Gail Martin - With Christmas in His Heart

Will seemed to be in his element—relaxed and carefree. She wished she could be more like him, more easygoing, and definitely more trusting.

The snow-burdened trees shimmered in the muted winter sun, and occasionally the clouded sky opened to let a bright ray stream down to earth and drop sequins in the snow. She closed her eyes from the glitter.

“Hang on,” Will called.

Her heart rose to her throat as they made a curve past the governor’s house and flew down Fort Hill and the whitewashed buildings flashed past her. She clung to him even tighter, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of holding a man in her arms.

Instead of heading to Main Street, Will slowed and turned onto Market Street. They shot past the medical center and post office. Along the way, the quaint shops and homey bed-and-breakfasts lined the road, adorned with green-and-red wreaths and garland announcing Christmas. Finally he decelerated and pulled to the curb. “Here we are.”

She looked at the store beside her. The window held displays of magnificent stained-glass windows, and sun catchers in all shapes and sizes hung from the French panes. The brilliant colors glinted in the afternoon rays.

The quiet street seemed so different from the hustle and bustle she recalled from the summer afternoons when tourists packed the streets—fudgies, the residents called them, because most visitors left the island with boxes of homemade fudge purchased in the famous island fudge shops.

Will climbed from the sled and extended his hand. Christine looked at it and at her feet adhered to the running board, her body cramped from clinging to Will’s waist as they flew across the unblemished snow. “I’m not sure I can move.”

He pulled off his helmet, his grin as wide as the Mackinac Bridge, and shook his head. “Let me help.”

She gave him her hand and dismounted, her knees trembling from the bumpy vibration of the sled. “I need to get my land legs.”

He drew closer, balancing her in his arms. “You’ll get used to it.”

But could she ever become used to being held in a wonderful man’s arms? The thought rushed down her limbs, and, embarrassed, Christine stepped away and pulled off her helmet.

Will took it from her and hung it with his on the handlebars.

For a moment, Christine felt overwhelmed by the newness of her experiences, but she had to admit she felt exhilarated. The fresh air, the wind nipping at her cheeks, the unspoiled beauty of the landscape, the feel of Will’s arms—it all had painted a memory in her mind and on her senses.

She drew in another breath, filling her lungs with pure air. “It smells wonderful.”

“The cold freezes the horse dung.”

His surprising comment made her laugh. “That’s very romantic.” As the word left her, she tried to stop it, but it was too late. Why would she say romantic to a man she barely knew and probably would never see again once she returned home?

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad I can make a good impression on someone in this world.”

Though he smiled, Christine sensed an undertone in his voice. She eyed him, but he didn’t give a hint of what he had meant and she didn’t know him well enough to pry, although she was tempted.

Will pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and headed for the door while Christine moved closer to the shop window to take a better look at his artwork. She saw the name on the window, Sea of Glass. She’d heard that phrase before.

Her mind shifted back to Will’s behavior. He was hiding something or… Maybe he was more like she was than she’d thought. Now that she’d gotten through her own murky days as a naive businesswoman, she had gained confidence and had also developed a deep curiosity to look more deeply into people.

People said much more below the surface than their words expressed. Subliminal messages were important in the advertising business. She needed curiosity to sense what the company really wanted to convey in their ads, and then needed it again to express the underlying message to the consumer. If Will was playing games, he didn’t know with whom he was messing.

Will pushed open the door, and a bell tinkled, catching her attention. Christine followed him inside, feeling the warmth of the building and the varied aromas of raw wood, dust and all the products that went into stained-glass art. She knew nothing about it, but she was awed by what she saw.

“This is beautiful, Will.” She paused beneath a large window hanging from the ceiling. A rich tapestry of colors created a pastoral scene with flowers, a river, sun and shade—multiple hues of greens and blues. “How do you do this? It’s amazing.”

“Very carefully,” he said, the playful tone returning to his voice.

Her admiration rose as she turned in a circle to view the magnificent pieces of glass designs that adorned the store. “You learned to do this in college?”

He shrugged. “It’s like anything. You learn techniques, and then you let your creativity take flight. You must do something creative in your own work—maybe something different than me, but still unique and your own style.”

She searched his face, surprised at the matter-of-fact way he discussed his art. Something bothered him. “I suppose I do, but it’s very different.”

He stood a moment in silence. “Why is it different?”

“In advertising, I create ads and promotional campaigns for clients.”

“That’s creative.” He gave one of his sun catchers a poke. “It’s the same. You didn’t learn everything in college.”

“That’s very true.” She thought of all the mistakes she’d made and her feeble attempts to cover them. “I work with a team. I can always blame them for my errors in judgment. You can’t.”

“No, but what’s the difference. You know you made the mistake, the same as I do.”

