Magic Hour

  “So I’m a bigmouth?”

  Julia smiled. “Yes. And I’m ladylike.”

  They walked on.

  “So,” Julia finally said, trying to sound casual. “I hear the gossip mill is in high gear on Max and me.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up. What’s the story with you two?”

  “I don’t know,” Julia answered truthfully. “There’s . . . something between us.”

  Ellie turned to her. “I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “Yeah,” Julia said quietly. “I’ve had the same thought myself.”

  In front of the Catholic church, Alice came to a stop. She pointed at the brightly lit manger scene set up on the yard. “Prittee.”

  Then the bells of the church pealed.

  Ellie looked at Julia. “The service should have been out an hour ago. I called Father James myself—”

  Before she’d finished the sentence, the double doors banged open and the parishioners came pouring out of St. Mark’s in a rushing, chattering river of humanity. There were people everywhere, moving right at them, surging down the stairs.

  Alice screamed and yanked her hand free to cover her ears.

  Julia heard the scream, then a desperate howl. She turned toward Alice.

  “It’s okay, honey. Don’t be—”

  Alice was gone, lost in the sea of faces and bodies.

  TWENTY

  THERE ARE ONLY STRANGERS AROUND GIRL; LAUGHING, TALKING, singing strangers. She stumbles sideways, almost falls.

  Jewlee promised, she thinks.

  But it doesn’t surprise her, even though she can feel a ripping in her chest and a swelling in her throat.

  There is something wrong with Girl. Something Bad. It has always been that way. Him told her that all the time. Why had she let herself forget? Even worse, she’d let herself believe in Jewlee and now Girl is afraid again. This time there are people everywhere instead of nowhere, but this makes no difference. Some words she knows now. Lost is lost; it’s when you want someone to hold you but there is no one who can. Lost is alone, even when people are all around you.

  She pushes through the crowd of Strangers. Any one of them could hurt her. Her heart is beating so hard and fast it makes her dizzy. They are reaching for her, trying to pull her back.

  She runs until the sound of voices is funny and far away, like the roar of water in the falls at her beloved river when the snow begins to melt.

  She stares out past this place called town. Her trees are there, dark now, and pointy against the sky. They would welcome her again; she knows this. She could follow the river to her cave and live there again.

  Cold.

  Hungry.

  Alone.

  Even Wolf is gone from her.

  She would be too alone out there.

  Now that she has known Jewlee and Lellie how can she go back to the nothing? She will miss being held, miss hearing the pretty story about the rabbit who wants to be real. Girl knows about that: wanting to be real.

  That ache in her chest is back. It is like swelling up; she hopes her bones will not crack from it. A strange tightness squeezes her throat. She feels this all from far away, and wonders if finally her eyes will leak. She wants them to. It will make the hurt in her chest ease.

  Then she sees the tree.

  It is where she first hid in this place. Trees have always protected her. She runs to her tree and climbs up, higher and higher, until an old, bare limb cradles her.

  She tries not to think about how much different—better—it felt to be held by Jewlee.

  No. Leave. Girl.

  She wishes she’d never believed in that promise.

  JULIA SPUN AROUND, SEARCHING EVERY FACE, REACHING OUT. ALL around her people kept moving, laughing, talking, singing Christmas carols. She wanted to scream at them to shut up, to please please help her find this one little girl. Their voices were a white noise that roared in her head.

  “What happened?” Ellie said, shaking Julia’s shoulders to get her attention.

  “She’s gone.” Julia almost started to cry. “One minute she was here, holding my hand . . . then the church let out and there were people everywhere. It must have terrified her. She ran away.”

  “Okay. Don’t move. You hear me?”

  Julia had trouble hearing it, actually. Her heart was pounding. All she could think about was earlier tonight, when Alice had been so afraid to get in the car and even more afraid to be strapped into the booster seat. But she’d done it. That brave, bruised child had let herself be bound and looked up at her through those sad eyes and said: No leave girl?

