A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology (12 page)

Wanda fumbled with the flap of the envelope.
“Rip up all the ones of me hula dancing,” Gwen instructed, tapping
the table with a fingernail tinted to match her skirt. “They make
me look like a forty year old.”

“So now cameras take twenty years off your
life? I should look so good!” Exasperated with the clumsiness of
her swollen knuckles, Wanda tore the package open and photographs
spilled like a deck of cards across the table.

Gwen strolled over to fill her cup from the
steaming kettle and returned, bouncing a bag of herbal tea in the
water. “Fit and Fifty won’t apply to me after my next birthday. I
plan to propose that we change the name of the club to Sexy and
Sixty.”

Lifting the lid off the rooster, she spent a
reverent moment contemplating the date bars inside. “Yum! Oh, your
clever fingers! I can’t wait to open my Christmas present and
flaunt my new Wanda original.”

The sincerity of her voice helped to ease the
hurt and suddenly Wanda found herself telling Gwen about the phone
call, her chin trembling as she repeated the cruel words that
threatened to take the joy out of Christmas.

“And you with a freezer brimming with cookies
and rolls.” Gwen laughed, a full throated chuckle which had the
same effect on the men of the Fit and Fifty as the scent of apple
blossoms on honey bees. “Did you whip up a batch of your chocolate
chip and pecan specials?”

Wanda found herself grinning back. “Three
dozen.”

Gwen scooped up two date bars and waved them
under her nose with a blissful smile. “You bake like an angel
kissed your fingertips, Wanda. Don’t surrender a crumb of those
cookies to that greedy little witch or I’ll bounce you from the
club!”

Wanda’s smile faded. “How do you wrap money?”
She shuffled through the photographs without seeing any of the
colorfully costumed subjects. “I want my family to know that I love
them.”

“Give each of the kids a small savings bond
and stiff Allyson and David,” Gwen advised. “On second thought,
give your son that bowling shirt you showed me. I’ll bet the idea
of David hobnobbing with the peasants down at the bowling alley
drives your dear daughter-in-law up the wall!”

“But I want Jenny to have the skirt.” A tear
escaped from the hidden spring of hurt welling inside Wanda’s soul
and trickled down her cheek.

Gwen sobered. “That skirt is stunning. My
granddaughter gets her clothes at an exclusive boutique and I’d
stack up your designs against any of the ragamuffin stuff Laura
wears. Fancy labels ae just for folks too blind to recognize
quality.”

Wanda sighed and swished the tea around in
her cup.

“Allyson’s not worth the misery, dearie.”
Gwen wrapped another date bar in a napkin and tucked it into her
purse. “I’ve got to dash. Now, don’t forget the Christmas committee
meeting has been changed to Thursday. We’re thinking of driving
down and holding our party at that orphanage in Mexico.”

She rose. “If I were any younger, I’d put one
of those little charmers on my list for Santa. You won’t worry
about this gift thing anymore, will you?”

Wanda shook her head and pretended to sip
cold tea.

That night, Wanda dreamed she was seven years
old again, her feet stumbling up the steps of a sprawling, paint
peeling farmhouse. Scalding tears blurred her vision; she wiped
away the stinging salt with the end of a pigtail. Once again, she
was dumb at spelling, too slow at recess games, and the cruel final
taunts of a classmate rang in her ears.

Her grandmother was mixing biscuit dough on
the maple harvester table in the kitchen. Wanda tried to slip past
the doorway to seek refuge in her own room, but her grandmother’s
ears were keen enough to hear a mouse sneeze in the walls.

“Is that you, child? I need another scoop
from the flour barrel—” She broke off and peered at her
granddaughter. “Tears, Wanda? Are you ailing?”

Wanda sniffled without replying. Then,
without warning the log jam of injured pride, anger, and grief
broke free and the pent-up misery spilled forth. Between gulping
sobs, she confessed to fleeing her tormentors. “Why did Mommy and
Daddy have to die? I hate being an orphan!”

