Kissing Father Christmas (12 page)

I
returned to Whitcombe Manor in the late afternoon and managed to find just enough time to slip my simple gifts under the Christmas tree and then get freshened up and dressed. The whole manor had been professionally cleaned while I was gone and my guest bathroom was replenished with fresh towels and bars of soap. I felt spoiled.

Julia was delighted that I was riding to church with them for the Christmas Eve service and chattered all the way. She and her mom wore matching red velvet dresses. Ellie's hair had returned to a dark auburn color after the Christmas-tree green from the night before. Edward and Mark wore dark suits and maintained a solemn posture as we entered the chapel.

The door of the sandstone chapel was festooned with evergreen garlands. Dozens of glowing candles were affixed to the standing candelabras at the front. The sacred space had a completely different feel than it had when I was last seated on one of these old wooden pews for Ian and Miranda's wedding.

We slid into the pew behind Ian and Miranda, who were seated with Andrew and Katharine. I glanced around as more people entered and moved in close together on the pews. I didn't see Peter and his parents and Molly yet. I didn't remember Peter saying that he would see me at the church that evening. It had been part of the conversation at breakfast so I assumed he would be there.

I had no success in spotting him, so I turned forward and fixed my gaze on the stained glass window at the front of the chapel behind the altar. I remembered studying it during the wedding and thinking that the blond Christ figure that was portrayed skillfully and beautifully in the stained glass was more of a King Arthur figure than the usual image of a dark-haired Christ. What I liked about the work of art was that it gave the impression that Jesus was the Beloved of the Father as well as the omnipotent ruler of all.

A slender woman wearing an elegant, long black dress rose from the front row and took her place at the front of the chapel. From down the center aisle the minister strode with slow steps toward the pulpit. He was reading from a large, open Bible in his hands as he walked.

“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you. You will find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.”

I saw Ian slide his arm around Miranda's shoulders and give her a squeeze.

Next Christmas Eve, Lord willing, they will have their own babe wrapped up in their arms.

The minister finished the reading at the same moment that he reached the pulpit. Without accompaniment, the woman at the front began singing a dramatic, angelic-sounding version of “O Holy Night.” I felt my heart flutter.

This song! I wish I could look at Peter right now. I wish he were sitting beside me. I'd slip my arm through his again. This Christmas carol will always make me think of Peter and London and this beautiful service. Such divine memories.

I smiled to myself at the choice of my description for the memories.

Yes, divine. Divine memories.

When the soloist got to the line in the carol, “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn,” I wanted to fall on my knees. I wanted to believe in a new and glorious morn. I understood what Miranda had said about feeling close to God when she was in this chapel during her first Christmas in Carlton Heath.

I felt His presence here, too.

It seemed in that moment that the past and present came together for me in this holy place. The “thrill of hope” was becoming the thrill of trusting God fully with all that was yet to be. He had always been the Spirit of Christmas, past, present, and future. My times were in His hands.

The rest of the service was filled with reverent, meaningful reminders of grace and hope and truth and light. We concluded by lighting candles, passing the light down the aisle, each of us giving what we had to the person beside us. We stood as a congregation, holding our burning candles aloft and singing “Silent Night.”

The air seemed to crackle with true Christmas cheer. Hope permeated the moment and brought a glow to every face, even after the flames were blown out and the candles deposited in bins at the end of each aisle.

I lingered in the pew. I wanted to soak in the final essence of holiness and joy that still floated in the air disguised as the scent of snuffed candlewicks. My heart was happy.

I turned to go and that's when I saw Peter. He came toward me. I eagerly moved to the center aisle toward him. I was eager to give and receive a “holy kiss” of greeting in this sweet and holy place. Now that I'd figured out the right angle for the tilt of my head, I wanted to try it out.

The chapel was nearly emptied of faithful worshippers when Peter and I met in the aisle. We were standing in the center of the chapel. I felt so much affection for him right then. I leaned in but for some reason, he did not. I pulled back, not sure what the protocol was in a church.

Do we not greet each other with a kiss here?

Peter's expression was as serious as it had been that morning at Ian and Miranda's. “I need to say something to you.”

“Okay.”

“You have this way about you.” He looked nervous, which was always such a surprising expression to see on him because he usually appeared so confident. “You make people hope.”

“That's a good thing, isn't it?”

He scratched his forehead and looked uncomfortable. I touched his arm and said, “What is it? What's wrong?”

“It's Molly.”

“Is she sick?”

“No, she's fine. It's just that this week, while you've been here, I've been acting as if I have a normal life. I've been giving space to my own Christmas wishes, as you call them.”

