Tasha's Christmas Wish (9781460341315) Read online

  Still staring at the photograph, she picked up a mound of clay and worked it in her hands until it softened. She rolled the clay into a ball and placed it on a wooden stool she used as her sculpting space. The stool was set up by the woodstove to keep the clay from getting too cold to work with.

  Mary would be the easy head to design because Tasha had more than a photo as a resource. Glancing up at the picture, Tasha worked the clay using her sculpting tools to carve out a nose and eyes. Once she got a clay head she was happy with, she could make a mold from it. From there, she would pour porcelain into the mold to make the head.

  Tasha liked the warm, smooth texture of clay as she worked it with her hands. Dipping her fingers in water, she wetted the clay. She shaved off clay by the cheeks and brought the chin to a more pronounced point to replicate Mary’s heart-shaped face. Slowly, a form began to rise out of the clay. Her heart beat faster as she scraped her curved molding tool over the eye area and a lid emerged. Wiping her brow, she stood back from her work.

  This head was a rough draft at best; she’d do another after taking measurements.

  Tasha rocked back and forth, toe to heel. She loved this process. Nothing felt as good as having her hands covered in clay. She took in a deep breath. The tangy pungency of paint and turpentine in her studio smelled better than expensive perfume. She loved looking up at the dolls lining her shelves.

  Doll making let her use all her artistic talent: sculpting, painting and clothing design. How could she ever give this up?

  She shivered. The memory of her heated office at Newburg Designs taunted her. Maybe a cup of hot tea would warm her up. Her feet tapped on the concrete floor as she went over to the hot plate, where she kept a full kettle of water.

  She stared around at the huge barn. It had cost her savings and then some to remodel this place. Wooden beams slanted down from the roof. In the far corner, she’d built an open loft, where she slept. Below the loft was the bathroom, complete with a huge claw-foot bathtub she’d found at an estate sale. Soaking in the hot tub at the end of the day took the chill off her body and gave her time to think about her designs. Eventually, she’d get more wiring done so she could have a real stove and electric heat. But right now the hot plate was enough. She ate most of her meals at Mom’s house anyway.

  She pulled a tea bag out of the wrapper and placed it in a mug. She had installed a woodstove near her work area, but trying to heat the big space with wood heat was like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon. Buying cords of wood was proving to be costly. Maybe paying for a heating system in the first place would have been smarter.

  The teakettle whistled, and she poured steaming water into her mug. It was a comfort just to hold the warm cup in her hand. Breathing in the steam, she walked back to her work area. She placed the enlarged copy of the photo on her drawing table and set a transparent grid over the faces. After eyeballing it for a moment, she put the grid aside and began to reduce the faces to a series of measurements, with lines drawn from eye to eye, from the end of the nose to the top of the mouth, from the edge of the lip to the ear.

  The phone rang. Tasha let the machine pick it up. She hated any interruption when she was working. She recognized Newburg’s singsong voice right away.

  “Tasha, darling, I know you’re there. I have your new address and phone number now.” There was a pause on the line. “Listen, I’m really sorry about the way I acted when you were here. I—I just wish you would change your mind. You and Newburg Designs were such a good fit.”

  Tasha laughed as the phone clicked off. Cecily Newburg spoke with an accent that sounded either French or British on any given day. Actually, Newburg was from Idaho.

  Tasha recalled one of Newburg’s favorite tidbits of wisdom: “Exotic and foreign sells in this town, darling. Podunk hillbilly does not.” Working for Newburg had never been easy, but she had learned a great deal there. Underneath all the showiness, Cecily Newburg did have a heart.

  Tasha tried to focus on her work and not think about Newburg’s call or that lovely, warm, plush office back in Denver. She was grateful for Newburg’s apology. Maybe things could still be repaired between them.