His comment left her flailing. He’d pinpointed an important issue that hit too close to home. No matter what she had done wrong, she knew about it herself—and so did God.

She looked a Will’s expectant face, his eyes searching hers as if filled with questions he didn’t have the nerve to ask. Something about him was endearing. “I’m really impressed.” She made a sweeping gesture around the store, seeing wooden crates filled with gigantic pieces of marvelous glass in many colors and textures.

“I figured you’d like some of my things.”

“Some? Everything is unique.”

His questioning look faded, and a grin replaced it. “Then come into my back room and see some more of my work.”

Will winked, then smiled at her over his shoulder.

Christine had to admit he had a wonderful smile that seemed contagious. She wanted to grin back, but she wasn’t planning to let him know she found him attractive.

He passed through the doorway. “This is my studio where I make all of these things.”

She followed him through the door and paused. She’d seen the supplies he sold in the front of the store, but in the back she surveyed worktables laden with projects and crates with a mixture of glass nearby.

“Where did you get the name for the shop—Sea of Glass?”

He turned to face her. “It’s in the Bible. Revelations. Those who were victorious over Satan stood beside the sea of glass as clear as crystal.” He gestured toward the lake. “The studio’s only a couple blocks from the water. I thought it was fitting.”

“It is. I like it.”

“Glass is like people,” he said, holding up a piece. “If you just glance at it, you see one thing, but if you really look inside—” he held it toward the light “—you see all kinds of nuances and textures.”

She ran her finger over the swirled design, wondering what he’d seen inside her. “What kind of glass is this?”

“Baroque.” He slid the large piece back into the rack, then selected another. “This is water glass.”

Christine looked at the texture appearing like raindrops.

“And this is a smooth ripple. Here’s an opal glass, bull’s-eye, English muffle and cathedral glass.”

“You’ve lost me.”

He lowered the glass and then stepped closer and tousled her already messed hair. “No, I haven’t. You’re right here. See.” He stepped closer and gave her a quick hug.

The embrace surprised yet pleased her. Will looked different in the studio, as if he were in control of his life. She saw confidence, and a look on his face that intrigued her—pride and a kind of wholeness. She wished she felt that way.

“You love this work,” she said. “I can see it on your face.”

“I do. It’s like cheating. I earn a living doing something that I have to do because I can’t help myself.”

“That’s not cheating. It’s finding the right job.”

He patted a stool beside the tall raw-wood table. “Sit here.”

She slid onto the stool, and he leaned his hip against the table.

“Have you found the right career?” he asked.

“I like to think so. When we do a good job and make the client happy, I can sit back and see the result of my work. It feels good.”

“That’s what counts.” He shifted away, but his response left her questioning her own decisions. She saw a specific difference between Will’s attitude toward his work and hers.

“Would you like to see how I do any of these things?” He motioned toward the projects scattered around the room.

“I’d love to, but I think we’d better get going. I’m nervous about leaving my grandmother too long.”

He nodded, then reached beneath his worktable and pulled out a large folded paper. “A pattern I’m designing. I’ll show you back at the house.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “Let’s go. We still have to stop at the grocery store.”

As the words left her, her cell phone played its familiar tune. She dug into her pocket, curious yet concerned. “I left the number with Grandma. I hope she’s okay.” She stared at it, afraid to answer.

“You’ll know, if you answer that thing.”

The melody stopped when she hit the green button. “Hello,” she said, expecting to hear her grandmother’s voice, but who she heard instead gave her a start. “Dad. Where are you?”

She heard the upset in his voice, and she listened as her pulse pounded in her temple.

“You’re in Florida? Why?”

Her stomach tightened as her world crumpled. She turned her head toward Will, unable to believe what she’d just heard.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “My mother fell and broke her hip, jogging.”

Christine watched Will’s jaw drop. “Your mother broke her hip jogging? Where?”

“On the ship’s promenade deck.” She crumpled back onto the stool. “I can’t believe this. This is a bad dream.”

Will rose and rested his hand on her back. His warmth rushed through her. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s in Florida, you said. Don’t worry about—”

“Not that. I’m stuck here, Will. Don’t you understand? I need to get back to my job. I thought I’d be home in a few days. Now what?”

She could see he’d been taken aback. His dark eyes flashed with disbelief, and she tried to recover from his look. “Naturally I’m concerned about my mother, but like you said, she’ll be okay. I just wasn’t planning on something like this happening.”

“We don’t plan for bad things to happen, Christine, but they do.”

She stared at him, wanting to say something, to explain, to have someone understand her stress, but she knew it was useless. Will didn’t know her at all. He had no idea about her work or how hard it was to stay at the top. “I’ll figure out something.”