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Hope was exhausted from work. She’d thrown on her father’s forest green Pendleton and her mother’s favorite sweatpants and was sitting in the VW’s driver’s seat using her cell phone’s flashlight app to review bills while listening to the local radio station, owned and operated by Mr. Q, her former high school teacher. Every night Mr. Q read poetry or a chapter of a book. Hope found listening to him soothing. She glanced at the children’s letters sitting on the passenger seat—the letters she hadn’t posted—and hated herself for not following through. She’d send them tomorrow, no matter what.
“Mom!” Todd screamed from the rear of the van.
Hope startled. “What?”
“Mom, Mom, Mom. You gotta hear this.”
The camper started to rock. Hope glanced over the car seat. Todd, in his pajamas and stocking feet, was jumping up and down, looking like an apoplectic cheerleader, arms going every which way.
“Hey, kiddo, settle down. What’s going on?”
“Mom, it’s Steve Waldren.” Todd pointed at the computer screen. “He announced a contest. Can we call the station? Please?”
Melody, who was curled in her bean bag chair with her grandmother’s needlepoint pillow tucked beneath one arm and reading a book, said, “We won’t win. You won’t get through.”
Todd shot her a withering look. “You don’t know that.” He placed his hands together in prayer. “Please, Mom? It could be our lucky day.”
Hope slipped between the driver and passenger seats and peered at the computer screen. Steve Waldren, dressed as Santa Claus, was looking directly at his audience.
“Tis the season,” Steve said. “Ho-ho-ho.”
“It’s an eight-hundred number, Mom,” Todd said. “Please, please, please.” He pressed his hands together in prayer. “I’m feeling lucky.”
Hope bit back a smile.
“You won’t get through,” Melody said in irritatingly singsong fashion.
“Melody,” Hope said, “don’t be a Grinch.”
Melody folded her arms over her slim body. In her pink sheep-decorated pajamas she didn’t look all that tough. “But, Mom, you’re the one who said, ‘Don’t believe in pipedreams.’”
Hope winced. Zach’s favorite fantasies had always involved pipedreams. She remembered the last one he’d shared, when the two of them were nestled on the couch—the couch she’d had to sell with all the rest of her furniture. Think of everything we can do with the money I win, babe. Zach brushed hair off her face with his fingertip. We’ll travel. We’ll buy a huge house. He ran his finger down her jawline. Each of us will have the car we want. He kissed her with such passion. Just one more hand. One more . . .
Hope snapped back to the present. “Tis the season,” she said, and gave her cell phone to her son. “Good luck.”
Todd plopped onto the floor and, tongue wedged between his teeth, stabbed in the KPRL number. He waited. And waited.
“Told you,” Melody said.
Hope shot her the stink eye.
Todd ended the call and tried again. And again. Hope hated to tell him that television and radio giveaways were scams to entice fans to keep following them. No one ever won anything. No one she knew, anyway.
“Crud.” Todd clambered to his feet and handed the cell phone back to Hope. “A recording came on telling me to try again on Monday.”
“That means they picked today’s winner,” Melody said, as if she was the sage of media giveaways. “Loser.”
“Melody, honestly? Cut the attitude, young lady.” Hope huffed with exasperation. “Todd, I’ll let you try again Monday.”
“Cool!” Todd whooped with glee. “Thanks, Mom.” He plunked back on the floor and planted his elbows on his knees. “Hey, Melody, Steve’s doing Trail Blazer statistics. Come watch.”
Melody joined her brother on the floor. Hope smiled. At least in their love of sports, they were united.
––––––––
Sunday morning, while on her ten-minute break at the café, Hope was rummaging through her purse for a lipstick when she spotted the letters the kids had written. She had planned to drop them in the mail, but she hadn’t yet. Would she? She glanced at Melody and Todd sitting at a table in the café’s kitchen doing art projects, and her heart swelled with love. They were angels. They never gave her guff. They understood how difficult it was for her to be a mom and work full-time.
“Hey, girlfriend.” Zerena leaned halfway into the kitchen, a pencil tucked into her snood, order pad in hand. “Daydreaming time is over. The church crowd is filing in. Slap on that winning smile.”
“Will do.”
“Table four asked for you,” Zerena said.
“On it.” Hope swathed on lipstick without checking herself in the mirror, stowed her purse in a locker, spun the dial on the lock, and smoothed her apron.
Out in the café, she hurried to table four, her order pad at the ready. Lincoln and his parents were studying the menus.
“How are you, Lincoln?” she asked.
“Good. Very good. Very, very good. It’s almost Christmas.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I love Christmas.”
“I do, too.”
“I love Christmas trees and hot cocoa and carolers.”
Ellery patted his hand. “Hope needs to take our order, Son.”
“Want to know the specials?” Lincoln asked. “Chili hot dog, six-ninety-nine. Steak and eggs, fourteen-ninety-five. ” He never ordered a special, but he could recite each and its cost faster than anyone on the café’s payroll. “Why isn’t anything an even number, Hope?”
“I don’t know.” She had often wondered the same thing. Did an item at six-ninety-nine really seem like a bargain, compared to the same item listed at seven dollars? “Say, Lincoln, I saw your brother on television last night. He was dressed as Santa Claus.”
Lincoln wagged his head. “Fake Santa. He’s not fat enough. He works out.”
“He looked like he was having fun.” If Hope were truthful, Steve hadn’t looked happy in the least, but she’d never tell her kids or his family that. She supposed losing his fiancée could have taken its toll on him, especially during the holidays.
“Fun. Funny. Funnier,” Lincoln chanted. “Ho, ho, ho. Jones twenty-seven points. Boxer, eight and a half rebounds. Woodruff, seven points and eight assists.”
“Yes, that was the Trail Blazers latest game,” Hope said, knowing exactly who he was talking about, having caught the recap. “Good memory.” She eyed Ellery and Frank. “Coffee?”
Frank nodded. “Cream. Bring a glass of milk for Lincoln.”
“Juice,” Lincoln said. “I like when she brings me juice.”
“What kind of juice?” Hope asked.
“Orange juice.”
Hope checked with Ellery, who approved. “Orange juice it is.”
In less than ten minutes, she returned with their order and made sure everything was to their liking.
Before Hope left the table, Ellery clasped her wrist. “Make sure you and your adorable children come to the gingerbread house event this year, dear. It’s on Christmas Eve.”
Frank grinned. “It’s always on Christmas Eve, hon.”
“Hope missed it last year,” Ellery said. “I thought maybe she hadn’t seen the posters.”
“How could she miss them?” Frank snorted. “They’re all over town.”
Last year, Hope hadn’t taken the kids because she hadn’t wanted to do something that would remind her so acutely of her life with Zach. This year? She had to do better. Entertain the children. Let them have fun.
“I’ll do my best,” she murmured.
