Evergreen by Susan May Warren Page A

. . . I know it was Benjamin’s.”
    “Yes. But Benjamin doesn’t need it, does he?” She swallowed, looked away. “He’s with Jesus.”
    John frowned, nonplussed at her words. “We need to talk about what happened today, Ingrid. You should have told me Romeo skipped practice.”
    She pulled the other earbud out. “I just found out today. But maybe you want to tell me what he meant about getting his GED?”
    She kept her tone light, but he could spot an ambush. Although he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done wrong. “Ioffered to agree to his emancipation. I figured it’s the least I could do for him. Help him have his future.”
    She put the earbud back in. Nodded.
    “Ingrid, I’m not sure what’s going on here   —”
    “I got an e-mail from Casper today. He’s staying in Roatán for Christmas. I admit I was holding out hope that he might come home. . . . Can you imagine? The Caribbean for Christmas.”
    Uh, yeah. In fact he’d imagined a lot for them. And frankly he couldn’t figure out why those dreams felt so far away.
    He slid off the bed and moved to sit facing her. She didn’t look at him.
    “Honey, are you angry with me?”
    She gave him a tight smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “Why would you think that?”
    Why would he   —? “Because I’m not an idiot. Because it feels like no matter what I do, it makes you angry. Because even though I’ve let Romeo into our home, you still act like I don’t want him here.”
    “Do you?”
    “I just don’t want you to get hurt. The more you grow attached to this kid, the more it’s going to hurt when he leaves.”
    “Motherhood is about letting go, John. I’m not ignorant of the fact that my children are leaving me. In fact, I want them to. I’ve spent my entire life preparing them to leave me. I’m ready to get hurt. What I don’t want is to spend every moment that Romeo is here guarding my heart. I want to savor him being here.” She put down her sewing. “We can’t live our lives trying to protect ourselves from getting hurt. And you can’t live your life trying to protect me.”
    But . . . wasn’t that his job?
    He reached out, touched her face, let his fingers run down her cheekbone. He expected her to lean into his touch, to meet his eyes, perhaps offer an invitation.
    Instead, she focused on her sewing. He watched her fingers make one tiny stitch after another.
    He dropped his hand. “I’m supposed to protect you, Ingrid. That’s my job.”
    A tear dripped off her chin onto the felt. She swallowed, pressed her thumb into the moisture.
    He stared at it in horror. “Tell me what I did, and I’ll fix it. Please.”
    Only then did she look up at him, her eyes red. She shook her head. “I don’t think you can ever fix it, John.”
    Then she put down the stocking, got up, and headed to the door.
    He stared after her, his breath hot in his chest. What   —? He couldn’t help but follow her.
    She went to Romeo’s room and cracked open the door. The light streamed in over Romeo, curled up under the sheets of Owen’s bed. Butter lay at the foot of the bed, and she lifted her head as if to say, I got this. All is well.
    Ingrid closed the door. “I was hoping you could fix Romeo. But now I’m not so sure you can, even if you wanted to.”
    Then she walked away and left him standing in the hallway, her words like fists in his chest. Even if you wanted to.

N O ONE TOLD J OHN that he couldn’t fix something. Not his marriage. Not Romeo. And certainly not the decrepit box for the Nativity scene the community called a stable.
    “Hold the door open. I just need to grab this wood, and we’ll be out of here.”
    Romeo held open the door to the shed behind the community center as John pulled out another section of the manger scene he’d finally tracked down.
    Nate had only mentioned that the stable might need some work, but what did John expect from a Realtor?
    “What is this thing?”
    “It’s a barn. Sort of.” John