Chapter 12 - THE WOODEN TRAIN
The winter snow began to fall in New York City on Christmas Eve.
The Mercer townhouse was decorated with a massive pine tree in the living room, smelling of cinnamon and woodsmoke.
Theo was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, carefully unwrapping a large, square box.
Victor was sitting on the sofa, nursing a glass of bourbon and arguing playfully with Julian about a recent football game.
I sat in the armchair by the fire, knitting a blue scarf, watching the family I loved finally at peace.
"Open it, buddy," Victor encouraged, leaning forward.
Theo tore the paper away. He gasped.
It was a beautiful, handcrafted wooden display case with a glass front.
"For your train," Julian said softly, kneeling next to his son. "So it never gets lost, and it always stays safe."
Theo looked at the case, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out the little blue wooden train Rachel had painted for him. It was worn, the paint chipped from eighteen months of being squeezed in his anxious hands.
He didn't need to hide it under the dining room table anymore. He didn't need to clutch it in terror.
Theo carefully placed the train inside the glass case and closed the latch.
He looked up at Julian, a bright, clear smile on his face.
"Thanks, Dad."
"You're welcome, Theo."
Julian stood up and walked over to me. He held out a small, wrapped box.
"Merry Christmas, Alma," he said.
I put down my knitting needles and took the box. "Julian, you didn't have to."
"Open it," Victor smiled.
I undid the ribbon. Inside was a set of heavy, silver keys.
"Keys to the townhouse?" I asked.
"Keys to the lake house in Maine," Julian corrected gently. "The deed is in Theo's name, but I had the lawyers draft a lifetime use clause for you. It's yours, Alma. Whenever you want to go. You have a home there, too."
I looked at the keys, the metal cool and heavy in my palm.
I looked at Theo, safe and happy by the fire. I looked at Victor, no longer a ghost of vengeance. I looked at Julian, a man who had finally stepped out of the shadow of grief to become the father his son needed.
"Thank you," I whispered.
Theo ran over and wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face in my sweater.
"I love you, Miss Alma," he said.
I rested my hand on his head, feeling the warmth of the fire against my face.
May you like
"I love you too, Theo."
The wind howled outside against the Manhattan windows, but inside, the fire burned bright. The ghosts of the past were finally laid to rest, and the future was safe, secure, and entirely ours.
