Hello Readers - just out of time, a holiday story. Hopefully, it will not offend Christians or non-Christians. This chapter includes the most difficult-to-write thing I've ever done in my fanfic! (Tougher than the 'M' scenes!) Yes, I know it didn't come out exactly right, but I hope you can enjoy it. Wishing you much peace & positive energy. ~ Liz
A cold Christmas morning wind frosted the window panes and dusted the grasses throughout the small county. Fortunate families opened presents next to fireplaces and drank hot chocolate to celebrate the birth of a savior, whose kind ways and loving words seemed to be less heeded this season than others. After a tumultuous year that promised and threatened so much, uncertainty hovered over so many households.
Bells rang, announcing that this day was different from all others. Few people traveled the highways, but those who ventured out greeted one another more amiably, more purposefully than usual, as though not wanting to be excluded from the joy of the holiday that seemed to float through the air, within their grasp if they had the courage to reach up and touch it.
Gathering in the cozy, aging white wooden church, Marie sang carols with a lighter spirit than she had the year before. Her heart was filled with the happiness of having good friends, such as Beverly, seated on her left, and Kate and Deanna. Though still garbed in mourning black, she carried with her today only cheerful memories of her husband and son and felt their presence beside her, urging her to live a full life in their honor. As a serenity washed over her, Marie's thoughts drifted during the homily to her friend Dalen Quaice, for whom she was glad to care, and she offered a private prayer for his recovery.
On the other side of the aisle, Alynna sat with Norah Satie, both of them dressed comfortably warmly and comfortably fashionably. Always friends with the matriarch of the local dynasty, Alynna had cultivated her relationship with Norah over the last few months, while abandoning as tainted her former friend Vash, who had been languishing in police custody for several weeks. She reflected on her role in imprisoning and demoralizing the younger woman, whom she had helped destroy with no moral misgivings. If she felt any gratitude in the house of God, it was a gratefulness that she had backed the right horse in Kyle. And that she seemed to have Kyle right where she wanted him.
Behind the Saties' populated pews, Kyle sang loudly with a delight heartfelt though wholly unrelated to the festive occasion. He had isolated the wife of his adversary in a tiny, comfortless cell and watched as she deteriorated. Vash had lost weight, the shine in her hair and the smile on her face and was on the verge of losing hope. One of his well-placed men in the Confederate Army had kept Q away from the home front with repeated denials for leave for the regiment and—when the lack of communication from his wife alarmed him—for Q's urgent request for emergency personal leave. Thinking back on his campaign, Kyle appreciated Alynna's advice not to send Q a telegram posing as Vash. His partnership with Alynna had been a wise move and he congratulated himself on manipulating her.
Sitting next to her mother and Dr. Timicin, who had become much better acquainted over the last month and a half, Deanna was practically overcome with emotion, as she thought of her precious baby, whom she would carry for only one more month, and of her beloved husband, who wrote her frequently, but, alas, was not with her. She had so hoped he would be home for Christmas. Although she visually remembered their wedding day, memories of Will's touches, taste and scent were fading, despite her striving to retain them. While the rest of the congregation rose to sing, Deanna remained seated, closed her eyes and let the pleasant music calm her so that she could convey contentment and peacefulness, rather than sorrow, to her child.
Listening to the pastor and reflecting on the life of Jesus, Beverly had a revelation of the kind the clergy hope to inspire in their flocks. Change, she thought, the courage to change, after all was said and done, was an important aspect of what Jesus had brought to his people. Some of the people accepted it, while others did not. Conveniently connecting the scripture that was supposed to be her focus to her own life, which was where her thoughts actually dwelt, she reasoned that Jean-Luc would be happy to learn of the baby because he had the courage to change. He had left behind his career at sea to assume the mantle of his brother's cotton business. He had abandoned his country in favor of the United States, then volunteered to defend the Confederate States of America, to protect her son. Despite not being a father, she had observed, he treated Wesley like a son, teaching and mentoring him, and feeling a pride—unexpressed but nevertheless visible to Beverly—in Wesley's accomplishments. She could tell that he was unused to sharing his living space and sharing himself, but he had worked hard to accommodate her and to let her in. The most solitary of men for his whole life, he had evolved into a loving, solicitous husband. Yes, she concluded, threading her fingers across her stomach, over her precious, tiny baby, Jean-Luc would be a good father.
