A Family Christmas

CHAPTER ONE

THE WOMAN WAS THERE AGAIN, sitting cross-legged in the grass at the edge of the high-school sports field. At a distance, so that she might have been passed off as a loiterer, not an observer. But Evan Grant had been keeping his eye on her for many months—ever since the previous basketball season.

She was called Wild Rose.

And she was watching. Always watching.

Evan ambled past the long-jump pit. Two boys were stalling nearby, tightening the laces on their running shoes. He stopped to get them up and running. With loud groans, they joined the team members who were already jogging around the track that circled the field.

Evan was in sweatpants and sneakers himself, so he followed the group for half a lap, hectoring them like a drill sergeant until they were moving at a faster clip. The boys showered him with a chorus of complaints. They’d rather be in the gym, shooting baskets.

Calling encouragement to the stragglers, Evan peeled off at a jog and gradually slowed to a stop. He was now near the watcher, within speaking distance.

He didn’t look directly at her. He surveyed the field. It was early September, the weather was warm and the new school year had just begun, but already some of the trees showed tinges of rusty color. His basketball team was not in top shape after a lazy summer. But this was only their first practice and before fall had really arrived he’d have built up their endurance.

In Evan’s peripheral vision, the woman called Wild Rose hunched over a sketch pad. Disheveled hair as black as a crow’s wing blew across her face. Her hands made quick, furtive movements. Slashes of the pencil, a scrub with the eraser, nervous fingers brushing aside crumbs that reminded him of the strawberry-flecked crusts his pouting daughter had crushed into her eggs that morning.

He drew closer. You’re Rose Robbin.

The name was odd. It brought to mind storybook illustrations—a mother robin in a kerchief, plump with feathers, brooding over a nest—accompanied by bouncy lyrics about bob-bob-bobbin’ in the springtime.

At his voice, Rose bolted like a thoroughbred at the starting gate, but she didn’t go far. Guilt was stamped across her face.

The guilt was what bothered Evan.

He was responsible for these kids. While he couldn’t imagine the woman approaching any of them, she did have a certain reputation, so the question remained.

What interest did she have here?

He might have asked that outright, except there was a hint of vulnerability in her expression that made him want to treat her gently.

Rose flung back her head. Storm-cloud-blue eyes glared beneath the swoop of dark hair she impatiently pushed aside. Yeah, I’m Rose Robbin. So what?

Evan squinted. Being of fair mind, he’d tried to overlook what townspeople said about her. But there was no denying she was one of the hardscrabble Robbin family—supposed tough nuts and bad characters, all of them. She could handle herself. Perhaps he’d imagined the vulnerability out of a penchant for helping others—wounded females especially.

You’re interested in athletics? he said.

Her mouth pulled into a sour pucker. Not much.

Oh. I’ve been counting you as one of our biggest fans.

She shook her head. Don’t think so.

You went to all the home games last year.

After a hesitation, she shrugged. Not much else to do in Alouette, is there?

Evan scratched behind his ear. He’d been living in the small northern town on the shore of Lake Superior for nearly three years and had never been bothered by the remote location and lack of city-style amenities. The unspoiled countryside offered a wealth of activity—hunting, fishing, biking, hiking, skiing, swimming. I seem to think of plenty to do.

Bravo for you.

The stonewalling didn’t exasperate Evan. Even though Rose must be in her early thirties, she wasn’t so different from a sulky adolescent who had to show how little she cared before she could allow herself to soften. In his years as a teacher and coach, he’d had plenty of practice at probing beneath the veneer of stubborn independence. With teenagers, the trick was not to come on too strong—at first.

But this was an adult woman and he only needed answers, not involvement.

He cleared his throat. Then it’s coincidence that you’re here at our first team practice of the season?

Rose held the sketchbook to her chest beneath crossed arms. Yeah, she snapped, still belligerent even though her quick indrawn breath told him there was more to her being there.

Not what he wanted to discover.

It’s a free country, she added.

He held up his palms. Sure.

She glowered.

You’re an artist?

Her arms tightened on the sketchpad. No.

He said nothing, but raised an eyebrow. That usually worked.

She tossed her hair again. I’m a clerk at the Buck Stop, as if you didn’t know. Alouette was small—most faces were familiar, even if there’d been no formal introduction.

Of course. The Buck Stop was a run-down convenience store a couple miles outside of town. Evan had stopped there now and then for gas, but it wasn’t a particularly welcoming place. Not unlike Rose. That wouldn’t stop you from being an artist.

She gave a grudging hitch of one shoulder. I draw a little.

Can I see?

She shook her head.

Why not? He wondered what she drew. Figures, perhaps. She might be using his team as unknowing models. That was all right, he supposed. If potentially creepy.

