right behind her.

Breathe. Leslie took a step. And then another. Real breaths, not those shallow gasps that barely keep you alive. She heard Juliet’s voice in her head.

The carpet was short, variegated browns and beiges, and thickly padded. Expensive. But easy to clean and it hid stains. There wasn’t a single fingerprint on the light beige walls. She could hear a childish lisp in a high little voice, couldn’t understand the words. If there’d been a reply, it had been uttered too softly to hear.

Leslie turned, met her mother’s tremulous gaze, and then her eyes locked with Kip’s. For a second she saw naked fear—an emotion that echoed all the way through her.

She hadn’t even known these children existed until the day before. And now one of them was supposed to be hers?

And Cal’s. Always Cal’s. Could she raise her brother’s daughter?

Could she not?

“Jonathan, Kayla, they’re here to meet you,” Ada said, rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs.

Light-headed with tension—and probably lack of oxygen—Leslie turned the corner, vaguely aware of her mother and Kip coming up beside her. All she really noticed were the eyes staring at her from a mahogany-brown face topped with straight red hair, exactly the same as her brother’s. Jonathan Sanderson was the most striking little boy she’d ever seen.

And then the slightest movement drew her eyes downward to the chubby little girl hugging her brother’s leg. Kayla’s head was covered in frizzy braids. Her overalls were pink, swarming with butterflies, as was the long-sleeved shirt she had on underneath them. And her skin was creamy beige, beautiful. Kayla was beautiful.

“Da da da?” Tears flooded Leslie’s eyes the second she heard the voice. And just like that, she fell in love.

Jonathan pulled the child even closer, wrapping an arm protectively around her shoulders.

“He’s not comin’ back, Kayla,” the little boy whispered, leaning down to his sister, but still watching the three outsiders who’d just invaded his territory. “’Member? We talked all ’bout it.”

“Da da da,” Kayla said again, her voice softer as she, too, stared at the strangers.

“Come forward, boy,” Ada said, her hand beckoning.

So slowly he was hardly moving, Jonathan came forward, bringing his sister with him. Ada waited patiently. And when he arrived, put an arm around his skinny little shoulders.

“Jonathan Sanderson, this is your grandma.” She stopped him in front of Clara, who knelt, tears streaming down her face.

“Hello, Jonathan, I’m so happy to meet you,” she said quietly.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Jonathan peered at Clara for a moment and then back at Ada, who moved him along.

“And this is your aunt Leslie.”

Leslie didn’t know where the ear-to-ear grin came from, but when that little body stopped in front of her, gazing up at her with distrusting eyes, she saw a world of happy times ahead of them.

“Hi, Jonathan. I didn’t even know about you until yesterday, but I’m so glad to meet you,” she said, reaching out to touch his hair. “It’s like mine.”

“It’s like my daddy’s.” The boy’s chin trembled, but otherwise he was completely composed. Although Leslie had only limited familiarity with kids, that seemed unusual to her.

She knelt down beside her mother, who was still on her knees watching the children she obviously longed to pull into her arms. “You must be Kayla,” she said to the little girl peering out from behind her brother.

Kayla stepped out then. Nodded. Poked her finger at Leslie’s hair. “Da da da.”

“She don’t know what she’s sayin’,” Jonathan quickly inserted. He looked up at Kip, eyes narrowed. “Who’s he?”

“This is Kip Webster, child,” Ada said, and Leslie thought of the most important question she should’ve asked Ada King before they’d come downstairs. Did Jonathan know the terms of his father’s will?