When he had to brake for a herd of whitetail deer bounding across the road, Connor Lawe knew he was home. He just hadn’t expected it to feel so good. He’d shaken the hometown dust from his heels at eighteen and hadn’t looked back. Not that there’d been much to look back at. At least from his perspective.
The changes he saw as he drove into Jackson Lake, Wisconsin were good ones, no doubt orchestrated by the small group of his classmates who’d stayed and gotten themselves elected to key positions on the city council and school board. Good for them. He hadn’t been content to let his future be restricted by the city limits of his hometown. And even if he’d been tempted to stay, his father would have had his bags packed and waiting before the punch at his graduation party hit room temperature.
Connor navigated his way through a subdivision that had replaced a stand of pines where he and some friends had once built a fort, then passed a large snow-covered sign serving as a marker for a new sports field. When he was a kid, he’d played baseball in a dirt lot next to Roscoe’s Diner.
Don’t go getting all sentimental now. You know the saying. You can’t go home again.
But there were exceptions to every rule.
A grown son—and an only child—had to come home again if his dad needed him. And it didn’t matter whether or not Robert Lawe admitted he needed him. Which was why Connor was fresh off an early morning flight at an airport with—count them—two runways, driving the only rental available, a twenty-year-old dinosaur that ground the gears as if there were a sausage factory operating under the hood.
Connor took a left turn onto Jackson Avenue, which wound a casual path through the heart of the city. The locals affectionately referred to it as The Avenue. Winter had stripped the leaves from the sugar maples lining the street, creating a living picket fence. Snow-dusted wreaths lashed to the antique street lamps reminded Connor that the upcoming holiday had given him the perfect excuse for a visit. According to the music pumping through the crackling speakers of the car radio, everyone came home for Christmas.
Like his dad was going to fall for that. Christmas hadn’t brought Connor back to Jackson Lake in twelve years, but at the moment, it was the only excuse he had and he was going to use it.
The Avenue took a gentle curve to the right and Connor’s foot tapped the brake. He knew what was ahead, but the sight of the three-story brick building still squeezed his heart with an emotion he wasn’t in the mood to analyze. The Jackson Lake News. Cornerstone of the downtown. Built at the turn of the century by the city founders—a group of rough lumberjacks with a vision for the future. His great-grandfather had been one of them.
Connor parked the car along the curb and stepped out. Snow poured over the tops of his shoes, but the avalanche over his favorite loafers didn’t compare to the avalanche of memories that crashed over him when he walked into the building.
“Can I help you?” The gray-haired receptionist sitting at a desk behind the counter glanced up at him and then did a double take. “Connor!”
Cecily Verne had been like an adoptive mother to him while he was growing up. She’d even made him a pirate costume for the fifth grade play. Connor stretched across the counter and she met him halfway. He wrapped an arm around her and felt her shoulders shake. “Hey, Cissy.”
“No one’s called me that for…” Her eyes were moist when she stepped back and studied him. “Ten years?”
“Twelve.” But who was counting? “Is he here?”
“Where else would he be?” Cecily’s eyes flashed with disapproval and she waved toward the swinging doors separating the front office from the newsroom. “He’s in a meeting with the reporters, so I guess you made it just in time.”
Connor didn’t respond to the question in her voice. Not yet, anyway. He winked at her. “I’ll take a seat in the back.”
Robert was expecting him but not until the weekend. All it had taken was one long-distance conversation with Walter Parish, his dad’s cardiologist, and Connor had called in a few more overdue vacation days. Dr. Parish, who happened to be one of Robert’s golfing buddies, hadn’t broken confidentiality but he had dropped a strong hint that Connor should stop traipsing around the world and convince Robert to slow down.
Connor figured that could only be done in person. With some duct tape and really thick rope.
He wound his way through the maze of cubicles to the conference room. The solid oak door couldn’t completely muffle his father’s familiar bellow on the other side. Connor eased the door open and slipped inside.
“It’s that time of year again, people. We’ve got a Christmas issue to put together in less than a month.”
Connor smiled as a low groan took a lap around the table. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but the readers expect it. That means everyone has to go out and find a warm, fuzzy Christmas story. Something guaranteed to bring a tear to Scrooge’s eye.”
