Free Carol for Another Christmas by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough Page B

sympathetic remark when the door of one of the first-floor flats opened and a freckle-faced young man, perhaps a year or two older than Doug, stuck his head out. On seeing the wet, weeping Monica, he said, “Ma, one of the neighbors just saw the sign. She looks like she took a bath in her clothes. I think we need some of your special eggnog blend here.”
    â€œI don’t need any thing,” Monica said, using her hand to wipe the rain and tears from her face and squishily rising to her feet.
    But the young man was as single-minded as she and her brother. “Sure you do, lady. A towel, for one thing.” In a moment, a merry-looking woman in a handmade holiday apron thrown hastily over what looked to Scrooge to be some sort of fuzzy dressing gown handed a cup of the frothy, creamy drink to the lad.
    â€œDrink up, lady. It’s guaranteed to put roses in your cheeks, Dad always said.”
    She looked up at him uncertainly, but despite the rain, the walking had been thirsty work and she regarded the beverage with longing.
    â€œIt’s okay. We’re neighbors. I’m Wayne Reilly from one-oh-three. That’s my mom. What were you doin’ out there, anyway? It’s raining cats and dogs and besides, everything’s closed today.”
    â€œNot where I work,” she said. “And the buses weren’t running, so I had to walk from downtown.”
    â€œTough,” he said sympathetically.
    But his mother, still standing in the doorway, called, “Don’t leave the poor girl sitting in the hallway catching pneumonia while you yammer at her, Wayne. Ask her in. She should dry off and rest before she tackles those steps.”
    â€œI have to get home,” she said. “I had to leave my little brother alone in the apartment and—”
    â€œAnd the poor lamb will be lonely for his sister while he’s spending Christmas all alone, is it?” Mrs. Reilly asked.
    â€œWell, no, not Doug. I doubt he noticed it was Christmas, except that school’s out. Actually, I’m afraid he might have figured out how to re-create the atom bomb and will blow us all up if I don’t check up on him pretty soon.”
    â€œNot know it’s Christmas? What nonsense is that? You have a tree, don’t you?”
    â€œWell, no, there wasn’t time, and we lost our folks a year ago and when their belongings were sold, I guess the tree sort of went with them.”
    â€œNever mind. We have one, and Christmas is more fun with more people. What’s your number?”
    â€œNine-thirteen.”
    â€œWayne, honey, run upstairs and fetch this girl’s brother. What’s his name? What’s your name, for that matter?”
    â€œHe’s Douglas—Doug, and I’m Monica. Our last name is Banks. But really, Mrs. Reilly, just a quiet—”
    â€œI won’t hear of it,” she said. “Wayne and I know all about how sad it can be the first Christmas after you’re bereaved. We lost my Wilmer five years ago to a heart attack. Now, Wayne, run along—oh, and ask Monica’s brother to bring some dry clothes for her with him, and shoes, too. She can put on something of mine, meantime. Got to get out of those wet things. Now then, Monica, dear, come along and we’ll get you dried off and you can rest here on the couch.”
    The two women disappeared into a room on the side, and when they reappeared a moment later, Monica had a towel wrapped around her wet hair and was wearing oversized woolly socks and a large argyle-patterned bathrobe in red and black, obviously the property of the late Mr. Reilly. Mrs. Reilly gently forced her to recline on the couch and tucked a hand-crocheted throw over her, then said, “I’ll just run and put a few more things in the pot, and we’ll have a lovely Christmas dinner together, unless you and your brother had something else planned?”
    â€œNo—”
    â€œThat settles it