A Christmas Hope (11 page)

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Authors: Joseph Pittman

BOOK: A Christmas Hope
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Nora crossed Warren Street against the light traffic of midday, Brian following after her. They made their way inside, jangly bells just like those that hung over the door of A Doll's Attic alerting the lone clerk to a bit of business; he stared up from a stack of unjacketed hardcover books that threatened to entomb him behind the crowded counter. He was an older gentleman with a shock of white hair and a thick pair of spectacles, a chain hanging around his neck to keep from losing them. With his vest and neatly pressed slacks, Nora believed the very professorial-looking man may just have some answers for her; living among these stacks of books, he probably knew more about the past than he did about what was printed in yesterday's newspapers. Shelves after shelves stretched along both walls of the small store and in between, and despite its musty contents, a fresh smell like cedar pervaded the room.
“Help you?” he asked, his voice with a New England tinge.
“Yes, I hope so. Katherine Wilkinson mentioned your store, said you used to spend time with her husband. . . .”
“Ah-yuh, good ol' Chester, a fine writer, a prose stylist with the heart of a poet. A fine raconteur, shared many a story with him over at the Saint Charles. You folks looking for some of his novels?” he asked.
“No,” she said, approaching the counter. “My name is Nora Rainer, I'm the new owner of Elsie's Antiques up in Linden Corners—though I've renamed it . . .”
“Uh-yuh, A Doll's Attic, or so I've heard. A clever name, I don't mind saying,” he said, a friendly nod accompanying his words. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Ms. Rainer. We folks in the business have to stay current, even if our merchandise does not.” He allowed himself a small chuckle at his insider's joke. “How can I help you then today, Ms. Rainer, not thinking about expanding into the book trade, are you?”
“Not exactly, Mr. . . .”
“Elliot,” he said, “Everyone just calls me Elliot.”
“And this is my associate, Brian Duncan.”
“Pleasure,” Elliot said. “So, it's a book you're looking for?”
“A particularly rare volume, one I'm not sure even exists.”
“Well, if that's the case, finding it will be near impossible,” he said, straight-faced.
Brian stepped forward at that point to move things along, seemed Elliot could talk around the subject all day long and not get to the point of it all. “It's a vintage edition of
Twas the Night before Christmas
by . . .”
“Uh-yuh, sure, by Clement Clarke Moore,” he said, “or so the so-called experts would have us believe. Complicated history there with that tale. Legend behind who actually wrote that poem is not nearly as famous as the writing itself, but it sure makes for some interesting debate among us bibliophiles. History has it that Moore originally wrote the story for his young children, back, oh, eighteen twenty something or other, but academic scholar that he was, he was worried about his reputation after writing what many considered a frivolous piece of pop, and so he had it published anonymously. Which, of course, opens up a whole can of worms about its true authorship; some claim, you know, a man named Henry Livingston, Jr., was the original author—he was a distant relative of Moore's wife. But whoever wrote it, it's fair to say that little volume is one of the most published books in the world, even if it's only read once a year.”
Nora nodded; interested as she was in the lore behind the tale, she knew they had a limited amount of time today, and thus she had to press forward. “Yes, Elliot, I've certainly discovered how many editions there are of that book, hundreds at least,” she said. “But the one I'm looking for is quite unique . . . and old, dating back at least eighty years, probably longer.”
“Let me guess, Saint Nick in a green suit,” the man said.
Nora visibly blanched, surprised at how quickly Elliot had known what she wanted.
“How did you know?” Brian asked. “Was Mr. Van Diver here, or maybe called you?”
“Don't know any Mr. Van Diver, but I do know my books,” he said. “I remember a book published, oh, maybe twenty years ago, a beautiful reproduction of a Victorian-era edition of
The Night before Christmas,
actually called
A Visit from Saint Nicholas;
no
Twas
about it. What was special about it was the fact that the illustrations were based on an original edition, long out of print and nowhere to be found, published by the once-heralded publishing firm of McLoughlin Brothers . . . and yes, Santa Claus . . . Saint Nick himself, was dressed in a green suit.”
“So it does exist,” Nora said with a bit of wonder and excitement enveloping her. “But why didn't my search online come up with the new edition? I found all sort of books and saw many images, but that specific volume . . . I couldn't find it.”
