“I wouldn’t be so quick to find fault before you’ve even met her. We’re giving you another chance. Don’t blow it,” Emily advised.
“Thanks for the warning. Are you done with your lunch?” Lillian asked tartly.
“Yes, I am. Thank you.” Emily picked up her empty plate, and her mother’s. The sandwich had been so flimsy, she would be hungry again by the time she got home.
“Just put those dishes in the sink,” Lillian said. “I’ll take care of them later.”
“Don’t bother, Mother. Nancy will do it for you tomorrow.”
Her mother gave out a short, harsh laugh. “Yes, Nancy is coming. Be still, my beating heart. I can hardly wait.”
Emily slipped on her coat and grabbed her purse. “Jessica said she’ll drop by later, on her way home from the mall. She wants to bring you some dinner.”
“She needn’t bother. Cold cereal would be fine with me. I can wait for Nancy to fix me a real meal.”
Emily had to laugh out loud. “Mother, you are sui generis
.
” She leaned over and quickly kissed her mother’s cheek.
“My, my . . . I am impressed. If you think you can butter me up with a little high school Latin, think again, my dear. Sui generis, my foot,” Lillian grumbled as Emily headed for the back door. “Wait a minute. Does this Nancy know any Latin? That is one of my requirements, you know.”
Emily glanced over her shoulder and waved good-bye. Then she slipped outside, into the bracing, head-clearing cold air.
She didn’t dare reply.
ON MONDAY MORNINGS REVEREND BEN USUALLY SET OUT EARLY TO visit members of the congregation who were sick in the hospital or confined to a nursing home. By lunch time, he had visited all four on his list and headed back to the village. But instead of going straight to the church, he parked near the Clam Box diner on Main Street.
As Ben entered, the bell over the door rang, and Officer Tulley turned on his stool at the counter to see who had come in.
Just the man I want to see,
Ben thought, waving at his friend. He walked over and sat on the empty seat next to Tucker.
“Hello, Reverend. How’s your Monday going?” Tucker asked.
“Fine so far. It’s my Sunday that still has some wrinkles to iron out.”
Tucker smiled. “You mean the Phantom Santa?”
“Exactly. He—or she?—has struck again and made Howard Healy and his family very happy and grateful.”
“And warm,” Tucker added.
“And warm,” Ben agreed solemnly.
It was hard to think of anyone doing without a properly heated house in this weather. But Ben knew that even families with perfectly good heating systems were turning their thermostats down low this year because they couldn’t afford the heating bills.
Charlie Bates bustled out of the kitchen. He dropped a plate with a turkey sandwich in front of Tucker then turned to Ben. “What’ll you have today, Reverend?”
Ben noticed that Charlie hadn’t bothered to give him a menu. Not that he needed one, but he did like the pretense of looking it over, as if he didn’t know it by heart.
He glanced up at the blackboard over the counter where the specials were listed. “How about the corn chowder?”
“How about it?” Charlie quipped, with a nasal laugh.
“I’ll have a bowl, Charlie. Thank you,” Ben answered evenly.
“Coming right up. Sorry if things are slow. We only have one waitress on today. That other one, the new one, she didn’t show up, didn’t even bother to call. You just can’t find good help these days. . . .” His grumbling voice disappeared into the kitchen.
Tucker leaned close to Ben, his voice low. “The only waitress that ever stuck with this job was Lucy. Because she’s married to him. And even she found a way to escape,” he observed in an amused tone.
Tucker had known Charlie since kindergarten and was his closest—and sometimes, his only—friend. So Ben figured he had the right to comment in this way. Besides, it was true.
Lucy was Charlie’s wife. She had worked here day and night, waiting on tables while Charlie cooked and managed the kitchen. But a few years ago, Lucy decided to get out from under Charlie’s tyrannical thumb and return to school. It was no small struggle, but she finally managed the dual accomplishments of earning her nursing degree
and
staying married to Charlie.
“That waitress covering the tables today?” Tucker said, glancing over at her. “Her name’s Trudy. She’s been here since the summer. That’s probably a new record for anyone other than Lucy.”
