Dating da Vinci (35 page)

Back inside, he grabbed my present from under the white vintage Christmas tree and handed it to me, wrapped in pages from the
New York Times
crossword. All puzzles he had completed, no less. I may have met my match in more ways than one.

Inside the box lay oversized Scrabble pieces, 8-inch squares, nine pieces total. I lay them out on the carpet: F, R, O, A, D, R, E, K, W. Within a few seconds, I had assembled them in order: WORD FREAK.

“For your new office,” he said.

“I love it. It's the nicest party favor I've ever received.” I kissed him on the cheek, tempted to kiss him through the night, but it felt good to show restraint, to take things slowly. “Thank you.”

“Thanks for coming. It wouldn't have been much of a party without you.”

“You can say that again.”

“It wouldn't have been much of a party without you.”

Some traditions remain the same After, and some die along with the deceased. While so many couples and young families struggle to please everyone at Christmas, Joel and I had set the stage early on that Christmas Eve was our private holiday. We would go where we wanted to go and do what we wanted to do. When the boys came along, our parents complained they wanted to see us Christmas Eve, but we insisted Christmas Eve be our day. We tried different things on Christmas Eve, ice skating at a local ice rink (too cold), visiting friends who didn't have relatives in town (too exhausting), until we finally settled into the tradition of attending Jesús and Gabriella's church for holiday mass, followed by Panchal's annual holiday dinner (celebrating multiple religions in one), kettle popcorn, and a game of holiday Scrabble.

As we walked out of the church on Christmas Eve with “Joy to the World” on our lips and in our hearts, I spotted Deacon Friar near the fountain. I had tucked the pennies he'd given me in my pocket and gave the boys each one to make a wish.

“Do you think it's too late to wish for something for Santa to bring you since his elves have probably already loaded up the sleigh?” William asked his big brother.

Bradley no longer believed in Santa Claus, but kept up the charade for his brother. “I'd wish on something else,” Bradley said. “Mom, do you think a wish is more powerful if it's at church?”

“I think a wish is as powerful as the intent of the wisher.”

Bradley paused, considering it and nodded. “Okay. So wish hard, then.”

Deacon Friar saw us and joined us at the fountain. “I see you've put your lucky pennies to good use,” he said as we watched the boys close their eyes and toss their coins into the water.

“I didn't need them,” I said. “It turns out my wishes had been granted all along.”

Deacon Friar folded his arms and motioned to the remaining coin in my hand. “What's that one for, then?”

I shrugged. “Insurance.”

The Panchal Center was alive with the sounds of broken English and the warmth of dozens of hearts filled with gratitude. I wondered what had become of Maria and her new baby—if, like Mary and her baby Jesus, they had found a safe haven. Panchal was such a place, and I knew I could never leave this home away from home. I would teach there until I could no longer form words at all. Panchal and Dr. Roberts were both right. It was about more than teaching a language; it was about succeeding in life. I could never abandon the hundreds of immigrants that would need the sword to find their way, the torch of knowledge to guide their path. Three days at U T, one day at Panchal's and three days for home. I would be busy, engaged, plugged in like never before. Happy, even.

Da Vinci found us, his arm wrapped around his Italian beauty with luscious curves Americans would consider plus sized. I was amazed at how much I'd grown. I wasn't jealous of her at all. I was happy for them. They clearly belonged together.

After the dinner, Bradley stood on a chair and popped the kettle corn in the microwave while William set out the Scrabble board. “Too bad we don't have four players,” he said, and Bradley looked at his brother and then at me, as if this would hurt my feelings.

“I didn't mean …” William said.

“It's okay, son. You're right. Scrabble is more fun with four players. Maybe we should invite someone to come play with us.”

“But who?” The boys asked at the same time.

Fifteen minutes later William explained the rules of the game to Cortland, who had been reading at home when we'd called him. He wouldn't have his daughter until the next morning, and was thrilled at the invitation. “Every word you spell must be a holiday word,” William said seriously. “It can be a person, place or thing, but it must have to do with winter or holidays, period. Daddy used to like to bend the rules, but now that Bradley and I are big enough, we don't need to do that, so don't try any funny stuff.”

