Group Writing Project #5
Author’s Note: Trixie Belden® is a registered trademark of Western Publishing (Golden Books). I do not have permission to use the original characters of the series, nor am I being paid for the end product.
The Cradle
by Angela
Splashes of colored light dappled his bare forearm, hand, and long lean fingers as the man moved the soft leather chamois over the smooth cherry curves of the turned finial. The snow that had fallen earlier that night muffled the bustle of the mega-city, creating a veil of peaceful quiet that reached deep into his soul as he worked. It awakened memories of Christmas past with visions of his mother’s sparkling green eyes, and the sound of his father’s beautiful tenor voice raised in heavenly song. It aroused his dreams for the future, creating in his mind’s eye the scent of roasting turkey, and the sound of children’s happy voices ringing through a home that he called his own. It soothed him with the promise of the present, his wife’s clear laugh, flashing eyes, and warm generous nature.
He dipped the chamois into the tin by his knee, scooping out yet another generous dollop of the sweet-scented beeswax, before returning to his task. Watching the play of light across the fine bones and flexing muscles beneath the lightly tanned skin of his hand he stroked the deep red surface, the friction of leather against wood melting the wax to create a soft warm glow.
White teeth flashed in a smile, gleaming in the muted light from the Christmas tree. She would love it. He knew she would. She would be happy because he had created the cradle with his own hands. Even now he could feel the glide of the smoothing plane over the rough wood of the cherry boards, and see the glint of the gouges as they cut the wood like butter as he turned the finials on the wood lathe. Piece by piece he had cut and assembled the large cradle, sanded it down, covered it with a dark cherry stain, then finished it with coat after coat of thin French polish until it glowed richly in the dim light from the tree.
A thick wave of ebony hair fell across his brow, and he brushed it aside with a quiet sigh of pure satisfaction. His memory drifted back to the day when he had first discovered his inspiration for the cradle. He and his new bride had been browsing through the shops in the Yorkville area of Toronto when they had stumbled across this tiny old antique store, secreted away beneath a trendy clothing shop. While his wife had immediately been drawn to rack of vintage clothing he had prowled through the rabbit’s warren exploring the out of the way nooks and crannies. There hidden in the back of the cluttered shop he had found the most exquisitely crafted cradle. Immediately he knew that he wanted it for his coming child, only to realize that the price was far beyond their means. The prohibitive price served not to discourage him, but to inspire him to use the wood working skills he had acquired over the years to replicate and surpass each extraordinary detail of the original.
Rising to his feet he stood back to examine the finished product of long weeks of secretive labor. Fashioned from fine red cherry the cradle was approximately three feet long by two feet wide with deep sloping sides. A scalloped-edged hood sheltered the head of the cradle while perfectly turned finials graced the four corners. Set on two finely honed rockers the cradle seemed to glide with a smooth, gentle motion. For a moment he could almost see the image of a small dark-haired child swaddled in soft white blankets laying in the cradle.
With a shake of his head to clear his mind he bent to lift the finished cradle with extraordinary care, then walked across the family room to set it beneath the sparkling boughs of the Christmas tree. "I should have remember to get a big red bow for it," he murmured softly to himself. "No," he responded with a shake of his head, "it doesn’t need a bow, it’s perfect the way it is."
"Dan," a sleepy voice called out behind him.
"What are you doing out of bed, sweetheart?" he asked turning to face her. He smiled softly at the sight of his sleepy-eyed wife standing barefoot in the doorway to the family room. Her long, strawberry-blonde curls framed her beautiful face like a halo, while her white flannel gown clung softly to the pregnant curves of her body.
"I woke up, and you were gone," she said simply. "I missed you."
"You did?" He chuckled gently, holding out his arms to welcome the press of her body against his. Burying his face in her hair, he breathed deeply inhaling the delicate floral scent that always surrounded her person.
Shivering slightly, she snuggled against him. She nodded her curls tickling his nose and making him smile. "The bed seems so big and cold when you’re not there," she replied quietly.
"You shouldn’t be down here in your bare feet, Aimée," he scolded after noting her delicate tremors, "you’ll catch cold." Reaching for the knitted afghan that hung over the back of a nearby wing chair he wrapped it around her shoulders, then pulled her close again. "There, is that better?"
"Uh-huh." She looked up at him her soft pink lips curved in a smile. "Just what are you up to Mr. Mangan?"
"Playing Santa Claus," he teased.
"Humph! You don’t look like Santa Claus to me. Where’s your red suit? For that matter where’s your white beard, and your roly-poly belly?"
"Give me another thirty years, minx, and I’ll probably have them both!"
"You’d better not," she giggled. "I happen to like your nice flat stomach."
"Well, at the moment I’m rather partial to curves," he responded. He stroked the flannel covered mound of her pregnancy, grinning in awe when a small foot connected sharply with his palm. "I think we woke someone up."
"I know," she smiled, "but if baby’s Daddy would come to bed, baby just might get the hint and go back to sleep."
"You think so." He lowered his head, nibbling softly at the pink curve of her lower lip before brushing his lips across the satiny flesh.
"Mmmm, you taste good," she murmured, "have you been into the cookies."
"Not yet, but it sounds like a good idea."
"Butter cookies and warm milk, just the thought is making me hungry."
Dan burst into laughter. "Aimée, you’re always hungry."
Her lower lip protruded slightly in a mock pout, but just as quickly her face transformed glowing with a cheery smile. "I know," she replied pertly, "isn’t it awful!"
"Baby, as far as I’m concerned it’s adorable, with the exception of some of your food choices."
She tapped him smartly on the shoulder. "Hey, look whose talking, the man who douses practically everything with ketchup! Ick!"
"Let’s go eat," he replied, trying to herd her toward the door.
"What’s the hurry?" she asked curiously. Her glance strayed beyond him to the tree, green eyes widening as she caught sight of the cradle beneath its boughs. "Oh Dan," she gasped in awe. "Is that what I think it is?"
Dan watched quietly as she brushed past him and walked toward the tree to kneel down before the cradle. Tentatively she reached out a trembling hand, brushing it lovingly across the richly gleaming wood.
"Do you like it, angel face?"
"Oh Danny," she whispered, "it’s the most beautiful cradle that I’ve ever seen. When...? How...?" Overcome with emotion she stumbled over the words, unable to complete another sentence.
Kneeling beside her he reached out to cradle her face in his hands, watching with wonder as her green eyes filled with glistening tears that threatened to flow down her cheeks. With the tip of his finger he captured a prism-like droplet from its precarious perch at the tip of her curling lashes. "When and how don’t really matter, sweetheart," he answered quietly. "I just needed to do something special for you and for our baby." His hands briefly caressed the bulge of her stomach, before rising to her face once again. Slowly he lowered his lips to hers, claiming her mouth in a reverent kiss.
The End