The Red Gloves Collection (35 page)

There was talk that sometime in the next five years, her parents might return home so her mother could run for senate in Virginia. “Then I’ll take over the social calendar,” her father had quipped more than once during their last visit that summer.

The ride home was quiet. Hannah wondered if Buddy was praying. Buddy was a man who talked to God, and most nights he’d tell her he was praying for her— something she didn’t quite understand. God—if there was a God—seemed far away and uninvolved. Hannah wasn’t sure if He had time to know who the real Hannah Roberts was, the reason she ran from one event to another without ever taking a day off.

“Things okay at school?” Buddy took a slow left turn onto the hilly road that led to The Colony.

“Great.” Hannah yawned. “Aced my speech on the challenges of international politics, tore up in cheerleading, and designed the layouts for a third of the yearbook.”

“You mean you didn’t solve world hunger between classes?” Buddy’s voice was upbeat, teasing her.

“Not today.” She pressed her head back into the leather seat. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“You’ll probably try.” Buddy chuckled. “Busy, busy girl. You sound like a twenty-five-year-old grad student. Not a high school freshman.”

“My teachers say that.” She breathed out. This was her resting time, and she made the most of it. She could’ve fallen asleep in the backseat of the new Lincoln. “I guess it comes from hanging out with adults. That and staying busy.”

“But you’re a kid first, Miss Hannah. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m all right, Buddy. Staying busy keeps me sane.” Her feet were sore, and she wiggled her toes as she stretched them out in front of her. That was the nice thing about Town Cars. Lots of leg room. “I have to be moving.”

“That’s because you’re a butterfly, Miss Hannah. Nothing could ground you.”

Hannah smiled. She liked that. A butterfly. Dear, sweet Buddy Bingo. He was a single man, the age of a grandfather. Blue eyes with a shock of white hair on his head and his face. Her friends thought he looked like Santa Claus, and when Hannah was little she used to wonder herself. He’d been a faithful driver for the Roberts family since Hannah was in third grade.

They pulled into the spacious entrance to The Colony and stopped at the guard station. Buddy waved to the man in the booth, and the man raised the gate. Buddy was beyond passwords at this point; all the guards knew him. When they pulled up at her house, he stopped the car and turned around, the way he always did. “How can I pray for you, Miss Hannah?”

Buddy asked her this every time he drove her. Usually she shrugged and told him it didn’t matter; he could pray however he liked. But this time she thought a little longer. “I know: pray for a miracle.” She could feel her expression warm at the idea. “A Christmas miracle.”

“Okay.” Buddy gave a thoughtful nod of his head. “But Christmas miracles are the biggest, most amazing ones of all.” He squinted. “Any certain kind of Christmas miracle?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She grabbed her bags and waited for Buddy to open her door. One of her friends had talked about Christmas miracles during the yearbook meeting. The idea sounded good. Christmas miracles. Whatever that meant. And since Buddy was willing to pray, she might as well ask.

He got out, walked to her door, and opened it. “Well, Miss Hannah, you let me know if you decide. Meanwhile, I’ll pray just like you asked. For a Christmas miracle.”

It was a nice thought, one that settled her racing spirit and gave her peace even as her dance instructor forced ten minutes of pirouettes at the end of practice that evening.

She didn’t see her grandmother until ten o’clock as she trudged up to her suite. “Hannah.” The elderly woman stood, proud and stiff, outside the double doors of her own bedchamber. “How was your day?”

“Very well, Grandmother.” It was always
Grandmother.
She stopped three steps short of the landing. “Thank you for asking.”

“Have you brought up the B in Spanish?”

It was Hannah’s only low mark. She bit the inside of her cheek. “Yes, Grandmother. It’s an A-minus now.”

“Very well.” The woman smiled, and in it was a hint of warmth. “You’ll have it up to a solid A soon, I imagine.”

“Yes.” Hannah took another step. “Soon.”

“I assume you finished your work in class today?” Her grandmother raised her chin. “It’s very late for extra attention to your studies at this hour.”

