Christmas in the Air Read Online Free PDF Page A

eyes gleamed from deep orbs.
    Marie Stover and her mother, Roxanne, looked alike. Both had brown hair and eyes, and their dusky, roundoval faces bordered on perfection. Marie was twenty-eight, and Roxanne had been twenty when her only child was born. It was only in personality that their differences were obvious. Marie was laid-back and amiable, while Roxanne possessed a dynamic, sometimes aggressive, personality—attributes that had made her effective as the director of the musical program in a large church.
    Eric was a tall, thin man who appeared frail. However, none of the teenagers he counseled could keep up with his zeal and enthusiasm in the sports and work projects he initiated.
    When Les Holden started to speak, Livia gave him her undivided attention. She already appreciated the man because he’d guided them to the security of this church. Les wasn’t more than five feet tall, obviously suffering with arthritis, although he wouldn’t have been a big man even in his youth. Partly bald, he had a fringe of gray hair that matched the bushy gray eyebrows that extended like shingles over his faded blue eyes.
    â€œI ain’t much for making speeches,” he said. “Like I told you, I’ll be eighty my next birthday. I’ve been a widower for twenty-some years. I know how quick these storms can come, and I shouldn’t have started out tonight. I aimed to spend Christmas with my daughter, who lives about ten miles away. But she won’t worry when I don’t show up, thinking that I’m still safe at home. That’s about all, I guess.”
    â€œLes, why isn’t the church used anymore?” Livia asked. “I’m grateful for its sheltering walls tonight,and it seems sad that this building is no longer a lighthouse for God in this community.”
    â€œYes’um, I agree with you.” He stood stiffly and walked around, apparently to exercise his arthritic limbs. “I remember comin’ here with Mom and Dad when I was a young’un. This room would be crowded every Sunday. We sure enjoyed praising the Lord within these walls.”
    â€œIf I remember right,” Quinn said, “there used to be a town in this area.”
    â€œYes, sir, that’s right. The town of Bexter was built in the late 1800s. There was a railroad here, running between Akron and Chicago. Probably as many as five hundred people lived here once, but after World War II, a lot of railroad lines consolidated and little railways were shut down. The loss of the railroad killed the town. People started moving away, and finally there weren’t enough left to keep the church going. A lot of my kin-folk are buried in the cemetery across the road, and some of my neighbors asked me to keep up the building and grounds. Not much else I can do anymore.”
    â€œTell us about the stained-glass window,” Marie said. “It doesn’t fit with the plain architecture of the rest of the building.”
    â€œThis town was named for a railroad man, Addison Bexter. He donated the window as a memorial to his parents. Because of the way Jesus is cradling the lamb in His arms, the members called their meeting house the Sheltering Arms Church. There’s a little plaque on the window—you can read it in the morning.”
    While Les had talked, Marie had leaned her head on Eric’s shoulder. When she yawned noisily, Eric laughed and said, “I think my wife is ready for bed, such as it is.”
    Favoring his stiff knees, Les peered out the window. “It’s almost stopped snowing, but the wind’s still gusty.”
    Quinn peered over Les’s shoulder. “Looks like a good two feet of snow, wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œAt least that much,” Les agreed. “It’s let up, but there’s bound to be some drifting.”
    As if to reinforce his words, a gust of wind rattled the windowpanes. The gust gave way to a shrill screech that whirled