17

“The play is based on a Christmas book? A children’s book?” Darcy asked, before allowing another smooth sip of Finn’s hot chocolate to slide through her system.

“Sort of. My cousin writes children’s books. Specifically, Guard-Ann and Shelby books.”

“And I’m supposed to know these characters?”

“Guessing there aren’t a lot of children’s books lying around the research library.”

She shook her head. Finn outlined the characters’ story, beginning with the first book, The First True Adventure of Guard-Ann and Shelby Grace. Darcy tried to take in the elaborate backstory of Guard-Ann the guardian angel—correction snow angel—who comes to life with a fresh dusting of powder and the artful swooshing of the arms and legs of her faithful charge, Shelby. After setting the foundation, he outlined the Christmas story angle. The play was to be based on the story of a town that lost Christmas.

The town needed Shelby and Guard-Ann to rescue them by reminding the town folks of the true meaning of Christmas through the story of the Nativity. The story was clever, but her brain was struggling to follow the plot’s sticky sweetness coming from the lips of the hotty pastor.

She really needed to stop thinking about him in terms of hot quotient. She had to remember he wasn’t a man. He was a pastor. Pastors shouldn’t—as a general rule—fall into the outdoor magazine hunk-o-rama, but unfortunately Pastor Finn broke the rules.

Pastors were supposed to light holy fires—not sizzle by walking into a room. Her brain understood. Pastor equaled off lust-limits. But her heart and the fireflies in her stomach were having a hard time catching up.

“And then the whole town remembers Christmas.”

“Huh.”

“You didn’t hear a thing I said, did you?”

Hoping the heat she felt burning her cheeks wasn’t visible in the fluorescent light, she shrugged. “I’m sorry. My heart’s just not in it. I’m sure the story is nice.” Remember the cousin wrote the play. “Clever, but are you sure enough people know who these characters are? I mean, maybe we’d be better off trying something more well known. Or even just the plain old Nativity. Mary. The baby. No room at the inn. It’s a classic. Been working for pageants for, like, two thousand years. Give or take.”

He chuckled. “Well, Dr. Langston, maybe you do have a sense of humor.”

A chill raced up her spine and her neck stiffened to steel straight. “I wasn’t joking. And please don’t call me that.”

“Dr. Langston?”

She nodded. Even hearing the two words together—her identity for the last six years—formed bubbles of acid coursing through her stomach with the power of a 747.

“I don’t understand.”

Twisting away from their makeshift picnic of cocoa and cookies, she stretched her legs toward the door. “Do you think the snow’s let up? I’d really like to spend some time tonight researching how quickly I can get a proper hospital bed installed at my aunt’s. We can always figure out the play tomorrow. Maybe when Lulu’s home she can help us strategize. You must know by now how Lulu always has a strategy.”

She felt him step behind her without even a touch.

His presence was warm and welcoming, imploring her to turn. And, despite the magnetic pull, she couldn’t face his lake blue eyes with the questions that floated around unanswered.

She didn’t want to talk about why. She wasn’t able to explain to herself why the two words she responded to most, ‘doctor’ and ‘Langston’ coupled together made her want to simultaneously spew her lunch of a peanut butter sandwich and hide in a closet until late February.

Deflect.

Avoid.

Escape.

Find a new project.

Projects gave her focus, purpose, and structure. From writing a play to developing a research plan, projects had been her escape whenever life became more challenging than she could handle. In the last forty-eight hours, she’d been shoved into the biggest crisis of her life since her mother’s death. She needed a project. She thought she had the ideal outlet in Lulu.

Project “Rehab Lulu” was perfect. She could map out a plan of action with a distinct beginning, middle, and end. She understood the medical needs: proper care, therapy, and rehabilitation. But despite the clear outline she made in her head, and on a magazine subscription card while waiting during Lulu’s surgery, Darcy couldn’t seem to get her feet settled on the path. Project Rehab Lulu was perfect, but the pieces were eluding her grasp.

The Christmas play could be a small project to divert her worries, but the story didn’t make sense to her. And the lack of clarity coupled with her unending school girl fascination with her co-director was a recipe for chaos.

She needed order.

Precision.

Order and precision were how she survived her nomadic childhood, graduated magna cum laud from college and within the top ten from medical school.

Order was crucial for Darcy to keep the tender grasp on her sanity. Children’s Christmas pageants, uncertain life goals, and an unhealthy unrequited romance were not a recipe for finding structure.

She drew in a deep breath. Deep breaths. Clean minds. Clear Focus.

“Darcy?” His voice held the question his eyes would reflect. Warm paths streaked from her eyes, over her cheeks and dripped from her chin.

Breathe. Just breathe.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” The tone was more question than statement. Uncertainty from a man who was simply trying to offer human kindness. And the fireflies responded with burning delight in her belly.

“I’m fine.” Swiping her cheeks, she sighed. “That’s not true. I’ve been a far cry from fine for the better part of the last forty-eight hours.”

