One Bright Christmas

by Katherine Spencer

  “Mother, don’t be silly. And please don’t start spreading rumors about Charlie. I’m the first to admit he has his little schemes and agendas. But in most respects, he’s an honest man and aboveboard.”

  “In most respects? That’s threading the needle, dear. I wouldn’t put anything past that man. He’s a short-order cook with delusions of grandeur. I suppose he thinks this scheme will advance his business interests in some way. Bring a bit of attention to his pathetic diner?” Lillian grunted and sat back. “I can believe anything of Bates. But I can’t believe my own family is so giddy and starstruck. So blind to the reality of this . . . impending disaster. I’m glad there are no strangers here to witness this . . . this embarrassment.”

  Ezra laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you admit to that reaction, my dear. Lillian Warwick, embarrassed? Isn’t your motto ‘Never apologize; never explain’? I don’t see how chagrin figures into that philosophy.”

  Lillian gave him a look, gray eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say I was embarrassed. I know where I stand. I meant that I’m embarrassed for all of you. When all the fawning and autograph-seeking is over, there will be a reckoning, believe me. I pray there’s a brick of Lilac Hall left standing. How in the world did they get permission to put a toe in that house? I have a notion to block their entrance with my own body. I’ll lay across the threshold in protest,” she declared.

  The idea had just come to her. It was a good one, too.

  Emily’s husband, Dan, leaned over and patted her hand—a gesture Lillian generally found condescending, though she knew he meant no disrespect.

  “I was concerned about Lilac Hall, too. But the production company will be closely watched. They’ve made an ironclad promise that the crew will take extreme care during any filming there. There’s been a good deal of research into the experiences of other towns and historic sites that have allowed this group on location. There were very few and very minor complaints reported.”

  Dan shared Lillian’s interest in the town’s history. The former owner and publisher of the Cape Light Messenger, he’d handed the newspaper over to his daughter Lindsay years ago and embarked on a second career as a writer, with a special interest in local history. He’d published several books so far, all of them well received.

  But Dan could hardly share her connection and commitment to Lilac Hall, which had been the estate of her first husband’s family, the Warwicks. Lilac Hall had also been her first home in Cape Light, where she’d made a life as a young bride after eloping with Oliver Warwick and giving up all ties to her own family in order to marry him.

  She and Oliver had expected to raise their daughters there, to see them married in the rose arbor and watch their grandchildren play on the long, sloping green lawns. But fate had written a different story for their family, casting them out of that grand home in shame and disgrace after Oliver’s tragic misstep. Talk about embarrassment. Dear Ezra didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  It was all ancient history now. Even Lilac Hall was relegated to those dusty pages. Her husband had been found guilty of stealing from the pension fund of his employees to cover his gambling debts. That was what the newspapers had reported, though the real story had been more complicated and her husband, though a weak man in some ways, had acted with good intentions. Or so he’d believed.

  In the end, they’d been forced to sell most of their possessions and give up the family’s lavish home and property as well. It had been her idea to sell the mansion and estate to the county as a historical site and, in doing so, save the beautiful buildings and grounds from the wrecking ball and salvage a small part of the family fortune.

  Was it any wonder she felt such strong ties to the place? She still sat on the board and fought for its safekeeping, though this movie business was one battle she had not won.

  “You all know how I feel about the Hall. I suppose this unfortunate episode wouldn’t irk me half as much if that place were not involved. They can tear apart the rest of the town, for all I care.”

  “Grandma, get a grip.” Her granddaughter Sara, who looked so much like herself at that age, with her pale complexion, dark hair, and startling blue eyes, had also inherited her penchant for debate.

  Sara was a high-level reporter at the Boston Globe. Lillian was very proud of Sara’s achievements and kept a scrapbook filled with her articles. However, she kept that hobby—and those warm feelings—mostly under her hat. The young woman thought very well of herself as it was. She didn’t need any more of a swelled head, Lillian thought.

