She smiled around at them. “Merry Christmas, girls. I have a surprise for you.”
“Kittens?” asked Beth.
“Not until spring,” Meg said.
“Better than kittens,” Momma said.
Amy’s face lit. “Daddy!”
Jo winced. It was the fault of all the local stations running those cheesy holiday homecoming videos on the evening news, fathers in uniform coming up the driveway, striding into a classroom, showing up at their kids’ ball games...
Momma nodded. “He’s going to call this afternoon.”
A phone call. Jo swallowed her disappointment. She didn’t really expect Dad to pop out of a box like the fathers on TV. Anyway, even hearing his voice would make Christmas more, well, Christmassy. He usually called when they were in school. Because of the time difference, Momma said.
Talking it over one night after Beth and Amy were in bed, Jo and Meg had decided their parents were trying to protect them. As long as they didn’t expect to hear from him every day, they wouldn’t worry on the days his calls couldn’t get through because of a sandstorm or an attack.
The phone rang.
“Jo, turn that volume down.” Momma picked up the phone, tugging off her bandanna with her free hand. “Hi, honey.” She ran her fingers through her hair as if Daddy could see her. “Merry Christmas!”
Jo couldn’t hear his reply, but their mother laughed. “I will.” He murmured something else. Her cheeks turned pink. “Yes. I’m putting you on speaker now.”
Jo couldn’t wait to hear his voice. But they had to take turns speaking, because if they all talked at once he got them mixed up. Of course, Meg, being the oldest, got the receiver first.
Jo jiggled from foot to foot as Meg told their father about organizing the canned-food drive at school. As if she hadn’t spent the last student council meeting flirting with Ned Moffat.
Finally, it was Jo’s turn. She reached for the phone, but Amy snatched it away.
“Hey!” Jo said.
“Ssh. It’s all right,” Momma said.
It wasn’t all right. It wasn’t fair. Jo needed to talk to Dad. And he wanted to talk to her—she knew he did. At the dinner table, while the others chattered about movies or friends, she and Dad always talked about what she was reading or thinking, tossing sentences back and forth the way another father and daughter might play catch.
But Amy got away with it because she was adorable. Not responsible like Meg or good at school like Jo or sweet like Beth, but small andsuper cute—their own little Disney princess with big blue eyes and smooth blond hair. Standing next to her, Jo felt like a giraffe, all long legs and knobby knees and spots.
Amy shot her a triumphant look and tucked the receiver out of reach beneath her chin. “I’m making you a present,” she told Dad. “A wallet with all our pictures in it.”
Which explained the mess on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Princess,” Dad said.
“You won’t have it in time for Christmas, though,” Amy said.
“That’s okay. I got the care package you sent,” he said. “I appreciate the cookies. And the movies.”
“Give me the phone,” Jo said.
Amy angled her body away, still holding the receiver tight. “I put inWhite Christmas.”
“I saw,” Dad said. “It made me think of you.”
“Are you watching it?”
“Not tonight,” Dad said. “One of the other soldiers needed it tonight. He came into my tent to browse the DVDs and stayed awhile, talking. But I’m listening to your Christmas CD.”
“That’s from Beth,” Amy said.
