Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [84]
Carol Andretti swallowed hard and looked across the highway at the Timberwoods roof. Holy cow. There he was. Her eyes widened. “He is there, honey, I see him! Look,” she said, lifting the frail child. “Can you see him?”
“No, I can’t see that far. Yesterday, I could see the roof, but my eyes are too tired today.”
“Shhh. He knows you can’t see him. But he knows that I’m here and that I’ll tell you he waved.”
“Mommy, when will I be better?”
She found it difficult to swallow and her eyes burned, but Carol forced herself to answer. “Soon, baby, soon.”
“Mommy, can we go tomorrow? You promised. I want to go tomorrow.”
Carol held her daughter close. “Yes, honey, tomorrow. I promise. But now I have something to tell you. Do you think you can be very brave?”
“Uh-huh.”
“After . . . after we take you to the mall, we have to take you back to the hospital. You may have to stay here over Christmas.”
“Okay, Mommy.” Little Maria’s voice was tremulous. “As long as you take me to see Santa first. You won’t break your promise, will you?”
“No, baby, I won’t break my promise. We’ll go late in the afternoon and then go to the hospital. I’m going to get you some more juice, and I want you to drink it all and then have a nice nap. You have to be strong to go out, even in a wheelchair.”
“Okay, Mommy. Oh, thank you, thank you. Mommy, you really did see him, didn’t you?”
“Oh, honey, I wouldn’t lie to you. Yes, I saw him.”
By the time Carol got back with the juice, Maria was asleep, her dark lashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks. How much time did her little girl have left—one, two, three days? Could she make it? Maria had to make it! There wasn’t any other way. You had to go on. Somehow you managed to survive, to endure. Please, God, help us, Carol cried silently.
Amy Summers laid the puppy back in its box and was about to scoop out the other when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Summers?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Bill Simmons from Simmons Leather Shop at Timberwoods Mall. The briefcase you ordered came in this morning. I sent it over to be engraved, and you can pick it up tomorrow any time after five o’clock.”
“That’s fine. You couldn’t have it ready sooner, could you?”
“I tried, Mrs. Summers, but they have so much work, I’m lucky I got it squeezed in at all.”
“There’s no problem; I can manage. But I might not be there until after six. Thanks for calling.”
Eric would be so surprised. It was a beautiful attaché case. If she could just get out of the doctor’s office in time to pick it up.
When the phone rang, Dolph Richards picked it up and spoke quietly. “Richards here. Yes, put her through.” He gave an audible sigh as he listened, pencil in hand. “Yes, Mrs. Andretti, how can I help you?”
“Mr. Richards, I don’t know how to say this, but . . . What I mean is, I want to thank someone at your shopping center for something. I live across the highway from Timberwoods, and I have a little girl who might be—she has leukemia,” she made herself say. “She can see the outside of the mall from her room, and she was absolutely thrilled when she saw the Santa Claus on your roof waving to her. It seems he has done it for the past three days. I know it isn’t important to you, but it was to Maria. I want to thank you. I also want to ask you when it would be okay to bring Maria to the mall tomorrow. What time do you think it will be least crowded?”
“Ah, let me check on that with the mall manager and get back to you.”
“I have to bring her in a wheelchair. She’s being readmitted to the hospital immediately after the visit. If it isn’t too much trouble, do you think you could have Santa chat with her personally? I can’t tell you how much I’d appreciate it.”
Dolph Richards frowned. What was she talking about?