Connor’s eyes met his dad’s across the table.
“And I mean everyone.”
This time Connor stifled a groan.
Welcome home.
Sarah Kendle had a mutiny on her hands. Fortunately, the seventh grade girls threatening to revolt were relatively harmless. Most days.
“We bake cookies for the Christmas Eve service every year. Can’t we do something different?” Jennifer Sands, the group’s unofficial spokeswoman, flopped down in one of the bowl-shaped chairs that were scattered throughout the youth room. A chorus of agreement rose from her loyal entourage.
“What do you have in mind?” Sarah asked, keeping her voice mild.
The girls exchanged looks. Just as Sarah suspected, they didn’t know what they wanted to do—they only knew what they didn’t.
“We don’t know. Just not cookies!”
Sarah knew from experience the few moments of silence that followed wouldn’t last long. Except this time it was Emma White who raised a tentative hand to get her attention.
“You said that everyone gets so busy this time of year, they forget the real meaning of Christmas. Why don’t we do something to help people remember?”
The other girls stared at Emma in astonishment. Painfully shy, Emma pitched in whenever she was asked to help but rarely expressed her opinion. Until now. Maybe that’s why the rest of the girls looked eager to embrace it.
Sarah offered up a silent prayer of thanks. The last two times she and the girls had met, lengthy wish lists and sharing plans for their Christmas vacations had dominated the conversation. Sarah had gone home both nights feeling discouraged. She wanted to make a difference in their lives. Wanted their faith to take root during these years so they could stand strong as adults. There’d been times over the past four months she’d wondered why she’d thought she could lead a tiny band of middle school girls, but now she felt a stirring of hope.
“Okay. That’s a great idea, Emma. Does anyone have any ideas how we could do that?”
For the next half hour, ideas flew back and forth while Sarah took notes on the dry erase board. She kept an eye on Emma, who’d lapsed into silence after starting the discussion. The girl sat cross-legged on the floor, her Bible in her lap, oblivious to the laughter bouncing around the room.
“What are you reading, Emma?”
The room suddenly went quiet, as if Alyssa Courtman had shouted the question instead of whispering it. Twin circles of color dotted Emma’s cheeks.
Everyone waited patiently until Emma gathered the courage to speak. “But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; He is Christ, the Lord.’”
“What are you reading that for?” Mandi Peters frowned.
Sarah felt a familiar stab of frustration. Mandi only came to church on Wednesday evenings because her mother forced her to. The preteen had made that announcement the first time they’d met. Mandi wasn’t a disruption—she was too busy penning intricate designs on the knees of her jeans or staring at the clock—but Sarah had been fervently praying she would find a way to break through some of the walls Mandi had in place.
“That’s what we want people to remember,” Emma said simply, not intimidated by Mandi’s scowl. “The good news.”
“We could take out an ad in the newspaper,” Jennifer suggested.
Sarah winced. Robert Lawe, the editor of The Jackson Lake News, published a special Christmas issue once a year because his readers expected it, but she’d heard him speak at several chamber of commerce meetings since she’d moved to Jackson Lake, where he’d unapologetically described himself as a “self-made man.” Apparently God hadn’t had anything to do with his success. She could only imagine his response to a full-page ad proclaiming the Christmas story.
“That wouldn’t work.” Mandi crossed her arms. “People wouldn’t read it.”
Jennifer, used to having immediate agreement to every idea she came up with, pouted for a second. “So what do you think we should do?”
Mandi stiffened but Alyssa, always the peacemaker, dove into the conversation. “We could say it in person.”
Jennifer’s eyebrow lifted. “You mean just walk up to someone and tell them God loves them?”
Alyssa held her ground. “Why not?”
“Like a singing telegram?” Mandi snickered. “Only without the singing and the clown suit?”
Alyssa looked offended but suddenly Emma giggled. Which started a chain reaction. Within sixty seconds, all the girls were doubled over.
An idea was beginning to form in Sarah’s mind. A crazy idea. Or maybe not…
“No clown suits.” Sarah waited until the giggling subsided a bit. “But let’s not rule out the singing part yet.”