Hearts Evergreen: A Cloud Mountain Christmas\A Match Made for Christmas (19 page)

S
arah spent the afternoon sorting through the photos Connor had given her. It took her mind off the fact he still hadn't called her to let her know how Robert was doing.

With every photo she cropped and arranged on a page, she witnessed a tiny slice of Connor's life. Up until Natalie's death, they'd been a happy family. Natalie had tended her home with the same dedication she tended her family. There were as many photos of her in the garden or working on a remodeling project as there were of her snuggling Connor or standing in the protective circle of her husband's arms.

Her heart aching, Sarah compared a series of photos of the family taken at Christmas. Natalie must have been a stickler for tradition because each year the three of them struck an identical pose next to the Christmas tree. Connor changed from a smiling, fat-cheeked baby cradled in Natalie's arms into a mischievous-eyed toddler with an unruly cowlick. Then to a gangly boy with a wide, gap-toothed smile.

Finally, she came to one and drew a sharp breath. A baggy sweater couldn't conceal Natalie's drastic weight loss, a bandana printed with snowflakes covered her head. Her winsome smile hadn't dimmed. But Robert's and Connor's had.

Sarah, who'd spent most of her life studying photos, could see the raw grief in their eyes. The unspoken knowledge that this would be the last time the three of them would pose by the Christmas tree.

Until now, she hadn't known how Natalie had died. Cancer. The same thing her mother had battled. Sarah drew a shaky breath as she remembered the last six months of her mother's life. Anne's physical strength had slowly drained away but her joy hadn't. Watching her mother cling to God—
my stubborn faith
, Anne had called it—had deepened hers. When her mother was gone, Sarah knew God was the only one big enough to fill the empty spaces in her life.

I know people grieve differently, Lord, but Robert was wrong to put away all the memories of Natalie. Connor needed them. They moved on but they didn't move forward. They never let Your love clean out the wound and heal it. Don't let them spend the rest of their lives like this. Remind them that Natalie's legacy wasn't her garden or her house. It was her love for them. And her faith in You.

Sarah looked up and focused on the photo of her and her mother that hung on the wall in her living room. It hadn't been taken in a special place—no towering mountains or liquid gold sunset in the background. What should have been a day filled with sorrow—the day Anne's doctor told her she had to stop traveling and start treatment—had turned into Sarah's favorite memory.

They'd stopped at a wayside to rest and an elderly man, who had no idea who Anne was, offered to take a picture of them. Sarah watched in wonder as Anne, who never let anyone touch her beloved camera, had laughed and handed it to him.

When the film came back, they'd laughed even more. An RV's rusty fender had somehow nosed into the shot. Their feet were blurry. But he'd captured their laughter. Mouths wide open. Eyes squinted against the sun. Cheek to cheek. Hands clasped.

Sarah had been tempted to put the picture away when she moved into the apartment but decided the sting of pain she felt every time she saw it was worth reliving that day. The day Anne Elliott realized that protecting her camera wasn't as important as protecting the feelings of the gentle old man who'd offered to take their picture.

She knew she'd done the right thing by hanging the picture in a place she'd see it every day. The pain had subsided, leaving behind only the sweetness of the memory.

Sarah picked up another photo of Connor's family, filled with a new determination to finish the album by Christmas. Not only for Robert…but for Connor.

“Where do you think you're going? Doctor Parish told you to rest.” Which was probably the reason he'd found his dad sneaking down the hall. His dad excelled at being contrary.

“Quit fussing over me. You're as bad as Cissy.”

“Why didn't you just yell if you needed something? I would have brought it to you.”

“I don't need anything.” Robert glared at him. “I was—” His jaw clamped shut.

“You were what? Trying to prove you don't have to follow your doctor's orders?”
Trying to drive me crazy?

“For your information, since you've decided to sign on as my keeper, I was going to the music room,” Robert snarled. “If I have to sit around all weekend, I might as well have something to look at.”

“Right. The blinking penguin ornament should entertain you for hours.” Connor knew his dad should be in his room. Dr. Parish had ordered Robert to bed rest for the remainder of the weekend while he scheduled tests at the local hospital on Monday. The doctor probably figured it was the only way to get Robert to stay home from work.

