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"Mommy?"
Christine's young voice broke in on Dara's thoughts. She put down her one and only Romance book; the favorite she'd had since she was sixteen, and the only one she'd decided not to put out at the yard sale the previous week. "What is it, sweetie?"
"Why we don't gots a real tree for Chribmas?"
She set the tattered old book aside. "Come sit by me." She patted the couch and tucked her chenille robe closer around her.
One an arm around Matilda, her cloth doll, Christine climbed up beside her and cuddled up closer.
Poor Matilda's going to need stuffing before long. Her head flopped forward, face against her flat chest. When did the lace on her dress get so ragged?
Dara put an arm around her daughter. "Remember when Daddy went home to heaven before Christmas last year?"
Christine knuckled her eyes and yawned. "I 'member."
"And then Mommy got hurt in the car accident and couldn't go to work?"
"Uh huh."
Dara took a deep breath. "Well, it meant that there was no money for a real tree this year. But I'm sure Santa will still bring you presents." Gifts Dara bought by selling her entire collection of romance novels at a yard sale at her friend Sherilyn's house. "And we drew a tree, right?" She pointed at the crayon-bright drawing taped to the wall. Construction paper ornaments decorated each branch.
"But it doesn't smell like a Chribmas tree."
Dara hugged her. "I know, baby. I know."
"How will Santa leave his presents?" Christine pulled away and got on her knees. "How he's gonna put them under the tree? He always leaved them under the tree before, Mommy."
"Oh, honey!" She ruffled her daughter's hair, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Santa always finds a way." She leaned forward and kissed her little girl. "We should get you in bed so he can come. He can't leave any presents while you're still awake."
She followed her daughter into her room, got her tucked into bed and sat beside her, stroking her golden hair. Christine gazed up at her from under thick dark lashes. Her deep-blue eyes never failed to remind Dara of her late husband.
Jack had been her high school sweetheart. Tonight marked three hundred and seventy-five days since the accident that claimed his life. Neither she nor Jack had family other than each other. His coworkers knew, and they'd helped that first year, bless them. Christmas had been only ten days after his senseless death. The end of the year had been filled with tears and anger. Tears of loneliness, of fear for the future, of raising her daughter without Jack at her side. Anger at everything and everyone. At his company for making him go on the trip that caused his death. At Jack for insisting on going away right before Christmas and not coming back until Christmas Eve. They'd argued and he'd slammed the door when he left.
But then he'd stopped the car halfway down the drive and had come back inside to kiss her and tell her he regretted having to go, but he had to, and that he'd be back soon. They'd shared a long, cherishing kiss and she'd waved until he was out of sight. Six hours later, his plane went down over the Gulf of Mexico in a freak storm. All on board were lost.
Guilt and doubt set in with the New Year. Things she should have said, should have done. Why had she let him go? Why had God allowed her child to grow up without a father?
Her friend Sherilyn had walked through it all at her side, helping her get a job, watching Christine, being there when all Dara needed was to cry. This year, the company had forgotten Jack and the family he left behind. So much for: "The Company with Families at Heart." Jack's insurance had paid off the house, and there was enough money to survive for a few months. While she was looking for a job, she'd sold furniture, her good silver, and pawned all her jewelry, except her wedding ring.
Dara rubbed her face with both hands, willing herself to hold on for her daughter's sake. To be strong. To be both mother and father. Women had done it for centuries. They'd survived. So would she.
... and a miracle was on its way.
