Norah’s father came home two days later to a sidewalk and driveway completely clear of ice and snow and strict instructions from his doctor that shoveling—especially by hand—was no longer to be part of his chore assignment.
“What’d you do, Renie? Hire one of those plow services?” he asked his wife when he saw the driveway.
“Two nice young boys from the church youth group did the work and they charged a cup of hot cocoa and some of my peanut butter cookies,” Norah’s mom replied.
Earle had no response to that and slowly headed up the front walk to the house. But Irene was not finished with the topic. “Of course, there’s still the issue of who will do the work going forward. Winter has just begun, you know.”
“I know. I know,” Earle grumbled.
“Well, no need to think about that right now,” Tom said as he held the door open for Earle. “At least through the holidays you’ve got Isabella and me to handle that kind of thing.”
Isabella made a face. “Dad!”
“Hey, it’ll build character—not to mention muscles,” Tom said and Earle chuckled for the first time since leaving the hospital. Norah could have hugged Tom and saw from her mother’s expression that she wasn’t the only one.
The phone was ringing when they got inside. “I’ll get that,” Irene said.
“Come on, Izzy,” Norah said. “Let’s start some lunch.”
“Guess you get stuck talking to the invalid,” Earle joked, looking up at Tom as he patted the chair next to him.
“We could play a game of chess,” Tom suggested. “I’m a little rusty, but I think I still remember the moves.” He took the chair opposite Tom’s recliner. The chessboard was set for play on the coffee table between them.
From the kitchen hallway Norah watched her father ease himself into his chair, noting for the tenth time how his movements had become tentative and uncertain overnight. Tom caught her eye and she drew strength from his gaze—one that seemed to say, “It’s all going to be okay.”
“Thank you,” she mouthed.
He smiled and turned his attention back to the chess game. “My first move, right?” he said as he slid a piece forward.
“Whoa!” Earle cried with delight. “You sure you want to start there?” And the game was on.
Over lunch, Irene reported that Eleanor had called to say that the women of the church had organized meals for the family for the coming week. “To give us time to catch our breath, according to Eleanor.” Irene shook her head. “People can be so amazingly thoughtful.”
The talk turned to preparations for the fast-approaching holiday.
“Fortunately I took care of my shopping before this little episode with my ticker,” Earle reported with a wink. “But I could use some help with the wrapping.” He turned to Norah and Isabella. “How are you girls at gift wrapping?”
“I’m kind of better at unwrapping,” Isabella teased.
“We’ll teach you,” Norah and her father said at the same time and everyone laughed.
“We have to get a tree,” Izzy said.
“Oh, darling, we should probably use the artificial tree this year, don’t you think?” Irene asked.
“No,” Norah said before Izzy could reply. “Let’s have a real old-fashioned Christmas. You just leave everything to us.”
“And Dad,” Izzy added.
“At your service,” Tom said with a mock salute to his daughter. He stood up. “Speaking of holiday preparations, I promised Mom I’d haul down the decorations from the attic. Thanks for lunch—and the chess game.”
Under protest, Earle agreed to take a nap, while Norah and her mother cleared the lunch dishes and Isabella went upstairs to unpack and settle into her side of Norah’s childhood room. Norah found her there, sitting against the headboard of one of the twin beds, writing in her journal.
Norah knew better than to ask what Izzy was writing. The journal had been part of her assignments as she prepared to join the church. Its contents were for Izzy’s eyes only—and God’s, of course. For the entries—at least early on—they were to be written in the form of letters to God. That had been the minister’s idea as he sought a way to bring the reality of faith into each teen’s life.
“Sometimes the concept of prayer can be intimidating to a teen,” he had explained to the parents. “A journal seems more in touch with their need to communicate with God.” He’d laughed then and added, “If I could come up with a way they could text God via cell phone, I’d use that.”
Norah unpacked the few clothes she’d grabbed before heading to the airport. As she pushed back the sliding mirrored doors of the closet, she saw several items of clothing that she had left behind when she and Tom were married. But this time she found that she wanted the memories those clothes might evoke—memories of her youth, of living here with her parents. She pulled out a madras plaid shirt, a pair of cuffed jeans—the wide leather belt still threaded through the loops. Next to that was the silver jersey wrap dress she’d worn the night Tom proposed.
