Darlene Gardner - Wish Upon a Christmas Star

The only other time Maria had spotted a shooting star before the holidays, she’d wished for Rollerblades, and they’d appeared under the tree on Christmas morning.

What could it hurt?

She focused on the streaking light and wished with all her might.

* * *

LOGAN COLLIER LAID THE tall, bulky box containing the artificial Christmas tree against the stairs and positioned himself behind it.

“Need any help down there?” his mother called from the top of the steps.

“I’ve got it,” he answered. “I just need you to move out of the way.”

He shoved, inching the box a few steps at a time up the stairs until reaching the tile floor of the kitchen. Like the rest of the modest, two-bedroom house where his parents had lived for more than thirty years, the kitchen was big enough but just barely. It would be a tight squeeze to get the box past the table.

“Can you get it to the living room for me?” His mother was a warm, cheerful blonde who got way too into the spirit of the season. On her green sweatshirt, Santa jumped his reindeer-driven sleigh over a snowy rooftop.

Logan pushed, propelling the box across the tile floor, onto the carpeting in the living room and toward the spot where his mother always set up the tree. He’d been surprised not to see it decorated already when he’d come home last night from Manhattan, where he’d lived for the past twelve years since he’d graduated from college.

“Tell me again why we’re putting up a tree two days before your trip.” Logan wasn’t out of breath, but neither was he breathing easy. He needed to take the time from his busy schedule to hit the gym more than just two or three times a week.

“We’ve got to make the most of what little time we have together, honey.” She always called him that. In his early teens, it used to bug Logan until he’d found out she’d had two miscarriages before he was born and one afterward.

He ripped open the duct tape somebody—probably Dad—had used last year to bind the box, then pulled up the cardboard flaps to reveal the tree branches.

“You’re trying to make me feel guilty about not spending Christmas with you and Dad, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Maybe a little,” his mother admitted.

“Not gonna work,” Logan said. “Not when you’ll both be cruising the Caribbean.”

His parents would leave for the trip this Wednesday, six days before Christmas. Logan had made the travel arrangements to coincide with his own return to New York City.

“If you didn’t feel guilty, honey, you wouldn’t have bought us the tickets.” Mom stood back while he set up the base of the tree and got the lower portion in place. “You don’t have to keep treating us to trips, you know.”

Actually, he did. Because his mother had battled diabetes and other health problems for years, his parents had made do on his father’s salary while Logan was growing up. Dad earned enough as a forklift operator in a warehouse to cover necessities but not extras. In recent years Mom had been healthy enough to work part-time as a cashier at a grocery store, but Logan had a sense they still struggled.

“Don’t take away my fun, Mom,” he said. “I like treating you.”

“Then I don’t understand why you can’t come with us,” she retorted.

Logan got down on his knees and started plumping the branches. “I told you why. I have to work.”

“You always have to work.” She positioned herself beside him and grabbed a limb, shaping one of the flexible plastic branches to achieve maximum fullness.

“Dad’s at work right now,” he pointed out.

“Today is only December 17,” she said. “Your father has Christmas week off like normal people.”

“The holidays are a great time to network.” Logan had been employed by a financial planning service in New York City ever since he’d moved there. He’d steadily climbed the ranks, in large part because he understood what it took to get ahead. “We’ve got a lot going on for our clients next week. Parties. Dinners. A suite at the Knicks game. I have to be there.”

“I’m glad you have a good job,” his mother began. Logan got ready for the “but,” certain he already knew what she’d say.

“But don’t you think you should spend your money on the woman you’re going to marry instead of on me and Dad?” she finished.

He straightened, went to the box and withdrew more of the tree. He got another piece in place before answering. “That woman doesn’t exist, Mom. I’m not engaged.”

“You’re thirty-three years old, honey. That’s not so young anymore.” She sounded as though she was breaking a difficult truth to him. “Are you at least dating someone?”

“Occasionally.” He dated off and on, when he had the time, but rarely went out with a woman for more than two or three dates.

“Anyone special?” She asked the same questions every time he visited Kentucky or he flew her and Dad up to see him in New York. He was used to it by now. He even had a strategy to deflect the inquisition: say as little as possible.

“Nope,” he said.

After a few moments of silence, his mother changed the subject. They talked companionably of inconsequential things for the next hour while they decorated the tree with the ornaments and lights Logan brought up from the basement.

After Logan topped the tree with the traditional gilded angel that had been handed down from his grandmother, they stood back and admired their handiwork. With the afternoon sun streaming through the picture windows in the living room, the tree’s tiny white lights mimicked flakes of snow. His mother favored an artificial tree because of the risk of fire associated with a real one. Since she’d started putting pine-scented potpourri underneath the tree, he couldn’t tell the difference.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into the other day,” his mother said conversationally, her voice sounding too innocent to be true. “Maria DiMarco.”

Yep. Logan was right. His mother had an agenda.

“Maria looked great. She’s such a pretty girl, with that black hair, those blue eyes and the pale skin.” His mom paused. When he said nothing, she added, “She’s single again, you know.”

That wasn’t news to Logan. By his estimation, Maria had been divorced for four years and two months.

“Real subtle, Mom,” he said wryly.

“But you haven’t even brought home a girl to meet me since you and Maria broke up,” she said.

“Maria and I were over in high school,” he answered. “I haven’t seen her in years.”

More than eleven years, to be exact. The last time their paths had crossed was at Mike’s memorial service. With her then-husband by her side, Maria hadn’t said more than a few words to Logan. He hadn’t expected her to, not when her brother wouldn’t have been at the Windows on the World restaurant at all if it hadn’t been for him. He was amazed that her sister, Annalise, still used him as an investment advisor.

“You two used to be so in love,” his mother continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “What would it hurt to see if the spark is still there?”

“Maria married somebody else,” he reminded her.

“Only because she was confused. She wouldn’t have even looked at another man if you hadn’t—”

“Drop it, Mom,” he interrupted, more sharply than he’d intended. It had taken him a long time to get over Maria DiMarco, but get over her he had. “I’m not going to see her.”

“Not even though it’s almost Christmas?” his mother asked in a small voice.

He knew without saying that she considered it a magical season when anything could happen. No doubt because she was always watching those sappy holiday movies on the Lifetime channel. Real life didn’t work that way.