Home in Time for Christmas by Heather Graham

Jake helped her. He was good, and he was quick. He seemed awed by the glass cleaner. “This is so much easier,” he said. “So…and the paper towels. Amazing.”
    â€œJake, I’m really glad that anyone can get that excited by Windex. We don’t use paper towels that often. My mother is trying to save the trees,” she said.
    â€œSave the trees?”
    â€œYes, that’s one problem with all the technology we’ve created. The air is going bad because we cut down the rain forests. Fish are tainted because industry has caused the mercury levels in the seas to rise. Industrial waste is incredibly high, and even when we—Americans, the biggest group of users—pass laws to protect the environment, we can’t force other countries to do the same. You’ve seen all that’s wonderful, but it all comes at a price, too.”
    He nodded gravely. “So it is better to use cloth with which to clean, and vinegar, and other old sources.”
    â€œNatural sources.”
    He nodded again. “As you pointed out, I believe, hemlock is natural.”
    â€œAll right, so there is a neutral ground. Sadly, we haven’t found it yet.”
    â€œEven back where I came from, one person couldnot solve all the problems. Working together is the only way,” Jake said.
    â€œYeah, and that sure works out just great all the time,” Melody said.
    Jake shook his head. “Melody, I do believe that you need a good slap—which, of course, I will never deliver. Don’t cry about what you see that you don’t like, work at it.”
    â€œI can’t send my father to his room for bad behavior,” she said.
    â€œYour father hasn’t behaved badly. You have,” he said. There wasn’t accusation in his words; it was just something that he was pointing out.
    â€œI love my father!”
    He answered slowly and carefully. “I know I’m an outsider, looking in. But your mother has shown me pictures you drew in kindergarten. She’s told me that friends and neighbors thought it was actually silly that you went to school for art—artists didn’t make it, not often, anyway. But she and your father knew that you were good. They loved you, and they had faith in you.”
    â€œYou really don’t understand. My father is a brilliant man, and I know that. I don’t want to see him go brilliantly crazy,” she said firmly.
    â€œAre dreams all crazy?”
    â€œYou know, you’re just being aggravating,” she said. “You’re right—you are an outsider. You don’t understand.”
    â€œAll right. But I think he’s an amazing man. He’s fearless, and he’s proven he’s talented. I confess, you’re right—I don’t understand. I don’t know why you won’t let him have a dream.”
    He turned around and headed for the house. She looked after him, feeling chastised and resentful.
    And wondering if she did fail to believe in others when she so craved that they believe in her.
    â€œI should have dropped him at a hospital!” she muttered to herself.
    She could still do so, of course. Walk into the dining room and announce that she had struck him while driving, been certain that he would come to his senses if she just brought him home to be fixed, but it wasn’t working.
    She wondered vaguely if she could be arrested now for striking the man and not filing a police report immediately. She could just imagine herself in the lockup for Christmas with her family gathered around her.
    No. She wasn’t going to do anything. And it wasn’t because she was afraid of being arrested.
    She wasn’t ready to let him go.
    Resolutely, she walked toward the house. What bothered her, she knew, was that he got beneath her skin.
    Everything was on the table when she went in, and her father was pouring lemonade into glasses to go around the table.
    â€œMom, I’m sorry, I