  By lunchtime, she’d completed her measurements and had a rough sculpted rendering for both doll heads. She paced around the interior perimeter of her barn while she ate a ham sandwich. An idea brewed in her head. She had all this unused area in the barn. Why not advertise for some renters, other artists who needed studio space? With any luck, she could save enough money to get a heating system installed by next winter.

  Tasha sat down at her computer and designed a poster that read Painters, Sculptors, Artists: Studio Space For Rent. She typed in her phone number and looked over the poster. Opening her home to strangers was a scary idea. She needed people who kept the same hours she did and would not distract her from her work, but she couldn’t put that in the ad. While she printed copies of the poster, she prayed.

  Lord, please help so the right person sees this and responds to it. Send me another believer, or if it be Your will, send somebody who needs to hear about You. Someone who doesn’t keep crazy artist hours would be nice, too. I put it in Your hands.

  She threw on her coat, hat and mittens and headed out the door to start her van.

  Downtown Pony Junction was exactly five blocks long, but the streets bustled with Christmas shoppers. Feather-soft snowflakes drifted to the sidewalks. Christmas lights decorated bare deciduous trees, which punctuated the boulevard at intervals. The shop windows had the same glow, some with flashing red and green bulbs.

  Pony Junction’s brick buildings had been built around the turn of the twentieth century. Most of the old architecture had been preserved. Tasha thought that, except for the modern automobiles, these five blocks looked as though they belonged on a Currier & Ives Christmas card.

  Tasha hung posters up at the hardware store and the bookstore, which also sold art supplies. She walked back to her car, got in and waited while her old van warmed up. Puffs of visible breath filled the cab as she crossed her arms over her chest. Hopefully, she would have a tenant before the New Year.

  Tasha shifted into Drive. She was still plagued by doubt about this whole doll-making endeavor. She had been tempted by Newburg’s offer. If she went back to Denver, there would be no more struggle...and no more shivering. She pulled out into the street. There was only one place to go when she was feeling this way.

  Pressing the accelerator, she turned off the main street. After driving through a section of town with older brick homes, she saw the landscape change to open fields and cows huddled around hay bales.

  Her mother had always said that people learned and were shaped not by the happy times in their lives, but by the hard times. Starting this business had been the first real risk Tasha had taken in her life. What was God trying to teach her through this hardship?

  She passed a trailer park and turned down a dirt road. A little white church nearly disappeared in the field of snow as she drove toward it. The tall white spire made it look like it belonged on a Christmas card. A rough-hewn wooden cross stood in the field not far from the church.

  Pastor Matthew, dressed in his dark coat and untied boots, shoveled the walkway. She pulled up beside his minivan and jumped out.

  He waved and leaned on his shovel. As she approached, he spoke loudly, “Glad you came by. Gives me time to stop and catch my breath.”

  He was a man in his late forties with a full head of rich brown hair and clear green eyes. “How are you, Tasha?” He held one arm out to her while gripping the snow shovel with the other.

  Tasha appreciated the fatherly hug. “I’m surviving.”

  “Sometimes that’s all you can do.” He craned his neck and studied her for a moment. “You’ve given me an excuse to rest a spell and get warmed up. Why don’t you come inside for a moment? I’m sure Mindy’s got some hot water on
for cocoa.” Jamming his shovel in the snow, he wrapped an arm around Tasha and guided her toward the church.

  Both Pastor Matthew and his wife had what Tasha called the ability to look underneath someone’s skin. They could see past any cheerful facade she attempted to put on, so she might as well be honest with them.

  The big wooden door creaked when Pastor Matthew opened it. They stepped through the carpeted foyer and into the sanctuary. Mindy was on the stage, softly playing the piano and stopping from time to time to write on her sheet music. Her straight blond hair fell to the middle of her back. Mindy’s face was one Tasha would love to sculpt because of her almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. Her other features were a little washed out. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense, but she had an inner glow that made her attractive.

  “How’s the nativity coming?” the pastor asked.

  Tasha had volunteered to make a doll nativity for the church. “Almost done. I’ve just got to do the Baby Jesus.”