Leaning against the counter, he laced one arm through the other and lifted an eyebrow.

She stifled the urge to fan herself. One brow-lift and the room felt twenty degrees warmer.

Honesty. Nothing hurt more than honesty; particularly self-honesty.

“OK. Maybe, it’s been more like forty-eight months. Probably longer.” She stretched her legs and swiped his uneaten snickerdoodle cookie. Chomping a quarter of the cookie in a single bite, she paced. “I mean I thought I wanted to be a researcher.” Despite politely covering her mouth, her words spewed out with the cushion of cookie. “Research was…is a perfect sanitary life. Order. Routine. Check Lists. No messy emotions. No pediatric rotations. No dying patients. No one ever really cries over a mouse.”

Matching his pose, she leaned against the opposite counter. “But now my perfect, straight-edged life is gone. The life I fought so hard to have over the last fourteen years is over. Poof. One phone call. Done. ‘Dr. Langston it’s not us, it’s you.’”

She lifted her cloudy gaze to his. “And now what? Hundreds of thousands of dollars of education. Countless hours of research. All of it tossed in the trash with one call. What am I now? Unneeded nursemaid to my aunt? A volunteer director of a children’s Christmas program?”

“Ahem. Correction. Co-director.”

“Excuse me, Pastor Funny.”

He slid forward and met her gaze. His wide hands gently squeezed her shoulders, oozing warmth through her limbs. The intensity of his focus bored into her, twisting her heart. Salty tears tangled with the tang of the snickerdoodle on her lips. Everything in her being screamed at her to run, to get away from him before he could see who she really was.

A fraud. A pretender. A weakling. The real Darcy Langston.

And yet, the connection seemed unbreakable.

“Can you remember yourself at five years old?” he asked.

She nodded. The heat from his touch seemed to burn her tender flesh, slipping under her skin and awakening every cell in her body. His presence was like a cloak, drawing her further into him. The formation of audible words became unimaginable.

“I’m guessing five-year-old Darcy liked to play with her dolls.”

She nodded.

“She liked to tell stories. Make up scenes. Create dramas. Maybe even comedies?”

How could he know her? How was it possible to know so purely a person—a person he met only a day ago?

Finn gently stroked her shoulders. “Five-year-old Darcy had worlds only she knew.” His low murmur, ricocheted through her mind. “Worlds that were safe. Worlds that were free. Worlds where she could be exactly who she wanted to be?”

Who was this man?

A pastor? A mind-reader?

“Tell me, is being a researcher really what you wanted to be? What five-year-old Darcy wanted to be?”

Unseen ice water crashed over her head. Puffing out a breath, she spun from his grip and stomped back down the darken hallway.

The fear of the blackness shattered. Who needed light? The path ahead of her was lit with the fire of her righteous indignation. Shoving the heels of her hands against her eyes, she stemmed the tears.

Who did Finn think he was? He had no right! Trying his psych mumbo-jumbo on her. Who did five-year-old Darcy want to be? Seriously?

Who was he? What had he done with his life? A pastor? What kind of career choices had he made?

What was he doing? Huh? Hiding away in a small town. Eating lunch with little old ladies. Ha! How could he pass judgment on her? Organizing church programs and visiting the hospital wasn’t even in the same realm as discovering the cure for autoimmune diseases. Potentially, the first step to discovering the cure for cancer. He had some nerve.

Taking the stairs to the sanctuary two at a time, she pivoted toward the back of the long, lean room. With a step into the two-story space, a hush quieted the anger coursing through her being in a breath.

Eerie blues, reds and purples blanketed the stiff backed, white pews, transforming the hallowed room into a three-dimensional watercolor painting. The wide planked, wooden floors twinkled with the kaleidoscope of lights twisting through the painted glass windows depicting portraits of Mary with an infant Jesus and the Man himself walking along a dirt path with a lamb in the crook of his arm. Moving down the center aisle, she trailed her long fingers from one pew to the next. A sense of holiness quieted her spirit.

The sanctuary was big without being overwhelming. The church had several additions built in awkward angles, each vine stretching from the root of the original sanctuary.

In elementary school, she and Ben joined in Bible School each summer. The final program always included a song and dance by the students in the sanctuary. The memories of those laughter filled days helped to fuel her faith throughout her vagabond childhood and teen years.

As an adult, she’d attended worship with Lulu on Easters and the occasional Sunday. She never once questioned the Holy Spirit’s presence in this place. She often felt the Spirit through the voices of the friendly parishioners and easy welcome of community in the four walls, but in the stillness of the snow-covered night, Darcy believed she could stretch her hand forward and touch the Spirit, His presence was so thick.

Lowering onto the nearest pew, she sucked in a deep breath, focusing her gaze on the solitary cross hanging above the altar. The wood was knotted with enough rough edges to rival the original. Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, she drew her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her shins.

“Father, I don’t know what to do. Please help me.” The tears she tried to stifle flooded her vision.