"Soon," I lied.
Carol and Dan had been there the whole time Holly was in labor, refusing to leave. Tara and Andrew came and went, bringing food, coffee, and support. Once Angela was born, they had all seen her and Holly, then finally left me alone with my family. I knew they’d be back in the morning, so I was determined to take advantage of the time I had with my girls.
A nurse walked in and checked on Holly. She smiled as she shook her head at me, knowing full well I had been holding Angela since the last time she’d checked on my wife. "What a good daddy," she crooned. "Get some sleep, Mrs. Brooks. You'll need it." She paused on her way out of the room. "Merry Christmas."
I smiled at her. "It certainly is."
I looked down at my slumbering daughter. "I met your mommy two years ago. She was like an angel to me." I chuckled as I stroked Angela’s downy little cheek. "We shared our first Christmas together, and I fell in love with her on that special day as well. She was an unexpected gift to me then, and now I have another one." I stood up and placed her into Holly's outstretched arms. Leaning down, I kissed them both and smiled as I took in the sight of both of my girls. My family.
"Now I have two angels."
My wife smiled at me. "Merry Christmas, Evan."
I kissed her again.
My Holly. My life. I was so blessed.
"Merry Christmas, Angel.”
Epilogue
A few years later…
I stood back, eyeing the large sideboard critically. It was a find Holly and I discovered one weekend when we were traveling around the island. The piece was in disrepair, the doors stuck shut from being exposed to the elements in an unused corner of a shed on a farmer’s property. It was still beautiful despite the dirt, wear, and cracked wood, and Holly fell in love with it, insisting it would look perfect in our dining room. I had to agree with her and after making a deal with the owner, made the trip back with Dan in my truck, pulling the heavy piece from the shed and bringing it to my shop. I spent hours filling, repairing, and sanding to get it to this point. The doors now swung freely, the cracks and damage restored. The wood was smooth, the details brought back to life, and it was ready to be cleaned, stained, then taken into the house.
Holly would be so excited.
I pulled off my mask. The atmosphere around me swam with dust motes, the smell of freshly sanded wood heavy in the air. A fine layer of sawdust covered my shop, but the end result was worth the days of effort, buckets of sweat, and hours of painstaking detail.
I pulled open the barn door, letting the fresh, cold air rush in. The sun that had shone brightly earlier, glittering off the water at the front of the house, was now dimmer, clouds gathering and casting shadows on the branches of the trees that were gradually coming to life. Spring was slow to arrive this year, the colder weather still keeping us in its grip. I didn’t mind too much, whereas once I’d dreaded winter—the long nights, the days of endless hours on hand when projects were few. Now I loved them. It gave me more time with my family, and Holly and I passed the time with our girls playing games, reading, listening to their stories, watching them grow. And with the snow came our favorite time of year—Christmas. The once lonely holiday now held a vastly different place in my heart. It was a time of joy, celebration, and family. The family Holly and I shared, as well as Dan, Carol, Andrew, and Tara.
Still, I was ready for the spring to arrive and looked forward to the time I could spend in the shop. I still loved “repairing broken pieces of history,” as Holly phrased it, and the hours I toiled in my shop were fruitful and satisfying. Because of Holly, I finally accepted the joy my work brought me and was proud of what I did. Together, we had a great life.
Turning, I once again studied the sideboard, running my hand over the smooth surface of the wood making sure it was finished. I heard the telltale squeak of the back-porch door and a smile broke out on my face, knowing it must be lunchtime. I walked back to the open door of my shop to watch my girls come to me.
Angela hurried down the path, her long, straight, dark hair blowing behind her. Tall for her age and slender, she resembled me, except for her eyes. They were the same soft blue as Holly’s, and they danced with mischief and laughter all the time.
“Daddy!” she squealed, launching herself into my arms, acting as if it had been days not hours since she’d seen me at breakfast. She loved to be with me in the shop, but on days when I was sanding or using heavy machinery, I didn’t allow her in, not wanting to expose her to the dust or danger. When she was older, I had a feeling it would be harder to keep her away—she loved “working” in my shop and “helping” me. She listened with fascination as I showed her simple things like how to sand a piece of wood or add glue to mend a broken board. Together we had built birdhouses and little projects I came up with, and I looked forward to when I could show her more. But for now, I practiced caution. At four, she was smart, stubborn, and sweet. I adored my little girl.
I set her on her feet, pressing a kiss to her forehead, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Hey, Angel-girl.”
“We made a studio picnic!”
“Awesome.” I grinned. Studio picnics were our favorite—all the fun of regular picnics, but in the warmth and comfort of Holly’s studio, surrounded by blankets and soft cushions. My more “mature” bones thanked me at the end of the
picnics, plus it was too cool to eat outside today. “Did you help Momma?”
She nodded furiously. “She said she couldn’t do it without me.”
“I bet she did.”
I stood, my smile growing wider. Holly walked slowly, a huge basket in one hand, her other hand at her side. Our youngest daughter, Hannah, toddled beside her, her steps wonky and slow, but determined. Hannah was short, chubby, with a head of wild, curly red ringlets that bounced as she wobbled, clutching Holly’s fingers to stay upright. When Hannah saw me, she stopped, letting go of Holly’s hand, her eyes, the same green color as mine, lighting up. She began babbling in her high, animated voice, her hands flapping in excitement so fast she fell on her butt, still chirping in enthusiasm at seeing me. As usual, her exuberance made me laugh, and I hurried forward, lifting her from the cold ground and swinging her into the air.
“Hello, my little dumpling.” I brought her close and blew a long raspberry on her cheek.
“Dadadada,” she chortled, laughing and squirming, patting my face, reaching up with wet kisses and smiles.
My heart soared. Holly’s love had brought such a sense of peace, acceptance, and light to my life, and my children’s affection healed me totally. My past no longer mattered or held me in its dark grip. My girls’ love was freely given, absolute, and complete. To them, I was the greatest man on earth and could do no wrong.