Gift Wrapped Dad
Sandra Steffen
Dedicated to
My brothers, Leon, Larry, Dave and Ron—
great guys, one and all.
Acknowledgment
A special thank-you to Gordon Allen of Gordon Allen Rehabilitation Associates
Contents
Dear Santa,
I know it’s only October, but my best friend Stephanie told me I’d have a better chance if I wrote to you before the Christmas rush. Mom’s always telling me I’m a good boy. Mrs. Hansen, my teacher, said I’m not only good, I’m gifted. That means I’m smart, so you can bring me some books to read if you want to. But what I really want is a baseball glove. Not a sissy one, but a real leather, major league baseball glove. I want a dog, too. I don’t care what kind. Oh, and a dad, if you know of any extras anywhere.
Yours truly,
Tommy Wilson
P.S. Stephanie says hi.
One
Will Sutherland stopped in the doorway, the hum of an exercise machine obliterating any sound he might have made. The room was oblong, with mirrors and exercise equipment lining one entire wall. It was unoccupied, except for Krista.
She was wearing a black leotard and tights, the muscles in her thighs tightening with every stride she took on the treadmill. Her hands grasped the side rails loosely. Even so, the strength in her upper arms was clearly evident.
Her hair was as dark as always, but longer, coiled into a braid partway down her back. Her face was tipped up, and her eyes were closed, which explained the fact that she hadn’t noticed his presence. She was more slender than he remembered, but the way she filled out the top of her leotard was still the closest thing to perfection he’d ever seen. Will wouldn’t have minded staring at her for hours, except he was in a hurry to get this matter settled.
Gathering his thoughts, he said, “I didn’t believe it when they told me I’d find you up here. ‘Krista, exercising?’ I said. I was sure they had you confused with somebody else.”
Krista Wilson opened her eyes. She didn’t need to turn her head to know who had spoken; she’d recognize that voice anywhere. Breathing deeply, she slowed her pace on the treadmill and turned her head slightly, finally looking at the man who was watching her from the doorway. Studying his face unhurriedly, she couldn’t help smiling.
“Hello, Will.”
For a long moment he looked back at her, his lips slowly lifting into a grin she remembered well, the kind of grin that had made her swoon once, the kind of grin that reporters liked, fans loved and women adored. On anyone else, it would have looked practiced. On Will, it looked boyishly natural. It always had.
Thoughts whispered through her mind the way memories sometimes did. Images of her and Will laughing together and loving together lingered around the edges of her memory as if it had been weeks since she’d seen him instead of years. His hair was cut short, the front slightly askew, as always. His eyes were still a vivid blue—bedroom blue, according to the papers. His arms and shoulders looked as powerful as she remembered, and she could practically feel the afternoon stubble on his chin. He looked nearly the same as he had eight years ago. Only the crutches were different.
“I heard about the accident,” she said quietly.
Will inclined his head, his smile changing slightly as he said, “I don’t recall receiving any Get Well cards from you.”
“I don’t remember receiving any letters from you eight years ago, either,” she said quietly.
“You never were one to beat around the bush, Krista. That’s why I’m here.”
He looked into her eyes as if he were reaching into her thoughts, and Krista altered her first impression of him. He wasn’t the same as he’d been eight years ago. He was more serious, more mature.
Her heart was beating hard from her workout. Breathing between parted lips, she flipped a switch on the treadmill, stepped off the machine and walked closer. Fleetingly, she wished she was wearing something less revealing. Since there was nothing she could do about it, she squared her shoulders and stopped a few paces from him. With her hands on her hips, she asked, “Why are you here, Will?”
“I need a good physical therapist. And I’ve heard you’re the best,” he answered.
“You already have a physical therapist. I saw you together in Person Magazine. I believe her name was Miss July.”
One corner of his mouth rose, but it wasn’t the cocky smile she remembered. In a voice edged with irony, he said, “Unfortunately, my former therapist was more interested in getting me on my back than on my feet.”
His eyes had darkened like smoke, and he leaned on his crutches as if he was tired to the bone. He took a deep breath and finally broke the silence between them. “You aren’t going to ask, are you?”
Krista shook her head. She knew he was referring to his ability to make love. She also
