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December, present
“I can’t believe it’s already Christmastime again, can you?” Hope called over her shoulder.
Todd and Melody were nestled in the backseat of their VW camper. Despite the fact that their school clothes were slightly rumpled—the iron had been on the fritz—their faces were eager. The two were stringing popcorn with a needle and thread. They couldn’t wait to decorate the tree after dinner. Last night, they’d each made a new flour-and-water ornament. Hope had baked them in the toaster oven, and the kids had painted them and added the year. Traditions were to be maintained no matter what, her mother used to say. No matter what.
Tears pressed at the corners of Hope’s eyes as she thought of her parents. No, no, no. No tears. She’d seen a therapist a couple of times after her parents died, and tears had flowed freely then, but when Zach left, she didn’t shed one. Not one. She’d screamed. She’d cursed. But she hadn’t cried. Tears were to be shed sparingly. They were for true sorrow only, not anger, and definitely not self-pity. Find your sense of humor, Kitten, her father would say whenever she faced a disappointment like not making the cast of Jesus Christ, Superstar, not making the drill team, not being voted class secretary. You’ll have plenty of successes in your lifetime.
Would she? She wasn’t so sure. But two of them were sitting in the backseat.
Shaking off her sadness, she sat taller in the driver’s seat and said, “Okay, it’s singing carols time, you two. ‘It’s the most wonderful time of the year.’”
Neither child joined in.
“Ahem. I am not a soloist.”
“No kidding,” Melody wisecracked.
‘“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,’” Hope started again. “C’mon. Don’t hold back.”
The children bellowed out the words.
“Melody’s singing off key,” Todd said.
“Am not.”
“Are, too.”
Melody stuck out her tongue.
“Stop it, Melody.” Hope sighed. Ten-year-old girls, she decided, weren’t much more mature than seven-year-old boys.
“Hey, look!” Todd reached over his sister’s shoulder and pointed out the VW’s window. “There’s the nativity scene.”
“Mom,” Melody cried, “isn’t the tree by the gazebo beautiful?”
“It sure is.”
A towering thirty-foot Christmas tree, decorated in gold and red but unlit until the upcoming tree-lighting ceremony, stood to the right of the nativity scene.
“Roll down the window, Melody,” Todd pleaded. “I want to smell the fresh snow.”
“You can’t smell snow, dodo,” Melody taunted.
“Roll it down.”
“Fine.” Melody whisked her hair over her shoulder before complying.
Cool air rushed in. So did the strains of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” which were being piped through speakers attached to each of the lampposts. Hope wondered if it was Kismet that they’d been singing it first. Maybe the fates would align this Christmas and make it a happier one than last year’s. Maybe.
Tenderly, she remembered the time when she, Miss Hope Valley, had been invited to trigger the tree’s lights at the lighting ceremony. Twenty-eight years ago, to be exact, at the sassy age of six. Looking back, her father must have begged someone like the mayor to give her the title. He and the mayor had played golf together. Hope remembered the lacy white dress she wore, the white coat, the winter stockings. Her mother had spent an hour styling her long hair into a ponytail with curls. A five-piece band had been playing the same song as now. She could still feel the warmth of her mother’s and father’s hands clasping hers as they flanked her. She’d looked up once. Their smiles had been radiant.
Time gone by, she thought sadly.
“See the baby Jesus in the manger?” Todd asked, bringing Hope back to the present. “See his halo?”
“It’s a doll,” Melody said.
“I know it’s a doll. Duh.” He knuckled her.
“Ow! Mom!” Melody whined.
“Todd, stop,” Hope chided.
She knew Todd hadn’t hurt his sister. He never would. The two had bonded when Zach left town. Zach. How she wished she’d known his true, weak character before she’d fallen in love with him. If she had, would she have done things differently? Yes. But if she had, she wouldn’t have born two beautiful children, and she loved them more than life itself.
“Mom, doesn’t the school look pretty?” Melody exclaimed, yanking Hope from her reverie.
Hope pulled to a stop in front of Hope Valley Elementary and clambered out of the VW. “It sure does.”
Evergreen boughs adorned each of the school’s windows. A huge sign reading Merry Merry hung between the columns leading to the school’s entrance.
“Hop to it, kiddos.” Hope opened the van’s side door. “School’s a-waiting. Is the popcorn strung?”
“Yes,” Todd said.
“Good. We’ll hang it tonight. Get a move on. I’m late. Walk yourselves in. See you after school. And Melody . . .”
“Yes?” Her daughter was still perched on the car seat, checking the buttons on her plaid blouse and raising the collar of her pink parka. Her basketball and backpack rested at her feet.
“Remember, no sugar. I don’t care what parent is offering holiday treats at rehearsal.”
“I know. I’m a diabetic. I have a strict diet.” She pulled a long face. “You don’t have to remind me every minute of every day.”
“Lose the tone, young lady,” Hope warned.
“Sorry.”
“And Todd,” Hope continued, “take The Hero Two Doors Down back to the library.”
“I will.” The Hero was a story about Jackie Robinson and his friendship with a young boy. Todd enjoyed reading about sports. “Can I check out a new book, Mom?”
“May I,” Hope said reflexively, and chuckled. How many times had her mother, a teacher before a shop owner, called her out on improperly using pronouns?
“May I?” Todd repeated. “The other day I saw one about sports statistics. Dad was a whiz with statistics.”
Hope grunted. Zach had been a whiz, but statistics hadn’t helped him win at poker. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Why don’t you check out The Gift of the Magi, too?” It was one of Hope’s favorite stories.
“Ugh. Sounds boring.”
“It’s for me. Please?”
“K,” he said in verbal shorthand.
Melody scrambled out of the VW, shrugged into her backpack, waved good-bye to Hope, and then immediately started dribbling her basketball. Todd shuffled out and waited for his mother to close the van door. Hope winced at the resulting creak and made a mental note to spray WD-40 on it later.
“Bye, Mom!” Todd shouted.
“Bye, sweetheart.”
Trotting away, Todd dropped his backpack on the wet sidewalk. He collected it quickly and glanced back at his mother. Shyly, he blew her a kiss.
Kisses. Hope pulled her parka tightly around her uniform. If only kisses solved the world’s problems.