When Connor had rushed over to the newspaper, he found his dad, as pale and crumpled as a paper cup, in the chair behind his desk. Robert had started to have chest pains while putting in some extra hours on the upcoming Christmas issue. Cissy, who'd gone to the office to retrieve the gloves she'd left in her desk drawer, had found him.

Dr. Parish had made an office call and sentenced him to house arrest.

He has no idea what it's like to be on deadline
, Robert had blustered on the way home.
He can schedule his patients but you can't schedule a newspaper. Life happens…stories happen.

So do heart attacks, Connor had wanted to say. But he didn't. The fear in Robert's eyes told him the episode had shaken him up…but apparently not enough to keep him in bed.

“Come on. We'll watch the blinking penguin together.” He linked his arm through Robert's and matched his slow, shuffling steps as they walked down the hall. Toward the music room.

He helped Robert settle into the loveseat.

“Aren't you going to fluff my pillow?” Robert's unexpected bark of laughter stunned Connor. “Or maybe you'd rather smother me with it.”

“The thought crossed my mind.” Connor admitted with a lazy grin. “But then I'd inherit this house. And a newspaper.”

Robert stared at the fireplace. “I talked to a Realtor last week. He told me he knows of a corporation that's looking to buy smaller weeklies. He thought I could get a decent price.”

Connor dropped like a stone into the wingback chair opposite the sofa. Was this a new ploy to make him feel guilty? Because it was working.

“I hate to admit it, but Parish is right. I can't keep up the pace anymore. It's time.” Robert cleared his throat. “I already signed the papers. It's going up for sale the first of the year.”

“Just like that.”

“You don't look happy. It's the reason you came back, isn't it? To get me to retire?”

Sell. Retire. It's the same thing.

No, it's not.

The brief conversation he'd had with Cissy, when he'd complained about the staff looking to him for direction, returned and gave his conscience a hard pinch.

“And you want me to take over. To carry on the great Lawe legacy.”

Robert frowned. “Who put that crazy idea into your head? The last thing I want is for you to take over my newspaper.”

There it was.
My
newspaper. Robert didn't need him. He'd never needed him. He couldn't wait to get rid of him after graduation and he still didn't want him around.

“I've got some phone calls to make.” Connor lurched out of the chair and started toward the door. Just as he reached it, he slapped his hands on the frame, dropped his head and sighed. Call him a glutton for punishment, but he had to know. “Why? Because you think I'd run it into the ground? Because I'll never be able to meet your high standards—”

“Get back here, son.”

“I'm not ten years old.”

“Then don't act like it.”

Connor turned and stalked back, shields in place. “You don't have to explain, Dad. I get it.”

“You haven't met my high standards…” Robert cut him off and Connor braced himself for the rest of the assault. “You created your own. And you surpassed them. I've read your articles. Every one of them. You're ten times the writer I'll ever be. You wouldn't run this newspaper into the ground, Connor, you'd keep it going for the next generation. And you'd do a better job than me.

“I knew you better than you knew yourself when you were in high school. You didn't want to stay here. You wanted to see the world. You wanted to make a difference. I read all those essays you wrote for your English class about responsibility and truth and goodwill toward men.” Robert's expression softened. “That was your mother's influence. What you're doing is important. It wouldn't be fair to ask you to give up what you love—what you're good at—and step into my shoes. I didn't ask you to do it when you were eighteen and I'm not about to do it now.”

“Let me get this straight.” Connor's voice thinned. “You badgered me into leaving Jackson Lake…for me?”

“Of course.” Robert looked surprised. “Why else?”

Why else?

Twelve years, Connor thought in disbelief. For twelve years he'd totally misunderstood his dad's intent when he'd told him to go and make something of himself. Every time he'd called and made up an excuse why he couldn't come home, Robert hadn't made so much as a peep of protest or regret. After a few years, Connor didn't even bother to make excuses. He just hadn't come back.

“If you sell…” Connor still had a hard time processing everything. “What about the house?”

