The Wish(30)

“What would I ever do without you?”

“Probably hire someone else.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You forget that a lot of people applied for—and didn’t get—the position.”

“Did they?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“How would I?”

He had a point, she realized. “I also want to thank you for shouldering the whole load without Luanne, especially over the holidays.”

“You’re welcome. I enjoy talking with people about your work.”

“And Trinity’s work.”

“Of course,” he added. “But his are a little intimidating. I’ve learned that with them, it’s usually better to listen more and speak less. People who are interested in his work generally know more than I do.”

“You have a knack for it, though. Did you ever think about being a curator or running your own gallery? Maybe getting a master’s degree in art history instead of divinity?”

“No,” he said. His tone was good-natured but determined. “I know the path I’m supposed to take in life.”

I’m sure you do, she thought. “When does that start? Your path, I mean?”

“Classes begin next September.”

“Have you already been accepted?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be attending the University of Chicago.”

“With Abigail?”

“Of course.”

“Good for you,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder what the college experience would have been like.”

“You went to community college.”

“I mean a four-year school, with dorm life and parties and listening to music while playing Frisbee in the quad.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “And going to classes and studying and writing papers.”

“Oh yeah. That too.” She grinned. “Did you tell Abigail we were going to the ballet tonight?”

“Yeah, and she’s a little jealous about it. She made me promise to bring her one day.”

“How’s the family reunion going?”

“The house is chaotic and noisy all the time. But she loves it. One of her brothers is in the air force and he came in from Italy. She hasn’t seen him since last year.”

“I’ll bet her parents are thrilled to have everyone around.”

“They are. I guess they’ve been building a gingerbread house. A massive one. They do it every year.”

“And had your boss not needed you, you could have helped them.”

“It would definitely be a learning experience. I’m not very handy in the kitchen.”

“And your parents? I heard you mention to Trinity that they’re abroad now?”

“They’re in Jerusalem today and tomorrow. They’ll be in Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. They texted some pictures from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.” He pulled out his phone to show her. “This trip is something my parents have wanted to do for years, but they waited until I finished college. So that I’d be able to come home during school breaks.” Mark put his phone back into his pocket. “Where did you go? The first time you left the country, I mean?”

“Vancouver, Canada,” Maggie answered. “Mainly because it was driving distance. I spent a weekend taking photos in Whistler after a major ice storm had rolled through.”

“I still haven’t ever been out of the country.”

“You have to experience it,” she said. “Visiting other places changes your perspective. It helps you understand that no matter where you are, or what country you’re in, people are pretty much the same everywhere.”

Traffic began to slow as they exited the West Side Highway, then slowed even more as they made their way east on the cross streets. Despite the cold, the sidewalks were jammed; she saw people carrying shopping bags and lining up near corner food vendors; others hurried home from work. Eventually they reached the point where they could see the lighted windows of Lincoln Center, which left them with the option of either sitting in an idling cab for another ten or fifteen minutes or getting out and walking.

They decided to walk and slowly made their way through a throng that extended beyond the front doors. Maggie kept her arms crossed and shifted from one foot to the other in hopes of staying warm, but thankfully the line moved quickly, and they entered the lobby after only a few minutes. Directed by the ushers, they found their seats in the first tier of the balcony of the David H. Koch Theater.

They continued to chat quietly before the show, taking in their surroundings and watching the seats fill with a mix of adults and children. In time, the lights dimmed, the music came up, and the audience was introduced to Christmas Eve at the Stahlbaum house.

As the tale unfolded, Maggie was transfixed by the dancers’ grace and beauty, their soaring, delicate movements animating the dreamlike notes of Tchaikovsky’s score. Occasionally Maggie peeked over at Mark, noting his rapt attention. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the stage, reminding her that he was a midwestern boy who’d probably never seen anything like it.

When the ballet was over, they joined the festive crowds as they poured onto Broadway. She was grateful that the Atlantic Grill was just across the street. Feeling cold and wobbly—maybe because of the pills, or because she’d eaten almost nothing all day—she looped her arm through Mark’s as they approached the crosswalk. He slowed his pace, allowing her to use him for support.