“Perhaps now that you know more about it, you can track it down. Like you said, you weren't even sure it existed, perhaps that colored—if you can pardon the pun—your judgment,” he said. “But like I said, the book in question was a reproduction edition, as faithful to the original as possible, but certainly not the actual one you're looking for. I assume that's why your customer hired you, to find the original?”
“You certainly know a lot, Elliot, and I appreciate the lead you've given me,” Nora said.
“Hang on a sec, I've got a question,” Brian stated, getting their attention. “Not that I'm doubting you at all, Elliot, but you seem particularly well-versed—if you'll pardon the pun—about the book and it seems rather random that we would come in here on a whim, and learn so much. Are you sure Mr. Van Diver didn't contact you? His name is Thomas, he's eighty-four, living now at Edgestone Retirement Home up in Linden Corners, says he once lived there, in the farmhouse near the old windmill.”
Elliot nodded as though he knew all of this. “Now, so you know, that's a fine little town you've got there, Mr. Duncan, and yes, I know all about the windmill and such. But alas, it was not an elderly gentleman who asked me about the book. Rather, I'm guessing she was elderly, oh, I should say late seventies, even though I only ever heard her voice, never saw her in person. But I'm good with old things, eh, that's my business? She called my store about six months ago, maybe more, asking for the exact same thing.”
“A woman?” Brian asked.
“Who was she?”
“Never did say her name, all I remember is her telling me I was one of many antiquarian bookshops she had called,” he said. “Left me intrigued, so I did some research all on my own, that's kind of why I'm in this business. Curiosity and a fair amount of downtime tend to lead to some surprising discoveries. That's how I learned about the book I just told you about—not that it got me any business—she had said she might call back but then I never heard from her. Didn't hear another thing until just today, when the two of you walked into my store.”
“Well, Elliot, this case has certainly taken an interesting turn,” Nora said. “And I thank you for imparting what you found out. Would it be too much trouble to call on you again, that is, if I can pick your brain further? Depending upon what else I can learn.”
“Be happy to,” he said, and then wished them both a good day.
Back outside, Nora felt invigorated, not just by the fresh air, but by having this first real clue in her pursuit of the old book. But time was fast slipping away from them, so with Brian urging her, the two of them returned to the truck and began the journey back to Linden Corners. Nora was mostly silent, thinking about what she had learned, plotting her next step. Perhaps Mr. Van Diver's request wasn't so impossible after all, and if she'd made this much progress in just a few weeks, maybe . . . just maybe she could find it by Christmas. First things first, she had to find a copy of the reproduction edition and see that she was on the right trail.
Twenty minutes later, the truck zoomed over the cresting highway, emerging back onto Linden Corners soil. The towering windmill rose up seemingly from nowhere, its sails silent, the tower riding alongside them as Brian drove along the route before turning onto Crestview Road and into the driveway of the farmhouse. He parked beside her red Mustang, but that wasn't what captured her attention now. Nora could still see the mighty sails jutting up over the land, like it was taunting her, this ever-present symbol of Linden Corners like a beacon, drawing them into its power.
As they stepped out of the truck, Nora went around to Brian and thanked him.
“For what?”
“For driving, for indulging me . . .”
“I had fun,” he said.
“So did I. I think we accomplished more than we ever set out to do.”
“You got a lead on Mr. Van Diver's antique book, and I was handed a dose of inspiration for the tavern Christmas party. I've been looking for some kind of distraction, and I think I found it. Who knows, Nora, maybe our paths have crossed for a reason bigger than the both of us could envision. I get to help Mark and Sara, and you Thomas. Look at the two of us, planning a Linden Corners Christmas the town won't soon forget.”
“A team,” she said. “So far, it's worked well.”
He nodded. “Uh-yuh, so far.”
She smiled at the memory of Elliot's thick accent. But then words ceased between them, both of them suddenly as quiet as the gentle wind. A nervous feeling hitting her, Nora looked away, then back to find Brian staring directly into her eyes. Inside them she felt a warmth she hadn't seen in too long, not from Dave, and it unleashed uncertainty inside her. How had things gotten so complicated so quickly, today had been just one day, a non-date, but suddenly she felt like a teenage girl coming home from the senior prom. She blinked and when she opened up her eyes again, Brian was still staring at her. She took an impulsive step toward him, then quickly pressed her lips against his. He reacted with surprise, but didn't back away either. The taste of him was sweet. The smell of cedar surrounded them, almost like they were back in the old bookstore, lost behind the shelves, horny teenagers experiencing their first kiss. When they parted, she saw a confused expression on Brian's face; she could only guess what hers was.