Robert wouldn't look at him. “I couldn't give this house away. People want new houses. The kind that have those fancy tubs and walk-in closets.”

Finding out why his dad had encouraged him to leave gave Connor the courage to say what was on his mind. Finally. He'd disagreed with Sarah when she'd told him Robert kept the house because of Natalie but now he wasn't so sure. If they were digging up the past, he might as well go at it with a shovel instead of a spoon. “It's because of Mom, isn't it?”

Robert's jaw worked and for a second Connor expected a sharp answer or curt denial. But when he spoke, his voice was soft. “She loved this house.”

“But you got rid of everything else that reminded you of her.” Connor was surprised at the bitterness that leached into his voice. “The pictures. Her garden. And…” He bit back the word.

Robert searched Connor's face and pain creased his face. “And you. I got rid of you. Is that what you were going to say?” he asked hoarsely.

“Actions speak louder than words. And you never said the words. What was I supposed to think?”

Silence weighted the air, made it difficult to breathe. The hiss of the radiator was the only sound in the room.

“I should have proofread Aunt Amelia's advice column more often. She's always going on and on about communication. I might have learned something,” Robert muttered. “When you love someone, you want the best for them. And I figured the best thing for you would be to leave Jackson Lake. To put the past behind you.”

“You mean Mom.”

“No child should have to go through that.”

“It might have been easier if we'd gone through it together.”

“I didn't know how to do that. I learned a lot from your mother about living, but she never told me how I was supposed to go on without her when she was gone.” His dad's eyes, dark with regret, focused on the Christmas tree in the corner. “I've tried to forget.”

“That doesn't seem to be working for either of us. Why don't we try remembering instead?”

“M
r. Lawe, there's a Jennifer Sands on the phone. She says that even if you told me to hold all your calls this morning, you'll talk to her.” Melissa Fisher's grating soprano dropped to a whisper. “How did she know that?”

Connor tapped his pen against the desk blotter. Smiled. “I have no idea. But she's right, I'll take the call. Thank you, Mel.”

“Hi, Jennifer.”

“You didn't show up last night. Sarah was worried.”

“She was?” The words were out before he could prevent them. A computer glitch at the paper had him working after hours but he still would have had time to meet up with Sarah and the girls. But he didn't. After the conversation with his dad on Saturday, thoughts of Sarah only added to his confusion.

He'd assumed it would be so easy. Come back to Jackson Lake. Convince his dad to sell the newspaper. Go back to work.

So far, two out of three. His dad had an appointment with the Realtor. His vacation was up the first of the year, which gave him plenty of time to find someone to ease the workload from Robert until the newspaper sold and a new editor took over.

If everything was falling into place, what was causing the restless feeling he hadn't been able to shake for the past two days?

“We delivered a Good News-gram to Mrs. Hunt, the oldest woman in Jackson Lake…she's like, ninety-five years old. Maybe even a hundred. Anyway, we made peppermint taffy with her because she said she used to do that with her girls and Sarah asked if she'd teach us. It was really cool.”

Connor understood the significance of the request. At first, he'd dismissed the whole concept of the Good News-grams as a gimmick. Another one of the meaningless platitudes spouted from Thanksgiving to Christmas and then cast aside for the remainder of the year—like the fire-engine-red sweater with a herd of reindeer prancing up the sleeve.

In the past few weeks, he'd begun to see that Sarah's faith was more the action kind than the talking kind. And that was another reason why he hadn't shown up the night before. He'd walked away from God years ago—he hadn't expected God to wait for him to come back. But somehow, Connor had the feeling that He was. Waiting.

And it scared him. And humbled him. Made him question the decisions he'd made. And the ones he would make in the future.

Something his dad had said still nagged at him. When Connor was younger, he
had
wanted to make a difference. But somewhere along the way, when the constant crises and tragedies he'd covered had overwhelmed him, he'd taken a step back and put a wall around his emotions. It wasn't his job to step in and help, it was to take notes. Report the facts.

“So what do you think?” Jennifer asked. “Will you come?”

Connor realized she'd been chatting the whole time. “Where?”

There was an audible sigh. “To our skating party. Friday is our last delivery and we're going to have a party afterward.”

