An Angel for Christmas by Heather Graham

He might be the ne’er-do-well of the group, but he had heart. She winced inwardly. And he did have talent. But Dad was overprotective and mistrustful of everyone. He’d worked with too many crooks. In his mind, too, he’d let too many go free. So had they fallen back on their father’s words too many times because they were afraid of taking chances? Afraid of having faith in their own abilities?
    â€œPlates in the kitchen!” Morwenna said. “We all help Mom, and then we’ll do a whole Christmas story of our own in the parlor!”
    As she passed Shayne with plates, he caught her arm. “You really don’t have your iPad?” he asked hopefully.
    â€œShayne MacDougal, believe it or not, the artist in me loves a pencil and paper, and we’re going to play,” she said. “Difficult, I know. But your kidswill love it, and you don’t have to be embarrassed. Hey, you can play a monster.”
    She hurried by her brother. Shayne loved his job. He just needed to realize that his loved ones needed healing as much as his patients.
    With everyone helping, it was quick work getting the table cleared. Luckily, the dishwasher and electricity were still functioning, so within twenty minutes, food was stowed, plates and glasses and serving pieces rinsed and set to wash and the kitchen squeaky clean.
    Mike asked his sons for help with the logs; they rebuilt the fire in the parlor. They managed to do so, only jokingly taunting one another as they shared the labor.
    But, before they could start, Stacy turned back to the kitchen. “We have to have hot cocoa for the performance.”
    Bobby groaned. “You’d think we were starving, Ma.”
    â€œShe likes to have the fire—and her kids drinking cocoa,” Morwenna said.
    â€œSpike mine, Ma,” Bobby called.
    When cocoa was finished—spiked for the adults, plain old cocoa for the kids—Bobby ushered his mother back to the sofa. He hiked Genevieve over his head, and then set her on his mother’s lap.
    Morwenna hurried to her room and found one of her old sketchbooks and quickly looked up something she had created years before— Magala, the Christmas elf. She ran back downstairs with the sketchbook. “Bobby, you get to be Wager, the traveling troubadour.” She frowned, and then looked at Gabe, who was waiting expectantly. “Gabe, you can play Magala, the Christmas elf,” she said, and showed him the picture. “And, Shayne, you get to be Mr. Mean, the Abominable Snowman who lives by the workshop at the North Pole.”
    â€œGreat!” Shayne said.
    But Connor giggled, and Shayne flashed his son a smile. He lifted his arms in a huge Abominable Snowman pose.
    â€œWho are you, Aunt Morwenna?” Genevieve asked, cuddling her teddy bear as she sat on her grandmother’s lap.
    â€œThe narrator,” Morwenna said. “Hang on just one minute.” Glancing at her pictures, she scurried first to the kitchen. She found a new mop head and came back to put it on Shayne’s head, which delighted the kids further. But Shayne wasn’t complete until she had whitened his face with cold cream. The more Shayne groaned, the more his kids laughed, and she was happy when she saw him smile—despite the goop on his face.
    Bobby had secured one of his old Robin Hood hats from a long-gone Renaissance festival, and for Gabe, Morwenna found an old pair of Halloween ears. They were ready.
    â€œIntro!” Morwenna told Bobby. He strummed a light tune that grew dark.
    â€œOnce upon a time, up at the North Pole, there lived a good elf named Magala,” Morwenna said.
    Gabe got into the action, leaping up, smiling and bowing. It was good; he didn’t seem to have suffered any real damage from his fight in the snow.
    â€œHe worked all day at creating toys for children,” Morwenna continued.
    Gabe pantomimed the creation of a bicycle, andeveryone laughed as he kept