Page 12 of Wishing for Christmas
He thought back to that fateful autumn day two months ago when they had first met. Downtown Cranberry Pines had been filled with maple trees, brimming with orange leaves. Heinstantly understood why his squadron commander had loved the town. The guys were all excited to host his retirement party at the fancy hotel there. When the sales manager met them in the lobby, Brent’s mood brightened even more. She had a unique bounce to her step, and her cheeks glowed. He never imagined that by the end of that day they’d be going on their first date.
Over cocktails that night, he’d been instantly smitten. He’d found himself losing a bit of that control he’d always held onto so tightly. Brent was far too level-headed to believe in love at first sight. Still, he knew there was something about Clara that caused him to throw out that mental checklist he’d carried around for years. That night, he scrapped it all down to one thing: He wanted someone just like her.
Brent looked down now at the gift he was holding. A perfectly formed star, carved out of wood by his own two hands. It was a homemade tree topper for her Christmas tree. Made from a single piece of wood and about the size of a dinner plate, it wasn’t anything remarkable. He thought about the addition he’d added last night—carving in the year. It was a tiny gesture he thought might be a positive harbinger for them. But now he was forced to look at this gift—and their relationship—in a whole new light.
Perhaps a tiny gesture wasn’t what he needed in this situation. Maybe he needed any omen to be as grand as the original Christmas star itself. Maybe, much like the magi, he needed to trust in the heavens to guide things where they should go—more than any of his navigational plans. During his many years flying over dark oceans, he had learned that a night sky full of stars can often lead a pilot better than any instrument could. In those moments, he often realized how insignificant his sense of control really was. There was always something so much bigger than himself that was truly guiding his route.
Brent picked up the can of stain he had planned to use on the star and turned it over in his hands, thinking about his next step. He walked over to the paint cans in the corner. Faced with the impossible situation before him, Brent had to dig deep into his heart to see what it was telling him. He closed his eyes. He could see Clara’s blue eyes shining back at him as clearly as if she were standing in front of him.
At that moment, Brent accepted the simple truth: Sometimes life had other ideas. A resolve washed over him, and he gave himself a nod of encouragement. Sometimes his best-laid plans simply needed to change.
He set the can of stain aside and instead reached for the small can of blue paint. It was a gamble, but one he was willing to take. As much as he hated leaving things to chance, when it came to his heart, it seemed he had no other choice.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CLARA
Clara left the restaurant and drove straight to the only place she could think of to get a solid grasp on everything. She pulled up in front of her grandmother’s house—her childhood home.
She turned off the car and popped down the mirror to steal a glance. Her face was red with tears, two streaks of black mascara running down her cheeks. Clara grabbed a wipe from her purse and cleaned her face before leaning back in her seat. She took a couple of deep breaths and turned to look out the window, allowing herself a second to enjoy the familiar sight of the house on a cold December night. It looked as it always did this time of year—perfect.
The large yellow farmhouse, with a sweeping wraparound porch, sat on four snow-covered acres. Sparkling lights and fluffy garlands were strung along the white picket fence. A bright, flickering candle sat in each window. The front porch was awash in light, with two oversized poinsettias and a fresh balsam wreath to accessorize the front door. Smoke rose from the chimney, and the scent of burning wood lingered in the crisp air. The whole scene felt like a warm blanket to Clara.
The memories of so many years of happy Christmases flooded her mind. Her heart filled with peace as she thoughtabout the comforting smells, sounds, and sights of the holidays that she knew would always be waiting for her inside. The sweetness of freshly baked cookies. The fresh scent of a Christmas tree covered in clumps of tinsel and bright lights. The familiar Christmas songs pouring out from her grandmother’s record player.
She and Grams had always loved “The Christmas Song” by Nat King Cole. She thought back to the time they had tried roasting chestnuts over their fireplace. It had been more work than either of them had anticipated, but it was fun. The entire house was filled with a cloud of warm, buttery sweetness. The bitter flavor took them by surprise, though, so much that they’d both spit them out immediately. She chuckled now at the memory. She always felt safe and loved there in that yellow house, especially at Christmas.
It was her mom and dad’s house, really. They had recently begun a new phase of their lives—retirement. With her parents wanting to travel more, it had only made sense for Grams to move in to help care for the house while they were gone. Her grandmother had initially been reluctant to move away from the excitement of downtown, where she had lived on her own since Clara’s grandpa had passed. It didn’t take long, though, for her to realize that between the cozy house and the acres of land, this was where she was meant to be. She took up gardening and adopted a couple of dogs.
Now Clara’s parents spent most of their time overseas, and this house felt more like Gram’s than anyone else’s. Either way, it was home. Clara dropped by nearly every weekend when she wanted to leave the bustle that surrounded her townhome.
Every Christmas memory revolved around this house. Her parents had loved decorating it and throwing big parties every year, and Grams happily took over, continuing the family traditions while they were away.
Clara fanned a hand over her eyes to dry her tears. She got out of the car and turned in a slow semi-circle, taking in the view of the peaceful winter evening from all angles. Mrs. Roberts—Grams’s neighbor and closest friend—sat on her front porch, watching the snow fall. Clara waved to her before a cold shiver ran through her as her thoughts quickly turned back to her current situation. As Clara approached the house—festive and warm—she was reminded again of the sad reality: This year would be different. There was no doubt in her mind that this was going to be a blue Christmas.
She used her key to let herself in. The house was toasty, as always. Grams’s two beagles, Waylon and Willie, greeted her with wagging tails and wet kisses. Clara reached down to pet them. She could tell something had been baked recently—gingerbread cookies, probably. Her grandmother’s favorite Christmas album was playing its instrumental version of “Silent Night.” In the corner of the living room sat a freshly cut tree covered in lights and surrounded by overflowing boxes of tinsel, ornaments, and decorations. Clara managed a wry smile. Cozy, magical, beautiful Christmas. The sight of it all—as welcome as it was—also served as a cruel reminder of what she and Brent were being deprived of.
“Clara? Is that you?” Her grandmother’s voice sounded from the kitchen.
Clara entered to find Grams sitting at the kitchen counter, addressing Christmas cards. Her thick red reading glasses were resting on the edge of her nose, her long silver hair pulled back loosely with a ribbon.
Grams looked up with a smile. “I’m glad you’re here. I was going to finish decorating the tree tonight. So far, I’ve only managed to get the lights on.”
Clara glanced over at the tree with a half-hearted grin.
“I spoke with your parents earlier.” Her grandmother’s eyes were focused on her cards. “They wanted to make sure you aren’t upset about them missing Christmas this year. I told them to have a great time on their European cruise and not to worry one bit about us.” She waved away the thought with her hand. “I said that between our annual festivities here and that new boyfriend of yours, you’ll be busier than ever this Christmas.”
Clara didn’t say anything in response. She dropped her purse on the chair and her keys on the table.
“I’ve been thinking,” her grandmother continued. “You and I should take a trip to join your folks in Europe sometime. Maybe we could go to Paris this summer. Or next Christmas, maybe? What do you think?”
What did shethink? Clara couldn’t think about summer. That was six months away. She certainly couldn’t think about next Christmas; she was finding it hard enough to think about the next day. She didn’t have space in her brain for anything beyond this current, confusing moment in time.
“Maybe,” she said with a shrug.
Her grandmother looked up from her cards. “You okay?”
Clara’s lip gave way to a forceful quiver as she tried to hold back the dam of tears. Eventually, she gave up. She couldn’t wait another second to finally release her feelings. She needed to unburden herself to the person who, she knew wholeheartedly, could take it all on. Tears of disappointment came barreling out again.
