The Christmas Train by Rexanne Becnel Page A

and a big bowl of soup. “I hope you like chicken noodle.”
    â€œIt’s fine.” She looked down at it and sniffed. It wasn’t Nana Rose’s homemade chicken minestrone, but it would do.
    Her father perched on one of the bar stools while she dug in, making Anna self-conscious of every accidental slurp, and every cracker crumb that fell on the table. All she wanted was to finish the soup and crawl into bed next to Miss Eva.
    And have a good cry.
    She choked on a spoonful of soup as a monster wave of sadness swept over her.
    â€œYou okay?” He reached over and patted her back as she sputtered and coughed.
    â€œYes—”
    No. She wasn’t okay, and without warning she started to cry. Not just cry, though. This was a tidal wave, everything she’d been holding back since her mother had decided to dump her again. Every awful thing since the day Nana Rose had been put in that ambulance and taken to the hospital and two weeks later had died. She hunched over in the chair, her face in her hands, and sobbed, shaking with all the terror she’d tried to swallow down over the last two months.
    And when a big hand began tentatively to pat her back, the sobs turned into a hard, broken wail.
    â€œIt’ll be okay, Anna. I promise.”
    But that only made her flinch away from him, crying harder still. It wasn’t going to be okay. Grown-ups always said stupid stuff like that. The school counselor said it; so did her mother. And now him, this man who was a stranger to her, but was supposed to be her father.
    It wasn’t going to be okay.
    Not ever.
    T OM slept on the couch. After steering Anna into his bedroom and tucking her in next to the old lady, he’d stretched out with a beer in one hand and an old quilt flung over him.
    It had been awful, watching Anna sobbing like that. He’d never seen anyone cry that hard, especially a little kid. Worse, he’d been the wrong person to try comforting her. He’d reached for her, and for a few, brief seconds she’d let him hold her. But then she’d jerked away, choking on her sobs.
    The poor kid. She’d lost everything she knew. Everyone she loved. And he didn’t know the first thing about helping her cope with it all. How was he ever supposed to be a good father to her?
    And now, after only a few hours sleep, he felt even worse. He had the same set of problems facing him. And they all centered around Anna.
    Anna, whom his parents had no idea existed.
    Anna, whose presence might once and for all send Joelle running in the opposite direction.
    Anna, who would need a place to live, and a school to attend.
    Anna, who’d already talked him into taking in a strange old woman. He was a total wuss when it came to dealing with grown women. How much worse would he be with a ten-year-old girl?
    Muffling a groan, he pushed up on his elbows. Barely dawn, and neither of his houseguests was awake yet. Good. Coffee first, then he’d call Joelle. Do that over the phone. His parents, though . . . He’d have to go over there and tell them the truth before he introduced them face-to-face to their granddaughter. Then there was Miss Eva to deal with. What if her brother, Karl, existed only in her head?
    He slumped back on the couch then pulled the pillow over his face. He would deal with Joelle and the old lady first. Then he’d have to confront his parents.
    He should have told them yesterday. Or the day Carrie called him.
    Or maybe he should have owned up to it ten years ago when he’d found out Carrie was going through with the pregnancy.
    He flung the pillow across the room and lurched up from the couch. He felt sick, disgusted with every cowardly decision he’d made. Whatever accusations, disappointment, or recriminations were launched at him by his folks; his sister, Sarah; and Joelle, he deserved them. And more.
    He couldn’t even wait even for the coffee to drip before calling