  “We’re not expecting an invasion of barbarians,” Sara explained. “These people are professionals, and the publicity will be good for the village. I’m sure that’s why Charlie Bates was pushing for the approvals.”

  “But can anyone tell me why it will be good? This village has managed perfectly well since the sixteen hundreds without publicity. I’d be happy if fewer people found their way here. Not more.”

  “Dessert, anyone?” Luke stood between the pocket doors of the dining room, carrying a tray that held an apple pie and a carton of ice cream. “Janie is bringing in the pumpkin.”

  “I’ll start on the apple,” Ezra called to him with a grin. “Bring it here, young man.” His tone was serious, but everyone knew he was teasing.

  “Sorry, Ezra. We have to share,” Emily said. “Jane baked them for everyone,” Emily added proudly. “You all know the only way I helped was to steer clear of the kitchen.”

  The rest of the family laughed because it was true. Emily was not much of a cook, a trait she had clearly inherited from her mother. But unlike Lillian, Emily seemed to see the situation as a negative—almost as a character flaw.

  Lillian, on the other hand, had never perceived her challenges in the kitchen as a lack of any sort. When she was growing up in a grand house on Boston’s Beacon Hill, there were always servants to take care of the domestic chores like cooking, cleaning, washing, and all of that. Later, after marrying Oliver, she lived in an even grander house and had even more servants to attend to her every need. But even after their financial reversal, she still didn’t see her disinterest and lack of inclination for cooking—or any such domestic chores—as a shortcoming.

  Did any man think that way, ever? Rich or poor? Did one ever hear a man bemoaning his inability to cook? Of course not. She’d always seen this supposed shortcoming as a freedom. Liberation from a life sentence of producing tasty meals, every day, practically nonstop. Once the line in the sand was drawn, she was off the hook. No one expected her to put together more than the most basic dishes. She was not pressured to turn out meal after meal for her family, like most women of her generation, as if they were performing seals. If anyone wanted to eat restaurant-quality food in her company, they need only get in a car or pick up the telephone. Or they could inform the housekeeper, Estrella, with enough advance notice of their preferences.

  And now Emily was encouraging her own daughter into this domestic tyranny. While Lillian silently pondered these questions, her guests happily dug into their dessert and lavishly praised dear little Jane, unmindful of the larger questions. Uncaring that they were encouraging her in such a dangerous direction.

  Her slice of pie sat before her, untouched. Lillian stared down at it but did not pick up her fork.

  “Don’t you like pumpkin pie, Grandma?” Jane asked. “Try some apple. You might like it better.”

  Lillian turned to her granddaughter and forced a small smile. “I do like pumpkin. I like it very much.” She took her fork and tasted a small bite as Jane waited for her reaction.

  Lillian nodded her approval. “Just the right amount of spices and sweetening.” High praise from her, she knew. But she did feel it was important to be honest. Always. It was an exceedingly good pie. “It’s very good,” she said.

  “Just very good? I’d say it’s excellent. And the apple is, too,” Ezra said from his en
d of the table. Lillian could see that her husband had not stressed himself by making a choice between the two but had a slice of each on his dish. “Well done, Jane. Five stars. The highlight of our dinner.”

  That was Ezra, so lavish in his praise. Her granddaughter did seem to glow at his words. Lillian wondered if he had given her too much positive reinforcement.

  “I can see that you are a good cook, Jane,” she said. “It’s fine for a hobby. Just don’t make a profession of it.”

  “But, Grandma, I want to go to culinary school instead of college. I’m practically decided.”

  Lillian sat back in her chair, feeling the blood drain from her head. “No one’s told me that. When did this all come about?”

  Emily pressed her lips together, a sign that she didn’t want to react too quickly and say something she would later regret. “Jane loves to cook. And bake,” she said finally.

