A Christmas Hope (8 page)
Authors: Joseph Pittman
“Well, if you insist. Travis, will you escort your grandmother inside?”
“Sure, Grandma.”
While the otherwise silent Travis attended to his grandmother's request and took her arm, and as Brian and Nora retreated to the kitchen to start serving, Thomas was left alone with Janey. She was looking at him curiously.
“Yes, young lady?”
“Do you like that everyone calls you mister?”
“What else would they call me?”
“Thomas. It is your name, right? That's what I'd like to call you.”
“Well, little lady, to be on such familiar terms with someone, anyone, especially one so many years apart in age from you, there must exist a very special bond,” he said, a twinkle to his eyes, “and I have a sense we already have that, don't we, Janey Sullivan?”
“You were born here and so was I, and I think we both love the windmill.”
“You know what else we share,” he said.
“What's that?”
“We both lost people important to us, and at a young age,” he said quietly.
Janey's lips quivered ever so slightly, leaving Thomas wondering if he'd gone too far in his effort to win over the affections of this young girl. For a moment he felt bad, he knew her story, but she was unaware of his. Just when he thought coming here had been a bad idea, she rushed into his arms, a big, inviting smile gracing her freckled face. “I think I'm going to like having you living in Linden Corners, Mr. Van Diver,” she said. “You're just what we all needed, and just in time, too.”
“In time for what?”
“Why, for Christmas, silly.”
“Christmas,” he said with a faraway sigh. “I thought you were going to call me Thomas.”
She giggled, almost to herself. “I used to call Brian silly, too, except once I tried Briany, but his name doesn't sound good with a
y
on the end. Do you like Tommy?”
y
on the end. Do you like Tommy?”
Flames lit his eyes, reflecting from the fireplace. “No, no one calls me that,” he stated.
“Okay, Thomas it is. All this talk of names, you know what? It's . . .”
“Silly?”
“Brian once made snow angels with me, trying to be silly. But he just looked like he was having a seizure.”
Now it was Thomas's turn to look away, pain flaring up in his watery eyes. Questions were hard, answers even more so, and Thomas wondered just how he would get through this night. That's when Brian rescued them both, showing his face around the corner of the hallway. “And I'm going to call you both late for dinner. Silly.”
Â
Dinner plates were cleared and dessert was set out, two pies, one peach, the other strawberry.
“A strawberry pie?” Thomas asked. “I've never heard of such a thing.”
“Have a slice and you'll never stop talking about it,” Brian said.
“There's truth to what my dad says,” Janey said, much to the amusement of all, not only for the half-formal way she spoke, but also because she knew Brian so well.
Seated around the dining room table as they were, they very nearly resembled a complete family, three generations gathered to break bread, share stories of yesteryear amidst lots of laughter. Thomas and Gerta, Brian and Nora, Travis and Janey, the six of them representing three separate families that had been brought together over a mutual sense of community, conscious of all they had lost in the past, embracing whatever the future held.
“As much as I would love to dig into that pie,” Thomas said, setting down his napkin after a gentle wipe at the corners of his mouth, “after such a filling, delicious meal, I confess I could use a breath of fresh air first, assist my digestion. A man of my age knows of such things. And I would like to appreciate that luscious-looking pie as best I can. So perhaps now, before it gets too late, Janey could show me her windmill.”
“Yay!”
“It's kind of late,” Brian said, “not much to see.”
“It's a clear night, stars all over, I think you'll see just fine,” Nora said.
“Dad, please, can I?” Janey asked.
“You showing off your windmill, I think I'd be crazy to say no,” he said. “But I think I should accompany you both.”
“Maybe I could go with them,” Travis said.
Looks were exchanged, between Nora and Brian, between the kids, between Thomas and Gerta, all eyes finally resting on Brian.
He looked resigned to letting the kids take charge. So he said, “Sounds like a good idea, thanks, Travis. Let the adults clean up and get some coffee brewing,” he said, “while the kids of all ages go play in the backyard.”
Thomas stood up with as much enthusiasm his tired body could muster, announcing that there was no time like the present to get going, so he began to shuffle off, Janey taking up on one side of him, Travis on his other. Brian cautioned them to look after Mr. Van Diver, “it's dark and the ground can be uneven. Janey, remember to flick on the outside lights to help guide you.”