“And what is wrong with that?”

“It's Molly, you see. Molly is my responsibility. She will be the rest of my life.” He gave me a pained expression. “I want you to understand that if the circumstances were different, I would be pursuing you right now like a wild man.”

“Like a wild man?” I felt my lips turn up in a half grin.

He tempered his expression. “Like a gentleman is what I should have said. Like a gentleman who is able to make good on his intentions. A man who keeps his promises.”

“You certainly are a man who keeps his promises.” I added Ian's observation and said, “If anything, you've got too much integrity.”

Peter shook his head vigorously. “You don't know the whole story, Anna.”

I waited for him to go on. But he didn't. He looked down, struggling to say what he'd intended.

“What is it, Peter? What do you want to say?”

He lifted his chin and met my gaze. “I can't be your friend, Anna. I just can't. I thought I could. I thought that when you left after the wedding, I'd be able to forget about you but I couldn't. When you came back, I thought I could be around you in a casual way as friends.” He shook his head. “It's not working.”

I felt my pulse throbbing in my neck and I tightened my jaw. Even though my experience in romantic relationships was miniscule, I knew enough to realize that the way Peter was setting things up, this conversation could go two different directions. One way would be the happiest answer to all my dreams. The other way could devastate me.

“The truth is, I care deeply for you, Anna. There is so much about you that is extraordinary. That night in London…” His eyes met mine. “That night was divine. That's the only word I can think of. And then this morning it struck me when Ian and Miranda asked us to be godparents that…”

I swallowed, still not sure which way this was going to go.

“I can't. I can't pretend.” He reached over and took my hand in his. My heart leapt at the tenderness of his touch.

He quickly let go of my hand as if he hadn't meant to touch me. He looked heartsick.

“Anna, I would never want to put on you the heavy responsibilities that come with me, with my life. I could never ask that of you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying it wouldn't be fair to ask you to become a part of my life.”

I let Peter's antiproposal sink in. The logical side of me stepped to the forefront of my thoughts. It was the voice of Prudence. She was speaking truth and I was listening.

“So, you're saying that you'd like to be more than friends but you can't because of your responsibilities.”

“Exactly.”

“But now we can't even be friends because you think it would be unfair for me or for us to keep hoping for more.”

“Yes. That's it. You've said it better than I.” He waited for me to speak again, looking like a man waiting for a pardon.

“I don't agree.” My bold words surprised me.

They surprised Peter even more. For a shy girl given to fairy tales, I still knew poor logic when I saw it.

“Peter, don't you think I should be the one who gets to decide what's fair? You get to ask the question, responsibilities included. I get to answer. That's fair. I get to choose. You've not even asked the question or given me a chance to answer. That's what feels unfair to me.”

Peter was caught off guard by my logical declaration.

I wasn't finished. One more piece of truth needed to be spoken. I knew if I didn't let it fly out of my mouth now, it never would.

“I understand that Molly is an important person in your life. I honor that. But Peter, she doesn't have to be the only woman in your life that you care about. She's your sister. That's all.”

He pulled back and I could tell I'd overstepped some sort of boundary.

Peter and I were the only ones left inside the chapel. The candles had all been extinguished. The only illumination around us came from the dull amber glow of the dimmed overhead lights. It was difficult to read body language and expressions. I couldn't see his eyes clearly but it appeared to me that he had teared up.

“Anna.” His voice was a firm whisper. “I have to tell you something so that you will understand. I have never told this to anyone. Not to Ian, not to anyone in Carlton Heath. I need to trust that you will keep this between us.”

“Of course.” Everything inside me wanted to wrap my arms around him and hold him close. Instead, I stood where I was, not moving, barely blinking. I wanted him to be able to read in my eyes that he could trust me with whatever he needed to say.

“Anna, Molly is not my sister.” He drew in a quick breath and whispered, “She's my daughter.”

N
o words found their way to my lips for some time.

The plan for the rest of the evening, that we'd set up at breakfast that morning, was for me to join Andrew and Katharine and gather at Rose Cottage. When we all agreed to the small celebration, I pictured Peter being part of it. Now I wasn't sure what was going to happen.

As Peter drove me to Rose Cottage, a light rain fell. I invited him by my silence to say everything he wanted to say in the privacy of his closed-up car.

He told me his story. It was his whole story, he said. Filled with lots of details that he said he'd never shared with anyone.

