The Perfect Christmas - Debbie Macomber [66]
“My family,” Len told her, and added, prematurely, “and my fiancée.” Saying the words produced a happiness in him that refused to be squelched.
“How nice for you.”
“Very nice,” he said. Then thinking it might help ease his mind, he opened the side zipper of his carry-on bag and pulled out Amy’s most recent letter, dated two weeks earlier.
Dear Len,
I waited until ten for you to phone, then realized it was eleven your time and you probably wouldn’t be calling. I was feeling low about it, then received your letter this afternoon. I’m glad you decided to write. You say you’re not good at writing letters, but I disagree. This one was very sweet. It’s nice to have something to hold in my hand, that I can read again and again, unlike a telephone conversation. While it’s always good to hear the sound of your voice, when we hang up, there’s nothing left.
Everything’s going along fine here at home and at work. For all my complaining about not finding a more glamorous job, I’ve discovered I actually enjoy being part of the nursing-home staff. The travel agency that didn’t hire me is the one to lose out.
Did I tell you what happened last week? Mr. Perkins exposed himself in the middle of a pinochle game. All the ladies were outraged, but I noticed that the sign-up sheet for pinochle this Thursday is full. Mrs. MacPherson lost her teeth, but they were eventually found. (You don’t want to know where.) I still have my lunch in Mr. Danbar’s room; he seems to enjoy my company, although he hasn’t spoken a word in three years. I chatter away and tell him all about you and me and how excited I am that you’re coming home for Christmas.
I was pleased that your mother asked me if I wanted to tag along when she and your dad pick you up at the airport on Christmas Eve. I’ll be there, you know I will—which brings me to something else. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time.
Do you remember my joke about sailors having a woman in every port? You laughed and reminded me that, as a submariner, you didn’t see that many ports above water. Bangor’s a long way from Rawhide, though, isn’t it? I guess I’m asking you about other women.
Well, I’d better close for now. I’ll see you in two weeks and we can talk more then.
Love,
Amy
Len folded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope. Amy shouldn’t need to ask him about other women. He didn’t know what had made her so insecure, but he’d noticed the doubt in her voice ever since he returned in September.
The diamond ring should relieve her worries. He smiled just thinking about it. He could hardly wait to see the look on her face.
Cathy set her knitting aside and stared sightlessly out the train window. The snow obliterated everything, not that the scenery interested her. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about Ron.
Other years, she’d been working in her kitchen Christmas Eve day, baking cookies and pies, getting ready for the children and grandchildren to arrive. As a surprise—although it had long since ceased to be one—she’d always baked Ron a lemon meringue pie, his favorite. And he’d always pretend he was stunned that she’d go to all that trouble just for him.
Christmas had been the holiday her husband loved most. He was like a kid, decorating the outside of the house with strand upon strand of colorful lights. Last year he’d outdone all his previous efforts, as if he’d known even then that he wouldn’t be here this Christmas.
She remembered how, every year, Ron had wanted to put up the tree right after Thanksgiving. She was lucky if she could hold him off until it was officially December.
It took them an entire day to decorate the tree. Not that they ever chose such a large one. Trimming their Christmas tree was a ritual that involved telling each other stories about past Christmases, recalling where each decoration came from—whether it was made by one of the girls or bought on vacation somewhere or given to them by a friend. It wasn’t just ornaments, baubles of glass and wood and yarn,