“I don't think so.” Coward. “I'll be working on the Christmas issue.”

“But we're exchanging presents. And I know Emma made something for you.”

She'd played the Emma card. Connor stifled a groan. “What time?”

“Seven o'clock. Slader's pond. Do you know where it is?”

Another memory tugged at him. He knew. He'd skated on it as a kid. “I'll be there.”

Sarah looked in the mirror and decided the black wool scarf she'd wrapped around her neck coordinated with the circles under her eyes. She'd been up late the past three nights, trying to finish the scrapbook for Connor. She'd also worked on it every spare minute at the shop during the day. There hadn't been many of those considering it was near the end of the Christmas rush.

“I think I'm dressing for the wrong holiday,” she told Keebler, who blinked sleepily at her from his spot in front of the heat vent.

She rummaged around in her cosmetics bag for something that would pull the attention away from her bloodshot eyes. She never wore a lot of makeup and the tiny pots and tins she opened had dried up, leaving behind clumps of what looked like modeling clay.

“It's not like he cares what you look like,” Sarah muttered, wondering if the tube of raspberry pink paste she'd unearthed was meant for lips or cheeks. “If he even shows up.”

Connor had skipped the Good News-gram delivery at the beginning of the week and tonight was the final one. After that, she planned to take the girls ice skating.

She wanted him to be there. And not just so she could give him the scrapbook. When he hadn't shown up on Tuesday night, disappointment had burned its way through her. Especially since he'd given
her
a hard time for not including him the week before.

She'd tried to hide it from the girls, but when Jennifer and Alyssa both asked if she was all right—and Mandi had actually given her a hug when Sarah dropped her off—she realized she hadn't been as successful as she'd thought.

Sarah had spent the rest of the evening rationalizing her feelings. She felt sorry for Connor and his strained relationship with his father. As a Christian, she didn't want anyone to turn away from God, the only one who could truly change a person's heart. They'd formed a tenuous friendship of sorts so of course she'd been looking forward to seeing him.

Right.

She'd finally faced the truth. She was falling in love with him. He'd somehow worked his way into her heart and when he left Jackson Lake, he'd take a piece of it with him. When she occasionally allowed herself to dream about the man she wanted to share her life with, he was a man who shared her values. Her love of small-town life. Her faith. Not an award-winning journalist who wasn't sure God intervened in peoples' lives and who distanced himself—physically and emotionally—from the only family he had left.

Connor's career came first. Even if he stopped traveling, he'd want to live in a big city, not a small town like Jackson Lake.

“We're too different, Keebler.” She gave up and applied a thin layer of lip balm. “I'm staying. He's leaving. And it's not like he's shown any interest in me the past few weeks.”

If she didn't count the little sparkles of electricity she'd experienced the night they'd brought Robert the Christmas tree. No, when she saw him tonight, she'd smile at him. She'd be his friend. She'd pray for him.

And she'd never forget him.

On her way out the door, Sarah grabbed the scrapbook and tucked it under her arm. She'd left several blank pages at the end. Hopefully, Connor would realize their significance.

It was never too late to start something new. With his relationship with Robert. With his memories of Natalie. And with God.

Connor stared at the keyboard as the popular phrase
been there, done that
coasted through his head. The place had changed—the first time he'd been sitting at Roscoe's—but the struggle was the same. He was still trying to figure out what to do about his warm fuzzy Christmas story.

Stick with the facts. Be objective.

Not exactly the criteria for writing a warm fuzzy Christmas story but it was the way he worked. Only this time it wasn't working. The heart of the story refused to be contained by the facts.

Kind of like another story.

It was the first time Connor's dedication to research had backfired on him. He thought it would be a good idea to start the article with the verse Jennifer always quoted before they delivered the Good News-gram, so he'd asked his Dad that morning where Natalie's Bible was. Even though he'd been doubtful Robert would still have it or that he'd know where it was.

Wrong on both counts. Robert had not only kept it, he'd told Connor it was in the drawer next to his bed.

Connor took the Bible to work with him and thumbed through the gold-tipped pages to the gospel of Luke.