“Uh, wow,” he said. “Not that I mind, but why did you kiss me?”
“To quote Mark, ‘to get it over with.' ”
“I'm not sure I understand,” he said. “You told me earlier. . .”
“I know what I said, and I meant what I said,” she said. “Brian, I'm married, my life is a mess, and starting over isn't easy.”
“I can relate,” he offered, supportive words that actually had an impact on her.
“I know, I think that's why I'm so comfortable around you, Brian. But the last thing I need is a boyfriend or a relationship or . . . whatever the experts call it these days. What I need is a friend, plain and simple. So I kissed you now just so we could end any speculation between us, stop any expectation from others. You don't have to wonder if you can kiss me, I don't have to wonder if I should let you. The moment is over, so let's move forward.”
Brian nodded, but words were not forthcoming.
“Do we have a deal?” she asked, extending her hand.
Brian had no choice, he shook her hand. Her touch was warm. “Friends,” he said.
“Friends,” she agreed.
Making her way toward the red Mustang, she hopped in behind the wheel and then looked back to find him still standing in the same place. She waved at him, once more smiling her thanks before driving off. Again, in the rearview mirror she saw not Brian but the windmill, even as it grew ever more distant in her eyes it remained with her. Its four sails continued to stay silent in the falling darkness of the day, as though there was nothing left to say.
C
HAPTER
10
T
HOMAS
O
ne week until Thanksgiving, a little more than a month before his eighty-fifth birthday and what he hoped would be a Christmas to remember, Thomas Van Diver found himself walking along the sidewalks of downtown Linden Corners, content to wander aimlessly as he enjoyed the mild weather. His gait was slow, but that was okay, as the fresh air filling his lungs was almost like fuel to his system, keeping him moving. He was in no hurry to be anywhere, at least that's what he told himself; his subconscious might have other ideas, might even be directing his steps. The countdown toward the holiday was, of course, always on his mind, but he had realized there was little he could do to control time. All he'd set in motion with Nora Rainer, it was in her hands now.
Lights were beginning to be turned on outside storefronts, across the street at the Five O' Diner and down the street at Marla and Darla's Trading Post, where he could see one of the twins—which of them he couldn't be sure—flicking a switch to the point where bright lights illuminated her, and at her side two dogs happily swirled between her legs. Ackroyd's Hardware Emporium appeared to be doing good business for midweek, folks getting ready for what forecasters were predicting to be a brutal winter season. Not that the weather today held any hint of such doom, winter seemed months away still, as the day was alive with a gentle breeze and the same, mild temperatures that had been hanging over the land since that rainstorm from earlier in the week. He saw a couple emerging from the hardware store with shiny shovels and bags of melting ice; Thomas could appreciate their preparedness for the unknown future, he would have done the same.
He walked past a quiet George's Tavern, knowing Brian Duncan didn't open his business until four, and so the building was dark, uninhabited. Even upstairs, the windows were devoid of light, whoever lived there no doubt still at work. But that was life in Linden Corners, the early risers breathed fresh energy in the waking hours, while the night owls happily kept the midnight oil lit; such were the daily revolutions of a town built on the sense of community. For Thomas, such a dichotomy was what truly separated his two experiences of having lived here, then and now. Back when he was five years old, he stayed close to the farmhouse and by his mother's side, only occasionally journeying into town; now it was quite the opposite, Thomas suddenly an integral part of the downtown scene, whether with his co-habiters down at The Edge, or while meeting with his new friends back at the farmhouse.
Speaking of, Thomas watched now as Brian Duncan's truck drove down Main Street. He wasn't alone, as he could see a small head bobbing up from the passenger seat, no doubt the pigtailed, irrepressible Janey Sullivan, her mouth yammering on while Brian's head nodded either in genial agreement or resigned acquiescence. With a spirited girl of her age, sometimes it was easier to let her ramble, all that energy needed to be released somehow. He recalled the night she had brought him near the base of the windmill, her connection to it so strong, more so than he'd ever felt. Remembered, too, the way she had gone on and on about it, the way it made her feel connected to her mother. To Thomas, the windmill represented all he had lost, but for this little girl who had seen her own share of loss, she somehow managed to find inspiration there. Like the windmill spoke to her, reaching deep down to her soul.