From experience, she knew that although her
grandmother was generous with food and the assignment of chores,
she dished out neither compliments nor sympathy with a lavish hand.
Wanda was stunned into silence when the older woman led her into
the parlor to the rocking chair and lifted her onto her lap, just
as if she weighed no more than a babe.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the
creak of the rocker against the hardwood floor and the whistle of a
mocking bird in the elm tree outside the window.

“You’re my flesh and blood, Wanda,” her
grandmother began. “Didn’t I make you this dress?”

Ducking her head, Wanda whispered assent and
pleated the striped fabric of the skirt with her fingers.

The matter-of-fact voice continued. “As I
sewed, I dwelt continually on how blessed we are to have you here.
Whenever the other youngsters cut you with words, slip your hand
into your pocket and grab a handful of the feeling put inside with
each stitch. You might be the only one in your class with a
pocketful of love.”

Wanda opened her eyes. The sun drenched
parlor, the smooth arm of the rocking chair against her back, and
the yeasty scent of biscuit dough had vanished into the past, along
with the gruff voice of her grandmother. She was in the present,
trapped in a tiny apartment where the drip of the bathroom faucet
competed with blaring music from a passing car.

Her knees throbbed. Wanda twisted the blanket
and thought of Jenny. Too tall, afflicted with braces and flyaway
hair Jenny. Jenny, whose mother believed that the proper
application of eye shadow and the name of a ‘hot’ designer on the
fanny of a pair of jeans guaranteed popularity.

Wanda sat up, switched on the lamp, and swung
her painfully stiff leg over the side of the bed. The skirt was a
warm puddle of color against the dark wood of the work table.
Glancing down, she saw that one of her fists was stuffed into the
pocket of her nightdress. By next year, her fingers might be too
stiff for fancy sewing—and Jenny needed her now.

Knotting the cord of her dressing gown, Wanda
limped into the kitchen to make her third pot of tea.

* * * *

Three weeks later, the sounds of a fiesta
filled the air; shrieks of ecstatic children vied with the
strumming of a guitar and strident horns.

Gwen plopped down on the bench beside Wanda
and brushed strands of glittering tinsel off her shoulders. “Best
party ever! Did you see those little rascals pelt me with this
stuff?”

“Maybe it’s that hint of green in your new
hair dye that confused them. They thought you were a tree.”

Gwen snorted and nudged her friend. “You
sound pretty chipper for a woman who’s giving savings bonds and a
bowling shirt this year. Anyway, I’ve got a warm, tingly feeling
from watching the little tykes have so much fun.”

My doctor calls that sensation poor
circulation,” Wanda retorted with a grin.

They watched the merriment in companionable
silence, moving only to pull their feet out of danger as kids
hurtled past, grimy fingers clutching gift flashlights, which
served as laser guns and chocolate-smeared mouths supplying graphic
sound effects.

A woman whose face was worn from years of
struggling to nurture the children in her care stepped forward to
caution the boys to behave, but her smile as she stroked the
evening cape woven with silver threads cradling her shoulders
outshone the star at the top of the tree in the center of the
room.

Wanda beamed back, her thoughts drifting to a
skirt wrapped in gaily patterned Christmas paper, a skirt
containing a designer label snipped from a dress belonging to
Gwen’s granddaughter. The outside of the skirt pocket was
embroidered with daisies and inside was the special Braille message
of the thread bumps that Wanda would interpret for Jenny when they
were alone together.

At her side, Gwen stiffened. “Is that Tom
Turner doing the Mexican hat dance? He’s too old for such
foolishness.” Springing to her feet, she stalked away, intent on
rebuking such folly.

Carlos, seated on Wanda’s lap, giggled. Wanda
laughed with him, hugging the dark-eyed two-year-old close before
brushing the crumbs of a chocolate chip and pecan cookie off the
yellow duckling embroidered on his undershirt.

THE END

About the Author

Lori Ness
wrote her first novel when she ran out of books that she liked to
read.
Rosemary for Remembrance
, published by Harper
Paperbacks under the pseudonym
Christine Arness
, was
nominated for a Romantic Times Award for Best Contemporary Romantic
Novel. Her second book,
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes
, was
a hardcover published by Five Star. Lori has also published
numerous articles, short stories, newspaper articles and
essays.

www.christinearness.com

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Books

Fairy Christmas, Darling

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