“Oh, honey,” she says. “Yes, you are. Forever you are.”
Nathaniel leaves, and then a little while later, Scott bids everyone good-bye.
Margaret says to Ava, “Are you okay, honey?”
Ava sits down at the piano and starts to play “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night,” very softly. The fire crackles, the tree shimmers. Kelley is laid out lengthwise on the sofa, his feet in Margaret’s lap. She thinks she sees snowflakes out the window. It would be a nice way to end Christmas, with a light, pretty snowfall. Maybe Margaret can take the kids sledding tomorrow.
She stands up and goes over to the window to check.
Yes, snow!
Ava says, “This one is for you, Daddy.” She starts to play “Silent Night.”
Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright
Margaret sings into the cold window; her breath fogs up the pane.
Round yon virgin mother and child, holy infant so tender and mild
Kelley says to Margaret, “So, Maggie, how long do you think you’ll stay?”
Margaret pulls the paper angel out of her pocket and presses it to her chest. This time with Kelley has been magical. She has spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of delirious happiness, and they brought closure to certain issues-they are the best of friends, and they will always love each other. Who knows, they may even decide to be buried together. But when Margaret replays Ava’s question, So, are you two getting back together, or what?-Margaret thinks, No. It will never work out. The same thing will happen. Margaret will become absorbed in her work, and Kelley will resent it.
Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.
Margaret’s phone buzzes, which startles her. She hasn’t had a text all day except for the marriage proposal from Drake.
Would it be so bad to marry a surgeon? she wonders.
She checks her phone. The text is from Darcy. It says: Bart Quinn was on that convoy. He and the 44 other soldiers have been officially announced missing. I’m so sorry. You may already know this. Family is being notified presently.
Margaret stifles a cry just as a phone rings in the house.
Kelley says, “That’s weird. No one ever calls the landline. Maybe it’s Eddie Pancik with a buyer.” He stands up.
No. Nononononono! Margaret thinks. Not on Christmas! Missing, not dead. But still… missing. Missing!
Tears blur Margaret’s eyes, but she doesn’t want Kelley’s peace of mind shattered one second sooner than it needs to be. She intercepts him on his way to answer the phone. She gives him a kiss on the lips and looks straight into his blue eyes.
“I’ll stay as long as you need me to,” she says.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank my family, present and past.
My siblings: Eric Hilderbrand, Randall Osteen, Heather Osteen Thorpe, Douglas Hilderbrand. Also Lisa Hilderbrand and Todd Thorpe, Doug and Katharine Thurman, and Debra Thurman.
The gang: Robert, Patrick, Alexandra, Garrett, Parker, Spence, Tripp, and Anna.
My mother, Sally Hilderbrand, who is the undisputed Ornament Queen of Christmas, and my nutcracker go-to.
Judith and Duane Thurman, who have been like parents to me, and brought the Byers’ Choice carolers into my life.
Frank and Sue Cunningham, thank you for the Golden Dreams.
My grandparents: Bob and Bobbie Hilderbrand, and Clarence and Ruth Huling.
My aunts and uncles: Jan and Ruthann Hall, and Steve and Ruth Huling, and Alice; Jane Greene and my cousins Debi and Wendy.
My elves, the stars on my trees, my (not always) angels: Maxwell, Dawson, and Shelby.
My last best Christmas was the Christmas of 1983. My father and Judy and my siblings and I went to Mass at St. David’s Episcopal, where there was a live menagerie and a choir of angels, the church at five p.m. lit only by candles. On the way home, we stopped by a friend’s house to drink hot chocolate made with milk, vanilla, and cinnamon, and admire their twenty-foot Christmas tree. Then we headed home to watch Michael Jackson’s new video “Thriller,” for the first time. We ordered pizza and cheesesteaks, wrote our letters to Santa, and crawled into bed. It was the last Christmas I spent at my father’s house while he was alive, and so the memories are burnished not because of the details above, but because he was the one who tucked us in.
Christmas is about people. And I am grateful for those who are, and have been, in my life, but especially for my father, Robert H. Hilderbrand Jr.
ELIN HILDERBRAND
ELIN HILDERBRAND made a paper angel ornament in third grade that is still in her family’s custody. She celebrates the holidays by making batches of homemade mustard-and-chive pine-nut dip and gifting them to her lucky friends. Her favorite carol is “O Holy Night.” Winter Street is her fourteenth novel.