My drawings are none of your business.

As long as you don’t bother my team.

Her eyes darkened. Color stained her cheeks. Are you accusing me?

No. Warning you, maybe.

I haven’t done anything wrong!

I realize that. I didn’t mean to insinuate— He made a conciliatory gesture, stepping toward her.

She backed away one step. Yes, you did mean to insinuate.

Caught. He moved forward again. Maybe so. But I’m sorry if that seemed insulting—

It was. Another step back.

If his arms had been around her, they’d have been dancing.

He tried again. Look, all I wanted was to be sure that your interest in my team wasn’t—uhh—

Her eyes shot sparks. Wasn’t what?

Improper.

She snorted. Obviously you have no idea who I am. Do I look like a proper lady? She glanced down to indicate her flannel shirt, bleached, frayed jeans and chunky sandals with worn-down soles.

Her toenails weren’t painted. But they were clean. Small enough to appear delicate. Almost…provocative.

What she was, Evan thought as he quickly returned his gaze to her hard face, was a curious character. He knew very little about her, but she appeared to be a solitary soul who existed on the fringes of Alouette society. If she had friends—or boyfriends—it wasn’t in public. In private might be another matter. Some men smirked at the mention of her name. Evan wouldn’t normally jump to conclusions based on town gossip, but with her surly, unapproachable personality she gave no other evidence to go on.

You know what I mean, he said.

Her chin lifted. Uh-huh. Well, you have nothing to worry about. I’ve never spoken to any of your players unless they’ve come into the Buck Stop to try and cadge a beer. Her gaze darted over the ragged clutch of boys jogging around the track. I couldn’t care less about them.

Then why are you here? And why did she come to every basketball game and sit at the top of the bleachers, tucked into a little knot with her arms hugging her knees and her eyes fixed on the court, rarely speaking to the other fans, never letting out a cheer that he’d noticed?

No reason, she said.

Fine.

Then stay off my back. She frowned. And I’ll… The edge in her voice softened as she moved farther away. I’ll cause no trouble.

He was within his rights to tell her to stay off school property altogether, but he didn’t think that was necessary. It wouldn’t surprise him if she ran off like a wild creature of the woods and never came around again.

What did surprise him was that he cared. Just a bit.

Good reason to back off. He didn’t need complications in his life just now. Already to his credit was one mistaken marriage that had lasted only because he’d hung on until he was exhausted, various friends and students whose problems had become his own, and especially his own troubled daughter who needed more than he had to give.

Enough, already.

Wild Rose Robbin was one paradox that he would leave on her own without trying to solve. She could, after all, take care of herself. Right?

You’re welcome to attend any of our games, he said as she strode away.

She flipped a hand in token acknowledgment, but didn’t bother to reply. Or say goodbye.

Evan returned his attention to the straggling runners. The woman had no social graces, but for once that wasn’t his problem.

AFTER THE HUMILIATING INCIDENT with the coach, Rose had every intention of staying away. She couldn’t blame the guy for calling her on the frequent appearances. Had to look weird, her hanging around basketball practice like a groupie.

She tried to stop. Her life became work, eat, work, sleep. Mornings were spent on paperwork and upkeep at the rental cabins her mother owned—Maxine’s Cottages, thirty bucks per night—afternoons and evenings at the Buck Stop. When Rose couldn’t bear to wash another sheet or sell another pack of cigarettes, she escaped to the woods with her sketchbook and watercolors for a few stolen hours.

The days continued warm, clear and bright—Indian summer. Rose knew she should be enjoying every drop of sunshine before the long winter came. Too often autumn rains shortened the season.

She managed to keep away for a week. After all, for most of the summer she’d had only glimpses of Danny—at the car wash, biking along Vine Street, hanging with his friends at the Berry Dairy ice-cream stand. She told herself that she should be able to wait another month for the basketball season to begin, when she could watch him to her heart’s content. No one but the coach would notice her at the games.

Except Danny’s adoptive parents—who had far more reason than the coach to be suspicious of her motives.

The thought of them asking her to keep away from their son sent a shiver through Rose. She had made no demands. No self-serving explanations, or attempts to meet Danny. No contact at all, even when they’d reluctantly approached her. She only wanted to see him from a distance now and then and know that he was happy.

Rose despised the skulking, but she was used to it. She’d been raised to skulk. Her father, Black Jack Robbin, had been a dominant personality with a loud voice and a mean streak. Her two rowdy older brothers and shrill, fractious mother had taken the household noise level even higher, making Rose the silent, forgotten one of the family. Until she’d grown up, fallen in love and all the troubles had begun….

