Free Finding Noel by Richard Paul Evans Page A

to be hand-dipping my Christmas chocolates. Cordials and haystacks.” She came back into the room carrying a plate of cookies. “Haven’t changed much, have you, girl?”
    Macy turned to her. “Excuse me?”
    â€œYou loved those dolls. Always went right to them.”
    She cocked her head. “I remember these.”
    â€œSee that one with the broken arm?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou did that. Well, maybe Noel did it and you took the blame for it. Never got the truth out of you; you were always looking out for her.”
    â€œNoel. That’s her name,” she said as if it had just been pulled from somewhere deep in her mind. “It’s on my Christmas ornament.”
    â€œChristina Noel. Born Christmas Day.”
    â€œI always felt something whenever I heard that song,” Macy said, “‘The First Noel.’”
    â€œI always sang that to her when you came over, even in the summer. You both were the cutest little things. You madequite a sight coming up the walk hand in hand. I used to tell you, you should sue the county for building the sidewalk so close to your rear.” She laughed.
    â€œI used to sing to you too. Your favorite song was ’You’re a little bit of honey that the bees ain’t found.’ And you liked that song from Mary Poppins , ‘Feed the birds, tuppence a bag…’”
    The woman’s voice was irregular and scratchy like an old vinyl record, but it washed over Macy like a warm wave. “I used to have a voice,” she continued.
    â€œI remember,” Macy said.
    â€œHad a trio with my sisters. We were popular back then. Sang at the opening of St. Mark’s Hospital. Course I had looks too, and you can see where that got me.”
    She held out the plate. “Ginger snap?”
    Macy took one. “I love ginger snaps,” she said.
    â€œI know. Take two.”
    Macy took another, then the woman offered the plate to me and I took one. Then she took a cookie for herself. “I used to tell you that if you ate one more ginger snap you’d turn into one. You believed me too. You’d puzzle over that like it might be a good thing.”
    Macy said hesitantly, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”
    â€œYou just called me Nanna. My name’s Bonnie Foster.”
    â€œBonnie Foster,” Macy repeated. “Did you know my mother well?”
    â€œYou don’t think your mother would just send you off to a stranger’s house, do you?” She pushed herself up by herknees. “Just a minute.” She left the room, and we could hear her rooting through the hall closet. She returned carrying an old shoe box. “Want to see a picture of her?”
    â€œYou have pictures of us?”
    â€œCourse I do. All of you. Even your father.”
    Bonnie set the box on the coffee table in front of us. Macy reached for the pictures. The first photo was of two little girls posing in Easter dresses.
    â€œThat’s me and Noel?”
    Bonnie smiled. “Cuter than a bug’s ears.”
    â€œYou look alike,” I said.
    â€œOh yes,” Bonnie said. “The two of you could’ve been twins if it wasn’t for the age.”
    Macy went through several other pictures of her and her sister. In one of them the children sat on a woman’s lap.
    â€œThat’s my mother,” Macy said softly.
    Bonnie looked over. “Your dear mother.”
    â€œShe was beautiful.”
    â€œHeavens, yes. She was beautiful inside too. Your mother was a saint.”
    Macy looked at her quizzically. “A saint?”
    â€œIt’s a sin to counsel the Lord, but I don’t know why He always takes His best when we need them so badly down here. There He’s got all those martyrs and saints, and when we get one of them down here it’s like He just wants them back. He should have taken your father.” She quickly turned away. “I