“He's such a parent,” Janey announced to Thomas, who found that greatly amusing.
So the three of them ventured outdoors, bundled up against the cold night. The wind had picked up considerably on this cold night, Janey stating that was just the way she liked it, it gave the sails of the windmill a chance to spin, “to stretch their arms high into the sky.” As much as he had bonded early with Janey, it was Travis who captured Thomas's attention now. The young lad had been mostly quiet during dinner, leaving him wondering just what he was thinking. This dinner was probably the last thing a twelve-year-old wanted to do on a Friday night. Maybe hang with his friends, wasn't that the lingo the kids used today? Thomas reminded himself, Travis was new to town, perhaps he hadn't secured the kind of friends you could depend upon. Maybe that's why he had asked to join them, just a way to get away from the adults. As they trekked slowly across the snowy back lawn, Thomas said, “You know, Travis, you and I, we, too, have something in common.”
“What's that?”
“Moving.”
“Yeah, but I moved here, you moved away from it.”
“But it's the same thing, we did what our parents were doing, we had no choice,” he said. “Youth have minds, but little authority to exercise what they are thinking. It's why kids struggle so much, they have an independent spirit that can't quite take to the wind yet. There's always someone else directing the breeze.”
Travis appeared to be considering these words, ultimately deciding not to say anything, letting them float into the night sky, toward the twinkling stars for further exploration. Perhaps wishing they would not sink in, the reality being too harsh. But Thomas could see the wheels in motion inside the boy's brain anyway, contemplating their deeper meaning, and understanding. Thomas happily grinned, knowing he'd made an impact on the boy. Gave him something to think about.
A moment later, they reached the edge of a hill, the drop-off considerable during the day, precipitous in the hard-to-see dark night. Thomas looked around the open countryside, the silver glow from the outdoor light of the farmhouse reaching out only so far, the sparkling stars above like thousands of night-lights, none able to fully power the sudden blackness that encased them. He thought he'd gone far enough, his old eyes not as good adjusting to the darkness as they once were. He'd have to wait till daylight to be reunited with the windmill.
But then he saw them, dancing shadows, flickering as they hit the ground, disappeared, only to reappear, again, again, like gentle revolutions of sparkling light. He focused his eyes and that's when he saw it, the large tower jutting into the sky, four giant sails spinning, spinning, the wind powering them. He'd heard stories for years about the old mill, how his ancestors had built it in the middle of their farm, the energy from its sails aiding in clearing excess water from the low-lying land where they grew their needed crops. By the time Thomas had been born, the farming of the once-arid land was mostly over and the previous generations had died off, leaving the windmill alone to the elements, and at age five, when finally they had left Linden Corners, the old mill was as silent as death, impervious to even the strongest wind.
“Oh my, look at how beautifully, how naturally, those sails spin,” Thomas said with a breathless wonder. He put a hand to his heart, felt it beat beneath the fabric of his coat. For a moment he channeled his long-departed mother and thought, too, of his father, the final image he had of him. The windmill's large sails spun, again, again, as though turning back time to the point where Thomas was a boy again, again, an equal peer to the two charges beside him. “It's so marvelous, perhaps one of the loveliest sights to ever lay my eyes upon . . . thank you, Janey, and thank you, Travis, for taking me here and showing me the windmill.”
“It's pretty cool,” Travis said, his way of agreeing with the more poetic Thomas.
Janey turned to look up at Thomas. “It's where Brian and I met, he was passing through town one day and he stopped to look at it, and there I was, tumbling down the hill.... Momma wasn't happy that I was talking to a total stranger, but look at how that turned out, he's hardly a stranger anymore, he's the best, and you know what else?”
“What's that, Janey?”
“For Christmas last year, he decorated the windmill with all sorts of bright white lights,” she said. “I can't wait for him to do it again, Thomas, you have to see it. Promise me you'll come back and I can show you again.”
Thomas nodded, not sure young Janey could see his subtle move in this darkness. But he was in complete agreement, he did wish to see such a sight, and perhaps, perhaps by doing so he might be able to complete his own journey back to this world of Linden Corners, back to the windmill and one last chance to relive that special holiday, the final one he ever spent with both his ever-patient mother and war-bound father. He stole one last look at the redoubtable Janey Sullivan, realizing all that she had lost, amazed at her remarkable spirit, as though the wind fed it, her heartbeat in line with the revolutions of the sails.
