Mrs. Miracle Page 0,72

whopping ninety dollars. Their rent had been a hundred and fifty dollars a month, and that had been the cheapest apartment they could find. What there was of their furniture had been a mixture of what their families had given them and the television, their pride and joy, which Jerry had won in a phone-in radio contest.

They hadn't been able to afford to exchange Christmas gifts, not with a baby due and the two of them living on one income. Nevertheless, Sharon had bought yarn, and while Jerry was at work, she'd knitted him a sweater. Her neighbor, Mrs. Grayson, had helped her read the pattern.

Despite the endless hours of effort she'd put into the project, one sleeve had turned out longer than the other. The neckline had sagged and the entire effort had been amateurish at best. No one would have seriously considered wearing that sweater. But Jerry had. He'd loved her enough to praise her efforts. She remembered when he'd opened the box. From the look of pride and wonder one might have thought she'd spun it from pure gold. He'd worn the sweater every night after work for years, and in all that time he hadn't once noticed a single flaw. She'd made it for him, and that was good enough for him.

Sharon's gift to her husband hadn't been the only one under the toothpick tree that Christmas. She'd awoken early Christmas morning to the sound of music and Jerry cooking breakfast, singing at the top of his lungs. It was a wonder their neighbors hadn't complained. Jerry, for all his other talents, was completely lacking in the area of voice. The eggs had been runny and the toast burned, but it might as well have been ambrosia for all the notice she had paid. He'd escorted her to their kitchen and sat her at the card table with the mock Christmas tree in the center. Beneath it there'd been a small wrapped box. She remembered the bow was red, the most beautiful red bow she'd ever seen.

Jerry had sat down beside her and, his eyes bright with love, handed her his gift. She'd unwrapped it carefully and found a pearl necklace. One pearl. He'd gone without lunches for two months in order to pay for it and the gold chain. He'd promised that someday he'd buy her an entire strand. Each pearl would be as beautiful and as perfect as she was.

He'd kept his word, too. For their twentieth wedding anniversary he'd given her an eighteen-inch strand of pearls. She'd worn it a number of times since, but that single pearl had been a part of her for years and years, until it had become scratched and flawed and dented.

Like her marriage.

Sharon remembered she'd cried when she'd opened the necklace. Jerry had kissed the tears away, and then he'd romantically carried her into the bedroom and they'd made love until they were both exhausted.

Now it was over. Whatever they'd shared, whatever they'd loved about each other, had left them. It wasn't what she wanted. If she could turn back the clock, she would have given everything she owned to recapture the love.

The years had destroyed it. Dealing with life's complications. Children. The trying teenage years. The challenges of financing three kids in college all at the same time. Burying a child and rearing two grandchildren for four years. Retirement.

Somewhere along the path they'd fallen into a rut, one so deep that they hadn't been able to crawl out. Eventually the joy, the adventure, the enthusiasm, had gone out of their marriage. Out of their lives. The day-to-day routine had become filled with pettiness and trivial arguments. A duel of words and deeds.

A death knell.

Her steps grew sluggish as she walked back to the house. Her thoughts were heavy and full of self-recriminations. So many things she would do differently now. Her pride wasn't worth this agony, or was it? She'd thought she knew what she wanted, but now she wasn't so sure. She was confused and unhappy.

They were both so stubborn. So obstinate and unreasonable. She was to blame, but then so was Jerry. He hadn't made this easy.

She was tired, depressed, and about to make one of the most important decisions of her life.

The house was quiet and empty when she let herself inside. Not until she hung up her coat in the entryway closet did she realize she wasn't alone. A faint sound, the television, she surmised, could be heard from the family room