Under the Mistletoe with John Doe by JUDY DUARTE

feet, “let’s get these dishes done.”
    â€œYou got it.”
    There wasn’t much to clean up this evening, but John helped by putting the leftovers into the fridge and wiping the counters, while Doc filled the dishwasher. Then, as was becoming their habit in the evenings, Doc picked up his novel—this time one by Michael Crichton—and settled into his easy chair, while John went out to the porch.
    But it wasn’t fresh air or peace and quiet that he was seeking; it was Betsy. She’d been working the day shift this past week and usually got home around eight. But it was well past that now.
    He lifted his wrist to check the time, a useless habit that continued after his mugging. And as he glanced at the place where a watch used to be, he was again reminded of all that had been stolen from him.
    It had to be close to nine when Betsy finally arrived home, and John got up from his seat and met her in the driveway.
    â€œI was getting worried about you,” he said, as he approached her car.
    â€œMy parents just got home from their trip to Galveston this afternoon, so I stopped by to see them.”
    â€œDid they have fun?”
    â€œWell, the bus broke down once. But other than that, they had a great time.” Betsy pushed the remote on her key chain, locking the doors. “My mom picked up aboysenberry-flavored herb tea while she was gone, so I stayed and had a cup with her.”
    They walked to the porch, but she didn’t take a seat. Instead, she stood at the railing and peered into the Texas night. There was something about this place that renewed her spirit and cleared her head.
    â€œIt’s nice that you and your parents are close,” John said.
    Betsy smiled and turned away from the railing, facing John instead. “I’ve really been blessed.”
    â€œHave you ever wanted to find your biological parents?”
    The question took her aback, but she answered truthfully. “No, not really.”
    She’d always been curious about her birth parents, of course, but she’d never tried to track them down. She wouldn’t do anything that might hurt the people who’d raised her and had earned the titles of Mom and Dad. So she’d embraced the wonderful parents she had.
    â€œDon’t you ever wonder about them?”
    â€œSure. I think most people who’ve been adopted do.” She studied the man before her, realizing he knew less about his birth family than she did. And she found herself telling him something she hadn’t told anyone else. “Actually, my biological mother’s attorney contacted me a couple of weeks ago and asked to set up a meeting.”
    â€œAnd did you? Agree to meet her?”
    â€œNot right now.”
    She couldn’t deny a curiosity about the woman, especially after the attorney had said, “She’d like to know if your hair is still red. It was that color when you were a newborn.”
    Many women who gave up their babies chose not to see them or hold them, and Betsy wondered if her birth mom had been an exception. A part of her hoped so.
    Nevertheless, she told the woman’s attorney that yes, she was a redhead. And that her life was a little too complicated to set up a meeting for the time being.
    Besides, getting involved in any kind of relationship right now, especially with a woman she knew nothing about, could really complicate her life.
    It would be risky, too. What if she was disappointed? What if she met her biological family and realized they could have made television appearances on The Jerry Springer Show?
    No, she didn’t want to deal with anything like that now. And even if she did, there was one thing she valued above everything else: people who’d proven themselves as loving, dependable and trustworthy.
    â€œIn some ways, we’ve got a lot in common,” he said. “Neither of us have much knowledge of our roots.”
    Yes, but while he’d probably