“I’m finished, thank you.” Hannah looked at her grandmother and felt the corners of her lips push up into her cheeks. The woman was too formal, too taken with her parents’ world, their money. But still, she was all Hannah had, the only family she shared her daily life with.

The conversation stalled, and her grandmother bid her goodnight.

Not until Hannah was alone in her room did she let the truth she’d found out earlier today set in—a truth she couldn’t share with anyone yet, not even Buddy Bingo.

Her parents wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas this year.

They’d sent her an E-mail that morning before school. Usually they visited in summer and at Christmas—both times for a few weeks. But this year the schedule at the embassy was too busy.

“The social calendar is full, my dear,” her mother wrote. “I’m afraid we’ll be Christmas’ing in Sweden this year.”

And like that, Hannah’s Christmas had gone down the drain. Without her parents, there would be no Christmas parties or trips into the city to see the Living Christmas Tree and the annual pageant performances in the theater district. No one to exchange presents with or share a cup of cocoa with on Christmas Eve.

Her parents were even busier than she was, so she wouldn’t miss out on any deep conversation or sentimentality or warm, cozy traditions—the things that made up Millie’s and Kathryn’s Christmas holidays. But without her parents home, the time would be quiet and lonely, just her and her grandmother—a woman who didn’t believe in wasting resources every twenty-fifth of December simply because the calendar read, “Christmas.”

She pulled off her dance clothes, tossed them into the hamper, and laid her blazer and skirt on the back of the sofa. The housekeepers preferred she didn’t hang up her own clothing. Their method was better, easier to work with.

When the lights were off she lay there, considering her friend Kathryn’s comment from earlier in the day again.
“I just wish I knew what you were running from.”

The idea bounced around her brain like a pinball. She was running from a dozen things, wasn’t she? From her empty mansion and her grandmother’s unsmiling face, from quiet dinners and a forgotten childhood. And now she was running from Christmas. At least when her parents came home for the holidays she could convince herself they cared. They might not talk to her much or show a genuine interest in her life the way other parents did, but at least they came.

Now, though, there was no denying the obvious. Her parents had chosen their friends and social obligations over spending Christmas with their daughter. She felt a stinging in the corners of her eyes.

Of course she was running.

Every time she thought about the E-mail a sad sort of ache started in her belly. An ache that hurt all the way to her heart. If she didn’t keep busy, running from one obligation to another, the hurt would eat her alive. It shouted at her now, reminding her that no one really cared, no one knew the private places in her heart.

They especially didn’t know about the memories.

Now, in the dark, they came to her again. Memories that crept through the window and kept her company on cold November nights like this one. She remembered herself as a little girl, three or four years old, sitting in a small living room—a space no bigger than her walk-in closet. She was looking at her mother—a much younger version of her mother—and in the memory she was sitting near the feet of a handsome, strapping man, and the man was playing a guitar.

The song ended and the man pulled her into his arms. He nuzzled his face against hers and the two of them rubbed noses and she felt like the luckiest little girl in the world. In the memory, her daddy loved her. Both her parents did. There were other memories, all from about the same time, and in each one her parents were happy and laughing. Talking to her and holding her and reading to her and getting down on the floor to play with her.

She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling ten feet overhead. In the darkness she could barely make out the molding along the perimeter of the room. Here was the problem: if that was the memory, where had it come from? And why had her parents changed?

Even when they did come home, they were busy entertaining dignitaries stateside, busy throwing parties for political friends they hadn’t seen since their last visit. Almost none of their time was set aside for her. The family chauffeur cared more about her life.

She thought of Buddy Bingo and the notion of a Christmas miracle and a chill ran down her arms. She knew what she wanted now, what he could pray for. She would tell him the details tomorrow; that way, if he was putting in an order with God in the near future he could be more specific.

What she wanted more than anything in the world would take divine help to pull off. Nothing simple like a new handbag or a trip to France. What she wanted was bigger than that: she wanted her parents to come home for Christmas. When she’d received the E-mail that morning, Hannah had written back. “How completely understandable that my parents would choose parties in Sweden over Christmas with me. Love you, too.”

