Page 16 of Matches and Mistletoe
“Magic?”
I frown. “We believe in God here, sir.”
“Who is God without His power?” he says. “Maybe that’s simply another kind of magic.”
And when he looks at me with that glowing smile, I can’t think clearly, or refute what he said.
“I do love this time of year, despite its warped traditions,” he continues, with a glance at our pitiful spindly Christmas tree in the corner. “There’s magic in all the world, Ellie, and people are never more likely to believe in it than right now. So don’t give up on your doll, love. She may be yours yet.”
“To bed, Ellie,” I say; but at that very moment, Mary stops sucking on her fingers, screws up her face, and squalls.
“Oh, no.” Once again, I’m torn between the children and their needs. Two of them, one of me.
But the handsome stranger steps to Mary’s bassinet. “May I?”
I hesitate.
I have no idea who he is. He hasn’t even given me a name. And I don’t really want to know his name, because if it’s Peter or Barry or Bob, something inside me will shrivel up and never bloom again. I need to be able to pretend that his name is glorious, angelic, like Michael or Gabriel.
For the moment, I just need time to put my oldest daughter to bed.
“Go ahead and try holding her,” I say, nodding to him. “She likes being walked around and bounced.”
He scoops her up, looking into her face and smiling, and she stops crying. She stares at him and coos.
“See? We’re fine here.” He beams at me.
“Come on, Ellie. Let’s brush your teeth,” I say.
The whole time I’m brushing her teeth, putting her pajamas on, and answering her incessant questions about Saint Nicholas and magic, I’m thinking about him. About those eyes of liquid silver, and the dark lashes, and the smile that woke up my heart.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror then, and I clutch the edge of the counter, willing myself not to burst into tears.
I’m so pale—not a pure white alabaster pale, but the dull pallor of old, trampled snow. My eyes are still large and dark, my features still delicate, but I’m too thin—gaunt, really, like a shadow of myself. My hair is thinner since Mary’s birth, and it doesn’t have the healthy nut-brown sheen that it used to.
The only good feature I have left, besides my eyes, is my mouth. Full and beautifully shaped, faintly pink.
“Use the toilet, Ellie,” I order her, and she obediently sits while I pull my makeup kit from a drawer. I can’t remember the last time I used it. Quickly I apply a little powder, a little blush, some mascara. Not too much, or he’ll think I’m trying too hard.
“You look pretty, Mama,” says Ellie.
Minutes later she’s in bed, and I’m finishing a short storybook when the dark-haired angel’s frame fills the bedroom doorway. He holds Mary, her chubby hand gripping his finger, her cheeks rosy, her breathing soft and steady in sleep.
My jaw drops. How did he get her to sleep?
Magic.
The word pops into my mind, but I push it away.
He raises his eyebrows and jerks his head toward the crib, questioning. I nod, and he lays Mary gently on the sheet.
“Good night, Ellie,” I whisper. After kissing her and turning on the little lamp by her bed, I turn off the big lamp. The room suffuses with a cozy pink glow, and Ellie nestles contentedly into her blankets. Slipping out after the stranger, I close the door behind us.
When we reach the living room, I stand awkwardly, not sure what to do with my hands. “Thank you.”
“You’re more than welcome.” He’s watching me, but I can’t bring myself to look directly at him.
“Would you like—some tea?” I ask.