In the newly constructed church in the new village on the Picard-Ro plantation, Dathon delivered a moving sermon about the ultimate triumph of the meek over the strong and raised his arms up to include their own cherished, if simple, house of worship and all the new homes beyond it as evidence that the rise of the downtrodden had begun. Acquiel nodded her head in agreement and occasionally joined the crowd's random, impassioned shouts of "amen," thanking the Lord for her nascent seamstress business. Ben clenched his hands before him, trying to find consolation in the Word, but feeling deeply unsettled.
In the back of the church, Worf kept guard at the door, never completely trusting that the white authorities would leave them alone. From time to time, he glanced at Alexander, proud that his son was learning to read and, according to his teacher, was doing very well. His teacher was an exotic looking woman named Miss Deanna and Worf had been terrified to feel a spark of attraction when he had met her. Even though Miss Deanna was very large with child, for a flicker of a moment, catching her eye, he had thought that she had felt it as well. As Dathon's voice rose to draw him back to the sermon, he banished such thoughts to the corner of his mind, alongside his complicity in Miss Ro's killings. He looked up to his pastor, hoping—not quite praying—that salvation could be his some day.
Packed tightly between Guinan and Sam's entire family, Geordi listened to the stirring speech and decided to make a change in his life. After spending the last month or so moping about Acquiel ending their relationship, and feeling useless because he was not working on any new inventions, Geordi perked up at the optimism in the sermon and resolved to cheer himself up. If the meek were on the verge of inheriting the Earth, that was pretty good news and more important than his own love life problems. From now on, he would wake up and feel good each day. He would look for some way he could contribute to the new world order that was coming. Even though he could not see and did not have a girlfriend, he knew that he had talents that he could share to help advance his people. All of a sudden, Sam, Jr. slid off his father's lap and accidentally bumped Geordi. As the startled boy apologized, Geordi merely laughed and patted his head.
At the Ro house, Silva directed the cooking of an enormous feast for anyone living on the plantation or in the village. Mr. Soong had stoked the fires in his newly designed fire pits and arranged place settings in the dining room and all the other main floor rooms that held makeshift tables and benches. He shyly approached Silva in the hallway as she looked over decorations being hung by some teens, with help from Sarjenka and the older O'Brien children.
"If that's all ma'am, I'd like to get going," he said.
Silva looked at him as though his head were about to fall off his shoulders. "Aren't you staying to eat dinner with us?"
"No ma'am. I thought I'd go and spend the rest of the day visiting my mother." Hat in hand and recently washed hair neatly slicked back, Mr. Soong seemed to be awaiting permission to leave.
Silva granted it. "Have a very merry Christmas, Mr. Soong."
"You, too, ma'am."
The brilliant inventor walked off and Silva scarcely had time to think about him. "Oh, Mr. Soong?" She recalled just in time.
"Yes?" He turned to face her.
"Don't forget to wish Miss Ro a merry Christmas."
Mr. Soong had forgotten. "Oh, ah, yes, ma'am, thank you." He wondered where he might find the mistress—or at least the owner, for Silva seemed to embody the first role—of the house and, as if reading his mind, Silva pointed in the direction of the late Mr. Ro's library.
"All right, children," Silva called to Sarjenka and the O'Briens. "You've done a very nice job," she said, admiring the greenery and ribbons they had helped to place along the staircase. "You let the older girls finish and run outside now and collect chestnuts for roasting later."
Sarjenka jumped out and down happily. "Can we use the basket I made?" She asked proudly.
"Yes, of course. Hurry along."
Worf and Geordi walked into the room, with Alexander turning around and joining Sarjenka in her race to the kitchen.
"Is church over?" Silva asked them.