  She had promised, sworn, not to leave Alice alone. Julia pushed through the crowd, yelling for Alice, searching every face. She knew she looked like a madwoman but she didn’t care.

  A breeze blew in, skudded leaves down the street and across the grass. It smelled vaguely of the not-so-distant ocean; she had no doubt that if she drew in a lungful, it would taste like tears. She stopped, trying to quell her rising panic. Now she heard Ellie yelling for Alice, too, saw flashlight beams cut through the park.

  Think. What would bring Alice out?

  It came to her suddenly. Music. Alice spent hours standing by the speakers, listening to music. She loved dozens of songs—whole Disney soundtracks. But of all the songs she listened to, one was clearly her favorite.

  Julia took a deep breath and began to sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

  She walked all around the empty park, singing.

  “‘. . . how I wonder where you are . . .’”

  A bird warbled its own song. For a moment Julia didn’t notice. Then it struck her that the birdsong matched her voice.

  “Alice?” she whispered.

  “Jewlee?”

  Julia’s knees buckled. She looked up into the bare branches of the maple tree. Alice was there, looking down, her face pale with fear and lined by worry, she said, “No leave?”

  “Oh, honey . . . no leave.”

  Alice jumped down from her perch in the maple tree.

  Julia scooped Alice into her arms and held her tightly. She felt the little girl tremble and knew how scared she’d been.

  Julia pulled back. “I’m sorry, Alice.”

  A trembling smile formed on her face. “Stay?”

  “Yes, honey. I’ll stay.”

  Alice touched Julia’s face, wiped her tears. “No water,” she said, sounding worried.

  “Those are just tears, Alice. Tears. And they mean I love you.”

  Ellie walked up just then and squatted down beside them. “There’s our girl,” she said with a sigh.

  Julia looked up at her sister through a blur of tears. “What’s the local lawyer’s name?”

  “John MacDonald. Why?”

  “I want to start adoption proceedings the day after Christmas.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Julia pulled Alice against her even more tightly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  BY NOON ON CHRISTMAS DAY MAX HAD BEEN TO THE HOSPITAL TO VISIT his patients and the few children on the ward; he’d also ridden his bicycle fifteen miles, dropped off a donation at the Catholic church, and called every member of his family.

  Now he stood in his quiet living room, staring out at the gray-washed lake. It was raining so hard that the entire backyard looked colorless; even the trees.

  He should have put up a Christmas tree. Maybe that would have helped his mood, although he couldn’t imagine why it would. He hadn’t bought a tree in seven years.

  He went to the sofa and sat down, but he knew instantly that it was a mistake. Ghosts and memories crowded in on him. He saw his mother sitting on her favorite chair, studying bugs through a magnifying glass . . . and his dad, sleeping on his Barcalounger, with a hand pressed to his wrinkled cheek . . . and Susan, knitting a pale blue blanket. . . .

  He picked up the phone and called the hospital. “It’s quiet here,” he was told. “Don’t come i
n.”

  Hanging up, he got to his feet. He couldn’t just sit here, remembering other Christmases. He needed to do something. Go somewhere. Climb a mountain, maybe, or—

  See Julia.

  That was all it took: the thought of her, and he was in motion.

  He got dressed, jumped in his truck, and drove to her house. Even though he knew he was being an idiot, he couldn’t help himself. He had to see her.

  He knocked.

  Julia was laughing as she answered the door, saying something. When she saw him, her smile faded. “Oh. I thought you were going to L.A. for Christmas.”

  “I stayed,” he said softly. “If you’re busy—”

  “Of course not. Come in. Would you like a drink? We have some hot buttered rum that’s pretty good.”

  “That would be great.”

  She led him into the living room, then headed for the kitchen. Her gap-toothed little shadow matched her step for step. They looked almost conjoined.

  A gorgeous, beautifully decorated Christmas tree dominated the corner of the room.

  A rush of memories hit him.

  Come on, Dan-the-man, let’s put up the star for Mommy.

  He turned his back on the tree and sat down on the hearth. A fire crackled behind him, warmed his back. He wouldn’t be able to sit here for long, but at least he wasn’t facing the tree. A coil of sleeping dogs lay at his feet.