As much as he had struggled with his decision this past year, Thomas Van Diver knew, finally and ultimately, at last that he'd made the right choice in coming back to Linden Corners. Back home, to the land of the farmhouse and to the windmill, where sails turned in the dark night and spun dreams into reality.
C
HAPTER
7
HAPTER
7
N
ORA
ORA
T
housands of editions from dozens of publishers both big and small, and all of them contained the same poetic, rhythmic text, albeit with different illustrations and color palettes, that's what she found during her initial research junket online. What she found were so many variations on a theme her mind spun to the point where all the books blurred together into one holiday jumble of legend and lore. And what did all these volumes have in common? Certainly the author was one, an elusively popular scholar named Clement Clarke Moore. Also the ubiquitous red suit always worn by the lead character. Yes, there was Saint Nicholas himself, his traditional suit of red, fringed with white ruff and a thick black belt. She repeated it again, to let it sink in. A red suitânever green. Santa was jolly, red-cheeked, a sack full of toys slung over his shoulder. The images on the pages she could access never varied, the famed Christmas tale was as unchanged now as it was when the books were published, some as far back as four decades, others just this past year. The endless publishing loop of
Twas the Night before Christmas
was something for Guinness. So there the truth lay right there on the screen, practically glowing at her, Santa had never worn a green-colored outfit.
housands of editions from dozens of publishers both big and small, and all of them contained the same poetic, rhythmic text, albeit with different illustrations and color palettes, that's what she found during her initial research junket online. What she found were so many variations on a theme her mind spun to the point where all the books blurred together into one holiday jumble of legend and lore. And what did all these volumes have in common? Certainly the author was one, an elusively popular scholar named Clement Clarke Moore. Also the ubiquitous red suit always worn by the lead character. Yes, there was Saint Nicholas himself, his traditional suit of red, fringed with white ruff and a thick black belt. She repeated it again, to let it sink in. A red suitânever green. Santa was jolly, red-cheeked, a sack full of toys slung over his shoulder. The images on the pages she could access never varied, the famed Christmas tale was as unchanged now as it was when the books were published, some as far back as four decades, others just this past year. The endless publishing loop of
Twas the Night before Christmas
was something for Guinness. So there the truth lay right there on the screen, practically glowing at her, Santa had never worn a green-colored outfit.
Feeling a pulsing headache coming on, Nora set her laptop down on the floor in the living room and closed her eyes, allowing them to adjust to something other than the harsh glare of the computer screen. She'd been at it all afternoon, clicking, typing, searching, and looking . . . seeking out an answer that didn't seem to exist, surfing web page after web page, and the end result was as fruitless as a juicy case where the defendant admitted his guilt. Why proceed, not when there was nothing to fight for.
Because of the challenge, that's what she told herself.
Nora Rainer was not a woman to easily admit defeat, not in the courtroom and not in life, and the more she sought out Thomas's increasingly rarer edition of
Twas the Night before Christmas,
the more determined she grew to solve the mystery. She considered the notion that his memory was faulty after all these years, or perhaps the book had been so old even back in the 1940s that the color had faded to the point where Santa's suit was indistinguishable, drenched in sepia that a five-year-old mind mistook for green. Yet his adamancy that the suit was green was so strong that she had to believe him. That, and the quiet desperation in his eyes when he spoke of the book. There was something behind his eyes that he hadn't yet revealed, which only added further intrigue to The Case of the Lost Christmas Book.
Twas the Night before Christmas,
the more determined she grew to solve the mystery. She considered the notion that his memory was faulty after all these years, or perhaps the book had been so old even back in the 1940s that the color had faded to the point where Santa's suit was indistinguishable, drenched in sepia that a five-year-old mind mistook for green. Yet his adamancy that the suit was green was so strong that she had to believe him. That, and the quiet desperation in his eyes when he spoke of the book. There was something behind his eyes that he hadn't yet revealed, which only added further intrigue to The Case of the Lost Christmas Book.
“Cup of tea, dear?”
Nora's green-flecked eyes flicked open to find her mother hovering over her. Not in any intrusive way, just . . . she was being a mother.
“Oh, uh, hi, Mom . . . what time is it? I think I've lost track of the afternoon.”