"Yes," Worf answered. "It has been over for several minutes. We stopped at the Picard house. Guinan says that thirty people will be coming."
"Oh my goodness. I don't know where we're going to fit all these people."
To her surprise, her son laughed. "Don't worry, mom. We'll figure something out. We always do."
Silva looked at her son with a contempt for simplicity that morphed into a pride in his positive attitude. Watching Worf and him get to work moving chairs and benches to reconfigure the seating arrangements, she recognized that Geordi did always figure out complex problems—usually much more important ones than their current task. Silva felt a tinge of pride.
Without thinking to knock on the closed library door, Mr. Soong turned the knob and opened it to find Miss Ro and Ben strangely moving away from each other.
"Mr. Soong!" Miss Ro spoke his name as though she were angry with him, although he could not fathom why she would be. She seemed to be panting somewhat, although Mr. Soong was fairly certain she had been in the house, and not running from somewhere, all morning. Ben, who had arrived from church not long ago, and could have conceivably run, also appeared to be angry and somewhat out of breath.
"Hello, Miss Ro," Mr. Soong said. "I am leaving to visit my mother and I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas."
"Oh." Ro seemed to gather some measure of composure. She breathed in and out, smoothing the front of her dress. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Soong." She looked at Ben pointedly.
"Yes," Ben said to the intruder, "Merry Christmas."
"To you as well." With a bow, Mr. Soong exited, thinking of renewing his relationship with his mother and devoting no further attention to the question of why Miss Ro and Ben had been running after church and before dinner on Christmas Day.
"I'm bored." As soon as he had said it, Wesley realized the potential of his comments to offend his present company. He looked up and saw Lt. Riker glaring at him with a raised eyebrow. "Uh, no disrespect, sir . . . sirs."
Jean-Luc barely concealed a smirk. "That's all right, Wesley. Indeed, a good part of war is boredom. Once we've seen action, you'll eventually come to understand that the boredom is the better part of war."
The captain was always saying things like that, Wesley thought. He shivered in the cold and silently cursed the tents that neither kept them cool in the summer nor warm in the winter.
"Now, now, gentlemen," Will said, uncorking yet another fat brown bottle of locally produced alcohol, "we came here to celebrate, not complain." He leered first at Wesley. "Or philosophize." Then at Jean-Luc.
"It is Christmas, after all," Jean-Luc tactfully responded. As far as he was concerned, there was no rank in his tent on this Christmas night away from home. More than anything, he would have loved to be sitting by the fireplace in his front parlor, next to Beverly, admiring his tree and watching her open a present from him, her face lighting up when she saw—there were so many things he wanted to give her. Jewelry, dresses, books, perfumes, trips abroad. He had, in fact, purchased none of these things and instead had composed a sonnet for her. Sitting with Will and Wes, he now questioned the adequacy of his gift. He had perhaps, he thought, been too preoccupied by Q's and his futile efforts to secure leave for the regiment in time for Christmas. Their unfeeling reception by a dyspeptic colonel reminded him of Ebenezer Scrooge's cold misanthropy. Even though Q had vowed to carry their demand up the chain of command, the men still found themselves miles from home on a day that should have been devoted to family. As he reflected, Jean-Luc did not notice that he had been happily alone for too many Christmases to count prior to this year.
Jean-Luc knew better than to ask where or how his first lieutenant had procured a bottle of spirits. His experience had taught him that there were some things a commanding officer did not need to know. The by now recognizable wide, brown bottle—called a jug, Will had told him—usually heralded an unpleasant tasting but potent drinking experience.
Several rounds into the nasty beverage, the men's drunken conversation turned to women. Fuzzily aware that the son of his wife was sitting across the table from him, Jean-Luc spoke only in generalities and deferred to Will, who was especially loquacious on the subject this evening. After humorously cataloguing several near conquests, Will began to discuss the specifics of his victories.
The graphic detail startled Jean-Luc. "Now, now, Will. Wesley is with us."
Neither older man appreciated the significantly stronger effects of the same amount of liquid poison on the much lighter Wesley.