“What’s all that stuff?” Izzy asked, putting her journal aside and scrambling to the foot of the bed to watch Norah.
“Memories,” Norah said as she burrowed into the far corner of the closet and brought out a double-breasted navy wool coat with fur trim at the cuffs and collar. She slid it off the wooden hangar and tried it on, belting the waist with the wool sash. “What do you think?” she asked as she pirouetted in front of the mirror on the open closet door.
“I think it’s got fur trim,” Izzy said and made a face. “You wore that?”
“It was my Sunday coat when I was in college.” Norah reached onto the closet shelf and pulled down a hatbox. “Wait,” she said and then squealed with delight as she pulled out a hat that matched the fur trim on the coat. She put it on and it slid down over her eyebrows. “I had long thick hair in those days,” she explained.
“The coat’s not terrible,” Izzy announced as she surveyed the costume. “But that fur has to go. This is the twenty-first century, Mom. Hopefully we are slightly more enlightened?”
“Okay,” Norah said as she replaced the hat in the box and took off the coat. “We’ll remove the trim.” She took a pair of scissors from a dresser drawer and started snipping threads. “Ta da!”
“Pretty cool,” Izzy admitted. “Can I try it?”
“Sure.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon trying on Norah’s old clothes and rummaging through drawers to see what else Norah’s mother had preserved. And there in the far back corner of a dresser drawer stuffed with old photo albums, yearbooks and long-forgotten term papers, Izzy found the prize.
“Ah ha!” she shouted triumphantly as she held aloft a small, green, leather-bound book with a gold-plated closure that locked and a tiny key dangling from a chain like a bookmark. “Your diary!” She hugged it to her chest.
“Hand it over,” Norah said, grabbing for it and laughing.
“Do you think Grandma read it?” Izzy asked, dancing out of Norah’s reach. “How could you leave your diary here?”
“I forgot it—didn’t need it anymore.” Tom and I were married and that was all that mattered to me when I moved out of this room. “Now give it up.”
“Are you going to read it before you burn it?”
“Who says I’m going to burn it?”
“Must be some juicy stuff in here.” Izzy mused. “I’ll bet Dad would just love to know—”
“That’s it.” Norah dived for the book and they both ended up in a pile on the bed, laughing and gasping for air.
“Everything okay up there?” Earle shouted from the living room.
“Fine,” Izzy and Norah shouted back in unison and then collapsed in a fresh fit of giggles.
“Well, some of the women from the church are coming up the front walk—looks like they’re bringing enough to feed the neighborhood. You girls should come down and say hello,” Irene called.
“Yes, ma’am,” Norah and Izzy chorused.
“You girls?” Izzy whispered and fell back onto the bed laughing.
Norah took advantage of her daughter’s distraction to grab Izzy’s journal. “Trade you,” she said.
“No fair,” Izzy wailed, but she was still grinning as she handed over the diary that Norah took and stored inside the fur hat in the hatbox. “I know I can trust you but just to be sure,” she said as she tied the ribbons of the hatbox into an intricate bow. “Now brush your hair and let’s go make nice with the church ladies.”
They had just finished supper when there was a light tap at the back door, and Isabella—now completely at home in her grandparents’ house—ran to see who was there. “Dad!”
Then, as Tom entered the laundry room and wiped his feet, Izzy added, “Hey, it’s snowing again.”
Tom was wearing a black ski jacket that Norah remembered from their years of living in Normal along with a ridiculous pink and purple striped stocking cap. In his gloved hands he held three pairs of ice skates—one black men’s pair and two pairs in the pristine white usually preferred by woman.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Norah said as soon as she saw the skates. “It’s December. Is the ice on the pond even solid enough for skating?”
Tom grinned. “They’ve set up a new skating rink.”
“That’s right, Norah,” her father said. “Just like the professionals. It’s downtown in the square—they can freeze it in the winter and then in the summer use it for concerts. It’s pretty slick.” He grinned at his own joke.
