Philip dropped to his knees. His suit pants hit the carpet. He didn’t care.
“Lydia,” he choked out.
Lydia wiggled in Clara’s arms. Clara, unsure, gently lowered the child to the floor.
Lydia stood there, unsupported. She took one wobbly step toward her father.
Philip opened his arms, and she fell into them.
The dam broke. Philip buried his face in his daughter’s hair, smelling the baby shampoo, feeling the warmth of her small body against his chest. He sobbed. He wept with a ferocity that shook his shoulders, releasing eighteen months of agony, guilt, and loneliness.
He felt a small hand patting his back.
“It okay, Dada,” a tiny voice whispered.
Philip pulled back, cupping her face in his large hands. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
He looked up at Clara. The young maid was standing there, tears in her own eyes, twisting her hands in her apron, waiting for the axe to fall.
Philip wiped his eyes and stood up, lifting Lydia effortlessly into his arms. He looked at the maid who had done in three days what the best doctors couldn’t do in a year.
“You’re not fired,” Philip said, his voice rough.
Clara let out a breath she had been holding. “Thank you, sir.”
“In fact,” Philip said, looking around the room at the Christmas lights and the teddy bear. “What are you doing for Christmas, Clara?”
“I… I don’t have plans, sir. My family is in California. I’m just picking up extra shifts.”
Philip looked at Lydia, who was currently playing with his tie, a small smile on her lips.
“You have plans now,” Philip said firmly. “Cancel your shifts. You’re staying here. And we are going to have Christmas. A real Christmas.”
Chapter 3: The Awakening
The next three days were a blur of activity that the Arden estate had not seen in decades.
Philip Arden, the man who usually ran his company with an iron fist and checked his emails every five minutes, turned his phone off. He threw it in a drawer in the library and locked it.
The first order of business was the tree.
“It has to be real,” Clara insisted the next morning at breakfast.
They were sitting in the massive, sun-drenched kitchen. Usually, Philip ate alone while reading the Wall Street Journal. Today, Lydia was sitting in a high chair—messily eating pancakes—and Clara was sitting across from him, looking nervous but determined.
“We have a tree,” Philip said, gesturing to the foyer. “The decorator put up a twelve-foot artificial spruce with gold ribbons.”
Clara crinkled her nose. “That’s a museum tree, sir. Not a kid’s tree. A kid’s tree smells like pine and drops needles everywhere and has ornaments made of macaroni.”
Philip looked at Lydia. She had syrup on her cheek. She pointed a sticky fork at him. “Pine,” she said.
Philip laughed. It was a rusty sound, but it felt good. “Okay. A real tree.”
They took the SUV. Philip drove. He hadn’t driven himself in years. Clara sat in the back with Lydia, singing Jingle Bells off-key until Lydia started clapping her hands.
They went to a lot on the edge of town. Philip, wearing a $5,000 cashmere coat, dragged a six-foot Douglas Fir through the snow while Clara carried Lydia. He got sap on his gloves. He got snow in his boots.
He loved it.
When they got back, they set the tree up in the living room, pushing the expensive designer furniture out of the way.
“We need ornaments,” Clara declared.
“I have crates of vintage glass ornaments in the attic,” Philip offered.
“Nope,” Clara said. She went to the pantry and came back with flour, salt, and water. “We’re making dough ornaments. And popcorn strings.”
For the next four hours, the billionaire and the maid sat on the floor of the living room, covered in flour. Philip Arden, who negotiated billion-dollar mergers, found himself intensely focused on shaping a lump of dough into a star.
Lydia was making a snowman. Or at least, a lump that she insisted was a snowman. She was talking more now. Words were bubbling up out of her like a spring that had been unblocked. “Star,” “Snow,” “Clara,” “Dada.”
As the sun went down, they turned on the tree lights. The smell of baking dough and fresh pine filled the cavernous room.
Philip sat back on his heels, watching Lydia try to hang a lopsided star on a low branch. She stood on her tiptoes, her legs strong and steady.
“How did you do it?” Philip asked quietly, not looking at Clara.
Clara was sweeping up popcorn kernels. She paused. “Do what, sir?”
“The doctors… they tried everything. Therapy. Medication. Why did she walk for you?”
Clara put the broom down. She looked at the little girl.
“The doctors were trying to fix her,” Clara said softly. “They looked at her like a broken machine. They focused on what she couldn’t do. They wanted her to walk so she would be normal.”
She looked at Philip. “I didn’t care if she walked. I just wanted her to be happy. I wanted to play with her. I think… I think she was just sad, Mr. Arden. She was sad and she was scared, and everyone around her was so serious and worried. She needed permission to just be a kid again. She needed to know it was okay to be happy, even without her mom.”