"I'm not offended." Wesley sat up straighter, unconsciously lowering his voice to sound older.
"Maybe not offended, but you won't understand. You're not exactly experienced," Will fired back.
Defending his manliness, Wesley spoke before any sober, rational part of his mind could stop him. "I'm experienced."
"I'm not talking about holding hands in the schoolyard."
Wesley leaned over the table toward his taller verbal adversary, attempting to appear menacing, but merely achieving a comically stretched pose. "Neither am I."
Jean-Luc spit out the whiskey that had been making its way down his throat, while Will froze in shock, then burst out laughing. Jean-Luc realized that this was information he did not wish to have about his stepson.
Recovering, Will asked, "Who's the lucky lady?"
Wesley was indignant. "I would never tell. That wouldn't be polite."
"Aaah, I bet I can guess."
Wesley blanched. He had never thought that someone could guess her identity, but, if anyone could, he now realized, it was probably Will. Why had he even said anything?
"Let's see." Will stroked his beard as he contemplated. "What's her name . . . ? I know—Robin Lefler!"
"No," Wesley answered immediately.
"Who?" Jean-Luc asked.
"Her father is a traveling salesman," Will explained. "The family came to town—what was it, maybe a year ago?—but when her parents left, Miss Lefler stayed behind to become an apprentice dress maker."
Jean-Luc nodded, understanding why, given her profession, he had never heard the young woman's name before.
"Someone," Will continued, deciding not to share that his source was his father, who had gotten the information from Alynna, "saw you with her in town." He wiggled his finger at Wesley. "So, the two of you . . . ?"
"No, I swear. I swear upon my mother's life—" the mention of Beverly drew Jean-Luc's attention away from his glass—"that never happened between us. We just went for some walks and sat outside one Sunday after church. That's all."
"But, you like her?" Will pressed.
"I do, but I would never, ever make her do . . . ." Wesley felt hot under his collar.
"Hmm," Will hummed. "I'm not sure if I believe you." He did, actually, trust that Wesley was telling the truth. But, that left him with no obvious suspects. Employing his poker-bluff style, he tried to keep the young man uneasy while he tried to think of someone else.
Jean-Luc had tuned out the discussion to focus on his drinking and avoid hearing anything too embarrassing. He could not, however, turn off his sharp analytical mind, which, despite his desire for ignorance, quickly calculated who Wesley's paramour was most likely to be. Talks with Beverly, plus his own observation of the boy's—man's—work habits and schedule led him to conclude that there was only one woman with whom Wesley spent a great deal of time.
"How many times?" Will asked, fishing for leads.
"Not very many."
"Less than five?"
"Yes," Wesley admitted, by now extremely uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. He sorely regretted bragging to put him on equal footing with the older men; all it had accomplished was to emphasize his immaturity.
Granted, Jean-Luc allowed, as the conversation about Miss Lefler had shown, he was not familiar with many of the local teenagers. But, if one considered someone who was not a teenager, perhaps someone who had played an influential role in Wesley's life, someone he admired and from whom he had learned . . . . He lowered his gaze. Staring into the cloudy amber liquid, he let the realization sink in. How did he feel about knowing this most personal piece of information? He was unsure.
"Is she one of the Satie grandchildren?"
"No!"
Someone who was unmarried and unafraid of social mores. Of course, Jean-Luc had never discussed sex with her—men and women who were not married to one another simply did not talk about such things. The more he considered the possibility, however, the more sense it made. He looked up at Wesley, the woman's identity unspoken, but showing in his face.
As soon as Wesley saw the look of comprehension on the captain's face, he knew that his stepfather had guessed the identity of his former occasional lover. Guilt flooded him and made him want to crawl under the table and hide. Would the captain say something to her? Would he tell Wesley's mother? The consequences were unbearable to consider. Looking away from Jean-Luc's silent accusation, he saw that Will, thankfully, was drinking and had not seen it. He had to figure out how to get out of this tent before the captain said her name.