“Five thirty, I was just about to start on dinner,” she said. “But you looked like you could use a pick-me-up. The way you've been so concentrated on your work all day, well, I haven't seen you like this since you were in high school, determined to be the first one to get your term papers done. So different from your sistersâthe three of them your father and I practically had to bribe to do their homework.”
“And I always got my work done, way ahead of schedule,” Nora said.
“You were always very conscientious about your schoolwork,” she said. “Not like when you were younger, hiding away with your dolls and imagining whatever world you had created.”
“A girl has to grow up. And being concerned with getting your work done is a good trait to have if you're going to pursue a career in law,” Nora said, and then with a rueful smile added: “Or, if you're suddenly not.”
Gerta opened her mouth to say something and then, apparently, thought better of it. The attempt at words didn't go unnoticed by Nora.
“Mom, something on your mind?”
She looked down at her tightly knotted hands. “How about that tea?”
“A glass of wine would go down better. 'Bout that time of day.”
“Okay, dear, let me see what we have,” Gerta said, starting off toward the kitchen.
She got no more than two feet when she was interrupted by the opening of the front door and, along with a cool, swirling wind intruding onto the calm inside the house was the force of nature named Travis Rainer, his almost-teenage self breathless.
“I know, I'm late, I'm sorry,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“Goodness, Travis,” Gerta said. “Like the wind had hold of you.”
“Sorry if I scared you, Grandma. Looks like a storm is coming in, lots of gray clouds moving fast in the sky . . . and that wind, it's really fierce. When I saw the clouds rumbling in, I just started to run, but I think the wind took hold of my feet and lifted me here.”
“Well, looks like we're all in for the night,” Gerta said. “You have to listen to nature.”
“Seems we all lost track of time today, buddy. But next time if you're running late, storm or not, just call,” Nora said, ever mindful to call her son by his name and not some affectation like honey or sweetie. She realized she had slipped, though Travis didn't seem to notice. She was trying not to baby him, not in the presence of his grandmother and not in the face of all this upheaval. And besides, if he had been hanging out with some new friends, the last thing she wanted was for them to think he was some kind of mama's boy. “Dinner's not even started, your grandma and I are gonna sit and have a quiet drink. Why don't you go upstairs, give your father a call.”
A sour expression hit his face. “I'd rather not.”
“Too bad,” Nora said. “Call him before it gets too late. No argument.”
Travis had heard that phrase often enough in his twelve years to know there was no room for debate. Tossing off his winter coat and hanging it on the rack, he trudged upstairs like it was a chore, mumbling under his breath. Nora, with a regretful ache, watched as he disappeared around the landing, listened as his footsteps hit his room. She hated that he was in this situation, hated that they'd both been put in this situation. But she and Travis would weather this storm, come out stronger. When she looked back, her mother was gone, too, presumably gone to the kitchen to fetch drinks. Nora could use that glass of wine about now.
It was Sunday, as lazy as one she could remember, even with the work she'd done online. Something about sitting around in your sweats while in the comfort of your old childhood home, the fireplace crackling to keep you warm, even as your insides felt frozen, that made her realize how much her life had changed. For the past month she'd been on autopilot, packing, driving, moving, then at the store dusting, organizing, planning, and today was the first day when she felt she could breathe a bit easier. Not that the adjustment to life in Linden Corners was complete, far from it, but a sense of normalcy had set in with each passing day, to the point where she accepted that this was no short-term visitâpermanence was settling in. The jury was still out as to how she felt about it all.
“Here you are, dear,” Gerta said, returning from the kitchen with a glass of red wine for Nora, a mug of steaming herbal tea for her. Taking hold of the glass, she took a grateful sip of wine, then let it linger in her grasp. Warmth hit her insides.
Gerta, meanwhile, sat in the chair next to hers, her usual, only an end table with a brass lamp and a book of crossword puzzles separating them. Nora was seated, legs crossed, in her father's chair, still in the same place it had been for years, even if he was no longer around to luxuriate in its soft comfort. She gazed over at her mother, who was looking at her even as she drank from her mug. The words she wanted to say kept getting swallowed along with the fragrant tea. Gerta fixated on the laptop while bubbles danced as a screen saver.
“Have you had any luck with Mr. Van Diver's request?”