“Gotcha,” Cortland said, setting up his Scrabble pieces. “No funny stuff.”

I smiled at how at ease Cortland was with the boys, how at home it all seemed, how grown up and real. Like a real thing relationship. I don't know what you called it. Certainly not dating, but certainly more than friends because of the chemistry. Perhaps it was just a relationship, pure and simple, and how that relationship would evolve would depend on us.

The game went on:

William: SLEIGH, 12 points

Bradley: SANTA, 8 points

Me: NOEL, 6 points

Cortland: LOVE, 16 points

“I don't know about that one,” Bradley said. “It's borderline.”

“Not exactly holiday,” William considered. “But God gave us Jesus at Christmas because he so loved the world.”

“And you buy gifts for people you love,” Bradley added.

“So the verdict is?”

“It's a keeper,” I said to him and put my hand over his, feeling compelled to touch him whenever I could, brushing against him in the kitchen as we made hot chocolate, plucking a stray hair off his shoulder, high-fiving him on the twenty-point HANUKKAH.

Cortland stayed after to watch the boys open one gift each: a new science experiment kit for William and a sports Xbox game for Bradley—the gifts I knew Joel would've wanted to give them. They were gone as soon as the wrapping hit the floor.

“Thanks for a fun evening,” Cortland said as we walked to the door. “Here I was starting to feel sorry for myself that I had to spend Christmas Eve alone.”

“Trust me on this. It's not worth the effort. I spent the last two Christmases feeling sorry for myself, and it didn't do me any good.”

“Well, I
was
right in the middle of a very good book. I can't wait to see what happens next.”

“I'll let you get back to it then,” I said, walking him out the door. I watched him walk down the sidewalk, his feet crunching in the snow, the feeling that my heart was stretching like a rubber band about to snap the farther away he got.

“Cortland!” He turned around, and I ran towards him and stopped inches from him. “I know what happens next.”

I reached up and kissed him—a long soul kiss, a Christmas kiss for all seasons, one that I would remember for all time, the first of so many more to come. We stood there in the snow, the North Star blinking above us, children around the world tucked into bed, awaiting their own Christmas wishes to come true. I'd not given up, I'd given in. I'd taken a chance, moved on, opened up, accepted and believed.

My name is Ramona Elise Griffen. I am a 36-year-old widow, a linguist, someone who thought true love could only happen once in a lifetime. One soul mate per soul. How could I possibly define the indefinable? Far better to feel it. I've uncaged it to let it take over, its all-consuming power all around me, within me.

When I set it free, it came back to me.

The End

BIG THANKS TO MY family and friends for their love and support, especially my amazing husband and my kids Harrison, Audrey, and Owen for putting up with all of Mommy's computer time.

Much appreciation to my wonderful agent Natasha Kern for her input and belief in me and my writing. To my editor Deb Werksman and the whole team at Sourcebooks, thank you for inviting me into your fold and loving
da Vinci
as much as I do.

Warm regards to Doug Manning, a pre-eminent authority on grief, for his knowledge and passion for helping people during their grief journey.

Special thanks to Sharon Sala, author extraordinaire, and to the members of my OK RWA chapter and Chicklit Writers of the World online chapter, especially Jenny Gardiner. Writing doesn't feel so solitary with friends like you.

To all the da Vinci scholars both in print and online, I couldn't have done it without you.

Lastly I must thank the Renaissance man himself, Leonardo da Vinci. It was his genius and approach to life that inspired me to write this novel. Five hundred years may separate us, but you'll always be my mentor and kindred spirit.

Malena Lott
lives in Oklahoma with her husband and three children. After a bustling advertising career, Malena transitioned to brand consulting and writing novels, which she could do from home, in her PJs, chase around her toddler, and join the daily minivan parade at the elementary school. Visit www.malenalott.com.