"I know!" Will slammed his empty glass on the table. "Kate Pulaski!"
The older officers laughed at Will's absurd joke, while Wesley sweated, but was able to exhale.
Jean-Luc refilled Will's glass. "I don't want to talk about women any more."
"No?" Will was incredulous.
"No, because I can't say anything about any woman or Wesley will beat me up."
"No, sir, I—"
"You're darn right," Will interrupted, "and I might beat you up, too. Don't forget, I'm Beverly's friend."
Jean-Luc downed his drink. "At any rate, we're married men now. No sense drudging up the past."
Will beamed. "I'm happy to talk about Deanna. My wife has the best figure in the county."
Jean-Luc poured himself another and shook his head. "Still can't talk," he said regretfully, with a nod toward Wesley.
"Well, Deanna . . . ."
Only half-listening, Jean-Luc's mind lingered on his new insight of the relationship between his stepson and his partner in crime. While he neither condemned nor admired their actions, he could not forget them. Possessing this knowledge of their trysts served him with notice that Wesley was more a man than a boy and reminded him that he really did not know very well the woman posing as his wife.
"How did you know?" Wesley was asking Will. "I mean, how did you know that she was the right one for you?"
Will simply smiled and took a long swig of his drink, thirsty after his lengthy story telling. "Now that," he said, "is a question the captain can answer."
Jean-Luc was just drunk enough and missing Beverly enough to attempt a response. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts, clearly emotional, his chest moving with heavy breaths, then spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "I felt attracted to, drawn to, your mother the first moment I saw her and I'm sure that was mostly—maybe entirely—a physical reaction at first. But—and here's the important part, Wesley—" Jean-Luc leaned precipitously toward Wesley's chair and patted his stepson's knee rather firmly for emphasis, "very soon after meeting her, I saw in her . . . understanding. A like mind, a kindred spirit. Someone who shares my values and interests. Someone who can make me laugh, at myself if necessary. Someone I could trust implicitly. Someone who showed me, through her actions more than her words, that she loves me as much as I love her. That's what's important. That's what we all hope to find in a woman."
Wesley soaked up every word, perceiving the earnestness and emotion behind them. Although he had often heard his mother talk of Jean-Luc, this was the first time, looking into the captain's intense eyes, obviously grieving Beverly's absence, that he comprehended the depth of the older man's feelings for his mother. Wise advice about women, as well. Looking into the captain's penetrating eyes, Wesley somehow understood that Jean-Luc would keep his secret. He wanted to thank him, but had no idea what to say or how to convey his gratitude nonverbally.
Will defused the sobriety. "On the other hand," he gestured, "Yankee women . . . ."
Jean-Luc and Wesley looked at each other and laughed.
Although the letter had been sent in early December, it did not arrive until just after Christmas. Beverly had had a depressing morning. After an especially strong bout of morning sickness, she checked on Dalen, but was disheartened by the results of her exam. Weeks of feeding him the miracle plant had not made him responsive or able to move any part of his body and Beverly knew that the longer he stayed immobile, the more likely it was that the condition would become permanent.
If the thought of the man who was her father in all but name lying still and uncommunicative as he wasted away was not enough to dampen her spirits, it seemed as though everything happening around her was conspiring to do so. Just into her ninth month of pregnancy Deanna's belly was very large and she was unable to climb the stairs to teach the children, thus the lessons were moved downstairs to the back parlor. From her study, Marie could hear the children and she found it distracting. Also, lately Deanna had been complaining of—or, mentioning, because Deanna did not really complain about anything—headaches, shortness of breath and some sensitivity to light. Beverly's experience had taught her that these symptoms foreshadowed complications. At the end of the day, she planned to tell Deanna to stop teaching and stay at her mother's house. She would check on Deanna every day until her condition improved or she was forced to deliver the baby.
