Page 55 of Meet Me at Christmas
Mr. Ferguson shook his head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t intrude on your family time.”
“We’re all family, really,” she said, using Pop’s words.
Once, when they were in Nashville walking to one of the live shows that Pop used to take her to, they’d passed a man on the street. He appeared to be homeless, but he didn’t look like the rest of the homeless people she’d seen; he’d seemed lost instead of hopeless.
Pop had stopped and asked the man, “What’s your story?”
The man said, “I came to Nashville to play music, and I ran out of money. Now I have nothing, but I won’t go home until I make it.”
Her father gave the man all the cash he had—one hundred thirty dollars.
“Why did you give all your money to him?” she asked.
“We’re all family, really,” he’d told her.
“Please, Mr. Ferguson. We’d be happy to have you,” Stella said, the clopping of the horses sailing back into her consciousness.
“Well… Ask your mother first,” Mr. Ferguson said.
“Done. I’ll let you know tomorrow.” She smiled at him, glad to have asked.
Mr. Ferguson stroked his beard. “You’re an angel, I think.”
She chuckled. “Definitely not.”
“For me, you are.”
She didn’t offer a rebuttal. His comment stayed with her through the rest of the ride. When they returned, Stella offered him a lift home, but he told her he’d called a car to pick him up, so she waited with him until it arrived and helped him over to it.
“Are you all right to go home on your own?” she asked. “Is your hip okay after all the bouncing in the carriage?”
“Oh, yes.” He gave her a wide smile. “Spending time with you made me feel like a young man again.”
When she left him, despite everything she had going on, she felt a little lighter too.
* * *
When Stella got home, she went straight into the living room to let her mother in on the last few hours. “Hey, Mama, I sort of invited an old man to our house for Christmas.”
“Oh?” Her mother’s eyebrows lifted as she tossed a log into the fire, sending sparks up the chimney. Just then the oven buzzer went off and Mama moved toward the kitchen. “Who is he?” she asked over her shoulder.
Stella followed. “He so lovely.” She told Mama all about Mr. Ferguson. Just thinking of him filled her with joy. “He smiles all the time, unless he’s thinking about his wife, Margaret.”
“He sounds like a nice man.”
“Sorry I invited him without checking with you first, but I think he’s lonely and I felt bad for him.”
“He’s welcome to come over.” Mama grabbed the oven mitts and slipped them on.
“I’m glad he won’t have to be alone for Christmas—”
A loud pounding sound radiated around them, distracting Stella from the conversation.
“What’s that?”
Mama pulled a bubbling casserole out of the oven and set it on the counter. “Henry’s in the attic.”
“Henry’s here? Where’s his truck?”