He'd found the verse. And kept reading.

He'd told Sarah that he believed God existed but wasn't convinced He intervened in the lives of people. But if he accepted the Christmas story, he had to accept his theory was wrong.

Immanuel. God with us.

If God coming to earth as a human—willing to leave His place in heaven and become flesh—wasn't intervention, Connor didn't know what was.

Work with me here, God. It's been a while since we talked. My fault, I know, but this is new ground I'm covering. You'll have to be patient with me. The last time we talked, I think it was the day Mom died. And if I remember correctly, I told You I didn't want to have anything to do with You.

His tentative prayer was interrupted by the winking red light on the telephone on Robert's desk. Connor had stepped in as managing editor while his dad took it easy at home and he'd decided he needed more peace and quiet than one of the cubes provided. So he'd moved into Robert's office. Temporarily.

He punched in a button. “What is it, Melissa?”

“A Carl Davis is on the phone.”

Connor's heart gave a sharp kick. He hadn't heard from his boss since he'd come home. He still had a week left of vacation, but he doubted Carl was calling to wish him a merry Christmas.

“Carl. What can I—”

“Get on a plane to London. Tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest.” Carl wasn't much for pleasantries. But then, he couldn't fault him for that. Neither was he.

“I can't leave yet. We've got a double issue that goes to print this afternoon.”

“Did I just hear the words
I can't
come out of your mouth?” Carl sputtered.

Connor decided it wasn't as strange as using the word
we
. When had he started to think of the newspaper as a joint effort between him and his dad?

“Have someone else wrap it up. I need you.”

Robert needed him, too. But there was more on the line here than recipes for mulled cider and peppermint bark. This was his career. He had enough experience in the business to know there were people hungry to take his place.

“I'll take a flight out on Sunday.”

“You're kidding me, right? The airports are packed with holiday travelers. I had to pull a few strings to get you out by tomorrow. The best you could hope for two days before Christmas would be a dog kennel in the cargo hold.”

Connor closed his eyes. “I'll see what I can do. But let me make my own traveling arrangements, okay?”

“Just make sure you do.”

When Connor opened his eyes, Sarah stood in the doorway. And from the expression on her face, she'd heard enough of the conversation to understand what it meant.

He rose to his feet and padded toward her. She took a step back.

“Hi. I stopped by to give you this.” She almost tossed the heavy album into his arms. The flash of disappointment in her eyes nearly undid him.

“Sarah—”

“I have to go.”

“Did your boss shorten your lunch break today?”

The joke fell flat but Sarah forced a smile. “I hope your dad likes it.” She turned and walked away, the tread of her boots depositing a trail of snow on the carpet.

Connor let her go. What else could he do?

He sank into the chair. Just when he thought life was complicated enough, he'd been called back to the real world. While he waited for the computer to download airline information, he paged through the scrapbook Sarah had put together.

Reliving the first ten years of his life wasn't easy. Every picture stirred a memory. Sarah didn't know anything about his family, but she'd managed to group the photos together with captions and quotes. Her creativity was amazing and he realized she must have dedicated hours to the project. Precious hours carved out of an already busy schedule.

He'd forgotten he'd made a gingerbread house with his mother one year. But there he was, wearing an apron and proudly displaying the finished product. There was another photograph of him and Robert peeking out from under the flap of the tent when they'd camped under the apple tree in the backyard one summer night.

He sucked in a breath when he saw the photos taken during the last year of Natalie's life. Of their last Christmas together. For some reason, he'd assumed Sarah, as sensitive as she was, would have left them out of the album.

But it was time to take his own advice. Instead of turning the page and refusing to feel the pain, he studied the photos. And smiled even as tears clawed the back of his eyes. In every one of the photos, Natalie was touching him and Robert. Clasped hands. An arm looped around the shoulder. He remembered she'd always been a hugger. Somehow, his memories of Natalie had shrunk to the nine months she'd been sick, not the years she'd strengthened the bonds of their family.

She'd be really ticked off about that. And about the way his relationship with Robert had deteriorated over the years.

When he came to the blank pages at the end, he frowned.