One Imperfect Christmas by Myra Johnson Page B

not?”
     
    “Yeah, she liked them. And she called to thank me. That's all.” He reached inside his briefcase and pulled out a folder brimming with the dog-eared, seventh-grade history questions he never finished grading.
     
    “That's it? Like, you two aren't going to get together to talk about it or anything?”
     
    “Talk about what?” As if he didn't know.
     
    “You and Mom, of course.” Her tone implied his complete stupidity. Then her voice became pleading. “Come on, Dad, it's nearly Christmas. Isn't there something—”
     
    A strident blare echoed throughout the building—the tardy bell. Daniel gave his daughter an “I told you so” look and shooed her off his desk. “How many times do we need to have this conversation, Lissa? When— if —your mother ever changes her mind about us getting back together, well … we'll take it one step at a time.”
     
    Rising, he set a firm hand on her shoulder and propelled her toward the door. “Now, will you please get to your class?”
     
    She turned, another question on her lips and an accusing look in her eyes. “Dad—”
     
    “Not now, sweetie. Go.” With a final shove, he ejected her into the corridor and closed the door.
     
    Returning to his chair, he rested his forehead in his hands. How much longer could he hold out hope that Natalie would return to him? And how much more disappointment could Lissa stand if it never happened?
     
    Again, his thoughts returned to last night's phone conversation with Coach Arnell. Langston wasn't that far from Putnam and Fawn Ridge, but it wasn't exactly next door, either. He began to regret his decision to drive up to Langston for an interview on Saturday. If he were to take a coaching job there, Lissa would have to choose once and for all which parent she wanted to live with.
     
    And, of course, the “D” word had to be dealt with. The specter of divorce hung over his head like the blade of a guillotine, ready to sever him from everything he held dear.
     

     
    Natalie stared bleary-eyed at her computer screen. She'd been working on the layout for Fawn Ridge Fellowship Church's weekly newsletter, trying in vain to manipulate a 400-word Advent devotion into a space large enough to handle only 250 words, unless she resorted to six-point type. She reached for the phone, planning to call the pastor and ask him whether he wanted to edit it himself or entrust her with the task.
     
    “Natalie, you have a phone call.”
     
    She almost jumped out of her skin. Catching her breath, she jerked her head up to see her assistant standing beside the desk. The girl had an uncanny way of sneaking up on cat's feet and startling the life out of her.
     
    “Deannie Garner, how many times do I have to tell you? Knock before you come into my office. We do have an intercom system, you know.” It was a lot less intrusive than the girl's untimely personal appearances.
     
    Deannie's lips curled into an innocent smile. “I keep forgetting. Sorry.” She gave her flame-red curls a toss. “Anyway, it's Mr. Craunauer from The Apple Cart, and he's ranting like a maniac.”
     
    “Now what's wrong?” Mr. Craunauer was a stickler for details, and considering what he paid for their professional services, Natalie agreed he had every right to be. A lump of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.
     
    Deannie shrugged. “I couldn't get anything out of him. He'll only talk to you.”
     
    Natalie saved and closed the newsletter file and then jotted herself a quick note to phone Pastor Mayer. She steeled herself as she picked up the phone. “Mr. Craunauer, good morning.”
     
    “Christmas is less than two weeks away, Ms. Pearce. I expected those flyers to be in my customers' mailboxes long before now. Sales are dying on the vine. Time is money. The early bird catches the worm!”
     
    She cringed at the clichés and adopted her most placating tone. “This is an extremely busy time for us, as you can imagine. The entire staff is