A Christmas Wish Read Online Free

the night before the big day, just in time for Santa to come and deliver all those great presents. It’s the way we’ve done it year after year, from even before my parents had any children. I think that’s how it worked when they were kids, too. How their parents celebrated.”
    â€œWow, Christmas Eve? That’s really late for putting up the tree. Mom and I, we always chop down our own tree over at Green’s Farms and then set it up long before Christmas, like two weeks ahead.”
    â€œSee, that’s a tradition, Janey. It’s your tradition.”
    â€œOh,” she said, which made her smile, knowing that even she, at the tender age of eight, had a tradition. Probably had many more she was unaware of.
    Her mood brightened and the awkwardness from before dissipated, and we rejoined the party in the living room. The last two guests had arrived, and you could have knocked me over with a feather at who it was. My wayward, difficult, ever-so-challenging, not to mention well-divorced sister, Rebecca Louise Duncan Samson Herbert. At her side was her latest boyfriend, whom I learned was named Rex, probably the first Rex I’d ever met, probably the last. Rebecca was ten years my senior and Rex was ten years her junior, making us the same age, yet he seemed even younger, aided by the presence of tattoos on his exposed arms. The two of them seemed a perfect match, because neither had yet to grow up. My sister kissed my cheek, Rex shook my hand, called me “Dude,” and they both waved unenthusiastically when introduced to Janey.
    â€œWhere’s Junior?” I asked my sister.
    â€œWith his father, the bastard,” she said, though it wasn’t clear to anyone listening—which was all of us—whom she was calling the bastard, the ex or her son. With my sister, you never know. Then, when she noticed Janey still clinging to my side, she apologized for her language. “Oops, sorry, not used to kids being around.”
    Great. Should be a fun afternoon.
    Junior was her son by her first husband, he was ten years old, and frankly he would have been a nice playmate today (I had expected my sister to bring her son, not some dim boy toy), because I realized Janey was lost amidst this sea of adults. What did she have in common with this group of people? Four grown-ups who would talk money and business and gossip, my sister and her boy toy, and . . . me. Heck, maybe I could sit at the kiddie table with Janey, the two of us adrift in this rough sea. Rebecca went off in search of a drink, Rex followed her like a dutiful puppy, and when no one else was looking, Janey turned back to me and said, “Could we go and look at the Liberty Bell again?”
    â€œIt wasn’t open the first time, Janey.”
    â€œI know,” she replied, which had me stifling a laugh.
    No one heard the exchange, busy were they with their own small talk.
    We were a far cry from the gentle comfort of Linden Corners, and we found our homey farmhouse calling to us with desperation. I imagined Greta sitting down to a table filled with love, her four daughters and sons-in-law, their sweet children, the kind of Thanksgiving you saw perfected in television movies. What gave the Duncan family the illusion of perfection was the lushly decorated table, which now overflowed with food, a huge turkey that my father delighted in carving, “like a takeover, removing it piece by piece,” he said, getting a hearty laugh out of a jovial Harry Henderson. There were also three kinds of potatoes and roasted chestnut stuffing and cranberries and rolls and warm crusty breads, vegetables, too, a feast to satisfy ourselves on. Good thing, too, as the conversation might have starved us.
    My father and Harry talked business—stocks and the ups and downs of the volatile market—while my mother and Katrina talked about society gossip.
    â€œOh, that reminds me,” Rebecca jumped in, deciding then and there