The Christmas Child. Linda Goodnight
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different matter. Maybe something bad happened during the holidays?” He paused to take another strand of lights from her outstretched hand. “Or maybe the guy’s a jerk.”
“I don’t think so, Dad. He was kind to Davey. Almost tender. You should have seen the pair of them digging through that bag of clothes.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
Her heart jumped, a reaction she didn’t quite get. She liked everyone. “Beyond his kindness to Davey, I barely know him.”
“I knew your mother was the one the minute I laid eyes on her.”
Like a fly on her hamburger, the remark soured Sophie’s stomach. How could Dad speak casually and without bitterness when Sophie still felt the disappointment as keenly as she had five years ago?
She pushed one final bulb into a socket and backed down the ladder. “Are we putting the sleigh on the roof this year?”
If Dad noticed the change in subjects, he didn’t let on. With a sparkle in his eyes and the nip of wind reddening his cheeks, he asked, “Do elves make toys? Does Santa have a list of naughty and nice?”
Mark Bartholomew was almost as Christmas-crazy as his daughter, and every year they worked for days decorating first his house and then her little cottage. No matter how cold and fierce the wind or how many other activities they had going, this had become their tradition since the divorce. She’d started the practice so that the first holiday without Mom would be easier for him, but now she treasured this special time with her father.
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