as he stepped into the kitchen. He lifted the lid from the large pot and gave Julie a smile. “Your mother’s recipe?”
She nodded.
Her father closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the chowder. “I feel that she’s with us.”
“I do, too, Dad.”
“For the first time since she died, I feel her presence more profoundly than I do her absence. I’m sure it has to do with Christmas.”
“I’m sure it does, too.”
“She was such a Christmas person.”
Her father wasn’t telling Julie anything she didn’t know. The house was always beautifully decorated for the holidays. Her mother spent endless hours seeing to every detail. Even her Christmas cards were special—because she wrote individual messages to each person. She baked and cooked for weeks beforehand, and every December she presented their neighbors with gifts of homemade cookies and candies. Julie had made an attempt to do the same, but she didn’t have the time, the patience or the skill to match her mother’s efforts. Her lone batch of fudge was a humbling experience and she ditched it before her father got home to see what a mess she’d made.
“Everything’s ready,” she announced. Instead of eating in the kitchen as they routinely did at night, they were using the dining room. After dinner and the dishes, they’d leave for Christmas Eve services at church.
“I’ll bring out the chowder,” her father said as the doorbell rang.
Julie frowned. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Her father shook his head. “I’ll get it.”
While her father dealt with whoever was at the door, Julie ladled soup into the tureen her mother had saved for special occasions. The bread, a recipe handed down for more than three generations, was a holiday tradition, too. Julie remembered how her mother had called Emily and Julie to the kitchen table and taught them the importance of kneading the dough. They’d loved doing it.
“It appears we have company,” her father said from behind her.
Julie turned around. Had there been anything in her hands, it would have crashed to the floor.
Roy Fletcher stood beside her father, his arms full of gifts, which he arranged under the tree.
“I’ll set an extra place at the table,” Dean said as though it was a foregone conclusion that Roy would be joining them.
Julie was cemented to the floor. Had her life depended on it, she couldn’t have moved. “What are you doing here?” she choked out.
“I read your letter.”
Better late than never, she wanted to tell him, but speaking had become rather difficult.
“Oh.”
“It was a beautiful letter.”
Her father walked past Julie. “The two of you can sort everything out after dinner. You will stay, won’t you, Roy?”
“Yes. Thank you, Dean….” He nodded, although the entire time he was speaking, his eyes were on Julie.
“Come on.” Her father urged them toward the dining room.
As if in a dream, Julie left the kitchen. Roy held out her chair for her, and her father set the soup tureen in the middle of the table, moving aside the centerpiece of fir branches and silver bells Julie had created. He hurried back to the kitchen for the bread. When they were all gathered at the table, they joined hands for grace.
Julie bowed her head and closed her eyes. She’d prayed for this, prayed Roy would feel her love, prayed he’d know she was sincere. Still, there was a sense of unreality about tonight. Her father’s words, asking God to bless their meal, barely registered in her mind. At the sound of his “Amen,” she lifted her head to discover Roy watching her. Her breathing stopped at the unmistakable love she saw in his eyes. She didn’t understand what had happened to him, but whatever it was had completely changed him. Or, more accurately, made him the person he was meant to be. The person he really was.
“Your coming by is a pleasant surprise,” her father said conversationally as he stood and reached for Roy’s bowl.
“I should’ve called first,” Roy said, and his gaze, which had been on Julie, moved to her father. “I hope it isn’t an imposition.” His eyes returned to her.
“Not at all. Julie made plenty. You do like clam chowder, don’t you?”
“Yes, very much.” Again his eyes briefly left her. “Julie and I had clam chowder the first time we went to dinner.”
“At an old college hangout of Roy’s,” she added.
Roy smiled.
“Julie baked the bread this evening,” her father said proudly as he reached for Julie’s soup bowl next. “It’s her mother’s recipe. She did an excellent job of it, too.”
Julie passed the bread basket to Roy.
“It’s an old German recipe. Her mother was of German ancestry,” Dean went on to explain.
“I’m sure it’s excellent.”
“It is,” her father said. “Julie’s mother was an exceptional woman.” He ladled soup into his own bowl and then sat down.
Her hands shaking, Julie offered Roy the butter.
Her father apparently wasn’t finished. “Darlene used to say it was a couple’s duty to keep their eyes open, their ears open, their hearts open and their mouths shut.” He laughed robustly.
Roy grinned.
Julie was following that bit of advice at the moment. She couldn’t possibly have carried on a civil conversation. All she could think about was the fact that Roy was in her home, having Christmas Eve dinner with her father and her. As far as she was concerned, this was nothing short of a miracle.
“I hope you’ll attend church services with us later.” Her father turned to Roy.
“I’d be delighted.”
“My wife had a lot of wonderful sayings,” he murmured, reverting to his previous topic. “She said interruptions were simply God’s appointments.”
“I interrupted you this evening,” Roy said.
“Now, Dad …” All this talk about her mother and God would probably confuse Roy. Christmas Eve was not the time to eulogize her mother. Then it occurred to Julie that her father needed to do this, that he wanted to remember and honor her by sharing her favorite expressions.
“Please go on,” Roy said. “I’d like to hear some of the other things your wife said.”
Her father grinned and put down his spoon. “My wife firmly believed that God sends pain into our lives for a reason.”
Roy frowned.
