The Perfect Christmas - Debbie Macomber [62]
Naturally she’d never said anything. How could she, when such a request was purely selfish? It wasn’t as if Ron could choose when he would die. Nevertheless, she’d clung to him emotionally far longer than she should have—until she’d painfully acknowledged that her fears were denying her husband a peaceful exit from life. Then with an agony that had all but crippled her, she’d kissed him one final time. Holding his limp hand between her own, she’d sat by his bedside, loving him with her entire being, and waited until he’d breathed his last.
Ron’s death clouded what would otherwise have been her favorite month of the year. She found it devastating to be around others celebrating the season while she struggled to shake her all-consuming grief. She’d accepted Madeline’s invitation as part of a concerted effort to survive the season of peace and goodwill.
Charting a new course for herself at this age was more of a challenge than she wanted. Life, however, had seen fit to make her a widow one month, then thrust her into the holiday season the next.
She was doing her best, trying to cope with her grief, finding the courage to smile now and again for her children’s sake. They realized how difficult the holidays were for her of course, but her daughters were grieving, too.
This snowstorm had been an unwelcome hitch in her careful plans. Madeline had urged her to come sooner, but Cathy had foolishly resisted, not wanting to overstay her welcome. She’d agreed to visit until the twenty-seventh. Ron had always said that company, like fish, began to smell after three days.
“Mom,” Madeline had said when she’d phoned early that morning, “I heard on the news there’s a huge snowstorm headed your way.”
“I’m afraid it arrived last night.” The wind had moaned audibly outside her window as she spoke.
“What are you going to do?” Madeline, her youngest, tended to worry; unfortunately she’d inherited that trait from her mother.
“Do?” Cathy repeated as if a fierce winter blizzard was of little concern. “I’m taking the train to Boston to join you, Brian and the children for Christmas. What else is there to do?”
“But how will you get to the station?”
Cathy had already worked that out. “I’ve phoned for a taxi.”
“But, Mom—”
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Cathy said firmly, hoping she sounded confident even though she was an emotional wreck. She felt as though her life was caving in around her. Stuck in Bangor over Christmas, grieving for Ron—that would have been more than Cathy could handle. If spending the holiday with family meant taking her chances in the middle of a snowstorm, then so be it.
The first hurdle had been successfully breached. Listening to Andy Williams crooning a Christmas ballad, Cathy stood in line at the Bangor train depot, along with half the town, it seemed. The taxi fare had been exorbitant, but at least she was here, safe and sound. She’d packed light, leaving plenty of room in her suitcase for gifts for her two youngest granddaughters. Shopping had been a chore this year, so she’d decided simply to give Madeline and Brian a check and leave it at that, but she couldn’t give money to her grandchildren. They were much too young for that. The best gifts she could think to bring them were books, plus a toy each.
Madeline had consented to let Lindsay and Angela, aged three and five, open their presents that evening following church services. Then the children could climb onto Cathy’s lap and she’d read them to sleep. The thought of holding her grandchildren close helped ease the ache in her heart.
Everything would be all right now that she was at the depot, she reassured herself. Soon she’d be with her family. The train might be late, but it would get there eventually.
All her worries had been for nothing.
Matthew McHugh hated Christmas. And he didn’t have a problem expressing