  Lillian recalled when that interest had been encouraged—by Jane’s birth mother, who had come to town last winter and taken a job at a local inn. Somehow her daughter and granddaughter had navigated those choppy waters. Lillian didn’t want to speak of it now.

  “We’re just exploring options,” Emily added. “Visiting schools. Nothing’s set in stone.”

  Lillian sighed. She couldn’t fight yet another battle at the table. She could see that Ezra didn’t want her to either.

  She raised her hands in surrender. “Explore away. Let me know what you find, miss,” she said to Jane. “All I know is that in my day, young women aspired to venture out into the world. To take on professions far beyond the reach of apron strings.”

  Lillian had studied art history in college and found a good job as an assistant museum curator for the Egyptian collection at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts. Very assistant, she recalled. Still, it had been difficult to win an interview in the male-dominated profession, even armed with a stellar academic record from Radcliffe College, the all-female annex of Harvard at that time. Her wealthy family’s connection had greased the wheels at the museum, though she was certainly more than worthy of the job. She had done very well in her brief tenure, foretelling a bright future in the field. How she often wished she’d stuck with her career and had never been swept off her feet by Oliver Warwick.

  No, that wasn’t it exactly. She didn’t wish for one or the other. She certainly didn’t wish away her young love—the brightest moments of her life, perhaps—or the blessing of her two daughters. But she did wish that both paths had been open to her. At least these days, women could have a home life and a work life, if they were strong enough to juggle it.

  Sara shook her head. “Grandma, you make it sound as if Jane will be walking into a trap if she studies cooking. But don’t you see? Your generation and Mom’s fought those battles so that women like me and Jane can make any choice we want. Even if that means Jane wants to study a ‘domestic art’ like cooking. By the way, the world of commercial kitchens and celebrity chefs is still a male stronghold. Jane will be in the thick of it if she goes to culinary school.”

  “Perhaps you have a point,” Lillian conceded in atypical fashion. She turned to Jane. “Now I can thoroughly enjoy this pie, since I know you won’t be selling yourself short. I may even have a bit of the apple, too. A very small sliver. If your grandfather hasn’t eaten it all?” she said as Jane quickly picked up the sterling silver cake server.

  Lillian’s acquiescence seemed to bring peace to the table. She sensed the tension disperse like a puff of smoke as talk turned to other matters, like a cold snap expected in the coming week and the prospects for Boston’s football team, who had gotten off to a poor start.

  It had taken them a while, but they’d finally found a topic upon which she had no opinion.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was after eight o’clock by the time Lucy’s family had finished dinner and was ready for dessert. She felt a little surge of warmth as she remembered her children would stay through the weekend and there was no rush. No rush at all.

  “Let’s cut into some of those pies we brought home, Lucy,” Charlie said.

  “I was just going to bring them out,” Lucy said, rising from her seat.

  “I’ll help you,” Zoey offered.

  “Me, too,” James added.

  “There’s apple and pumpkin from the diner. And I made pecan.” Lucy glanced over her shoulder at C.J. Predictably, his eyes lit up.

  “Thanks, Mom. You’re a peach.”

  She’d stayed up till one the night before last, waiting for C.J.’s favorite pie to come out of the oven, but his delighted expression more than made up for the effort. “You’re very welcome, honey. I know how much you like it.”

  As she slipped into the kitchen, following Zoey and James, she heard Jamie tease his older brother, “You’d better marry someone who can make pecan pie, bro. Or it’s not going to work out too well.”

  Charlie laughed. “Listen to this guy, giving relationship advice. Your mom could hardly boil water when I met her. Everything she knows about cooking, she learned from yours truly.”

  Zoey was pouring milk into a pitcher and widened her eyes. “Mom, are you really going to let him get away with that?”

  Lucy winked at her. “That’s not true, Charlie,” she called back. “I knew how to cook very well when we met.”

  She emerged from the kitchen, carrying the pecan pie. Zoey had the coffee and cream, and James followed with the apple and pumpkin pies.

