For over an hour, we wove trails under the white light of memory, laughing and dancing our way back to us, pushing away the chaos that threatened to consume.
Marcus was here.
Marcus was here and so was I.
By morning light, I was blanket-wrapped on our bedroom floor near the darkened fireplace, well-loved, the smell of bacon filling the air. I sat up quickly. How had he found the energy to start breakfast? And how were the kids still in bed?
I brushed my teeth and followed the heavenly scents into the kitchen. Marc was standing at the stove, and I leaned in, planting a kiss on his lips. “Where are the monkeys?”
“Stockings. Upstairs. I made them wait to come down.”
“That must’ve been a battle.”
He wriggled his eyebrows and slid a cup of coffee my way. “Santa’s orders.”
I laughed, nodding toward their voices in the loft. “Now?”
He took a long swallow of coffee and held up his phone, camera ready. “Kids! It’s time!”
We raced to the stairs as their footsteps pounded down. Happy cries and the shredding of paper commenced. He was quite proud that their favorite gifts were the new ice skates he’d bought from Old Man Jones on a whim during our evening out.
After a quick clean-up, our bellies full of pancakes, Marc lay down on the couch, his Santa hat tipped over his eyes. I swept my hand across his whiskered cheek, made my way over to the tree, and slid beneath it, watching the slow magic of the fading lights.
Three pair of feet appeared beside me.
“Mommy.” Finn’s skinny little toes wiggled like his father’s.
“Shh, baby. Daddy’s sleeping. Come here.”
One by one, they joined me beneath the tree. Sasha’s brown mop of curls fluffed into my face, just like his dad’s had before he’d started cropping it short. Alex’s big green eyes mirrored mine, content. I winked at her and kissed the top of Sasha’s head. “Did you have a good Christmas?”
“So good.” She grinned.
“Me too. Me too,” Sasha added.
Finn pulled just a little at one of the branches, watching the ornaments bounce.
I lifted my eyebrow at him in warning.
He grinned. “The lights are pretty, Mommy.”
“Yes.” I smiled. “They are.”
“Daddy goes to work tomorrow?”
I looked back up to the tree. “Yes. He does.”
Finn sniffed.
Alex kissed the top of his head, mimicking my hold on Sasha. “It’s okay. Know why?”
“Why?” His tiny voice came out muffled from beneath her swath of blonde hair.
“’Cause he always comes home, right Mommy?”
Her calm voice caught me, and I had to fight back a tear. The wisdom of a child.
“That’s right, baby.” I scooped them tighter into my arms. “Daddy always comes home.”
Chapter 2
Twenty Years Prior
“Jillie?” Mom pointed her elbow at my mess, wrestling with the batter bowl to get the last of the pancakes poured. “Clear off the table, please.”
I tugged at my pigtails and shifted in my seat, scooting the chair back a bit. “But I just got it set up. Perfect.”
My colored pencils and construction paper lay fanned out before me, a Christmas-colored rainbow of orchestrated creativity. Each finished card sat neatly stacked, the list of recipients checked twice. Literally.
“Baby, there is no perfect. Especially for ten-year-olds. We’ve talked about this.” She snuck up behind me, slipping a still-warm, paper-towel-wrapped bundle of pancakes into my hand. “Here. Why don’t you run this out to Marcus, and I’ll take care of the table.”
“But he’s not—” A bicycle bell chimed twice.
She smiled. “There he is.”
My cheeks flushed. “He’s delivering papers. He can’t stop.”
“Cute paperboys always stop for cute girls.”
“Mom!” I made a quick grab for my teacup, grinning behind the rim.
“And food.” She laughed, kissing my cheek. “Go on, baby girl. I promised his mom we’d look in on him today.”
I hopped up, layering on my coat and scarf over my sweater. I ran to the stove and poured some steamy water from the kettle into a travel mug and dropped in two tea bags, tightening the lid as I ran outside.
“You sure he wouldn’t prefer cocoa?” Mom called from the door.
I shook my head. “He likes tea.” Another grin, this one harder to hide. “Like me.”
The wind cut cold, but the sun shot its warm rays above the horizon, breaking through what was left of the dark. The Christmas lights on most of the houses still glowed, dotted down the street in random intervals. I spotted Marc’s bike jetting across the road. Sometimes he did one side of the street, then the other. Sometimes he zig-zagged. It was clearly a zipper day.
I shuffled up to the next driveway he was aiming for, and he screeched to a halt. A crooked smile fell across his face. “Jill, whatcha doin’ here?” He pushed his beanie off his forehead and a puff of brown curls stuck out.
“Mom made pancakes.” I held out the delivery. “I made tea.”
“Cool.” He laid down the bike and stomped over. “Thanks.”
He moved as if in slow motion, and all I could do was watch. Last June we’d been playing in the sprinklers, but by the end of the summer he was a foot taller, his voice a little deeper. Eleven-year-old Marc was not the same boy who’d left me stranded on the skating pond as a joke the winter before. Eleven-year-old Marc gave me rides on the handlebars of his bike, picked flowers and tucked them behind my ear, called me Jill instead of Jillie. And most of all? Gave me butterflies, butterflies that made my stomach and heart flip all at the same time.
But there was no way he could ever know that. No one could.
His hand met mine as he took the tea and a tiny giggle escaped before I could stop it. He gave me a funny look, and I buried my still-tingly fingers in my jacket.
“Cold.” I shrugged.
He sat on the curb in a pocket of sunshine and tapped the concrete for me to sit beside him. I plopped down and hugged my knees to my chest. He turned his attention to the pancakes.
“Mmm. Honey?” Crumbs flew out with the words.
“Yes.” I laughed. “Hungry?”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I like it when she makes ‘em like that.”
“I know. Here.” I handed him the tea from its resting spot by his foot.
“Oh, thanks.” He took a swig, his face scrunching as he swallowed. “Hot.”
I nodded. “So, your mom’s at work again?”
“Yeah. Every Saturday. The hotel needs her.”
“And your dad? He—he’s still gone?”
He looked away, kicking at a stick on the pavement. “I don’t think he’s coming back.” His voice came out tight. “Mom said.”
“Oh.” I kicked at the stick with him. “I’m sorry. You must be sad.”
“I’m okay.” He sniffed, then jumped up. “I gotta go.”
“It’s okay if you are. Sad,” I called out after him. “I’d be.” I swallowed. “I am.”