“Very little, Mom. There are so many editions of
Twas the Night before Christmas,
not a single one of them has jolly old Saint Nick in a green suit. Though I've been looking at the screen for so long maybe I can't trust my eyes anymore.”
Twas the Night before Christmas,
not a single one of them has jolly old Saint Nick in a green suit. Though I've been looking at the screen for so long maybe I can't trust my eyes anymore.”
“It does seem odd, perhaps he just misremembers? A child so young . . .”
“If he's still thinking about it eighty years later, I believe him,” Nora said.
“What in heaven does he plan to do with the book?”
“That he didn't say.”
“How very mysterious.”
“Just as mysterious as his appearance in Linden Corners, after all these years,” she said. “But heck, you could say the same about me.”
An enigmatic comment, it brought an end to the gentle flow of communication between mother and daughter, with Nora realizing she'd opened up a can of worms she'd sooner see sealed tight. As it was, Gerta had her opening, but still she didn't take it. She just sipped her tea in silence, leaving Nora squirming uncomfortably in her chair.
“Okay, Mom, what's on your mind?”
“Oh dear . . . you know how I don't like to pry . . .”
“Mom, I'm your daughter, it's not prying, it's mothering,” Nora said.
She seemed satisfied with her daughter's overture. “Well, as long as you want to talk, that's fine with me.”
“Ask away, I'll tell you what I know.”
“What did you mean when you told Travis to call his father. . . âbefore it gets too late'?”
Talk about jumping into the deep end. “Dave is overseas.”
“Overseas?”
“Germany, to be specific, Frankfurt.”
“What's he doing there?”
“Working there. Living there.” Nora paused. “Without us, obviously.”
“I see,” she said, even though it was clear she didn't.
“It's complicated,” Nora said.
“Seems to me it's not. Either you're a family or you're not.”
“Mom, you of all people should know that families come in all shapes and sizes and odd configurations,” she said, suddenly defensive. “Look at you and Brian and Janey, talk about makeshift. Not one of you shares a surname, and look how great the three of you are together. Dave, Travis, and I, we are a family also, but we're going through a shift in its definition, and while we figure it all out, I thought it was best to give Travis some stability.”
“By moving him away from all he knows?”
“No, into the loving arms of his grandmother, who I knew would spoil him.”
“He does like my spaghetti sauce,” she said.
“And how many times have we had pasta since we arrived?”
Gerta paused, drank her tea. “I see your point,” she said. “But, Dave . . .”
“But Dave nothing. He made his choice, a big promotion with his bank came his way, with a chance to live overseas. How could he pass on that? He's almost fifty, and it was a big deal to him.”
“So why aren't you there with him?”
Nora felt a quick, piercing stab to her heart. She took a big drink of wine, then two more before continuing. “He didn't ask us to join him.”
“Oh Nora, I'm sorry . . . for that, and for pushing you. If you're not ready . . .”
“If I wasn't ready to talk about it, I wouldn't,” she said. “You've been so patient, Mom, you've given me my space, the least I owe you is the truth. Though what that is, I'm not sure. I couldn't begin to tell you what the future holds, I think that's what appealed to me about Elsie's store, it's all about living in the past. For now, that's my comfort zone. As for me and Dave, we've agreed to a year's trial separation, he's going to live his life abroad and Travis and I will live ours, and then we'll see where we are in twelve months. Even though I already know.”
“That's why you're here? Too many reminders of the life you shared?”
Nora raised her glass, a sarcastic lilt in her voice. “Here's to Linden Corners.”
“There are worse places to be in this world,” Gerta said.
“Yeah, Frankfurt for one,” Nora said.
It wasn't a funny comment and neither woman laughed, both of them masking emotions with their chosen drinks. At last, Gerta stood up, her aging knees crackling like the burning embers in the nearby fireplace, saying she'd better get dinner started. A boy of Travis's age needed constant nourishment. Nora asked if she could help.
“I cook, you clean.”
“And Travis eats.”
“It's what twelve-year-old boys do,” Gerta said.
“How do you know, you only had girls,” Nora said.
Gerta smiled, her wisdom shining through. As she came up beside her daughter, she took hold of her hand and with a gentle squeeze, she simply said, “All mothers know their way around children, whether boys or girls. Look at yourself, Nora, at all you've sacrificed for Travis.”
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