  “Well, well, well.”

  At the sound of Ellie’s voice, he looked up. She stood behind the sofa with her hands on her hips. “It’s nice to see you again, Max.”

  “You, too, El.”

  She came around the sofa and sat down beside him. “You know what I hear?”

  “Trevor McAulley is drinking again?”

  “Old news.” She looked at him. There was no smile left. This was her cop’s face. “I hear you took my sister to the movies.”

  “That come across the police scanner?”

  “I didn’t say anything at Thanksgiving, it being a holiday and all, but . . .” Ellie leaned toward him. She got so close he could feel her breath on his neck. “Hurt her and I’ll cut your nuts off.” She eased back, smiling again. “And you like your nuts.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Then we understand each other. Good. I’m glad we had this little heart-to-heart.”

  “What if—”

  Ellie frowned. “What if what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Julia and Alice returned.

  Ellie immediately stood. “I’m going to Cal’s. You two be good.” She picked up a box of packages and left the house.

  Julia handed Max a cup.

  They sat down side by side on the sofa. Neither said anything. Alice knelt at Julia’s feet. She grunted at Julia and smacked the book in her lap.

  “Use your words, Alice,” Julia said calmly.

  “Read. Girl.”

  “Not now. I’m talking to Dr. Max.”

  “Now.” Alice hit the book again.

  “No. Later.”

  “Peas?”

  Julia smiled gently and touched Alice’s head. “In a little while, okay?”

  Alice’s whole body slumped in disappointment. She popped a thumb in her mouth and started turning the pages.

  Julia turned to him then.

  “You’re amazing,” he said softly.

  “Thanks.”

  He heard the throatiness in her voice and knew how much his compliment meant to her.

  She was close enough to kiss him right now, and he wanted her to.

  He moved away from her slightly, as if distance could provide protection.

  She noticed the movement. Of course she did.

  “What happened to you, Max?”

  He should have been surprised by the question, but he wasn’t. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does.”

  He was near enough now to see the tiny mole on her throat. Her cinnamon-scented breath fluttered against his chin. “Love,” he said simply.

  “Yeah,” she said at last. “It’ll knock the shit out of you, that’s for sure. Why didn’t you go home for Christmas?”

  “You.”

  Her gaze searched his, as if looking deep for answers. She gave him a sad, knowing smile, and he wondered what it was she thought she knew. “How about a game of cards, Max?” she finally said.

  “Cards?” He couldn’t help laughing.

  She smiled. “It’s one of those things a man and a woman can do out of bed.”

  “No wonder I’m confused.”

  She laughed. “Go get the cards, Alice.”

  Alice looked up. “Jewlee win?”

  “That’s right, honey. Jewlee’s gonna kick Dr. Max’s ass.”

  FOR THE FIRST CHRISTMAS IN RECENT MEMORY THIS HOUSE HAD BECOME a home again. There was nothing like a child to make Christmas a gala event. Not that Alice had understood it, of course.

  Ellie and Julia had both wakened at the crack of dawn and encouraged their sleepy girl to go downstairs.

  The presents had been unwrapped in the morning one at a time—according to family tradition—and then carefully restacked under the tree. Except for Alice’s. She loved her packages, had carried them around all day and hugged them to her narrow little chest. Any attempts at unwrapping them had led to hysterics.

  So the toys inside remained hidden. The packages themselves were her gifts.

  In truth, Ellie hated to leave, but going to see Cal on Christmas was one of her few traditions. She’d never missed a year. That was how things were done in Rain Valley. Neighbors visited each other on holidays, usually staying just long enough to share a glass of wine or a mug of hot chocolate. For all his childhood, Cal had come to the Cates’ house for Christmas, where he’d found a stocking with his name on it tacked to the mantel and a pile of gifts under the tree. No one ever said why it was that way, but each of them knew. For Cal, who had lived alone with his wreck of a dad, Christmas only came to other addresses.