Izzy groaned and then laughed. “You are so weird, Papa,” she said and everyone knew it for the compliment that it was. “Where’d you get the skates?” she asked Tom, already removing her shoes. Tom had taught Isabella to skate almost before she could walk.
In those early years of their marriage they had returned to Normal every holiday. Only after the divorce did Norah begin to limit their visits to the summer months. Was that because the memories were too heartbreaking?
“Found them in the attic along with the Christmas decorations,” Tom was explaining. “Try these. They’re your Aunt Liz’s. You might need an extra pair of socks though.”
“I’ll get a pair,” Izzy said and took off.
“Bring an extra for your mother,” Tom called as he handed the second pair of skates to Norah. “Seven and a half, right?”
“Right,” Norah said, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Clare’s an eight—thus, the need for double socks.” He handed her the skates.
“All kidding aside,” Norah began. “It’s Dad’s first night home and Mom’s exhausted and—”
“And if you weren’t here it would be your father’s first night home and I would still be tired and we would both settle in to watch our shows and then go to bed,” Irene said.
“Your mother’s right. You’ll do me no favors treating me like a sick old man. Go on. It’ll be good for the kid—all that fresh air.”
At that moment Izzy came bounding down the stairs and back into the kitchen. She tossed one pair of rolled socks to Norah and sat down and began putting on the second pair. Tom knelt like a shoe salesman and helped her work her foot into one skate.
“How’s that feel?” he asked.
“Tight, but I’ll get used to it,” Izzy said, pulling off the skate and tying the long laces together. She put on her regular shoes then stood and slung the skates over one shoulder. “How do I look?”
“Pretty as one of those Olympic stars,” her grandfather said.
“Come on, Mom,” she called, heading to the laundry room to get coats, hats and gloves for them both. “It’ll be fun.”
“I can see that I’m outnumbered,” Norah said as she looked at her parents and Tom.
“Yep,” her father said. “Might as well face the music.”
They walked the short distance to town. Isabella danced ahead of them catching fat snowflakes on her tongue. Norah filled the space between them with chatter about the church ladies and former schoolmates they had both known. Tom let her talk, knowing it was nerves. What he didn’t know was whether her anxious chatter was the product of her fear of skating or—like his—the challenge of separating the life they had once shared here from the separate lives they now lived.
“There’s your house,” he said. He nodded toward a large Victorian structure that sat on the corner overlooking the square. When they were teenagers the house had been owned by the mayor and his large family. It was always alive with lights in every room in the evenings or with children and dogs rushing in and out during the day. Now it was dark and forlorn, badly in need of paint and repair.
“It looks so sad,” Norah said, pausing to look at it. “It’s been for sale since the last time I was here. I would have thought someone would have bought it by now. It just needs some TLC.”
Tom chuckled. “A lot of TLC.”
“Why do you think it hasn’t sold?” she asked as they pressed on toward the lights and music of the rink.
“According to Dad the recession has hit the town hard. Another plant closed last fall. And the population of the town is aging as younger families move on to other places. That house would be a lot to take on even if it were in great condition.”
Norah looked back at it and Tom saw by her expression that she was remembering it the way it had been. “Remember how they used to light that big tree with those little white lights every December?”
“I remember that you used to say that if you owned that house, you’d trim that tree in red, white and blue lights for the Fourth of July. Then as I recall the plan was to take out the blue and use the red and white for Christmas.”
“And then take out the white and leave the red for Valentine’s,” Norah said wistfully.
“Mom! Dad! Come on,” Isabella called, already seated on a bench and putting on her skates.
“No guts. No glory,” Tom said as he placed his hand on Norah’s waist and steered her toward the rink.
Within minutes Isabella had attracted the attention of a group of teens near her age and soon the others were helping her get acclimated to the rhythm of the sport, their laughter like music on the cold night air. Norah envied their ease and spontaneity as they skated to the center of the large makeshift pond.
“Like riding a bicycle,” Tom said, watching them as well. “Remember the first time we went skating?” he asked as the two of them glided slowly around the perimeter of the pond.