Thomas turned the corner and made his way into Linden Corners' Memorial Park, going up the shoveled path toward the large gazebo that stood as its centerpiece. Painted a bright coat of white, with a black, gabled roof, it called to him, not just as a place he could rest but a place maybe he could find his own bit of inspiration. For just beyond the gazebo were a series of gray stones jutting up from the ground, engraved marble statues arranged in a concentric pattern; flowers adorned their sides, fresh even in the chill of November—remnants from a just passed Veterans Day. And it was to this memorial he had come, that much he realized. He stepped up inside the gazebo, settling on a hardwood bench under the protective roof, and that's when his tired old body let out a deep sigh of content. The walk had done him good, but it had also taken a lot of strength from him. A check of his watch told him it was nearly four, the light in the sky beginning its nightly fade. He had asked Elsie to pick him up at five outside Marla's shop, where she had needed to pick up some basic supplies and groceries. So for the next half hour he could sit and think how differently his life had become in the last six months; heck, the last eighty years. Linden Corners, could this really be you? Can a person's long-ago past still exist somewhere beyond his mind, did time exist on different planes? Looking around, his being here still all seemed like a dream.
From across the street, he could still see the two dogs playing, one of them stopping to smell the air. Both were golden retrievers with lush coats, one of them older, an adult, the other an energetic pup. Just then the younger of the two darted across the road, smartly checking for cars before doing so, and before too long it had bounded into the park, its paws sinking into the mounds of snow. Its companion, as though just noticing it was alone in front of the Trading Post, chased after it, and soon both dogs were playing, barking happily, their sound like the tune of life. Thomas watched with growing amusement as the dogs came running up the steps and into the gazebo, coming before Thomas with tongues out, tails wagging. He reached down and pet one, the second worming his way for attention as well. The dogs' antics were entertaining, and he felt a momentary rush of wonder. He could not remember a time when he had let go with such abandon, or when his body had not been filled with the ache of age. He envied them their own, playful world.
“Buster . . . Baxter, what are you doing over there?” came a voice from the porch.
Thomas stood, saw one of the twins making her way up the path of the park.
The dogs, seeing her, sensing they had done something wrong, jumped down from the gazebo and went running back into the drifts of snow. They danced around her, and she did her best to quiet them down.
“Sorry, sir, hope they didn't disturb you . . . they don't know their own power.”
“Oh, they are just fine. . . . I'm sorry, are you Marla or Darla?”
“Darla,” the woman said after a moment's thought, as though even she wasn't sure. Or it could just be a twin thing, keeping friends and neighbors off guard as to who was who. Served them well in town from what Thomas had heard.
“A pleasure. It's nice to see them play so happily together.”
“Buster is the older one,” she said, ruffling the dog's fur as it lapped around her legs in a back-and-forth routine. “I got him a couple of years ago, and like my entire life, my sister just had to copy me. So she got Baxter. Part of the litter, so Baxter is Buster's son.”
The word
son
reverberated in Thomas's mind and he felt a sudden lump in his throat.
“Father and son, playing,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “As it should be.”
“Some days, I'm not sure they even know which is which,” she said, a dry laugh escaping her mouth. “Just like me and my sister.”
Not referring to her as Marla but “my sister.” Keeping their enduring mystery alive, not unlike relationships themselves, whether it was between sisters, fathers and sons, or our canine counterparts. What kept a bond strong, what events forced them to fade into memory? Such worldly thoughts occupied Thomas's mind as the twin who claimed to be Darla gathered a squirming Baxter in her big arms to carry him safely across the street, Buster following with an eagerness he could only envy. Soon the dogs were inside the store, and all that remained of their presence were their paw prints, indelibly imprinted in the deep snow. Existing only for the moment, gone at first melt.
Yes, life was fleeting, your impact on the world lasting as long as someone remembered you, and at last, Thomas knew why he had come to the park on this day. He was ready to face what he'd come here for, but another interruption kept him from advancing. Like his mind was prepared, his body still steeling itself for the next steps.