  That tradition had remained in place for as long as Brenda and Big Tom Cates were alive. Year after year Cal bundled up his wife and daughters and brought them across the field and over the river for dinner. Even after Ellie’s mom died and the tradition began to weaken, Cal kept Christmas and the Cates together in his mind.

  When Dad died, a subtle shift had begun. For a few years Cal and Lisa had invited Ellie for dinner at their house. They’d tried to form a new tradition, but nothing quite jelled. Lisa cooked the “wrong” foods and put on the “wrong” music. It no longer felt like Christmas to Ellie; she was an outsider somehow.

  This year there had been no invitation at all. No doubt Cal assumed that she and Julia and Alice were a new Cates family and wanted to be alone. But she knew that without Lisa he would be having a rough time of it.

  She packed up their presents in a pretty silver Nordstrom’s bag, and headed down the driveway. On either side of her, magnificent fir and cedar trees grew tall and straight; their green tips plunged into the swollen gray belly of the sky. Although the rain had stopped, drops still fell from leaves and branches and eaves, creating a steady drip-drip-drip that matched her footsteps. There were the other sounds of the forest, too. Water rushing, needles rustling, squirrels scurrying across branches, mice running for cover. Every now and then a crow cawed or an owl hooted.

  These sounds were as familiar to her as the crackling of a fire in the fireplace. Without a worry she turned onto the path and walked into the woods.

  There was no way to calculate the number of times she’d crossed this bridge or walked from one house to the other. Enough so that nothing ever grew up in the path. Even in recent years, when cars and telephones were more common than walking to the neighbor’s house, nothing ever grew up to hide the way.

  She followed the beaten and stunted grass around the orchard and through the vegetable garden, past the old pond that used to be their childhood fishing hole. As she pushed through the cattails and heard her boots squish in the soggy grou
nd, she heard a long-forgotten echo of their childish laughter.

  There’s a snake in the water, Cal—get out!

  That’s just an ol’ twig. You need glasses.

  You’re the one who needs glasses—

  She remembered their laughter . . . the way they’d sit on that muddy bank for hours, talking about nothing.

  She followed the path back around the bend, and there was the house. For a second she expected it to look as it once had: a slant-sided shack with fake shingles; shutters hanging askew on cracked, dirty windows; a battalion of snarling pit bulls chained in the yard.

  She blinked and the memory moved on. She was staring at the house Cal had built by himself, in the years after junior college and before marrying Lisa. He’d worked for a construction company back then. After a forty-five-hour workweek he’d piled on the extra hours at his own house, literally building the place around his drunken, useless father.

  It was a small house that seemed to have sprouted outward, growing in a collection of sharp angles and awkward slants. Rooms had been added on as money came in, without real rhyme or reason. Cal had poured his energy into the place, trying to build for his family the home he’d never had. The end result was a quaint shingled cabin set on a patch of velvet green grass, surrounded by two-hundred-year-old evergreens.

  As always, the holiday lights and decorations were world-class. Ellie always figured he went overboard to make up for all the years there hadn’t even been a tree in the living room.

  The porch was studded with white lights; the railings were festooned with boughs. A giant homemade wreath decorated the front door.

  Ellie expected to hear music seeping through the walls, but it was oddly still. For a second she wondered if they were home. She glanced behind her and saw Cal’s baby—the 1969 GTO he’d restored to perfection.

  She knocked on the door. When no one answered, she tried again.

  Finally she heard a thunder of footsteps.

  The door wrenched open and Cal’s daughters stood there, huddled together, smiling brightly. Amanda, the eleven-and-a-half-year-old, looked impossibly grown-up in her low-rise jeans and studded silver belt and pink tee shirt. Her long black hair had been coiled into the haphazard braid that could only be made by a father’s clumsy hands. Nine-year-old Emily was dressed in a green velvet dress that was at least a size too big, and eight-year-old Sarah—the only child to have inherited her mother’s strawberry-blond hair and freckled complexion—hadn’t bothered to change out of her Princess Fiona pajamas.