One Imperfect Christmas by Myra Johnson Page A

“It doesn't matter. I really just called to thank you for the flowers.”
     
    A sigh. “I hoped your favorite roses would help make up for what I knew had to be a tough evening for you.”
     
    “ Roses? ” came Lissa's incredulous shout. “Dad, you sent Mom flowers?”
     
    “Just a second, Natalie.” Daniel lowered his voice and spoke away from the phone. “Lissa, you don't need to listen to this conversation. Get going, before you're late for class.”
     
    “I'm warning you, Dad.” The creak of a car door couldn't drown out Lissa's stern reply. “Don't blow this, okay? I mean it. You'll regret it forever.”
     
    “Get to class, young lady, or you'll have plenty to regret.” The next sounds were a loud slam and Daniel's muttered expletive.
     
    Natalie flattened her lips. Okay, maybe Daniel hadn't been exaggerating about the temper tantrum. Clearly, he struggled as much with parenting Lissa as she ever did.
     
    Daniel cleared his throat. “Um, what was I saying?” She could picture him rubbing his eyebrow with a stiffened index finger as he so often did when distracted.
     
    “The flowers. I was just thanking you for the flowers.” She stroked a wilted petal. “And the card was so thoughtful.” Had she managed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice? Probably not.
     
    “Yeah, I wasn't sure quite how to say it, but—” His voice cracked. “Nat, honey, I still lo—”
     
    “Oh, gosh, I'm going to be late for work.” Don't say it, Daniel. Not yet. I can't bear it.
     
    Her heart felt like a helium balloon in her chest, pressing upward into her throat, cutting off her flow of oxygen. “We'll talk later, okay? Thanks again. Bye.”
     
    She pressed the off button and bolted for the door.
     

     
    “Natalie? Nat, are you still there?”
     
    The one thing Daniel couldn't get used to about cell phones was that when someone hung up on you, you just got dead air, not the telltale drone of a dial tone.
     
    And he'd gotten used to being hung up on a lot since Natalie left him. She would sometimes chat with him briefly about how Lissa was doing in school, maybe even fill him in on what Bram or Hart and his family were up to, if he made a point to ask. But the moment he attempted to move the conversation toward deeper issues—her mother, her self-imposed guilt, their marriage—she cut him off.
     
    Stifling a yawn, he swung open the door of his Bronco and started toward the gym. Between worrying about how Natalie was handling the party at her dad's and pondering the call from Coach Arnell about the opening at Langston High, he'd gotten precious little sleep last night. Arriving at his office, he flipped the light switch and blinked as the garish fluorescent tubes flickered a few times before coming to full brightness.
     
    “Dad?”
     
    He jumped at the sound of Lissa's voice and spun around. “Aren't you supposed to be in class?”
     
    “The tardy bell doesn't ring for another two minutes.” She chewed her lip and hugged her backpack against her chest. Her voice was barely audible. “I had to know what you and Mom talked about. Did she like the flowers? What did she say?”
     
    He saw the hope in her eyes, and he knew he was about to crush it once again. He circled his desk and plopped into the squeaky and definitely not ergonomically designed stenographer's chair, the best Putnam could afford for a middle-school assistant coach's office.
     
    Don't go there, Pearce. You asked for a sign and you got one. If Arnell's offer came through, Putnam's coaching budget would be a nonissue—and so would his marriage.
     
    He picked up a pencil and twirled it, unable to meet his daughter's probing gaze. “It was just a gesture, Liss … to make up for skipping her birthday dinner. Don't read anything into it that isn't there.”
     
    Lissa sidled over and perched on the corner of the desk. “There could be, if you'd just admit it.” She swiveled to face him. “So … did she like them or