“Probably,” Ben agreed. He hadn’t realized the woman had been working here that long.
Charlie arrived with a bowl of soup and dropped it down in front of Ben along with a bag of oyster crackers. “Corn chowder, piping hot.”
“Thanks,” Ben said.
“More coffee?” Charlie held the pot over Tucker’s mug.
“No thanks, Charlie. I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself.” Charlie sounded insulted, and left them again.
“Tucker,” Ben said, his mind returning to their earlier topic. “You hear a lot around town and at church. Who do you think is giving out these extravagant gifts?”
Besides being a police officer, Tucker also served as a deacon at church. Ben knew those two roles covered a lot of ground on the town grapevine.
“I don’t have a clue,” Tucker replied. “But I think it must be someone in our congregation. How else would they find out that these families are in need?”
“Good point. What I can’t figure out is how they knew about the Healys’ furnace. Did Howard Healy put a sign up on the bulletin board, too?”
“I don’t think so.” Tucker rubbed his chin. “Howard is on a lot of committees and so is his wife. There’s a lot of personal chitchat at the meetings, you know how it is. One of them must have mentioned that the furnace was on the blink, and the right person must have heard them.”
“Yes, it could have happened that way.”
Tucker shrugged. “It’s not that hard to figure out. You know I could have made detective, Reverend. I just like being a uniform, on a beat.”
“Yes, I know that,” Ben replied with a smile.
Tucker would have been a good detective, too, he thought, the unobtrusive type that criminals underestimate.
“I know our Secret Santa wants to be anonymous, but I’m really curious now about who it is,” Tucker admitted.
“I’m curious, too. I think everybody at church must be. It’s amazing to me that this person—or persons—have managed to remain anonymous all this time. I mean, one gift. But now two? And such big gifts, too. How do you think they’ve managed it?”
“I’m not sure. But it must be someone nobody would expect. And someone who’s able to keep a secret,” Tucker said. “The thing is, most people carrying on some covert activity—for better or worse—eventually slip up and give themselves away. It’s just human nature.” Tucker took a sip of coffee and looked over the check that had been slipped under his plate. He left a few bills on the counter and then put on his brimmed hat.
“Human nature, yes.” Ben nodded. “And probability, too. I mean, the longer this goes on, the more likely it is that the Secret Santa will be discovered, don’t you think?”
“I expect before Christmas is over, the Secret Santa will slip up or leave some telling clue. Don’t worry, Reverend, we’ll figure it out.” Tucker laughed and patted Ben’s shoulder as he walked past him and headed for the door.
Ben sat alone, finishing his soup. He didn’t know why it suddenly felt important to him, but he did want to know the identity of this Secret Giver. It would probably turn out to be someone well-known to him, he realized. Would he see that person differently once he discovered that they were responsible for these grand gestures of generosity?
The bell over the door sounded, and Ben turned to see Grace Hegman and her father, Digger, enter. Ben waved hello, and a wide grin spread over Digger’s wrinkled face. The old man looked as if he intended to walk over, but Grace quickly tugged at his sleeve and steered him in the opposite direction. She glanced back at Ben with a small, tight smile.
Grace had her hands full now with her father, Ben thought as he turned back to his lunch. It was just as well they hadn’t joined him. Digger’s conversation would have been a rambling one, and Ben had to be on his way. He couldn’t linger here all day, gossiping about the Secret Santa.
ON MONDAY IT WAS HARD TO GET BACK INTO THE PT ROUTINE. OR maybe Gena the slave driver was just working him harder, David thought. He was doing a little better on the handrail lane and able to stand longer without the walker.
Gena had let him try a cane, but he hadn’t been able to manage more than a few steps before his bad leg slipped out from under him. A discouraging debut. But she was trying to work with him to meet his goal to be walker-free by Christmas. “We’ll get there,” she told him, one of the few times she recognized his effort. He had not answered but hoped that was true.
When they finally finished he practically crawled back to his table and lay back exhausted while she massaged his aching legs.