Escape, Rose thought as she worked her way through the trees that ringed the school field. She’d done it once before. But in the end it hadn’t worked. She’d never stopped remembering. And now she was back home, freed of her father but just as stuck with her mother. The one light in her life was being able to see Danny—

What are you doing? said a small voice.

Rose let go of the branch she’d been bending out of the way so she could scan the track. It snapped back, into her face, swatting her in the eye.

Ouch. She pressed the heel of her palm against her stinging eyeball.

The small blond child who’d startled Rose came closer to stare up at her. Say zipperzap.

What?

The girl smiled slightly. Saying ‘zipperzap’ makes it stop hurting.

Oh, I want to stop hurting. Tears were leaking down her cheek. She rubbed at her eye.

I say it all the time, the girl encouraged.

Does it work?

Her face puckered doubtfully.

Rose blurted, Zipperzap.

Better?

Yeah. She blinked the tears away. It worked.

Princess Ella Umbrella Pumpkinella Fantabuzella says zipperzap to make her wishes come true.

Rose didn’t get children. Uh. Sure.

The girl came closer, stepping off the mown field into the underbrush. It’s a very good story. You should read it.

Maybe I will.

The liberry has all the Princess Ella books. The girl stared. You go to the liberry?

Yeah, I do.

I saw you there. But I’m not allowed to talk to strangers. The girl came closer, though she stayed on the other side of the sapling that had struck Rose. She was thin and pale and seemed very delicate, almost weightless. An unzipped pink windbreaker flapped on her small body and her pants had cartoon characters on them. She wore frilled anklets under her pink jelly sandals. Clean, tidy and quiet. Not much like the boisterous kids who came tearing into the Buck Stop, the only type of youngsters Rose usually encountered. Families didn’t stay at Maxine’s Cottages.

My name is Rose.

The girl’s eyes were blue marbles. Lucy, she said in a whisper.

Hi, Lucy. Nice to meet you. But you’d better go back where you came from now.

My dad said I could play in the woods if I wanted.

Then I’ll go. Rose looked through the screen of yellowing poplar leaves as runners approached. The boys of the basketball team wouldn’t be running outdoors much longer. Soon all their time would be spent in the gym, where watching Danny was impossible for her.

Rose faded back. Is your father nearby? she asked Lucy.

Lucy nodded and pointed toward the open field. Coach Grant.

Of course. Rose remembered that she’d seen him with a little girl. She just hadn’t paid a lot of attention to faces or names, tending to be occupied with her own concerns whenever he was around.

Rose winced to herself. Lucy would tell Evan about her encounter with the woman in the woods. Asking the girl not to say anything would make the situation even worse.

She had come here with a cover story—the usual, sketching in the outdoors, which wasn’t even a lie. But it was best to leave immediately, even if she hadn’t managed to get a long look at Danny. She could wait. Good training for the years ahead, when she’d be plunged back into the void of no contact at all.

Sneakered feet pounded the track. Rose drew deeper into the woods. Above the heavy breathing of the laboring runners, she heard Evan Grant’s voice, urging them to keep up the pace. He was a good coach, even-tempered, disciplined, encouraging, yet still intense enough to rally the team at game time.

Where’s your mom? Rose asked Lucy after the runners had gone by. She couldn’t remember there being a Mrs. Grant at the games. A proper citizen recognized every face in small-town Alouette, but Rose kept to herself.

And skulked.

Lucy had caught at her bottom lip with a row of small white baby teeth. One gap. Her narrow shoulders sloped. My mom’s in heaven.

Rose gulped. Sorry.

Lucy’s shiny lip pooched out a little. She’s there for a very long time. Daddy says she won’t ever come back.

There was a pause between them, awkward on Rose’s side.

No, she won’t. Rose had no talent for talking to children. She hoped it was okay to tell the girl the truth. My dad is in heaven, too. Most folks would say Black Jack had gone straight to hell, but even Rose knew that Lucy didn’t need to hear that particular truth.

Then he could be an angel, like my mom.

Rose smiled at the thought of Black Jack in flowing white robes. She’d never seen him wear anything but worn work clothes topped by a smelly fishing vest and hat. Soap couldn’t touch his grime. A halo was out of the question.

Lucy had followed Rose deeper into the trees. She pointed. What’s that?

My sketchbook.

I have one, too. But it’s in my backpack. I left it in the car. My baby-sitter is getting a root canal. That’s an operation on a tooth.

Oh.

Lucy’s head tilted. Do you draw nice pictures?

I guess so.

The girl exhaled expectantly, looking at Rose with her shining eyes.

Rose knelt near a fallen log so old it had gone all soft and mossy. She put her sketchbook on it and opened to the first page. Would you like to see?

