One Bright Christmas

by Katherine Spencer

  She had told Joe the demands were unreasonable. But she didn’t remind him of that. “How did you leave it?”

  “I’ve already called Paul Hooper. I strongly advised him to drop the issue, and he agreed. The board members don’t need bad word of mouth in that circle. Even way out here. I hope you didn’t mind me jumping in?”

  In most any other situation like this, Lauren would have felt disrespected and annoyed, and she would have told Joe so in no uncertain terms. But she actually felt relieved.

  “Not at all. I understand the urgency. I’ll call McGuire and let him know the golf club has backed off.”

  “That’s all right. Perry will tell him. From what you’ve said about the guy, I’m sure he’ll be very smug about this little victory. No point getting our noses rubbed in it. All’s well that ends well?”

  “No point at all.” Lauren could already picture Cole McGuire’s smug grin, though she wasn’t sure she agreed with the rest. It seemed that now there would be no further contact between them on this issue. Which probably meant no contact at all. It was an ending, but not a good one, from her point of view.

  Joe sat on the edge of her desk and handed her the file he was holding. “Besides, I have a new assignment for you.”

  “You do?” Lauren still had qualms about taking more work at the firm. If she had to be perfectly honest, maybe the only reason she had continued this week was the unsettled situation with Cole McGuire. This, despite the pep talk she’d given herself after leaving his property on Monday afternoon.

  But it didn’t seem the right time to have that conversation with Joe. And the light in his eyes made her curious about this new assignment.

  “Before you say anything, I want you to read this file. It’s mainly an interview with the client, Madeleine Belkin. She created software at a firm in Burlington called Dendur Software. Her job was eliminated when the company had to tighten its belt. She later found out that two men at her level, who had been kept on, had been at the firm a shorter time and had come to their jobs with fewer credentials and less experience. And they’re making substantially higher salaries.”

  Lauren could feel her blood pressure rise as she listened to the story. “And her claims have been substantiated with records from the company?”

  “To some degree. Of course, if we decide to take her on and go forward, there’s a lot more work to do.”

  Lauren didn’t doubt that was true. Discrimination and disparities in the workplace happened all the time. Despite laws about equal opportunity, equal work, and equal pay, on average, most women earned anywhere between 20 to 50 percent less than a man for the same work at the same job.

  The courts seemed to accept this double standard, and such matters were often hard to prove. Employees shied away from complaints, fearing to be labeled as troublemakers in their industry, and companies had very broad rights to hire and fire as they saw fit.

  Just hearing the vague outline of her situation already made Lauren angry on Madeleine Belkin’s behalf. But the attorney, trained to smell a winning case, sniffed and sniffed.

  “Would she be willing to settle for damages, or does she want her day in court?” Lauren felt a bit cold asking, but she did want to know before she read the file.

  “She’s not sure. She is sure that she wants the world to know how Dendur Software treats their female employees.”

  Lauren pulled the file closer but didn’t open it. “Sure, I’ll take a look.”

  Joe gazed at her curiously. “Okay, thanks. But I’d thought you’d jump up in your chair over a case like this.”

  “Why? Employment law isn’t really my thing.”

  “No, but being a woman who more than holds her own in the workplace—and on the golf course—certainly is.”

  Lauren wasn’t sure if she should take his words as a compliment or an admonishment. “I like to think that I do. But that doesn’t mean I want to fly into a courtroom wearing a cape and boots.”

  “That’s too bad. I think I’d like to see that.”

  Lauren felt herself blush and hated the reaction. “What I mean is, I’m sure that there are plenty of lawyers who specialize in women’s rights in and around Boston and they’re proud to wear that outfit. And wield a shield and thunderbolt, too.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But for some reason, this fell our way, and I offered to help. Or at least consider her situation and advise her?” He paused and smiled. “You know, that old friend of a friend of a brother-in-law’s cousin’s father thing?”

  Lauren laughed. “Don’t forget the ex–college roommate. I’ll tell you what I think tomorrow, first thing.”

  Joe looked satisfied. “I look forward to it.”

  Was he mocking her? Not exactly, Lauren decided as she watched him go. He still seemed to think he was dangling a ball of catnip under her nose, despite her disclaimers. She would have to see if he was right and her feminist ire won out over her reservations.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lillian gazed at her husband across the table. Still unshaven and in his bathrobe, he’d barely picked at his breakfast. With his head bent so low that she only saw the top of his mostly bald scalp, he was totally engrossed in a thick book. Or he was pretending to be, just to annoy her and avoid conversation.

  By this time of the day, Ezra was always showered, clean shaven, and dressed for the day in one of his many tweed sport coats, oxford-cloth shirts, and signature bow ties, whether or not there were appointments on the docket. He took pride in his appearance and appreciated fine clothing—a trait of his she’d always admired.

  He only came downstairs in this state of dishevelment when he was ill, and she knew that today he was in perfect health. Physically, anyway.

  Are you going to pout again all day? When is this mood going to lift? It’s positively . . . self-indulgent. I’ve lost my patience entirely.

