Page 11 of Home for Christmas

They were still humming when the meal was over. She knew her daughter was a friendly, sometimes outrageously open child, but Clara had taken to Jason like a long-lost friend. She chattered away at him as though she’d known him for years.

It’s so obvious, Faith thought as she watched Clara stack dishes. Neither of them noticed. What would she do if they did? She didn’t believe in lies, yet she’d been forced to live one.

The other two paid little attention to her as they settled down with Clara’s books. In the easy, flowing style he’d been born with, Jason began to tell her stories about Africa—the desert, the mountains, the thick green jungle that teemed with its own life and its own dangers.

As their heads bent together over a picture in Clara’s book Faith felt a flood of panic. “I’m going to go next door,” she said on impulse. “I have a lot of work backed up.”

“Mm-hmm.” With that, Jason dismissed her. A laugh bubbled in her throat until it ached. Grabbing her coat, Faith escaped.

They were more than toys to her. They were certainly more than a business. To Faith the dolls who filled her shop were the symbol of youth, of innocence, of believing in miracles.She’d wanted to open the shop soon after Clara had been born, but Tom had been adamantly set against it. Because she’d felt indebted, she’d let it pass, as she’d let so many other things pass. Then when she’d found herself alone, with a child to support, it had seemed the natural thing.

She worked long hours there, to ease the void that even the love for her daughter couldn’t fill.

In her workroom behind the store were shelves filled with pieces and parts of dolls. There were china heads, plastic legs and torsos. In another section lay the ones she called the sick and injured. Dolls with broken arms or battered bodies were brought to her for repair. Though she enjoyed selling and found a great creative thrill in making her own dolls, nothing satisfied her quite so much as taking a broken toy that was loved and making it whole again. She turned on the light and her radio and set to work.

It soothed her. As time passed, her nerves drained away. With crochet hook and rubber bands, with glue and painstaking care she replaced broken limbs. With a bit of paint and patience she brought smiles back to faceless dolls. Some were given new clothes or a fresh hairstyle, while others only needed a needle and thread plied by clever fingers.

By the time she picked up a battered rag doll she was humming.

“Are you going to fix that?”

Startled, she nearly stabbed herself with the needle. Jason stood in the doorway, hands in pockets, watching her. “Yes, that’s what I do. Where’s Clara?”

“She nearly fell asleep in her book. I put her to bed.”

She started to rise. “Oh, well I—”

“She’s asleep, Faith, with some green ball of hair she called Bernardo.”

Determined to relax, Faith sat down again. “Yes, that’s her favorite. Clara isn’t much on ordinary dolls.”

“Not like her mother?” Interested, he began to prowl the workroom. “I always thought when a toy broke or wore out it got tossed away.”

“Too often. I’ve always thought that showed a tremendous lack of appreciation for something that’s given you pleasure.”

He picked up a soft plastic head, bald and smooth, that grinned at him. “Maybe you’re right, but I don’t see what can be done about that pile of rags in your hand.”

“Quite a lot.”

“Still believe in magic, Faith?”

She glanced up and for the first time her smile was completely open, her eyes warm. “Yes, of course I do. Especially at Christmastime.”

Unable to help himself he reached down to run a hand over her cheek. “I said before that I’d missed you. I don’t think I realized how much.”

She felt the need shimmer and the longing plead inside her. Denying both, she concentrated on the doll. “I appreciate you helping Clara, Jason. I don’t want to keep you.”

“Does it bother you to have someone watch you work?”

“No.” She began to replace stuffing. “Sometimes a concerned mother will stay here while I doctor a patient.”

He leaned a hip against the counter. “I imagined a lot of things when I was coming back. I never imagined this.”

“What?”

“That I’d be standing here watching you stuff life back into a rag. You may not have noticed, but it doesn’t even have a face.”

“It will. How did the report go?”

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