Tara Quinn - The Promise of Christmas

Or he had been. Until four days ago, when Calhoun Sanderson’s little sister fell apart in his arms behind the very impressive desk of her very impressive office in the swankiest building in downtown Phoenix. He would help her. Handle whatever needed to be handled. He’d take care of everything. His friend would have wanted that.

Clara Sanderson’s best friend, Mary something-or-other, stood to the right of the casket and started to sing. “Oh, Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds thy hands have made…”

Needing both arms to take Leslie’s full weight, Kip pulled her up against him. It would all be over soon and she could get out of there. He’d carry her if he had to.

“…I see the stars, I hear the roaring thunder…”

He licked lips so dry they hurt. He couldn’t believe Cal was really gone. A loyal friend, attentive son, adoring older brother, he was one of the few men Kip truly respected. He’d been the reason Kip had made it to college; he’d cajoled Kip to go with him to the University of Michigan, to get out of the Columbus life of hard living, drinking too much, doing expensive drugs, drag racing—all things his father’s money had provided and his father’s neglect had allowed.

Cal had moved home to Columbus after graduation. Kip had stayed in Ann Arbor, got on with SI, and the rest was history.

“…When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation to take me home…”

Leslie’s head fell gently against his shoulder. Her body felt so unbelievably good. Familiar—though, other than a teasing punch on the shoulder, he couldn’t remember ever touching her before.

She felt…genuine. A safe harbor.

That seemed crazy when she couldn’t even stand on her own.

The minister said a few final words, and then it was time for Leslie and her mother to take one last walk by the casket, to leave their roses on the grave.

“Les?” He pulled away, glanced down at the face streaked with makeup and tears. She stared vacantly back at him—reminding him for one scary second of someone in a state of shock.

“It’s time,” he said softly.

She nodded. Kip supported her as she said her final goodbyes to her only sibling and then stumbled back to the car. She didn’t even seem to notice the people watching her, those judging her ability to cope, those offering love and support. She was lost someplace. On her own.

With a last glance back at the only real friend he’d ever had, Kip sent up a silent promise. He’d watch out for Leslie and Clara.

“WHO’S THAT OLD LADY, Nana?”

Ada King tightened her grip on the bony little shoulders of the five-year-old boy beside her. They stood at the back of the small crowd gathered at the Lakeview cemetery.

“That’s your daddy’s mama.”

“She doesn’t look mean.” Jonathan’s childish voice belied the wisdom in his tear-drenched eyes.

“She’s not mean, child.” Ada adjusted the little girl draped over her right shoulder. Kayla had fallen asleep shortly after they’d arrived. Ordinarily that would’ve been just fine, but at sixty-two Ada’s bones weren’t as able to withstand the two-year-old’s weight as they might have twenty-five years ago, when she’d been raising the children’s mother.

“But she won’t let me be up there with Daddy.”

Ada’s arm dropped from Jonathan’s shoulder. “Come, child,” she said, turning toward the sedan Calhoun Sanderson had bought for Abby right after she’d had Jonathan. Jonathan was too smart to be just five. And Ada was tired.

Too tired. The children needed someone with a body that didn’t ache every minute of every day, someone whose legs could still run and whose eyes could still see all the little things that tiny fingers reached for.

“She’s white.”

“Yes, child.”

“Like Daddy.”

“Yes, child.”

“Is she mad ’cause me and Kayla ain’t?”

Ada unlocked the car, transferred the sleeping girl to her car seat in the middle of the back. Kayla’s frizzy little braids were glued to the side of her head with sweat.

“Aren’t, child. Not ain’t.” She double-checked the safety latch across Kayla’s chest.

Jonathan stared at her as he climbed in to the front passenger seat. “You say ain’t.”

“I’m old.”

The skinny little black boy buckled his seat belt around the church slacks she’d laid out for him that morning and stared out the side window at his father’s grave.

Ada ached for a good long cry.

“THANK YOU ALL FOR COMING,” Attorney Jim Brackerfield stood at the door of the conference room in the downtown Columbus office that housed his firm. It was Friday morning. Leslie barely gave her brother’s partner a glance; she was more concerned with her mother’s comfort, with breathing calmly through the next few minutes. She could hardly believe only four days had passed since she’d been standing in her own office congratulating herself on a South Seas deal that now seemed far more distant than mere miles away—despite her daily calls to Nancy.

Kip pulled out chairs at the conference table for her and her mother. Smiling her thanks, Leslie smoothed the gray wool skirt beneath her and sat facing the north wall, the window of which looked out toward Ohio State University. Her alma mater.

“I would’ve been happy to come to the house,” Jim was saying to Clara.

“I know, Jim, and that means a lot. Thanks,” Clara said, her lips trembling. “But I needed to come here, to see his…the office without him in it….”

Leslie nodded, rubbed the crystals in her necklace, shades of blue and gray and black. She’d agreed with her mother’s decision to meet the attorney at his office.

While her mother and Jim, who knew each other well, talked about mutual acquaintances who’d been at the funeral the day before, Kip took the seat next to her. She hadn’t been surprised to hear that Cal had left something in his will for his closest friend.

His sports equipment, she’d bet.

She smiled at him a second time, glad he was there. She was doing much better today, now that the whole process of saying goodbye to Cal was behind them. Still, Kip’s presence was…a blessing.

Jim sat on the other side of the long table. He was older than her brother by at least ten years, his hair thinning and gray, but judging by his athletic frame, he’d shared her brother’s passion for sports.

“I…” He coughed, looked down at the papers in his hands, put on a pair of reading glasses. Took them off.

“Oh, hell.” He pushed the papers away. “Cal’s will is here. We can read it together or apart, whatever you prefer. But I know what it says, and there’s just no easy way to tell you—”

“None of us needs my brother’s money, Jim,” Leslie said, relying on her years of professional experience to put the other man at ease. “Even if he’s left it to…to historic car research, we’ll all support his choice.”

Clara patted Leslie’s thigh under the table, reaching for her daughter’s hand. “She’s right,” Clara added.

Kip nodded.

“He didn’t leave his assets—and they were considerable, by the way—to historic car research.”

Leslie waited, honestly unconcerned with anything but enduring this for her mother’s sake and getting out of there, as soon as she could. She’d used an antique gold clip to pull her hair back, but wished she’d let it hang free to curtain her face.

“He didn’t leave them to any of you, either.”

“Calhoun felt the weight of responsibility for all he’d been given,” Clara said softly. “He knew that neither Leslie nor I needed his money. It truly is fine, Jim. I’d just like to know who he chose to help….”

Let it be meaningful, Leslie thought. Please let his last grand gesture be full of heart and compassion.