Yes, please. Lucy came close, standing beside Rose as she flipped through the pages. The book contained ink drawings, pencil sketches and small watercolors of outdoor scenes. She’d made a number of detailed studies of leaves, flowers, birds, clouds. Amateur stuff.

No princesses or flying dragons to delight a child. Rose’s dreams were as mundane as her reality, but she’d captured on paper the only beauty she knew. The only goodness that was everlasting.

Pretty, Lucy said, stopping Rose at a watercolor of the climbing rose vines that blanketed one side of her little stone house. I like pink flowers.

They’re roses. The painting did have a fairy-tale quality, she realized. Misleading as that was.

Like your name.

Yes. Wild roses. They clung to the stones, somehow surviving the harsh winters to return each spring. She’d painted the cottage scene just last week, knowing the roses wouldn’t last much longer. On impulse, she tore the page from the book. Would you like to have it?

Lucy made a small sound of pleasure. Thank you very much.

Put it in your pocket so you don’t lose it. Rose helped Lucy slide the small watercolor into the kangaroo pocket of her windbreaker, thinking too late about her father’s reaction. Well, he’d have to live with it. She’d done nothing wrong.

I wish I could draw like you, Lucy said.

Keep practicing. That sounded about right, like something a wise adult would say to a child. And try this— Rose pulled a pen out of her pocket and flipped the sketchbook to a clean page. I always work from nature. She plucked a leaf from a maple sapling and laid it on the paper, then gave Lucy the pen. Trace the leaf.

Lucy dropped to her knees in the mulch. Leaning over the book with a look of utter concentration, she carefully drew around the leaf. Is that right?

That’s a tracing. But now your fingers know what to do and you can draw the leaf on your own. Rose tapped an empty space on the page. Go ahead and try it.

Lucy put the pen nib to the paper, squinting hard at the leaf.

Uh-uh. Not that way. Rose covered the leaf and the tracing with one hand. Draw it from the picture of a leaf in your head. Your fingers will know how.

Lucy was doubtful. With her small face all scrunched up, she drew a fair approximation of the leaf. She studied the lopsided sketch. It’s not as good as the other one.

It’s better. Draw another, only faster. Don’t try to be perfect. Make your pen race. Let it go all squiggly if you want.

Lucy smiled and drew a second leaf, glancing at Rose for approval.

Make more of them, she said. One on top of the other. Faster. Faster.

Lucy laughed as she drew, her ink line becoming loose and free. The first careful leaf became a scribbled pile.

There, you see? Rose showed the girl the real leaf again, green mottled with a soft rusty red. You’ve made your own kind of leaf. But you should color your drawing in. And, see, if you study the pattern of the veins—

A man’s voice interrupted them. Luce, where are you?

Lucy’s head came up. That’s my dad.

Lucy? With a crackle of branches, Evan Grant pushed through the underbrush. I heard you laughing— He saw Rose and stopped. You.

She met his eyes. Me.

A stiff nod. Hello.

Hello.

Evan said, Time to go, Lucy, in a calm voice, but he stared at Rose, his expression severe.

A blush stained her cheeks. She was furious that he’d made her feel guilty. In spite of her reputation, she was not a criminal.

Lucy went to her father, head down as she tugged at the zipper of her jacket. He put his hand on her shoulder and asked softly, Why did you run off, Luce?

You said I could play in the woods.

Evan’s gaze returned to Rose. Yes, I did. He shrugged. I didn’t expect her to do it, though.

Rose realized that he wasn’t accusing her. He was merely…surprised. Surprised at Lucy, for some reason. That put her off-kilter.

I was drawing leafs, Daddy, Lucy said. Rose showed me how!

That was kind of her. Did you say thank you?

Lucy’s solemn little face transformed into sweetness and light when she smiled. Thank you.

Rose’s voice came out so rough-hewn it might have been hacked with an ax. Err…welcome. She stood, hurriedly tucking the sketchbook under her arm. An explanation poured out of her, despite the raw throat. I was walking in the woods. Lucy came across me. It wasn’t— I didn’t intend— She gritted her teeth. Damn. Always on the defensive.

Evan shook his head, telling her he didn’t want a justification. Lucy, do you want to go on over to the car now? I’ll follow you in just a sec.

All right. The girl threw Rose another shy smile and turned away, her pale hair lifting off her neck as she reached the field and started to run.

Rose stretched her neck to see past the branches. Practice was over; the boys had departed. She tucked in her bottom lip and swallowed.

Thank you, Evan said.

Rose blinked. What for?

You made Lucy laugh. She doesn’t do that a lot.

Rose didn’t reply. She wasn’t accustomed to handling sincerity and appreciation.

Evan spoke haltingly. "Her mother