Geordi had become more distant and thoughtful, and less helpful around the house, suddenly spending more time with Mr. Soong or sitting in the rocking chair by the small stove in the kitchen, as if in contemplation. Ben and Worf were still at odds with one another, and the latter spent more time at the house than he ever had before, often spotted with his son, Alexander. Silva seemed to be angry about something. On the few occasions when Beverly saw Miss Ro, the younger woman seemed either on edge or agitated. Beverly intentionally avoided any knowledge of the Underground Railroad so that she could claim innocence and disavow knowing if she were ever interrogated, but she could not help but sense the tension among the conductors.
Beverly also began to worry about what would happen when the weather warmed and the serious business of planting and harvesting required full-scale cooperation and management. Would this coming summer be worse than the last? Dathon had become the de facto minister, which occupied a great deal of his time. In the middle of their busiest season, she would be giving birth! Who would make sure that everything ran properly?
Beyond the walls of the sprawling Picard-Ro property, the rest of the county was in a subtle turmoil. Vash had been in jail for weeks for smuggling slaves, which confounded the actual smugglers, who had tried to frame Alynna. All of her friends were confused—do they believe her protestations of innocence or trust that law enforcement, in the form of the venerated Senator Riker himself, has identified the culprit? Subsequent to her arrest, Kyle had implicated Vash and her ring of criminals in numerous other wrong doings, including a double murder in South Carolina. Families missed their fathers and husbands, who were not granted leave to come home. And no one had heard from Q in nearly two months. Everywhere one went, there was a tension, as though Vash's deception hinted at other, more deeply hid falsehoods. As though neighbor could no longer trust neighbor. As though something uncontrollable were simmering just beneath the surface of polite society.
Passing by a window in the front parlor, Beverly saw Molly and Miles, Jr. running around the yard with the youngest of Sam's children. They laughed and sang, so carefree. Beverly found herself smiling at them. In the midst of all the dangers and complications created by the adults, youngsters could still thrive. Her son Wesley had been like them once, and in about six months, she would have another child who could run and play outdoors unaware of the stresses plaguing the adults around them.
She was standing by the window when Guinan handed her the letter from Jean-Luc. Rather than read it downstairs in his study, which she had appropriated as her office months ago, she took the envelope upstairs to their bedroom. Sighing with exhaustion, which was more commonplace for her these days than she remembered from her first pregnancy, Beverly reclined on the flowered divan and pulled her nana's soft throw over her. She smiled at the envelope and carefully slit it open with Jean-Luc's own gold letter opener.
My dearest wife,
It grieves me so, to be away from you at Christmas. Alone, missing your kiss and your laugh. Pretending I can see your face. Imagining your touch. How I would love to celebrate this holiest of days with you, exchanging gifts by the fire, as we drink egg nog and eat sweets.
In my current position, I am unable to buy you the kind of beautiful, fancy things you deserve. My ability to make you something with my own hands is somewhat limited. However, I have brazenly tried to create something for you, for us. I hope you will accept this meager gift in the spirit of love in which it is intended and not be too critical of my efforts.
Our Song
Playful blue eyes reflect azure warm sky
Your face royal, launch a thousand bold ships
so wild, your hair on fire, set free to fly
Smart smile teasing from your delicious lips
Loyal old man, navy, floating adrift
Attached to none, under the stars above
No idea the life of joy he'd missed
Relinquished I the sea to find your love
My wish, to give you what you gave to me
To lie with you, moonlight, sunrise, bird song
Walk by your side, the world is ours to see
We share, cherish, nourish our love, so strong
All sorrow, solitude, suff'ring now past,
In each other, we find ourselves at last
Thinking of you, as always. You hold my heart, ma chérie, as you will forever.
With all my love,
Your devoted husband
Beverly read the sonnet over and over, curling her body around the treasured piece of Jean-Luc's ivory stationery, delicately running her fingers along the elegantly inked verses. The touching words, and her husband's shyness and modesty about his literary skills warmed her heart and reminded her how she much she loved this wonderful, sensitive man. Tears of joys traced down her cheeks to the curves of her smile. Her happiness lasted until holding Jean-Luc's words no longer felt like an adequate substitute for holding him. The stream of tears grew to a river and she cried out of sheer loneliness and physical want.