We stopped beside the stone wall in front of Rose Cottage and sat in the car for another ten minutes. The fine raindrops fell silently on the windshield. Inwardly tears were falling silently in my heart. Peter sounded so resolved. So determined to shoulder the responsibility of his choices and his circumstances. The sadness was there, in the corner of his eyes, just as I'd first noticed when we danced at the wedding. That sadness marked him. It chained him.

“I think it's best if I don't come in.” Peter released a heavy sigh. I hoped that by opening up to me he might be able to feel at least a bit of the weight being lifted off of him. He shouldn't have held all this in for so long. And he shouldn't think that his past was going to limit his future.

Mentally, I was preparing a rousing inspirational talk on how he needed to release all this. He needed to let the “thrill of hope” come to him and trust God in a new way. I thought of the line in the carol, “till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.” I wanted him to feel that. And to believe, as I had in the chapel, that a new and glorious morn could break for him if only he would release the past, accept the present, and be open to receiving love in the future.

But those were all discoveries he would have to make on his own. I didn't say any of the passionate thoughts that were bubbling inside me. I'd seen how concentrated and intense he could be when he was evaluating a decision. It didn't seem likely that I could convince him of anything right now. He was an architect. He knew that an existing structure had to be torn down or at least restructured before anything new and lasting could be built on the same foundation.

He leaned back, lifting his chin, indicating that we'd come to the end of our conversation. “I appreciate you listening and understanding why I've come to this conclusion.”

I nodded. Then I knew I had to say something. “Peter, I appreciate you entrusting me with your story. I'm not sure I understand the conclusions you've reached. But I respect them because they're your decisions.”

As soon as I started to speak, my emotions rose to the surface. I wasn't sitting back, listening and trying to be understanding. I was now engaged in the conversation and no longer felt objective. I felt as I had in the chapel, that he was being unfair by unilaterally making a decision for both of us.

I opened my own door to get out but froze. It was as if all my sweet patience, understanding, and philosophical imagery had gotten out of the car and left me alone with my bruised little heart, sitting next to Peter. I couldn't look at him. I was mad. So mad.

“Peter? Would you consider one thing?” I turned to look at him even though I knew that tears were gathering in the corner of my eyes.

He looked at me with a guarded nod in the dim light.

“Would you just consider what your life might be like if you gave yourself some grace?”

I wasn't sure if my words had settled on him. I kept going, careful to not pour out everything I was thinking and feeling.

“I understand the high level of integrity you hold onto now and the sense of responsibility. I get it. I really do. It's admirable. But you can't fully live when you and Molly are so tightly wound up in a cocoon of secrecy. It's okay for you to open up and let other people in.”

“It wouldn't be fair.”

He was stuck in his thinking and I knew that neither my tears nor angry words nor any sort of expressive spiritual insights that had filled me during the service were going to help right now. He looked exhausted. I realized it must have taken a lot out of him to share with me the way he did.

I knew nothing more could be said. At least not right now. I got out of the car. Before I closed the door, he said one more time, “Trust me, Anna. It wouldn't be fair.”

Leaning over to catch his gaze I said, “I know. And that's the thing about grace. And love, too. They're not fair at all.”

I hurried to get inside Rose Cottage but found it difficult to put on a cheery face for my relatives in that small room. Andrew, Katharine, Ian, and Miranda all looked at me expectantly. I'd promised Peter that I'd keep what he told me confidential. It was better for me to say nothing than to slip and say too much.

“Could you help me with one thing in here?” Miranda took me by the arm and led me into their bedroom where she shut the door. “Are you okay?”

“I will be.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“Maybe later.”

“Okay. Whenever you want to talk, you know I'll be here for you.”

“I know.” I gave her a hug and pulled away quickly. “Would you mind if I stayed in here for just a little while?”

“Of course. Would you like me to say anything to the others? Jet lag, maybe?”

“Sure. Blame it on the jet lag again.”

When Miranda exited, I lay down and pulled the folded quilt at the end of the bed over my legs. I didn't cry. Instead I reviewed all the pieces of the conversation rerunning in my head. Peter had told me about his wild teen years, his summer fling, and how his first year of university had been interrupted with the news that his summer girlfriend had just given birth prematurely. She couldn't care for Molly because she'd been admitted to a drug rehabilitation center.

Peter had looked uncomfortable as he'd told me how his parents had stepped in. They had been the ones who made the sudden move to Carlton Heath and arrived with Molly, saying that she was their own child. They proudly told everyone that they had a son who was finishing university. He was going to become a successful architect. He carried all the hopes and dreams for the family.

My mind tried to imagine what living this false scenario had done to each of them. Peter's parents had worn themselves down to the nub caring for their granddaughter.

