Christmas Kisses

Chapter 1: Third Person

Cecelia Brightman sighed and glanced out the window of her high-rise office in one of the choicest locations in Manhattan. As coordinator for Charity Disbursements, Inc., she had the fortunate, and sometimes unfortunate, job of deciding which charities making application for fund raising events would be accepted for review by the board of directors, and which would be gently refused.

Shuffling the papers on her desk, she lifted another application, but her mind was elsewhere. In one week she would be in Colorado visiting her brother and sister-in-law for a much needed vacation. Sometimes her workdays ran as long as ten hours. Of course, that was by her own choice. She had no husband or children to care for and the older she became, the less she looked forward to nights spent alone in her penthouse. Since the age of twenty-five, after graduating from exclusive, Barnard College, she had devoted her life to helping others through charity work. Now, at the age of forty-two, she was beginning to wonder if she had made a big mistake in not actively seeking a husband and having children in her twenties and early thirties. The more she was around her brother and sister-in-law, Miles and Tooty, and their five children: Harris, Eli, Morgan, Austin, and nineteen month old Sunny Beatrice; the more melancholy she became.

Before, whenever she'd had doubts about the direction of her life, she'd just worked harder, and soon new projects consumed her every waking minute.

That strategy wasn't working now.

And that was the reason for her visit to Colorado. She needed to be with family, not charities. Of course, her mother and father lived nearby in their own posh penthouse and she visited them often, but she'd always felt somewhat estranged from them. They were well known among their elite country club community and enjoyed a rich-and-famous lifestyle. However, much of their prestige came from being the parents of author Maxwell Henry, the pen name of their famous son, Miles. They loved him dearly and had agonized after a car accident rendered him a paraplegic as a teenager, but after the publication of his first best seller, they'd capitalized on his fame and used it as a social stepping-stone.

Cecelia knew that spending time with her parents was not the answer to her increasing loneliness.

A tap on her door interrupted her musings and through the glass she saw Charles Wilson, her assistant, waiting for her response to his knock. She motioned him in. Usually reserved, Charles fairly oozed excitement and Cecelia thought she knew why. "Is it here?"

Charles placed a finger on the side of his chin and grinned so big that his perfectly capped teeth took center stage in his perfectly tanned, perfectly handsome face. Years ago, he'd hinted that maybe there could be something romantic between them, but Cecelia had never viewed him in that light. After a few more hints, she'd made it clear with her own hints, that she wasn't interested. He'd grinned, said, "I hear you loud and clear," and never broached the subject again. About a year later he'd met a barista that he claimed made Café Mochas to die for and married her six months later. They now had three children and couldn't be more opposite than a cat and dog. Charles was gorgeous; his wife, Betty Sue, looked like a throwback from the hippie heydays of the sixties. He wore Armani suits; she wore swirling linen skirts and peasant tops. He worked out in the gym faithfully; she refused to set foot in one and insisted she got all the exercise she needed chasing their three children, ages five, six, and seven. He loved caviar; she loved burritos. He came from Boston wealth; she came from Shreveport poverty. However, the two of them had been going strong for years and their antics laughed at by coworkers. Someone was always saying, "Wait 'til you hear what Betty Sue has Charles doing now;" the latest being spending time at a retreat that didn't allow talking. When Charles returned, he'd had the office in stitches recalling his vacation that left him speechless, literally.

Cecelia held her breath waiting for Charles' reply.

"It is. And, my God, I've never seen anything like it."

She jumped to her feet. "I can't wait." She followed Charles to the Donations Art Room, and marveled that the famous artist, Connor MacKenzie, had actually responded to the letter she'd sent three months previous and agreed to donate a painting for their annual Christmas charity auction, the proceeds of which were going to an organization selected by vote of the board of trustees. Even though it was only June, the auction required months of planning. The charity receiving the proceeds had yet to be made public, but Cecelia, in her letter, had revealed that it was a small non-profit organization named Loving Arms Adoption Agency, and that they found homes for children who had unexpectedly lost their parents—orphans who had once had a family—but now, either had no relatives to take them in, or relatives that couldn't or wouldn't raise them. Rather than send them through the foster care system, they housed the children until suitable adoptive families were found. They had a ninety-eight percent success rate and Cecelia had been pitching them to the board of trustees for years. Finally, they had been selected.

Charles walked to a large picture on a tripod he'd draped. Dramatically, he threw up his hands and said, "Come no closer."

Cecelia halted and her heart hammered. She loved the paintings by the reclusive artist, and, in fact, had recently snagged two of them at a local gallery because she'd been invited to a pre-showing. She now owned five originals and several prints by this genius of light, shadow, and color.

With a flourish, Charles swept the drape away.

Cecelia gasped and covered her mouth with her palm. She was speechless. Never had she seen a more beautiful painting. The artist, renowned for mystical renderings, had created a scene straight out of a magical forest. Known for his muted colors and lighting, the gray mist blended so perfectly with the green pines that the viewer could not distinguish where one ended and the other began. Filtered light penetrated the mist to barely reveal several deer beside a stream. The canvas was about four feet high and five feet in length and the pines stretched all the way to the top while the stream ran the width.

Such was the beauty of the artistry that Cecelia felt tears welling up. She stepped closer and looked for the painter's trademark. She scanned for a long time.

Charles said, "It took me awhile, but I finally located them."

Moving until she was close enough to touch the painting, she eyed it inch by inch. Her eyes lit and she lifted her gaze to Charles.

He grinned. "Ah-hah, you've found them. Tell me what you see?"

"I see the man and the woman in the far left corner. Hmm, something seems odd." She gave Charles a startled look.

He responded, "Exactly. This painting is going to sell for tens of thousands. As far as I know, it's the first one he's done with a third person painted."

With wonder, Cecelia said, "And it's a child. There's a child between the man and woman holding their hands. How perfect for the charity it's going to benefit." The tears she had been sniffing back now dripped down her cheeks.

Charles said, "Aw, honey. I think you need to come to dinner with me and Betty Sue and my gang tonight. You've been way too sad lately. My wife and kids will have you rolling on the floor laughing."

Before responding to his invitation, Cecelia said, "If it wasn't against the rules, I'd bid whatever the cost for this painting."