Home for the Holidays

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  The twins bounce in their seats again, their faces shining as they stare at the passing scenery. I look out the window, too, and as the train wends its way through the snow-covered forests of the White Mountains, I lean back and allow myself to be lulled by the swaying motion and the rhythmic clack of steel against rails. My thoughts drift back to England. Living there was exotic and wonderful—there’s nothing like the English countryside—but there’s just as much beauty here, too. I love New Hampshire! I watch as we chug past tidy little villages tucked into the foothills, each with its white-spired church anchoring the village green, and past ice-frosted rivers that glitter in the sun in their rush toward the Atlantic.

  Jess’s laughter draws me out of my reverie. I glance over and see that her cheeks are pink and her eyes sparkling. She looks really pretty—and really happy, too, I think glumly.

  She’s supposed to be dating my brother. It’s going to kill him if he finds out that she likes someone else. And where is my loyalty supposed to lie? Jess and I are best friends, but Darcy is family. How could Jess put me in this position, making me feel torn between the two of them?

  “Wanna play gin rummy, Emma?” asks Dylan, and even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, I nod and say yes. Maybe it will help keep my mind off my dilemma.

  The hour-long trip passes quickly. When we arrive at our destination, a huge horse-drawn hay wagon is waiting at the platform to take us to the tree farm. I watch as Jonas carefully boosts Jess aboard, then passes her crutches to her and climbs in beside her. They’re sitting so close their shoulders are touching. Of course, I’m wedged in too, beside the twins, but that doesn’t count. Jess could move over if she wanted to.

  “Isn’t this fun?” says Mrs. Delaney, and I rearrange my face into a smile.

  “Yeah.” Fun couldn’t be further from the truth, though. Right now I’m still wishing I could go home.

  “How about you, Jess? Isn’t this just like something out of a dream?”

  “Dreaming, dreaming, of you, sweetheart, I am dreaming . . . ,” warbles Jonas, and Jess laughs, hearing this snippet from her solo audition piece coming from his lips.

  Nightmare is more like it, I think, looking away. The wagon rumbles forward, and Jess’s uncle starts singing, “Dashing through the snow.” Everybody but me joins in.

  At the Christmas tree farm there are two sleds waiting, one for the tree we’ll be cutting down, and one for Jess. Jonas picks her up and carries her over to it, and Dylan and Ryan make a big show of helping him pull her around. I trail along miserably behind as we all troop off on a well-worn path leading into the woods.

  “We must look for just the right tree,” Jess’s uncle tells us. “Not too big, not too small, not too wide and not too narrow. The one who finds it gets a special prize.” He winks at Dylan and Ryan, who drop the rope to Jess’s sled and race off ahead of us.

  Everybody but me is in a good mood, enjoying the sun sparkling on the snow. Mr. and Mrs. Delaney are holding hands. Some of the little kids start a snowball fight, which their parents quickly squelch. Jess is still studiously ignoring me, which makes me equally miserable and mad. I scuff along feeling like Scrooge. Bah, humbug!

  Jess’s brothers win the tree-finding contest with a beautiful Douglas fir that’s about eight feet tall and perfectly shaped.

  “Ausgezeichnet,” says Uncle Hans. “Excellent.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two golden dollar coins and tosses them each one.

  He lets them help cut the tree down, and then he and Mr. Delaney and Jonas tie it to the second sled. After we hike back, we have about half an hour left to poke around in the tree farm’s tiny shop before our train leaves to go back to North Conway. I wait until Jess and Jonas are done shopping before I go inside. The less I have to watch them flirting the better.

  Predictably, most of the souvenirs are tacky, but they have some nice ornaments, and I still haven’t found just the right thing for Becca. To be honest, I’m feeling a little stumped. For one thing, I’m pretty sure she’s my Secret Santa, too—who else would send such a pointed message with that exercise DVD?—and she’s done such a crummy job of it I don’t feel inspired to put all that much effort into her final gift.

  I don’t find anything for her, but I linger by an ornament that would be perfect for Jess. After some hesitation I decide to go ahead and buy it. I can always give it to Cassidy if I don’t end up giving it to her.

  The train whistle blows as I’m at the cash register, signaling us all to get back on board, and I hurry back to my seat. I barely have time to take off my jacket before the conductor comes through, announcing that lunch is served.

  “Wow,” says Mr. Delaney as I follow him into the dining car. “This is amazing.”

  The old Pullman car has been completely restored, and the bright murals on the ceiling, richly upholstered booths, and linen-covered tabletops give it the look of a fancy restaurant.

  “Wow is right,” says Mrs. Delaney. “The snack car on Amtrak doesn’t quite compare, does it, Jess? I’ll bet this is just like the dining car Betsy ate in when she took the train to Milwaukee.”