  “Yes, the all-important Jesus.” He patted her back. “You do good work. It’ll look nice for the Christmas Eve celebration.” He glanced down at the ad for a tenant she held in her hand.

  “I was hoping to put this on the bulletin board,” Tasha said.

  He took it from her and read it. “Still having trouble making ends meet?”

  Tasha nodded. Thinking about the mounting bills and slow sales caused her throat to constrict. “I am afraid I’ve just been an impulsive fool. What kind of a person leaves a steady paycheck for this kind of uncertainty?”

  Pastor Matthew leaned close and touched her nose. “Someone who is listening to God and trusting Him.”

  They walked toward the front of the church. Mindy smiled at them before returning to her playing. The pastor sat on the stairs that led up to the stage. He ran his hand through his hair. “Let’s take a quiz, Miss Tasha.”

  Tasha sat down in the front pew. The wooden bench felt hard against her back. “Okay, quiz me.”

  “Do you like making dolls?”

  “More than anything in the world.”

  “Were you happy at your old job?”

  “I was miserable.”

  Pastor Matthew winked at her. “End of quiz. Time for cocoa.”

  Mindy stopped playing and giggled. “That’s Matthew’s version of a great philosophical discussion.” She stood up. “I could use a cocoa break, too.”

  After talking and laughing for an hour with Pastor and Mindy, Tasha felt better. She drove home, her confidence renewed.

  When she opened the creaking wooden door to the barn, the lights were on. Her mother, dressed in a purple jogging suit, leaned over Tasha’s cutting table.

  Elizabeth Henderson smiled up at her daughter. “I brought a casserole. It’s still warm.”

  Tasha slipped out of her coat and hung it on a hook by the door. “I hope you didn’t drive.”

  “Mrs. Livingston down the road brought me.” Elizabeth glanced at the cutting table. Her shoulders slumped and her smile faded. The intense light and high roof of the barn made the older woman seem somehow smaller.

  Tasha knew what that look meant. She raced over to her mother. “Mama, what is wrong?” Her eyes traveled to where Elizabeth’s hands rested on a doll’s gingham apron embroidered with a row of x’s and flowers. A stack of similar aprons without embroidery rested on the table.

  “I tried to finish them.” The older woman’s eyes misted. “But my hands.”

  Her mother’s hands were almost translucent in the intense light. “Oh, Mama, it doesn’t matter.” Tasha held her mother’s hand in her own. The fingers were cold and brittle as icicles.

  Elizabeth whispered, “I can’t get them to work anymore.”

  Tasha wrapped her arms around her mother. Elizabeth’s cheek rested on Tasha’s shoulder. “I can do the needlework. You taught me, you know.”

  “I wanted to help you.”

  Tasha stood back and held her mother’s face in her hands. “You do help me. You brought me a casserole.” Etchings of a lifetime showed in her mother’s face, in each wrinkle, in the crow’s feet, the furrows and laugh lines. Her eyes, though teary, were still as bright as Tasha remembered from childhood. “Come on, Mama. Let’s eat.”

  As they made their way toward the card table her mother had set up, Tasha noticed her answering machine blinking that she had two messages. Had someone called about renting studio space already? She clicked the button.

  The first message was the one from Newburg that she hadn’t played back yet. This time she listened to the message with new ears. This was where she needed to be, helping her mother, working on her business. God would provide a way for her to pull things together financially.

  The machine clicked and the second message began. “Hi, Tasha. This is Grace, Philip’s sister. Philip’s coming up with Mary this weekend. He said he’d bring more photos if you need them. If you want to swing by and get them, that would be great. And you can look at my fabric.” She paused. “Oh, Philip gets here late Friday night. So why don’t you come by for dinner on Saturday, say around six.” Grace ended the message with her phone number.

  Tasha shook her head. What was big sister Grace up to? Tasha could go by anytime and pick up the photos and fabric. For that matter, Philip could email her the photos. So why was Grace trying to engineer things so Tasha would come when Philip was there?