Her mother’s response was quick and to the point. “It’s impossible this year, Hannah. We’ll see you during summer vacation.”

And that was that. In fact, at this point—with her mother’s social calendar booked through the holidays and her father entertaining princes at the embassy—it would take more than wishful thinking to get her parents home.

It would take a miracle.

A Christmas miracle.

CHAPTER ONE

M
otherhood never slowed Carol Roberts. Not when she’d first had Hannah fifteen years ago, and not now.

Back when Hannah was born, her father took care of her. He was smitten by the dark-haired, blue-eyed baby from the moment she came home. Hannah was a good girl. When she was old enough for kindergarten she was easily top of the class, and she held that distinction up until her current year as freshman at Thomas Jefferson College Preparatory. Carol was proud of her. But Hannah was still a child, and ambitious career plans didn’t mix with children. Even the nicest children.

That’s why Carol didn’t mind living half a world away from Hannah. The two kept in touch through E-mail and phone calls, and twice a year—summer and Christmas—Carol and her husband found their way back to the States for a visit. Hannah wouldn’t have had any normal sort of life living overseas, and it wasn’t as if they had any choice.

Carol’s husband was ambassador to Sweden.

The role of ambassador came with a host of responsibilities—some political, some practical, and some purely social in the name of goodwill. That November numerous dignitaries had passed through the office, and plans had been made for a round of holiday parties that would involve key international politicians—all of whom deserved the attention of Jack Nelson Roberts Jr.

Carol loved being in the middle of it all. Whether the day’s work included a luncheon with visiting influentials or a party at a nearby ballroom, she thrived in her husband’s arena, being a part of what he did—not only to help him look good, but because she had political aspirations of her own.

Maybe when Jack was finished with his work at the Swedish embassy, they could return to Maryland and she could try her hand at an office—something small to start with—and eventually work her way to being a representative, or a senator, even. She would be closer to Hannah that way. By then her daughter would be older—old enough that Carol could hire her as an intern and the two could get to know each other better.

For now, though, that type of day-in, day-out relationship would have to wait. Life at the embassy was simply too busy, too important, to take a chance on missing a key party or business dinner. Never had there been so many people to connect with, so valuable a host of politicians to get acquainted with. They were doing the United States a favor by giving the job their complete attention as winter approached. That was the reason they’d made their decision about the holidays.

This Christmas—for the first time—there would be no trip home. The holiday social demands on the embassy were too great to leave behind. Late the night before, Carol had alerted Hannah about the conflict. There would be a change of plans, she told her daughter. “Your father and I won’t be coming home for Christmas after all,” she wrote. “Not this year.”

She’d hoped Hannah would understand. Christmas was just another day, after all. Another day in a round of parties and celebrating and merriment that went from September to January, and January to June, one year into the next for the Roberts family. Certainly Hannah could get through one Christmas without being dragged to a round of adult parties in Washington, D.C. In fact, Carol had expected Hannah might be relieved. The revised plan meant Hannah could spend the holidays relaxing with her grandmother or visiting her school friends.

But Hannah’s response had been short, almost jaded.

“Fine, Mother,” she’d shot back in an E-mail that morning. “How completely understandable that my parents would choose parties in Sweden over Christmas with me. Love you, too.”

Love you, too?
Carol had stared at those words, puzzled. What sort of response was that? The letter made Carol wonder if she’d made a gargantuan mistake with Hannah all these years, if she’d grossly underestimated Hannah’s acceptance of her lifestyle.

Ever since returning to the D.C. area, Carol had assumed her daughter understood her position. The Roberts family wasn’t like regular families. There was a price to pay for Jack’s title, both when he was a senator, and now as an ambassador. It wasn’t so unusual, really. Nearly all of Hannah’s school friends had parents whose lives involved political obligations. Senators stationed in Washington, D.C, spent half their time with their constituents in offices across the country. And those involved with international politics spent most of the year overseas.