One Night Before Christmas. Robyn Grady

It had been a long road. And she didn’t think she would ever want to go back and reclaim certain remnants of that woman’s life.

      But she was ready to move forward. With Leo.

      He set her away from him, his expression strained. “Give me the damn lights.”

      * * *

      Leo was at sixes and sevens, his head muddled with a million thoughts, his body near crippled with desire. Fortunately for him, Phoebe was the meticulous sort. There were no knots of wire to untangle. Every strand of lights had been neatly wrapped around pieces of plywood before being stored away. He sensed that this Christmas decorating ritual was far more important to Phoebe than perhaps he realized. So despite his mental and physical discomfort, he set his mind to weaving lights in amongst the branches.

      Phoebe worked nearby, unwrapping tissue-wrapped ornaments, discarding broken ones, tending to Teddy now and again. Music played softly in the background. One tune in particular he recognized. He had always enjoyed the verve and tempo of the popular modern classic by Mariah Carey. But not until this exact minute had he understood the songwriter’s simple message.

      Some things were visceral. It was true. He needed no other gift but Phoebe. When a man was rich enough to buy anything he wanted, the act of exchanging presents took on new meaning. He had always given generously to his employees. And he and Luc knew each other well enough to come up with the occasional surprise gift that demonstrated thought and care.

      But he couldn’t remember a Christmas when he’d been willing to strip the holiday down to its basic component. Love.

      His mind shied away from that thought. Surely a man of his age and experience and sophistication didn’t believe in love at first sight. The heart attack had left him floundering, grasping at things to stay afloat in a suddenly changing world. Phoebe was here. And it was almost Christmas. He wanted her badly. No need to tear the situation apart with questions.

      He finished the last of the lights and dragged one final tub over to the edge of the coffee table so he could sit and sift through the contents. Though the tree was large, he wasn’t sure they were going to be able to fit everything on the limbs.

      Spying a small, unopened green box, he picked it up and turned it over. Visible through the clear plastic covering was a sterling sliver rocking horse with the words Baby’s First Christmas engraved on the base. And a date. An old date. His stomach clenched.

      When he looked up, Phoebe was staring at the item in his hands, her face ashen. Cursing himself for not moving more quickly to tuck it out of sight, he stood, not knowing what to say. A dozen theories rushed through his mind. But only one made sense.

      Tears rolled from Phoebe’s huge pain-darkened eyes, though he was fairly certain she didn’t know she was crying. It was as if she had frozen, sensing danger, not sure where to run.

      He approached her slowly, his hands outstretched. “Phoebe, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

      Her eyes were uncomprehending...even when she wiped one wet cheek with the back of her hand.

      “Let me see it,” she whispered, walking toward the tub of ornaments.

      He put his body in front of hers, cupping her face in his hands. “No. It doesn’t matter. You’re shaking.” Wrapping his arms around her and holding her as tightly as he could, he tried to still the tremors that tore through her body cruelly.

      Phoebe never weakened. She stood erect, not leaning into him, not accepting his comfort. He might as well have been holding a statue. At last, he stepped back, staring into her eyes. “Let me get you a drink.”

      “No.” She wiped her nose.

      Leo reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to her. He was torn, unsure if talking about it would make things better or worse. As he stood there, trying to decide how to navigate the chasm that had opened at his feet, the fraught moment was broken by a baby’s cry.

      Phoebe whirled around. “Oh, Teddy. We were ignoring you.” She rushed to pick him up, holding him close as new tears wet her lashes. “It’s your bedtime, isn’t it, my sweet? Don’t worry. Aunt Phoebe is here.”

      Leo tried to take the boy. “You need to sit down, Phoebe.” He was fairly certain she was in shock. Her hands were icy cold and her lips had a blue tinge.

      Phoebe fought him. “No. You don’t like babies. I can do it.”

      The belligerence in her wild gaze shocked him, coming as it did out of nowhere. “I never said that.” He spoke softly, as though gentling a spooked animal. “Let me help you.”

      Ignoring his plea, she exited the room, Teddy clutched to her chest. He followed the pair of them down the hall and into the baby’s nursery cum storage room. He had never seen this door open. Phoebe always used her own bedroom to access Teddy’s.

      She put the child on the changing table and stood there. Leo realized she didn’t know what to do next.

      Quietly, not making a fuss, he reached for the little pair of pajamas hanging from a hook on the wall nearby. The diapers were tucked into a cheerful yellow plastic basket at the boy’s feet. Easing Phoebe aside with nothing more than a nudge of his hip, he unfastened what seemed like a hundred snaps, top and bottom, and drew the cloth up over Teddy’s head. Teddy cooed, smiling trustingly as Leo stripped him naked. The baby’s skin was soft, his flailing arms and legs pudgy and strong.

      The diaper posed a momentary problem, but only until Leo’s brain clicked into gear and he saw how the assembly worked. Cleaning the little bottom with a baby wipe, he gave thanks that he was only dealing with a wet diaper, not a messy one.

      Phoebe hadn’t moved. Her hands were clenched on the decorative edge of the wooden table so hard that her knuckles were white.

      Leo closed up the diaper, checked it for structural integrity, and then held up the pajamas. He couldn’t really see much difference between these pj’s and the daytime outfits the kid wore, but apparently there was one. This piece of clothing was even more of a challenge, because the snaps ran from the throat all the way down one leg. It took him three tries to get it right.

      Through it all, Phoebe stood unaware. Or at least it seemed that way.

      Cradling the child in one arm, Leo used his free hand to steer Phoebe out of the room. “You’ll have to help me with the bottle,” he said softly, hoping she was hearing him.

      Her brief nod was a relief.

      Leo installed Phoebe in a kitchen chair. Squatting in front of her, he waited until her eyes met his. “Can you hold him?”

      She took the small, squirmy bundle and bowed her head, teardrops wetting the front of the sleeper. “I have a bottle ready,” she said, the words almost inaudible. “Put it in a bowl of hot water two or three times until the formula feels warm when you sprinkle it on your wrist.”

      He had seen her perform that task several times, so it was easy to follow the instructions. When the bottle was ready, he turned back to Phoebe. Her grip on Teddy was firm. The child was in no danger of being dropped. But Phoebe had ceased interacting with her nephew.

      Leo put a hand on her shoulder. “Would you like to feed him, or do you want me to do it? I’m happy to.”

      Long seconds ticked by. Phoebe stood abruptly, handing him the baby. “You can. I’m going to my room.”

      He grabbed her wrist. “No. You’re not. Come sit with us on the sofa.”