The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel

and Rachel, Santa mouthed, "Bike."
    Sam nodded. The more practical side of him—and maybe the one who still feared his good fortune might not last—had been leaning toward a sled, a good one, but a bike was doable. Hell, he could do a bike and a sled.
    "Anything else?" Santa said in his booming voice.
    "I get another one?" Zach asked.
    "Of course. Anything you want!" Santa said, winking at Rachel. Apparently Santa had them pegged, and his aunt and uncle ran the town's only toy store. But so far no one had objected to that little conflict of interest.
    Zach hesitated once again. "Anything?"
    Santa gave a hearty "Ho, ho, ho," and nodded.
    Zach, very solemnly, very hopefully asked, "Could you bring my mommy back?"
    * * *
    Rachel held Grace close, singing to her and swaying back and forth on her feet. She was standing by the window, and everyone in the neighborhood had their Christmas lights on. Grace was wide awake, still staring at the lights, trying to reach out and touch them.
    "You want her back, too? Don't you?" Rachel asked softly. "You want your mommy?"
    Rachel had done it again, she realized. She'd been thinking of herself and her marriage, what she wanted and thought she needed, maybe what she thought she deserved. She hadn't been thinking of Zach or Emma or the baby, except to tell herself she could be so much better a mother to them than this woman who'd abandoned them and never come back.
    But the children still loved that other woman. She was still their mother, and they wanted her back. Rachel had forgotten all about that, and she was so ashamed.
    She kissed the baby's soft cheek, smoothed down her wispy hair and put her down, then went in and kissed a sleepy Zach and a troubled Emma.
    Suddenly she just couldn't be here, couldn't stand even her own thoughts. Everything was swirling around inside her head—all the questions, all the doubts, and none of the answers. She didn't know what to do, hadn't felt this lost since her mother died.
    She ran downstairs, headed for the back door.
    "Rachel?" Sam was there, coming toward her.
    "I—I forgot something," she stammered. "Something I have to do... I have to go out."
    "Now?" he asked.
    "Yes."
    "What's wrong?"
    "I... I just have to go," she insisted.
    She grabbed her coat and her gloves, shoved her feet into her boots before he could catch her, and she ran out the back door. Literally ran.
    "Rachel?" he called after her. "Wait!"
    She hadn't grabbed her purse, she realized. She didn't have her keys or her phone. And she just had to go. There were tears streaming down her cheeks and the sidewalk was slick. She knew Sam was worried, but she had to get away.
    She walked for blocks and blocks, and finally the sound of singing brought her out of her daze. She looked up and realized she was only a half a block from the church. Standing outside, she could hear the words to a familiar Christmas song drifting out, a song about having a merry, little Christmas, if the fates allowed. Rachel winced at the idea of her holiday or anything else in life being left up to fate. Fate had not been kind to her.
    Still, she was cold, and the church seemed to beckon to her. She slipped in the back door, finding herself in the middle of practice for the Christmas service. The choir was down front singing, the organist playing, the children arranged in a scene from the first Christmas, complete with the three wise men and a little boy she knew from down the street costumed as a glittering cardboard star.
    Rachel sank into a seat in the last pew at the very back of the church and hung her head and cried. Father Tim, the man who'd presided over her grandfather's funeral, her daughter's, her mother's, found her there. He sat down beside her and didn't say a word at first, just handed her a cup of what turned out to be hot cider. She took it between her cold hands and sipped slowly, her tears still falling.
    "It can't be that bad," he said finally. "It's Christmas."
    Rachel tried to smile and failed. He was one of the most cheerful people she'd ever known.
    "Want to tell me what's wrong?"
    "Do you have all night?" she asked.
    "I know it's not that bad," he claimed. "Tell me the worst of it. The absolute worst."
    "I've done it all wrong," she said. "Everything."
    "Absolutely everything in your whole life, Rachel?"
    She did smile a bit then. He always knew how to make people smile, too. "Is that so hard to believe?"
    "Yes. I know you. I would never believe you've done absolutely everything