A gleeful yelp caught his attention, and he looked up to see young Janey Sullivan running toward the gazebo . . . toward him.
“Thomas! Thomas!” she called out. “I told Brian that was you!”
Rising from his seat, Thomas noticed that Janey wasn't alone on the sidewalk. There was Brian standing at the edge of the park, watching as things unfolded. Thomas indicated all was good, he was happy to welcome the young girl's company. Brian acknowledged him with a friendly wave.
“She's in good hands, I'll take good care of her,” Thomas said from across the park, his voice strong, newly empowered. He hadn't set a young woman's heart such aflutter for a long, long time, making him feel more like the wide-eyed curious boy of yesteryear. Like when he met his dear Missy, that same feeling of a experiencing a special connection with another person washing over him. The fact he was nearly eighty-five and she just nine, well, it meant the world to him. Generations were not gaps, they were bonds, and what sealed theirs was loss.
Janey approached quickly, out of breath as she clambered up the steps to the safety of the gazebo. She gave Thomas a big hug around his waist, looking up at him as she did so. Her smile was infectious, and he couldn't help but return it before inviting her to sit down beside him.
“So, Miss Janey, what brings you here?”
“Mark can't work his shift tonight at the tavern, so my dad had to come in, and he can't leave me by myself and Cynthia and Bradley had to take little Jake to the doctor for a checkup, so I rode with him to town. I was going to hang out till six, when Cynthia could pick me up. I don't really like staying at the bar, it smells in there; oh, and I'm not supposed to call it a bar, it's a tavern, Dad says that sounds nicer. I think he just doesn't want to hear a little girl use the word bar.”
Thomas found laughter bubbling up inside him at the generous outpouring of words from her tiny body, and even though he knew she'd been blessed with a unique, earnest streak, there was something entirely refreshing about the way she spoke. Was it her zest, her wide-eyed innocence? Whatever drove this child, Thomas was happy to have it rub off on him, laughter filling his heart.
“Janey Sullivan, my goodness, the marvelous things your mind comes up with. A bar, indeed! But whatever the circumstances that bring to me your company, I am very happy for them,” he said. “Now tell me, how is your schoolwork?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Why do adults always ask kids about school?”
“I guess because we don't know what else to ask,” he said. “Let me try that again. How is your very nice windmill?”
“Quiet,” she said.
“Quiet?”
“There's been very little wind this week, so the windmill is just standing there with very little to say. I guess it needs its rest, winter is coming and we tend to get big storms.”
“Is that okay, then, that the windmill is quiet?”
She looked like she was processing the question, seriously considering her answer. “The windmill holds my mom's spirit, and when it's quiet I just think that she's sleeping. She can't talk to me all the time. Like the other night, on Sunday? Remember all that rain and wind we got, lots of kids are scared of storms but not me, because I watched from my bedroom window as the sails turned and turned while the wind battered the house; Brian even left the back porch light on, so I could see the windmill in its bright glow. I talked long into the night to my mom, told her that Christmas was coming again, but first we had to get through Thanksgiving.”
“Get through?”
“Well, last year we went to Brian's parents, but this year we're not. We'll be home.”
“So it's different?”
“Different, yeah, but also the same. I mean, I used to have Thanksgiving with my mom. Now I celebrate it with Brian . . . I mean, with my dad. That's what I call him, even though he's really not, but that's another story. My real father died when I was very young, even younger than you were when you moved away from Linden Corners. Why did you leave, anyway?”
Thomas felt the pull at his heart. A common bond indeed, he and this young girl.
“May I show you something?” he asked.
“You mean, like when I showed you the windmill?”
“Yes, it's my turn to share something special with you.”
“Is it far? I'd have to ask Dad.”
“No, it's very close, right over there in fact,” he said, pointing toward the marble stones.
Taking her hand in his, Thomas led Janey down the stairs and to the series of stones, six of them in total. He watched as Janey's small fingers touched the golden leaf letters that were engraved into the marble, tracing out a random name.
“John Masters,” she read.
“I think he was Elsie's uncle,” Thomas said. “Do you know why his name is there?”
“Because he died?”
Thomas nodded. “Do you know what this park represents?”

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