A Christmas Miracle for Daisy

“Yes!”

“Can I give you a hug?”

“Yes.”

Whitney crouched on the carpet and Daisy moved into her arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you for my presents,” Daisy whispered.

“You are most welcome,” Whitney whispered back.

When the hug ended, Whitney rose, but Daisy slipped her hand into hers, her small warm fingers wrapping around Whitney’s. Whitney gave Daisy’s hand a little squeeze. Daisy squeezed back and Whitney felt a rush of love as well as a wash of gratitude. She was grateful that the bond was still there, and perhaps it was slight and fragile, but it was something. It was enough. It’d give them a chance to build a new relationship, one that would hopefully weather time and life’s storms.

As Cormac carried the tray of popcorn and drinks towards the theater, he glanced at Whitney and their gazes locked and held. His eyes were warm, and the corner of his mouth curled. There was so much intensity in his eyes that her insides did another crazy rollercoaster loop-de-loop, but this surge and flip had nothing to do with Daisy and everything to do with Cormac’s smile.

Daisy sat between them at the movie, and then afterwards wanted to hold each of their hands as they walked to the Italian restaurant Rocco’s on Church Street for dinner. Cormac said it was a couple blocks away, on the opposite side of Main Street as if you were heading to Bramble.

Whitney didn’t mind, thinking the walk would be good after the bucket of popcorn. She wasn’t yet hungry for dinner but also wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Daisy and Cormac.

They snapped and zipped their coats and Cormac wrapped Daisy’s scarf around her neck before putting her mittens on her hands.

Whitney’s lips twitched. He was such a doting dad.

He caught her amused smile and warned, “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you’re surprised I don’t tape her in bubble wrap.”

Whitney grinned. “Who says that?”

“Oh, just about all of my brothers.”

She did laugh now. “I think it’s sweet. But Cormac, little girls can be just as tough as boys. She’s a person, and not made of glass.”

“So you say,” he said, sounding amused, too.

Rocco’s was just opening for dinner when they arrived. It was early, not quite five thirty, and they had the restaurant to themselves.

“Daisy loves this place,” he said, helping her with her coat.

“It’s like Italy,” Daisy said with the extreme confidence of a four-year-old.

“I’ve never been to Italy,” Whitney answered, “so it’s a good thing we came here.”

Tuscan landscapes covered the faux plaster walls, with trompe l’oeil fountains and statues painted in corner niches. The ceiling featured a trellis with vines and clusters of oversized burgundy red grapes. Red-and-white-checked cloths covered each of the tables, topped by the obligatory red candle burning brightly in an empty Chianti bottle.

The interior was a tad cliché, but at the same time, it exuded warmth and charm. Whitney immediately understood the appeal to a little girl. It appealed to her, too.

Peeling her coat off, she hung it on the back of her wooden chair and sat down. She hadn’t thought she was hungry but suddenly she craved bruschetta, or pasta, or whatever that incredible buttery-garlic smell was coming from the kitchen.

“This is fun,” she said as Cormac pushed Daisy’s chair in and then took a seat, too.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” Cormac said. “This was a family favorite. Rocco’s has been here forever. My grandfather Sheenan used to bring Dad here as a boy, and then he and Mom would bring us.”

Daisy tipped her head back. “I like the grapes.”

Whitney looked up. “They do look good, don’t they?”

“They’re not real, though,” she added sorrowfully. I tried to eat them when I was a baby. But they’re just plastic.”

“But now you know,” Cormac said. He glanced at Whitney. “Everything here is good. Everything’s homemade. All the pasta is made fresh daily.”

“Any recommendations?” she asked, feeling that funny little flutter in her middle as his eyes met hers.

He smiled lazily, eyes glinting, broad shoulders shifting. “Depends what you like.”

The flutter in her middle became a wild thing, setting her pulse racing, making her heart pound. “You know me, I’m easy.”

His brows lifted. “Good. Then you won’t be disappointed, no matter what you order.”

*

They walked back to the Graff with Daisy between them, with Cormac and Whitney each holding one of her hands. Daisy wanted them to swing her and they’d count, 1, 2, 3 and then lift her off the ground. Each time she’d go a little higher, be carried a little farther and she’d squeal with laughter.

They were lifting her and swinging her as they crossed Front Street when suddenly a truck came flying down the street and squealed around the corner, nearly taking them out.

In one swift motion Cormac dragged Daisy up into his arms, and yanked Whitney violently backwards, sending them crashing down on the curb. Cormac took the brunt of the fall. Whitney yelped as her elbow and knee hit the ground but at least they were safe.

Cormac shouted something at the truck as it gunned down the street, but the truck was long gone, either oblivious or just uninterested in how close it’d come to running them all over.

*

“You okay?” Cormac asked, standing and extending a hand to Whitney.

She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet.

“Yes.” She rubbed her elbow as she got to her feet. “That was crazy. Thank goodness you have fast reflexes.”

Cormac’s jaw thickened. He was livid. “There is no excuse for that. Incredibly stupid, reckless driving.”

“Stupid,” Daisy repeated.

Cormac exhaled and glanced down at Daisy, giving her a little jiggle in his arms. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

“No. But he was stupid.” She smiled up at Cormac. “Right, Daddy?”

“That’s why you always have to look both ways before crossing the street, Daisy. You have to pay attention. That driver wasn’t.” Cormac shot Whitney another narrowed, troubled glance. “You sure you’re okay?”

She could feel his tension. He was really upset. “Yes,” she said. “I’m fine, I promise.” And then suddenly she understood what was happening. She understood his tension.

This wasn’t just about the truck that had gone speeding down the road. This was about Las Vegas, and the taxi that had lost control, crashing into April and Daryl’s limo. He was reliving the accident.

“We are all good,” she said quietly. “We’re here, one piece.”

And yet she, too, felt the past return. Memories flooded her of the weekend they spent in Las Vegas for the renewal of Daryl and April’s vows.

Her memories of the weekend were fragmented, told to her while she recovered in the hospital. She’d forgotten most of what had happened, her memory of the weekend damaged in the accident.

She remembered landing at the Las Vegas airport, and checking into the MGM Grand Hotel. She remembered the late lunch by the pool the next afternoon and then heading in the limo for the wedding chapel. And that’s all she remembered without others filling in the missing pieces.

She didn’t remember the service at the chapel. She didn’t remember getting back into the limo after. The accident happened on the way home from the dinner following the wedding at the chapel.

The limousine had just dropped Cormac off at the Four Seasons, his hotel, and was pulling back out onto the Strip when broadsided by a cab. The limo burst into flames. April died. Daryl died. Whitney was hurt. But Cormac was okay. And of course, Daisy was safe, because she was home in Denver with a sitter. But Whitney had to be told the grim details over and over because her memory wouldn’t retain the information.

*

Whitney had said she was fin

e, but she’d turned awfully pale and Cormac was worried.

Whitney wasn’t just anyone. She was Daisy’s godmother and long before that, his girlfriend.

Even when she became his ex-girlfriend she was still important.

She was the only woman who’d ever gotten under his skin. The only woman who had tempted him to drop his armor. The one that had very briefly made him want…more.

He’d even bought her an engagement ring. Taken her to dinner. Had the proposal all planned out. But then something during the dinner unsettled him. A couple a table away quarreled throughout their meal, their tense, taut expressions, rise and fall of voices, the angry scrape of chairs made Cormac’s blood freeze.

He froze. He didn’t want to be that man. He didn’t want to live with that unhappy woman. He didn’t want to be the man that made a woman so desperately unhappy. And he would.