  She had a mind to scold him soundly in just that way but decided to hold her tongue. For once. She had already conveyed that message during the last few days, though not quite so harshly. It had only made matters worse.

  Instead she said, “Would you like more coffee? I’ll ask Estrella to make another pot.”

  Ezra shook his head without looking up. Not even sparing a “No thank you.”

  “Do you really need to read a book at the table?”

  “You’re reading the newspaper.”

  “That’s different.”

  He turned a page but still didn’t lift his head. “I don’t see how.”

  She wouldn’t waste her breath explaining. He was just being obstinate. And cranky. She knew why, too. Like a thick black cloud, the mood had descended the moment Jessica had taken that infernal dog away. Five days past and counting. How much longer would this go on?

  Ezra knew very well that they both read the morning paper at the table, together. That’s why it was different. Affably sharing bits of news, editorials, and tidbits they came across in the pages. Discussing reviews of the latest books and plays, or reports of a new art exhibit. Even though it was harder and harder to avail themselves of these cultural events, they did enjoy keeping up and discussing them.

  She and Ezra shared an intellectual rapport she had never known with her first husband, Oliver. Nor had she missed it at the time, she had to admit.

  Oliver had cut a bold figure, handsome and charming, totally disarming her with his confidence and devil-may-care attitude. A war hero and heir to a fortune, he’d swept her off her feet. He persuaded her to elope, and so they did one snowy Christmas Eve. He’d brought her straight back to Cape Light, to live with his family in Lilac Hall, a home and estate so grand even her staid Boston Brahmin clan could not have helped but be impressed. But she’d never had the chance to impress them with her new home or new position as the wife of the wealthiest, most prominent businessman for miles around. Her parents had strongly d
isapproved of Oliver and had forbidden her to see him. The Warwick fortune was amassed during Prohibition, with questionable business dealings, and Oliver, they believed, was entirely unsuitable—his reputation tainted with scandal and even a divorce. When they heard of the marriage, they cut off all ties, a punishment that had pained her and still did, even now.

  Lillian had always believed that someday her mother and father would come around. Her mother at the very least? But only her younger sister, Beth, who had been so dear to her, had kept in touch, secretly, until her early and unfortunate death.

  Ezra and Oliver had grown up together, friendly rivals all through childhood. They’d both served their country admirably in World War II. Oliver had won medals on the battlefield for his bravery and came home with the scars to show for it. Ezra had worked as a medic at makeshift hospitals, tending to the wounded under the most crude and stressful conditions. Saving some, he’d told her once, but losing many more. He had been awarded no medals for that grueling service but never begrudged his fellow soldiers for their honors or regretted his contribution.

  She had met them both at the same time, as a very young woman, visiting the seaside village one summer. There had been a cousin who lived in Newburyport, a sweet but flighty blond. Lillian couldn’t recall her name now. She hated when that happened. It would come to her later. When she wasn’t thinking about it.

  Ezra had also courted her, in his way. But his kind, bookish personality was no match for Oliver’s dashing charm and utter confidence.

  She recalled how Ezra had once taken her to the opera in Boston. He was a doctor at Children’s Hospital, and she was working at the Museum of Fine Arts as an assistant curator for the Egyptian collection. They had seen Turandot, a wonderful performance. The lead soprano had been excellent, Lillian recalled. Still, the entire evening, all she could think of was Oliver and their parallels to the plight of the coldhearted princess and the condemned man who had melted her heart.

  She’d often wondered what her life would have been like if she had taken the path not followed, if she’d become Mrs. Ezra Elliot over sixty years ago. She would have lived the life of a country doctor’s wife. All things considered, she doubted her family would have found Ezra, with his blue-collar background and college tuition paid by the GI Bill, any more acceptable than the dapper and wealthy Oliver Warwick, despite Ezra’s degree from Tufts University and graduation with honors from Harvard Medical School.

  There would have been children. Ezra loved them and had always wanted a family but claimed he’d never met the “right” girl. That girl had married his friend Oliver. Everyone in town knew that.

  She would not have held her prestigious position in the town’s “first family” if she had married Ezra. Neither would she have suffered the humiliation of Oliver’s later disgrace and the loss of his family’s fortune. To his everlasting credit, Ezra had been among the few who had stood by them, and stood up for them, when it seemed all but a handful in the town were ready to tar and feather her first husband for his misdeeds. Reverend Ben Lewis was new to the church and village, but he had spoken for Oliver, shielding the family as well. He had reminded the villagers of their better natures, and of the question of casting the first stone.

  After that sad time, and in all the years that followed, Ezra had been a stalwart friend to her and her family.

  There had come a point when they’d realized there was no good reason not to be married. She had come to love him dearly, and he had always loved her. Ezra prized her good points and tolerated her imperfections. Perhaps he saw, as few did, that what made Lillian unlikeable to many were the very strengths that had helped her survive. She had not been born this way, but time and experience had shaped her, like the rocks at the edge of the sea. She made no apologies for who she was, and she never would.

  He was a man with enough confidence and sense of self-worth to marry a strong woman who was not prone to apologies. Oliver had been, as well. But she loved Ezra in a different way. Was either way better? She could never say.

