Sometimes, ALS took people with gut-wrenching speed. Sometimes, it moved more slowly. His family had expected the worst at the outset, but so far, the progression of the disease had been gradual. God had gifted his mother with additional time.
She wore leg braces and walked with a cane. She took oral medicine and rounds of IV medicine. She dealt with physical therapy and testing.
She’d been a librarian at the city library her entire career. When her boss learned of her condition, he’d invited Mom to work by the hour—as little or as much as she desired. Mom still went to the library for a portion of each weekday.
She took the same approach to housework. He’d repeatedly told her that she didn’t have to do anything around the house. She’d repeatedly shown him that helping out soothed her. It made her feel she was contributing and gave her a connection to the rhythms she’d been practicing for years.
Every time he’d had a vacation from work, they’d traveled. Sometimes with a sister or two and the grandkids. Mom had chosen the destinations and chosen well. They’d been to Aspen in winter. Maine and Montana in summer. Lake Tahoe and Santa Fe for spring break.
Except when one of his noisy sisters was on the phone or in the house, he and Mom lived peacefully. They understood each other. She accepted his help. He respected her independence.
He no longer felt the sharp edge of anxiety that had initially consumed him. But at times, the heaviness of her prognosis wore him down. He struggled with loneliness, which was strange because he was surrounded by kids and fellow teachers at work and spent time with Mom after work. Turned out that serving as the caregiver for someone deteriorating from ALS brought with it a unique kind of loneliness that wasn’t easy to explain.
She eased into a chair as he finished putting away the last of the dishes. He started setting the table.
“Have you heard any updates on the live nativity?” she asked. For the past fifteen years, she’d organized Misty River’s live nativity. It ranked just below food and above travel on her list of passions. She still attended most of the nativity committee meetings, though volunteers had lifted almost all the responsibilities from her shoulders.
“I meant to tell you earlier and forgot.” He’d spent the last several hours in his studio, lost in painting and thoughts of Shay. “In addition to the donkey and sheep, Sam Turner told me that he’s confirmed an alpaca and a miniature cow.”
Her mouth dropped open and a hand pressed to her heart. “An alpaca! A miniature cow!”
Connor hadn’t known there was such a thing as miniature cows. And he definitely didn’t think that there’d been alpacas in Bethlehem. But Sam had agreed months ago to host the nativity at Sugar Maple Farm, his historic property on national park land. Connor was so grateful to the guy that he wasn’t about to question either animal.
“We’re going to have the best nativity ever this year,” Mom said.
“The very best.” Her primary goal this month was to pull off a meaningful live nativity. Since that was her goal, it had become Connor’s.
“You know who I’m going to contact, to see if she’d be interested in a character role?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Shay Seaver.”
He paused with silverware in his hands to cut a look in her direction. Her profile was a mask of innocence as she considered her perfect burgundy nail polish.
“Oh?” He set the silverware on napkins. As much as he liked his mom, he did not want her butting into his love life.
“I think she’d be fabulous. There’s something so... bright and endearing about her.”
“Mm,” he said noncommittally. Inwardly, though, he agreed. In a rush, he remembered how she’d looked last night at the Christmas tree lighting. The sweep of her thick eyelashes. The small earrings sparkling in her ears. The fabric tied around her delicate throat.
Longing chased the memory, deep and true.
Chapter Three
Shay had purposely proposed that she meet Connor at his house on Wednesday afternoon before they went shopping for clothes. She wanted to A) check on his mother, the woman she credited with fostering her love of reading and B) see where Connor lived and painted.
She’d told herself that B was important because it would give her insight that would help her gauge Connor’s style of fashion. But really. In the days since he’d asked her to serve as his dating consultant, her curiosity about him had been growing. She didn’t know Connor as well as she should, after their long acquaintance. Like most unselfish men, he didn’t talk about himself often. Seeing where he lived would provide detail.
She made her way up the walkway to the Bryants’ craftsman bungalow. The temperature hovered in the mid-fifties and rain fell steadily onto her umbrella from low, white clouds. Sodden leaves carpeted the earth, leaving the bare branches of the trees shiny and dark with water. Breathing in the damp cool, she was glad she’d chosen black camo leggings, a gray exercise top, and a pale pink work-out jacket.
The homes in this section of town were all over a century old and full of character. The bungalow’s porch spanned the width of the house. The exterior brick had been painted a dark brownish gray, the trim white.
Mrs. Bryant answered the door, her face creasing with pleasure at the sight of Shay. They hugged and exchanged greetings.
It had been several months since Shay’s path had crossed with Mrs. Bryant’s. She’d worried about the state she’d find her in today, so it was reassuring to see her looking so much like herself. She wasn’t moving as easily as she once had. But there was still color in her cheeks and strength in her limbs.
“I love your house,” Shay said honestly.