Philip felt the sting in his eyes again. He realized he had been part of the problem. His grief had been a heavy blanket over the house, suffocating Lydia. He had been so focused on her recovery that he had forgotten to be her father.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“She did the work,” Clara smiled. “She’s a tough cookie.”
Chapter 4: The Ghost of Christmas Past
Christmas Eve arrived with a snowstorm. The wind howled outside, but inside, the fireplace was roaring.
Philip had ordered a feast, but he dismissed the catering staff early so they could be with their families. It was just the three of them.
They ate roast chicken and mashed potatoes at the kitchen island. Lydia was exhausted from the excitement, her eyes drooping.
“I’ll take her up,” Clara said, wiping Lydia’s face.
“No,” Philip stood up. “I’ll do it.”
Clara looked surprised but nodded. “Okay. I’ll clean up here.”
Philip carried his daughter up the grand staircase. She rested her head on his shoulder, her thumb in her mouth.
“Santa coming?” she mumbled sleepily.
“Yes, baby. Santa is coming,” Philip promised.
He changed her into her pajamas. He brushed her teeth. He tucked her into the crib that she would soon outgrow.
He sat in the rocking chair—the one Sarah used to sit in—and watched her sleep.
For the first time in eighteen months, he didn’t feel the crushing weight of the void. He missed Sarah. God, he missed her. But he didn’t feel like he had died with her anymore. He looked at Lydia and saw Sarah’s nose, Sarah’s chin. She wasn’t gone. She was right here.
He went downstairs. Clara was sitting in the living room, looking at the tree. The only light came from the colored bulbs and the fire.
“She’s out like a light,” Philip said, walking in.
“She had a big day,” Clara said. She stood up. “I should probably go to my room. Let you have some peace.”
“Stay,” Philip said. “Please. Have a drink with me.”
Clara hesitated, then sat back down. Philip poured two glasses of wine. He handed one to her and sat on the sofa opposite her.
“You saved us, you know,” Philip said, swirling the wine.
“I just played with a teddy bear, sir.”
“Stop calling me sir. It’s Philip.”
“Okay… Philip.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“What are you studying?” Philip asked. “You said you’re a nursing student.”
“Pediatrics,” Clara said, her eyes lighting up. “I want to work with kids in trauma recovery. Physical therapy through play.”
Philip smiled. “You’re going to be very good at it.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He placed it on the coffee table.
“What is that?” Clara asked.
“It’s your Christmas bonus,” Philip said. “And… a scholarship. I own a foundation. We support medical students. I made a call today. Your tuition is covered. For the rest of your degree.”
Clara’s hands flew to her mouth. “Mr. Ard—Philip. I can’t. That’s too much.”
“It’s not enough,” Philip said intensely. “You gave me my daughter back. There is no amount of money that equals that. Take it. Please.”
Clara reached out with shaking hands and took the envelope. tears spilled over her cheeks. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll come back,” Philip said. “Not as a maid. But… come visit. Lydia is going to need her friend. And… I could use a friend too.”
Clara wiped her eyes and smiled, a genuine, blinding smile that warmed the cold room. “I’d like that.”
Chapter 5: The Morning After
Christmas morning broke with brilliant sunshine reflecting off the fresh snow.
Philip was woken up at 6:00 AM. Not by an alarm. But by a small weight jumping on his bed.
“Dada! Dada! Wake up! Santa!”
Philip groaned, opening one eye. Lydia was bouncing on his duvet, her hair a mess, her eyes bright with excitement.
He laughed, grabbing her and tickling her until she shrieked.
“Okay, okay! Let’s go!”
He put on his robe and they ran downstairs. Clara was already there, wearing a cozy sweater, a cup of coffee in her hand.
“He came!” Lydia screamed, pointing at the pile of gifts under the lopsided, dough-ornament-covered tree.
There were expensive gifts, of course. A dollhouse. A new bike. But the one Lydia loved the most was a simple stuffed dog that Clara had bought her.
Philip watched them. He watched his daughter tear open paper. He watched her run—run!—across the room to show Clara a toy.
He walked over to the window and looked out at the snow.
The driveway was white and clean. The world was quiet. But inside, the house was full of noise. The sound of ripping paper. The sound of Christmas music. The sound of laughter.
Philip Arden touched the cold glass. He whispered a quiet “Merry Christmas, Sarah” to the sky.
He felt a peace settle over him. The long winter was over. The ice had melted.
“Dada!” Lydia called out. “Come play!”
Philip turned around. His daughter was standing there, holding a plastic tea set. Clara was smiling at him.
“Coming,” Philip said.
He walked away from the window, away from the grief, and stepped into the center of the room, ready to live again.
THE END
Aby zobaczyć pełną instrukcję gotowania, przejdź na następną stronę lub kliknij przycisk Otwórz (>) i nie zapomnij PODZIELIĆ SIĘ nią ze znajomymi na Facebooku.