Norah laughed. “I thought you were going to dump me right then and there, but you were so patient—and I was so…tentative.”
“You were a basket case,” Tom corrected. “Never in a million years would I ever have guessed that tough little Norah Jenkins might have a hidden phobia about falling down. I mean that was it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the ice or the skating per se. It was about not wanting to fall down.”
Norah bristled slightly. “Well, people do have their quirks. That was—is mine.”
“Is? You mean you never got over it? You were what? Bella’s age?”
“I was fifteen and no, I don’t believe that you simply outgrow something like that.” She eyed the railing that surrounded the pond and saw that he had started to lead them far enough away that it was out of reach. She tightened her grip on his hands.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” she said, glancing at the receding shore that was solid ground and the security of the railing. “We’re getting a little far out.”
“We’re two feet from the edge and the ice is better here—smoother.” She could sense him watching her, felt his arm tighten around her waist. “I’m not going to let you fall, Norah,” he promised. “Just trust me, okay?”
There was an edge to his tone. The matter of trust—or the lack thereof on her part—had been a major factor in their divorce. “I am doing what I believe is necessary to secure the future for us and our children,” he would argue when she challenged his long hours at work, his absence from home and all the benchmarks of Isabella’s first years that he had missed. “You need to trust me on that,” he would add.
And Norah would flinch at the implication that he knew what was best for her—the same way she had flinched if anyone suggested such an idea. After their divorce she was the one who had thrown herself into work, telling herself that it was vital that she build a secure career, a secure financial base for her life with Isabella. Not that she ever doubted that Tom would be there for their daughter. He had college covered by the time Izzy was seven. But Norah had been determined to make her way, provide for her child….
“Better?” Tom asked now as they started their second lap around the pond.
Norah nodded and forced herself to relax. But the minute she did, her ankle buckled and she started to fall.
“Got you,” Tom assured her, hauling her upright.
“This can’t be much fun for you,” she said. “Why don’t I sit over there and you go get Isabella and skate with her?”
Tom glanced to the center of the ring where Isabella was obviously having a great time with her newfound friends. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Go one more round with me and I’ll buy you hot chocolate and we’ll both sit on the sidelines with the rest of the old folks.”
“I’m not old,” Norah sniffed.
“Do we have a deal or not?”
“Does the hot chocolate come with marshmallows?”
Tom’s laugh was filled with pure merriment. It rang across the pond and Norah saw Izzy glance their way and smile. “Come on,” he said. “Longer strides—not those short little baby steps. No wonder you fall down. Glide. Glide. Glide. That’s better.”
Norah could not deny the pure pleasure of sailing along as if her feet had sprouted wings. She closed her eyes and visualized the grace and beauty of the skaters she’d watched on television. “Don’t let go,” she begged as she concentrated on following Tom’s rhythm.
“Right here, Norah.”
There was something in the way he said those words that made Norah open her eyes and look up at him. She searched his face for some underlying meaning, but just then he pulled her closer and spun slowly around. Once again she stiffened and stumbled. This time she fell against his hard chest and felt his arms tighten around her as he lifted her just enough so that her skates were off the ice. “Home base,” he said quietly, nodding toward the warming house with the promised hot chocolate.
“Oh. Well, good,” she said. “Put me down. I can make it from here.”
“And risk having you turn an ankle three days before Christmas? I don’t think so,” he replied as he scooped her into his arms and glided to the edge.
Over his shoulder Norah saw Izzy headed their way. “Put me down,” she urged. “Izzy’s coming and she’ll take this the wrong way.”
Tom shrugged. “She’s already seen what she wants to see—no changing that.” But he set Norah on the end of a bench and turned to greet their daughter. “Hey, kiddo, I was just getting your mom some hot chocolate. Want some?”
“With marshmallows?”
Tom laughed. “Like mother like daughter. No promises, but I’ll ask.”
While Tom headed for the warming house, Izzy plopped down next to Norah. “Looked like you and Dad were having fun,” she commented, her eyes focused on the other teens.