“Been out last night, David? You were really dragging your butt out there.”
David laughed harshly. “Yeah, it was a wild night. A real party night. I got trashed.”
“Still having trouble sleeping? Bad dreams?”
“Yeah, I am.”
Nightmares about the war zone plagued him, keeping him up several nights a week.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if I was living alone. But I scream so loud, I wake the whole house,” he confessed. “My little stepsister wakes up and my stepmother has to go and take care of her. And my Dad comes down to wake me. . . . One night, I wouldn’t wake up that easily and I socked him the face.”
“Really? What did your father think about that?”
“He didn’t like walking around with a black eye. But he got over it. He says he’s going to put on boxing gloves now when he comes into my room.”
Gena nodded. He noticed she didn’t laugh at his joke.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t that funny. He was just trying not to make such a big thing out of it.
“Your night terrors are a symptom of traumatic stress, David. We’ve spoken about this before. Have you thought any more about seeing a counselor?”
“No, not really,” he admitted. “I did a few sessions when I first got out. I don’t think it helped any. It made me keep remembering. I just want to forget.”
“Forgetting isn’t always an option,” Gena said. “Some memories stay with you all your life. That’s why I think counseling could help. If you feel uncomfortable in one-on-one treatment, maybe a support group would work for you. Talking with other soldiers who know what you’ve been through, what you’re feeling now. Some of them will be further along and have some worthwhile insights to share. It might help you sort things out and get your life back on track.”
“I am getting back on track,” David insisted. “You told me I was making progress.”
“You are. Some. But you could do better. It’s all connected, David. I’ve told you that before.” She completed the massage then put an ice pack on his leg.
David sat up and took a sip of water. “Right. But you never said
how
it’s all connected.”
“It’s simple. If you can get some picture of your future, you have something to work toward.” She paused and took a step back from the table and gave him a serious, appraising look. “Right now, David, I think you’re stuck. It’s not uncommon,” she added quickly. “It’s pretty normal, in fact. There are a lot of emotional stages you need to go through as you deal with this injury. Denial, anger, mourning. Acceptance, finally.”
“Great. Sounds like a long list. When do I get to the last one?”
“If you keep flip-flopping between the others, never. If you get stuck. See what I mean?” she asked quietly.
David did see. But her words made him angry. She was such a know-it-all sometimes. He should have switched to another therapist when he had the chance. He didn’t need to take this garbage from her.
“Hey, I’m doing the therapy, putting in my hours. Working out at home, too. What else am I supposed to do?” He knew he ought to control his voice and his temper, but he could feel them both rising. “Aren’t you blaming the victim a little here, Gena?”
“I’m sorry if it sounds that way. I’m not blaming you. But you asked me what else you can do? Well, what about having hope?” she said in her quiet, serious way. “That’s something that would help you move forward, David. Something to work toward, a goal. Besides getting rid of the walker,” she added. “If you had complete physical health right now, what would you want to do? What would your plan be?”
“That’s a pretty useless question, don’t you think? I may never be able to walk normally again. What good does it do to fantasize about it? My plan was to go into the police force, or be a firefighter. I’ve told you that.”
“Yes, you did. We discussed it.”
“And you said it was off the table. So I have no idea what I’d do. If I could walk out of here on my own two feet? . . . Probably buy a car and get the heck of out town.”
She leaned back and met his gaze. “Okay, that’s a start. Where do you want to go, David? What’s your destination?”
He didn’t answer her. He didn’t have an answer.
“There’s got to be something you really want,” she persisted.
I want Christine,
his heart shouted back at her.
That’s all I want. But that’s not going to happen. And I can’t admit it to this woman anyway.
He looked straight at Gena then down at his lap again.
“I think there is an answer,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to tell me. But use it, David. Build on it.”
She checked the pack on his leg. “I’m going to get you some more ice.” He nodded, not even looking at her. She stepped away and closed the curtain, shutting out the view of the therapy center.
Gena was right. He had to admit it. He had been living in limbo. It was hard to look ahead. He couldn’t do it.