  “Who’s Philip?” Elizabeth lit a single taper in the middle of the table. She’d used some of Tasha’s fabric, a Christmas print, as a tablecloth.

  Tasha seated herself at the table. “A client. I’m making some custom dolls for him.” Steam, along with the scent of cheddar, rose from the casserole dish when Tasha lifted the foil. Both women bowed their heads and Tasha said grace.

  After saying, “Amen,” in unison, the older woman spooned some potato-and-ham mixture onto Tasha’s plate. “Is he good-looking?”

  Tasha stabbed her fork through a cheese-covered potato. “Mama, don’t get started.”

  “I’d just like some grandbabies to hold, that’s all.” Elizabeth’s hand trembled as she lifted her fork to her mouth. The joints on the fingers were knobby and swollen.

  Her mother had been joking about grandbabies since Tasha’s high school graduation. In the candlelight, Elizabeth’s features seemed harsher, with more contrast between the soft glow from the flame and the part of her face that was in shadow. Her lips were drawn into a straight, hard line. She was obviously trying to hide the pain in her hands.

  Tasha took a bite of casserole. Somehow, tonight, the line about grandchildren didn’t seem so funny.

  “So are you going over there for dinner?” Elizabeth dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

  “I don’t want to give the wrong impression. He’s a client. I need to be polite. I’ll go over and get the photos, but I won’t stay for dinner.”

  “It’s your choice, dear.” Elizabeth took a sip of cranberry juice.

  Tasha had to admit that there was much to admire about Dr. Philip Strathorn. Anybody who liked fuzzy bunny slippers and late-night snacking was a good guy. “If you must know, yes, he is good-looking. He’s also a doctor.”

  Elizabeth lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, well.”

  “Mama,” Tasha scolded.

  When she glanced at her shelves full of dolls and the cutting table piled with fabric, she felt her determination growing. If her business was going to succeed, it would take all her energy. A long-distance relationship with Philip Strathorn would only rob her of the time she needed to make her dream happen.

  She studied her mother’s bent fingers and thought of the gingham aprons on her cutting table.

  “I baked brownies for dessert,” Elizabeth said. The fork clattered on the plate as it fell from her hands. “Stupid arthritis.” She managed a smile as
she massaged her hands. “Get that worried look off your face, Tasha.”

  “It’s getting worse, isn’t it, Mama?” Tasha couldn’t make her face look unconcerned. And she couldn’t stop the anxiety twisting her stomach.

  “It’s nothing, Tasha. Eat your dinner.”

  Tasha wasn’t hungry anymore. No matter what happened to her business, she needed to live close to her mother.

  Chapter 7

  Philip stood in the entryway putting on his snow pants when he saw the lights of Tasha’s van coming up the driveway. The quickening of his heartbeat surprised him.

  “Grace, Tasha is here.”

  Grace came around the corner, wiping her hands on a dish towel and slinging it over her shoulder. “You should invite her to go sledding with you and the kids.” Shawn toddled around the corner and wrapped his arm around his mother’s legs. His cheeks were a rosy red as he sucked on two fingers.

  His sister’s matchmaking could be a little over the top sometimes. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be interested in that.”

  “It’s just an idea, Philip.” She lifted Shawn up into her arms. “I’ve got to get dinner finished up. How am I supposed to entertain her?” She disappeared into the kitchen again.

  Tasha’s van eased past the organic-produce sign and parked behind Grace’s SUV. Tasha killed the lights. He watched as she opened the door and headed up the sidewalk.

  He clicked on the porch light for her just as she came up the stairs. He liked the way she smiled when she saw the Christmas tree through the window. He opened the door for her and was struck by how beautiful a night it was.

  It got dark early in Montana in the winter. Sunset was around dinnertime, so in another twenty minutes, the sky would turn from gray to black. Already a three-quarter moon hung in a pale sky. Not a sky he’d ever seen in Denver.