  How the years since had passed so quickly, she would never understand. But here she was, over half a century later, Mrs. Ezra Elliot. And content with that choice. Quite blessed, she knew, truly, by her husband’s persistence and lifelong loyalty to her. For reasons she didn’t quite understand.

  What would Oliver have been like, had they ever made it this far? He had died soon after his fall from grace. The stress and strain of his failures had worn out his heart. No mystery there.

  It was always hard to imagine Oliver at this stage of life. Gray and shrunken, infirm, moving through the day like an inchworm. He was that rare type, a brilliant, fast-burning light; a colorful flare shot across the dark sky on a summer night. An awe-inspiring show, never designed to burn long and steady. Ezra was just the opposite, she reflected, gazing at him.

  He cleared his throat and turned the page, then scratched his bearded chin in an absentminded way. I hope those whiskers are bothering you, she said silently. Enough to go back upstairs and promptly remove them.

  “The weekend crossword looks challenging,” she reported. “The theme is ‘Foreign Affairs.’ I wonder what that means?”

  Of course, she had some idea. It was a play on words. Doubtlessly there would be questions about political events, and the royals, and maybe even one about Ingrid Bergman running off with that famous Italian film director. What his name again? Ezra would remember.

  She waited for him to answer her first question, tossed out like a bit of bait.

  He was too much of a gentleman to ignore her completely, though the book provided an acceptable excuse to disengage and wasn’t totally humiliating to her either. That’s the way Ezra was, thoughtful even when he was angry.

  “I suppose, if you work on it, the meaning will become apparent,” he answered finally.

  Did that mean he wasn’t going to work on it with her? They always worked on the puzzle together. He knew that. Especially the weekend edition. The situation was grave indeed. Even worse than she’d thought.

  She steadied herself. Perhaps if she solicited his aid with a clue or two, he might become engaged despite himself and rise out of this dreadful funk.

  She didn’t know what else to do. He had to break sooner or later. No one could keep this up forever.

  “The schedule is out for the symphony. Should we get a subscription this season? The problem is getting into the city and back, of course.” She paused and watched him. “I wondered if we should get a ticket for Estrella as well. She could drive us in and out.”

  Ezra peered up. Finally, she’d said something so outrageous and out of character, he deigned to give her his full attention.

  “Estrella prefers the opera. I’d invite her to that.” He delivered the message and looked down at the book again.

  “Interesting. Does she really? I had no idea.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear that. Do you ever talk to her about anything except how you prefer your eggs cooked? Or how you like the linen closet arranged?”

  He turned the page and propped up the book on his juice glass.

  She sighed, feeling totally exasperated. She looked back at the newspaper but couldn’t focus. Not with Ezra acting this way.

  “What are you reading? I can’t see the cover.”

  He held the cover up so she could read the book’s title. Another tome about Theodore Roosevelt? She thought he’d read every one written by now. Obviously not. T.R., in a classic pose, graced the cover, wearing his Rough Rider uniform and smiling widely under his iconic mustache.

  She decided not to comment, lest the very name sparked a discussion of the four-footed namesake. The creature who had caused all this trouble and unrest.

  The phone rang. The handset was closer to Ezra, but he ignored it. Lillian leaned over and picked it up. She saw Jessica’s name and number on the screen. Finally, some decent conversation.


  “Good morning, Mother. Did I wake you?”

  “Of course not. We’re dressed and ready for the day. At least, one of us is,” she added.

  “I’m just calling about church tomorrow. It’s my turn to pick you up. I just wanted to know if you planned on going.”

  “Certainly, we do . . . Just a minute.” She looked across at Ezra. “Church tomorrow, Ezra. Jessica’s picking us up.”

  “You can go. I’ll play it by ear.”

  “What does that mean, play it by ear?”

  He shrugged. “What does it sound like?”

  She did hope his ear told him go. Whenever he got like this, which was not often, Sunday service always snapped him out of it. Ezra was so well-liked, and greeted so fondly by everyone at church, that it was hard for him to maintain a grouchy countenance. He automatically reverted to his normal, affable self, and by the time they got home, he usually forgot whatever he’d been mad about—or at least, took a perspective of greater equanimity. She was, in fact, counting on that antidote, since so far, all else had failed.

  “Ezra seems unsure, but he’ll probably come, too,” she said. Had Jessica even heard her? There was the oddest sound on the line. Like . . . whining machinery. “Whatever is that sound? Where in the world are you?”

  “In my van. On the way to Carlisle. We’re delivering a pair of goats to a new home.”

  Lillian took a breath. All that education, a master’s degree in finance, a solid career in banking. Jessica would have been bank manager in a year or two, no question. Pearls before swine, literally.

  “I see. That explains it. I can barely hear a word you’re saying.”

  “I can’t talk long. I’ll pick you up at the usual time,” Jessica replied. “By the way, please tell Ezra that Teddy is doing well with his new owners. Everyone is getting along perfectly,” she added, referring to the couple’s other pets. “They kept the name Ezra chose. They said it suits him.”