Page 33 of We Wish You a Messy Christmas

Olivia stood in front of the kitchen window, gazing out with longing toward the McEntires’ house, where their windows seemed to glow with a cheerful golden light and she could imagine music and laughter. She remembered spending time there as a child, wishing she was part of their relaxed, boisterous, fun-loving family rather than her own family. But right now, she felt separated from them, like that pathetic proverbial kid with her nose pressed to the toy store window, wishing. But she knew that even if Malcolm truly loved her—like she feared she loved him—it would be too challenging. Really, they were not so different from the Montagues and Capulets . . . just an aged-up version of Romeo and Juliet. But taking poison felt just a bit too extreme, even for a broken—or breaking—heart. She closed the window blinds and turned away.

***

As he sanded the primitive-looking carved statuette of Joseph, a wave of sadness washed over Malcolm. “Wow . . .” He sighed, set down the carving, and turned to his dad, who’d been helping him on this little project. “I don’t know . . .”

“Don’t know what?” Erik looked confused. “Don’t get discouraged. We’re almost done. Those pieces are almost ready to be sealed, and I gotta say, they’re really good, son. I didn’t know you had a hidden artistic side.”

Malcolm picked up the Joseph figurine and held it in front of his dad. “I was just thinking about the real Joseph. You know, Jesus’s stepfather.”

“Uh-huh?” Erik poured more oil onto the cloth he was using to seal the other pieces of the nativity set that Malcolm had been working on for the past several days. The idea had come after Olivia had told him about the childhood set her mother had gotten rid of. He’d hoped to surprise her for Christmas, but work in the city and here at home had waylaid him a little. Fortunately, his dad, a good woodworker, was helping now. “So, tell me, son, what is it you were thinking about Joseph?”

“Well, I know it must’ve been hard for him.” Malcolm studied the figure that he’d carved, more symbolic than realistic, although it was attractive in a rustic sort of way. And when all the pieces were put together, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what they represented.

“Right,” Erik agreed. “To become a father to the Son of God . . . those are pretty big sandals to fill.”

Malcolm smiled. “For sure, but that’s not exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking about him seeing all the obstacles he had to face if he married Mary. I mean, think about it, it must’ve been overwhelming. Don’t you think?”

“So, bringing this home, Malcolm, are you thinking of the obstacles with Olivia’s family? Mainly her mother?”

Malcolm nodded solemnly. “I realize it’s nothing like what Joseph faced, but at least God gave him a dream to confirm it was the right thing to do.”

“Ya think God’ll give you a dream?” Erik had a slight teasing edge to his voice. “But I don’t mean to make light of this. I realize that Jane Bradshaw is a lot to deal with. Believe me, I know. But I also know that Rob is a good man. And Olivia is a great gal. I mean, we’ve known her forever, and I still remember her coming over here, playing with you kids like she was part of the family. And I know for a fact she loves her parents, but there were times she wanted to be part of this family.”

Malcolm considered this. He’d been enough older than Olivia not to have noticed these things. Mostly she’d just been the neighbor kid who liked to hang with his younger sisters. Nice enough, but nothing to get his attention . . . until they’d met again as adults.

“And I really think that under Jane’s veneer of perfection, which by the way seems a little crackled and peeling of late, kinda like that cabinet I just refinished for your mom . . . anyway, there’s a good woman who doesn’t want to be like that underneath.”

Malcolm had heard about the so-called intervention from his mother. Of course, she’d given it a positive spin, but he was not convinced.

“But, Dad,” he said, “Mrs. Bradshaw hates our family. How could I possibly make a serious go of it with her daughter?”

“Hate is a strong word.” Erik picked up a wise man figure and rubbed oil into it. “I think she just doesn’t understand us. Something shifted in her somewhere . . . maybe we’ll never fully understand it . . . but I believe that God made her, just as surely as you made these statues, and God has a plan for her. And for all we know, you—and our family—could be a part of that. And I’ll tell you something else, I feel that Rob is one of my best friends, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same—even if he hides it from Jane. So I am personally not willing to give up on them. Any of them.” He picked up the Mary figure now, gazing at her. “And one more thing, I would be proud to call Olivia a daughter, and I know she would fit into our family perfectly.”

Malcolm felt slightly choked up at this unexpected speech. Dad wasn’t usually a real verbal sort of guy, and what he’d just said was both amazing and affirming. With the Joseph figure still in his hand, he hugged him.

“Thanks, Dad, I needed that.”

“Me too,” Erik said. “I wanted to say something but didn’t really know how.” He slapped Malcolm on the back. “For what it’s worth, you have my blessing.”

Malcolm thanked him again, then continued sanding a rough edge off the Joseph figure. He knew these pieces were pretty rustic but thought to himself that maybe that was fitting. Wasn’t it pretty rustic at that first Christmas? Hopefully Olivia would appreciate that, because he knew for a fact her mother wouldn’t.

eighteen

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Olivia got up early in hopes of catching Malcolm before he disappeared, and, seeing that the bathroom sink was dry with no signs of use, she suspected Malcolm was still sleeping in the guest room. So she tiptoed downstairs and set to making coffee, keeping her ear trained on the stairs for Malcolm’s footsteps. At the very least she hoped to exchange a good morning greeting . . . and perhaps gauge his response toward her—would it be warm or cool?

She was just leaving the kitchen with her mug of coffee when Malcolm came very quietly down the stairs, carrying Sadie’s doggy crate. Olivia smiled at him and held up her steaming mug. “I just made a fresh pot if you’re interested.”

“I’d love some.” He beamed at her in a way that gave her hope.

“Follow me,” she whispered, leading him to the kitchen and filling a mug. She knew he took his coffee black. “Do you have time to sit?” she asked quietly, gesturing toward Dad’s den, knowing conversation in there wouldn’t disturb the others still sleeping. Malcolm nodded and followed her.

“I feel like I’ve barely seen you the whole time you’ve been here,” she said as she sat in her dad’s favorite chair. “To be honest, I was starting to feel like you were avoiding me.”

He set Sadie’s crate on the floor and sat on the sofa with a thoughtful expression. “No, I wasn’t avoiding you. Not at all. I was just trying not to aggravate your mother. You know how that can be.” He opened Sadie’s crate, taking the pup into his lap. “And I planned to keep her at my parents’ house today while I’m, uh, working over there.”

“If you’re busy, you can leave her with me. I love having her around.”

“You really do seem to like her. But I sort of overheard your mom talking to your dad when I came in last night. Kind of complaining about Sadie.”