Chapter 18
Two months had passed since Lucy had moved out. The divorce was final after six weeks and shortly after that, Misty had found out she was having a baby girl.
It was three days before Christmas and it was snowing outside.
She peeked her head into the room, the same one she had stayed in when she had moved in, to see Brock was busy painting the walls a glossy shade of pink. A crib sat pressed against the wall, and even though it had a lot of work to be done before their baby arrived, Misty couldn't help but feel excited.
"Hey," she smiled at him and he turned around. The smell of paint was overwhelming to her as she walked in. "You've got a lot of work done."
"Yep. I'm going to get Forest to help me out. There is no way I'm going to get all of this done in time…" Brock put the paint roller down and looked at the freshly painted walls and the floor that was covered with a paint-splashed tarp. He put his arm around her and smiled. "So, what do you think?"
"It looks great," Misty leaned her head on him and sighed contently. "Oh, I almost forgot. I picked out a name."
"Oh, what is it?"
"What do you think of Ciara Rose?" She asked.
"I love it. Where did you come up with it?"
"Well, I've always liked the name Ciara and Rose was my mother's name." She watched him take her hands into his and he kissed her softly.
They heard the front door open, followed by Lola Harrison's voice. "Brock? Are you home?"
Rolling his eyes, he walked out of the room and leaned over the balcony above the staircase. "Up here, Mom."
Smiling, Lola rushed up the steps with shopping bags weighing down her arms. "Forest told me you were setting up a nursery. I bought over some things. I bought some toys and clothes and bottles for the baby. You're going to need a lot. Hello Misty."
"Hello Mrs. Harrison."
"Call me Lola." She offered sweetly, and pushed past Brock to see the room. "Oh, doesn't this look marvelous? Brock, you've outdone yourself."
"It's not done yet."
"I can see that, Silly." Lola beamed happily at the crib. "Oh, isn't this cute? I can't wait until my little granddaughter gets here. I'm going to take her out for ice cream and go shopping and bake cookies and--"
"Mom…" Brock interrupted her. His mother always got so excited when talking about babies, especially little girls. "I have to go to the store and pick up some more paint. Do you think you could stay here and keep Misty company?"
Misty looked at him, with a comical, horrified expression.
"Oh, I'd love to. I can show you cute hairstyle ideas for her. I even bought some ribbons for her hair…"
The snow that had fallen had collected on top of his truck and he quickly brushed it away before pulling himself out of the driveway with some resistance. It was well below freezing and he watched as his neighbors built snowmen out in their front yards.
It was way to cold for anyone to be outside and he figured he was half crazy for going out in it himself. But he found himself just as anxious and excited about his new baby as his mother was. He had been waiting along time for this, and it had turned out better than he had ever imagined.
After finding another can of pink paint, which he would have never thought of buying in another situation, he quickly made it back into his truck, praying it would start. The wind was so cold that it literally took his breath away and he watched as other people left the store, pulling their coats up around their noses to try and block out the harsh wind.
For some reason, he thought of Neal Dash. He hadn't spoken to the man in months. Not since the fall when he had found Misty's ring on that park bench. He checked his watch and he figured his mother was keeping Misty occupied with her motherly advice.
He had time to stop by the homeless shelter on his way back, and that's where he headed.
It was a rather large building and the inside of it smelled of cafeteria food. People of all ages sat at long rows of tables. Some were eating. Some were playing cards to keep themselves occupied. Some were just conversing.
And he thought about what their Christmas going to be like. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, then approached the front desk.
A young woman sat behind the glass, with long blond hair and a pretty face. "Hello, sir. Can I help you?"
"I was wondering, could I make a donation?" He asked, then he scanned the room for Neal, but there was no sign of him.
"Of course." She smiled at him and adjusted her glasses. "How much?"
"Five hundred." He wrote her a check and passed it to her across the marble counter.
"That's very generous of you, Sir." The young woman commented, taking the check from him. "Thank you so much and Merry Christmas."
He nodded. "Merry Christmas." He was about ready to turn away, but he couldn't get the thought of the old man from his mind. Was he here? Surely he wasn't living in a flimsy cardboard box out in this kind of weather. He would freeze to death.
"Excuse me," Brock asked again, getting the young woman's attention once again. "Can you tell me if there is a Neal Dash who comes here occasionally?"
The blond woman nodded and pulled out a booklet from underneath her desk. After a few minutes of searching for the name, she stopped and then looked up. "Did you say Neal Dash?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Old man. Always wore a Beret?"
"That's the one."
The young woman looked down at the paper again then back up at him. "I'm terribly sorry, Sir. But he committed suicide on the East Street Bridge about four years ago."
Brock felt the colour drain from his face. "No, that's…that's impossible. I just talked to him about three or four months ago."
"You must be mistaken." The woman told him solemnly.
"Yea…" He looked down at his feet; he knew he wasn't mistaken. This whole time he had been talking to the ghost of a man. A spirit. A guardian angel. "Thank you." He told her, then quickly left.
On the drive home he saw the city of Landview was completely covered in a white blanket, and he knew he'd never need to hear from Neal Dash again. When he walked through his front door and saw Misty standing there to greet him, he took her his arms and hugged her tight.
And he thought…
Somebody must be praying for me.
----Fin
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