  “Sure you did.” Charlie rolled his eyes and Lucy laughed.

  “I said I knew how. I just didn’t like doing it,” she added, making her children laugh. “I certainly didn’t see myself cooking for a big family back then. Or married to a restaurant owner.”

  The diner was not quite a restaurant, Lucy knew. But she didn’t mind upgrading the establishment for Charlie’s benefit.

  “Did you want to be an actor, Mom?” Zoey met her gaze and smiled.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Dad told me,” Zoey answered. “He showed me that article in the Messenger. He said you could have been one of those big-shot actors coming to town.”

  “Your dad was exaggerating,” Lucy said with a fond smile for Charlie. “I never really got too far with acting.” She felt a bit embarrassed about that early, naive, and fleeting dream, but she also didn’t want to deny it. “But for a while, I thought being onstage was the road for me.”

  “That’s very interesting,” James said. “Was this in high school or after?”

  “I belonged to the drama club in high school, but I was so shy, I was terrified to perform in front of all the kids I knew. I stuck with the group who worked behind the scenes. With props and prompting lines. After I graduated, I joined the troupe at the community theater. Just for a year or so.”

  “She was onstage all the time,” Charlie said. “Sang and danced, too. Prettiest girl up there. You should have heard her curtain calls. People jumped up in their seats to clap for her.”

  One person did. Charlie would applaud and cheer so loudly that she felt embarrassed. But in a good way.

  She didn’t really know Charlie well at the time. He’d been a few years ahead of her in high school. It wasn’t until Fran and Tucker began to date that they got to know each other, thrown together by the courtship of their closest friends.

  When the Tulleys got married, she was the maid of honor and Charlie was the best man. They were paired off at the wedding, as close as the little plastic figures on top of the cake. That was when their own romance began. Charlie was a very handsome and attentive escort and a surprisingly graceful dancer. It was amazing to her what a tuxedo could do for a man. Cliché or not, the Tulleys’ wedding day sparked a romance between them, and every year since, they noted Fran and Tucker’s anniversary for their own reasons.

  She had almost been done with acting by then, starting to s
ee that her interest was superficial and easily discouraged. But for a brief moment, she’d felt a career onstage was her destiny, however silly the notion seemed later.

  After high school graduation, she had decided to hold off on starting college and instead work for a year or so to earn money for tuition and other expenses. Her parents weren’t well off, and even the community college she planned to attend was a stretch for the family.

  Lucy wasn’t sure why she’d tried out that first time. To make up for those high school plays when she’d worked backstage? She won a part in Oklahoma! and even had a few lines. That was all it took. She was bitten by the bug.

  She juggled her schedule at a few different jobs to fit in rehearsals and performances. She could never wait to get to the theater. That’s where she met Craig, and the chemistry seemed instant. At least for her it was, the moment she saw his dark gaze and heard his voice. Lucy felt as if they were meant to be together. Her plans to study nursing faded into the background. She was gripped by a passion for acting—and a passion for the young, handsome actor who had won her heart.

  They talked about the future—a future together. How they would go to California and be discovered. It could happen. It only took one lucky break. Or two. Or so they told themselves. Lucy’s savings for college started to look like the perfect cushion for their adventure. Craig was saving up for their trip, too, from his part-time jobs. How could she resist such a heady, exciting plan? Or resist the young man who offered it—along with his heart and his soul? She could not. Neither did she doubt him or their love. Not for one single second.

  They chose a night in late September to run away together. She waited at their special spot, under a birch tree near a pond, not far from where the Morgans now lived. It was a lovely and deserted spot where they’d picnicked on long summer afternoons or sat gazing at star-filled skies and telling each other everything, all their most intimate feelings and secrets.

  She waited hours for him. But Craig never showed up. Finally, she gave up and went home. She hid her suitcase in the garage so that no one could guess her failed plans. It was far harder to hide her broken heart.