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Steve changed into a white shirt and slacks. An hour later, he couldn’t believe he was actually having a good time with his family. Hanging the glitter-frosted ornament he’d made at the age of eight brought back a poignant memory, how at the time he thought he was quite gifted in the art department. Every snowflake was a touch of perfection. Lincoln’s was mostly globs of glue coated with glitter. Granted, Lincoln was four at the time of its creation. Even so, Linc had been thrilled to see his ornament hanging alongside his big brother’s work of art.
With each addition to the tree, their parents applauded like Steve and Lincoln were still kids. Man, they were cute, he thought. In love for over forty years. Had they ever quarreled? Had they ever questioned their commitment? He and Gloria had never been in love like his folks, and if he was honest, the lack of real love in his life was eating at him. He wanted to treasure and to be treasured. He didn’t believe in everyone having a soulmate, but Gloria had never been his, so maybe his was still out there.
“Stevie, pass the cookies,” his father said.
Steve glanced at the half-empty platter and moaned. Had he actually downed three chocolate crinkles? He needed to have more impulse control. He couldn’t afford to put on weight. Every ounce showed on camera. “Sure, Dad.”
On the record player—his father was and would always be a vinyl guy—Dean Martin was crooning “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” His mother was humming along.
When she switched the LP to the Drifters’ upbeat rock version of “White Christmas,” Lincoln started dancing around the living room, steering an imaginary woman in his arms.
“C’mon, bro,” Lincoln said. “Grab Hope and dance.”
“What?” Steve shook his head. “You’re nu—” He stopped short of saying nuts. “Ha-ha, Lincoln. Funny. Hope wouldn’t dance with me in a million years. She hates me.”
“She does not,” his mother said. “How could she? You’re handsome, smart, and funny.”
“Uh-uh, Mom, she hates him,” Lincoln said.
“Lincoln, sweetheart, why would you say that?” Their mother was frowning, trying to understand.
Lincoln continued dancing. “She didn’t like the reporters.”
“What reporters?” Ellery’s brow furrowed. “Frank, do you know what they’re talking about?”
Frank, who’d dressed in a green Santa sweater over corduroys, shrugged.
“Steve?” His mother eyed him.
“My boss revealed to the press that Hope turned down the trip to Disneyland, and because he was miffed, he must have also told them about her, um, living conditions. Some reporters tracked her to the café, and she . . .” He worked his tongue inside his cheek. “She panicked. She didn’t want anyone to find out.”
“There’s no shame in how she lives,” Ellery said. “Single mothers struggle sometimes.”
“I don’t think she liked the cameras,” Lincoln said. “I wouldn’t, either.”
Steve gazed at his brother and suddenly realized how tone deaf he, Steve, and probably everyone else in the world, was. If newshounds were to highlight Lincoln’s disability, Lincoln would have a tough time handling the questions and the harassment. Hope’s concern was real and warranted. She didn’t want her family predicament plastered all over the news.
“You owe her an apology, Son,” Ellery said softly.
He nodded. “I’ll do it. Promise.” He kissed his mother’s cheek and then began shadowing his brother, mimicking him, arms outstretched. “Who are you dancing with, dude?”
“Miss Mapleworth.”
“Your teacher from third grade?”
Lincoln nodded. “She was so pretty.”
Miss Mapleworth, a special education teacher, a wonderful woman who had enjoyed Lincoln’s ability to rattle off numbers and statistics, had not been pretty. In fact, she’d had a bent nose and hooded brow, but her smile for Lincoln had been sincere.
Yep, a smile can melt a heart, Steve thought, and again flashed on Hope. She had that kind of smile.
The music ended. Lincoln stopped dancing and flopped onto the sofa. “I wish I had somebody to love.”
Their mother nestled beside him and kissed him on the forehead. “You do, dear.”
“Not like Steve does.”