Peter had straightened up, studied hard, and gave up his hooligan ways. In his words, God had renovated him. The only hint left of the rogue he used to be could be seen in the way he took center stage in social gatherings. He didn't have to be stoned or drunk to be funny.

The way he saw it, he had made so many people cry. Being in a crowd was his chance to make people laugh.

My heart felt an awful pang when Peter told me in the car that Molly's birth mother had overdosed five years ago.

“So you see,” he had said, “Molly is my responsibility completely. She always will be. I can't pretend otherwise.”

A tap sounded on the bedroom door. Katharine entered quietly, bringing motherly warmth into the room with her. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed her hand over my hair that covered my shoulder.

Neither of us spoke. With Katharine, it seems, words are only her secondary means of communication. Certainly Andrew, in true MacGregor fashion, had made his opinions known to Katharine about what an ideal match Peter and I were. I felt I needed to offer someone in the family some sort of explanation as to why Peter hadn't come inside with me.

“It ended poorly,” I whispered.

“Che-che-che.” Her calming sound, like the cooing of a nesting bird, settled on me.

“He's determined that he doesn't need me,” I went on. “But he does. More than he knows. All he has to do is ask. That's all. Just ask. It's not fair. But not for the reasons he thinks it's not fair.”

I stopped before I leaked too many details. It felt natural, however, to pour out my thoughts to Katharine. She listened quietly and breathed over me like a gentle breeze.

I pulled myself up to a sitting position and gathered my hair with both hands, twisting it up into a knot on the top of my head. “I hope I didn't delay the Christmas Eve party for everyone else. Have you started opening presents yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Well, let's get started, then.” I tried to sound chipper.

Katharine reached over and rubbed my cheek with the soft backside of her fingers. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Her presence was comfort enough.

Linking arms, she and I joined my other relatives in the living room. I gladly accepted a glass of my uncle's hot Christmas cider. Ian and Miranda began passing gifts around. I hoped the small presents I'd brought for each of them from Minnesota would be up to par with the way they gave gifts. It was socks and bow ties for both Ian and Andrew and lotion and candles for Katharine and Miranda.

Miranda handed me a box with a silver bow. I undid the wrapping and lifted out the handsome leather case of watercolors she'd seen me admiring at Harrods.

“Miranda! I almost bought this.”

“I know. I could tell you liked it.”

“I love it. Thank you so much.”

Andrew took a look at the variety of paint colors all lined up inside in prim little rows. “You should be able to paint not only Whitcombe Manor but all of Carlton Heath with this assortment.”

I felt my throat tightening. I wasn't sure what was going to happen now that Peter had made it clear that it was not possible for him to be friends with me. His friends were my relatives. How could I return to this small village in the spring or at any time and not be the source of division?

“Who is ready for some more of my famous Christmas cider?” Andrew asked. He kept the spirits bright for the rest of our Christmas Eve at Rose Cottage. When he and Katharine drove me back to Whitcombe Manor, I was grateful that he didn't try to offer advice or ask any questions. Instead, he talked about how his visit had gone at the hospital with Ian. The two of them had some ideas on how to expand their appearance next year by adding the Rochester Carolers to the agenda.

I kissed them both good-bye and was able to make my way to my upstairs bedroom undetected. I closed the door quietly and pulled the drapes wide open. It made the room much colder but I didn't mind. I wanted to look out and see the faint dots of twinkling stars above the treetops. I wanted the stars to look down on me the way they'd looked down the night of Ian and Miranda's wedding when Peter kissed me.

I pulled the comforter off the bed and wrapped myself up in its warmth. Positioning my cocooned self by the window, I gazed down on the shadowy garden. I wanted Peter to be standing there, ready to toss a pebble at the window or hold out his hand, inviting me to dance.

But he wasn't there. All that remained were shadows of what had been.

If Peter's firm declaration tonight was going to end the fairy-tale dreams I'd held on to for us, then on this night of all nights, I wanted to look out at the stars, close my eyes, and dream one last dream. I told my timid heart to go ahead and remember what it felt like when Peter had slipped my hand into his pocket and the thrill of hope flowed unhindered between us.

I stood alone by the window, just one more person in this weary world, quietly rejoicing and longing to once again hear the angels' voices.

I didn't wish upon a star as I stood there, gazing into the night sky. I didn't dream a fairy-tale dream. I did something real. I prayed. I prayed for Peter because in my heart I had only one true Christmas wish on this O Holy Night. I wanted Peter's soul to feel its worth.