“I almost fell and your dad was helping me and—”
“Whatever,” Izzy replied, dismissing Norah’s feeble attempts to explain. “Guess what?” Her eyes brightened and she turned to face Norah directly. “No, I’ll wait until Dad comes. I’ve got a surprise for you both.”
“Who are your new friends?”
“You remember Darcy and Heather. They’re the sisters who live on the block behind Grandma and Papa. I met them last year at church.”
“Oh, that’s right. Their mother is the artist, right?”
“And their dad owns the hardware store.”
“Hot chocolate with marshmallows,” Tom announced as he distributed the steaming cardboard cups.
“Izzy was just telling me about her new friends,” Norah said. “And I believe she has some news to share.”
Tom sat down on the other side of Isabella and blew on his hot chocolate. “Good news?”
“Good for me—not so good for Darcy and Heather’s friend.” She glanced from side to side, then stood up and moved to the end of the bench, forcing Norah to slide closer to Tom. “I feel like I’m at a tennis match,” she muttered. “There. That’s better. Now I can look at you both at the same time.” She gave them an innocent grin.
Norah gave her a look of warning that shouted Stop matchmaking! which Izzy ignored.
“So the girl who was to play Mary in the church’s Christmas Eve pageant fell while skating a couple of days ago. She broke her ankle and banged up her face some. She’ll be fine but not by Christmas Eve, so Darcy and Heather asked me if I would do it.”
“Do what?” Tom asked.
“Play Mary. Of course, I’d have to rehearse pretty much all day tomorrow, which sort of messes up helping Papa wrap his presents but—”
“I think it’s wonderful,” Norah interrupted her. “I can help Papa. It’ll be like old times—like when I was a kid.”
“Dad? Okay?”
Tom set down his cup and held out his arms to her. “It’s better than okay. It’s great,” he said.
“Cool,” Izzy said as she buried her face against Tom’s shoulder and then pushed away and headed back out onto the ice. “It’s a go,” she shouted and the teens waiting for her cheered. Izzy turned back. “Oh, and how about I walk home from here with Darcy and Heather? I mean, unless you two want to hang around.”
“Nine o’clock curfew,” Norah instructed.
“Oh, Mom,” Izzy moaned. “Nine-thirty?” she bargained, her eyes shifting to Tom.
“Nine,” Tom said firmly.
Once again Tom noticed that Norah was unusually talkative on the way home. She chattered on about everything from how great the new ice rink was for the teens in town, to how much she had always liked Darcy and Heather’s parents, to the need to pick up wrapping paper and ribbon the following morning.
“Dad always wants his gifts for Mom to be wrapped in a special way, so it’s important to give him a lot of options,” she explained as if Tom had questioned the need for more gift wrap.
It dawned on him that she was nervous. And if she was nervous, didn’t that mean that maybe she was experiencing some of the same feelings he was? Feelings that perhaps they’d been given this opportunity to take a step back and reexamine past decisions?
Past decisions? Like what?
Tom dismissed the thought as part of the nostalgia of the season and being back in the town where they’d grown up—and fallen in love. He shook off the thought and tried to concentrate on Norah’s chatter, but she had fallen silent.
“Look,” she said, her voice low as she pointed to the old Victorian house. “Somebody’s coming down the front walk.”
“That’s Keith Olsen, Darcy’s dad,” Tom said as he picked up the pace. “Keith! Tom Wallace,” he said, offering his hand.
“Hey, good to have you home,” Keith said, nodding to Norah.
“Are you thinking of buying the mayor’s house?” Norah asked, calling the property by the name given to it in its heyday.
Keith laughed. “No. I just check on it now for the bank to make sure there’s no broken pipes or vandalism.” He glanced back at the dark house. “It’s a pity it hasn’t sold. Good bones on this one,” he observed.
“Can we see it?” Tom asked. Now where had that come from? He wasn’t in the market for a house—certainly not a house in Normal, Wisconsin. “Not that I’m in the market. It’s just I’ve never been inside and it was a landmark even when we were kids.”
“Sure.” Keith handed him the key and a large flashlight. “Just lock up when you leave. You can drop the key and light off at the hardware store tomorrow—coffee’s always on.”