  “Mmm,” Jess murmurs, sliding into a booth and putting her napkin on her lap. Her mother slides in across from her, and Jonas and Mr. Delaney join them, leaving me stuck with the twins.

  “May I join you?” asks Uncle Hans, and I nod and move over to make room for him. He quickly manages to take my mind off Jess and Jonas, regaling the boys and me with funny stories and jokes. It turns out he’s a big fan of steam trains, and he tells us a bit about the excursion train’s history too, as we’re waiting to order.

  I start feeling a little better. Besides Uncle Hans’s company, there’s something about eating in a dining car that makes me feel incredibly grown-up. It’s like a scene out of an old movie. “Swell-elegant,” as Mr. Ray would say. The waiter brings our food, a pumpkin-barley soup that would be great for Pies & Prejudice—and in fact I hear Mrs. Delaney asking for the recipe, so I’m guessing she’s thinking the same thing—plus chicken pesto wrap sandwiches and salad. There are also freshly baked shortbread cookies—cut in the shape of Christmas trees, naturally—for dessert, along with tea, coffee, or hot chocolate.

  “Hot chocolate,” I tell the waiter. “Mit Schlag. With whipped cream.”

  Uncle Hans roars with laughter. “Already fluent in German, after just a week!” he exclaims. “But then Jess told me you’re a clever girl.”

  I glance across the dining car at her, wondering what she’d say about me now.

  Back in North Conway, we transfer to the vans for the drive back to the Edelweiss, stopping briefly to drop Jonas off at his house.

  “See you later tonight!” he calls to Jess, and she waves.

  When we get to the inn, Mr. Delaney helps Jess’s uncle untie the tree and lift it off the top of the van, and then all the little boys, Jess’s brothers included, swarm around to carry it inside. After it’s placed on its stand in the library, Uncle Hans shoos everybody out, closing the doors firmly behind him.

  Earlier this morning, before we left, he and Jonas taped brown paper over the glass panes in the French doors, to keep out prying eyes. That doesn’t stop Dylan and Ryan, though, who hang around for a while, hoping to get a peek at the proceedings, but they eventually give up and go off with some other kids to play a board game.

  Aunt Bridget pokes her head out from the kitchen. “You girls might want to take a nap,” she tells the rest of us. “German Christmas Eves can be late ones, and you’ll want to be rested up.”

  “Sounds good,” says Mrs. Delaney, heading upstairs.

  I hesitate, wondering if maybe now is a good time to try and talk to Jess. But she’s clearly not interested in my company, and instead makes a beeline for the piano, where she starts picking out the melody to “Dreaming.”

  Dreaming of who, that’s the question, I wonder bitterly, and stalk down the hall to our room.

  There are two sheets of paper on my bed, along with a sticky
note from Mrs. Delaney that says Book club stuff!

  The list of fun facts sounds so much like my mother that I find myself blinking back tears. Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to spend Christmas Eve anywhere but at home with my family?

  The pictures of Maud and her friend Bick only make me feel worse. Especially the one of them in the matching dresses, when they’re seventy. That was supposed to be Jess and me! Lifelong friends, BFBB, inseparable. But now there’s this stupid wedge between us.

  I look at the question underneath the pictures. Which friend would I choose to immortalize in a book? Jess, of course. She’s the Tacy to my Betsy. Only now I don’t know who she is, or what we are. I stare at the pictures miserably as a tear trickles down my cheek.

  I desperately need to talk to someone. First, though, I need to blow my nose. Grabbing a tissue, I dry my eyes and make myself presentable, then reach for the tote bag by my bed that contains my journal and a couple of books and head back toward the lobby to find Jess’s aunt.

  “Of course you can use the phone,” she says when I ask. She takes me into the small office behind the front desk, then closes the door to give me some privacy. I can’t help it; I get choked up again when I hear my mother’s voice.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks, sounding concerned.

  “Yes,” I tell her, then, “No!” I wail. “I want to come home!”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. I can hear the clatter of pots and pans in the background—my father must be in the kitchen fixing Christmas dinner, which we always have on Christmas Eve. I feel another stab of homesickness. I can practically smell the roasting turkey, and hear the crackle of the fire they’ve probably lit already in the living room.

  “Sweetheart, what happened?” my mother asks.

  I tell her how much I miss her and Dad and Darcy and Pip, and although I stop short of sharing Felicia’s suspicions regarding Jess and Jonas, I tell her that Jess and I aren’t getting along very well.

  “I see,” says my mother when I’m finished explaining how Jess has been giving me the cold shoulder. She’s quiet for a moment. “Friendships can be so complicated at your age. At any age, really.”

  I hiccup softly into the receiver, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

  “I guess you’re just going to have to give Jess some space, sweetheart. You two have been cooped up together day and night for a whole week, and that can be a strain on any friendship. But I’m sure you’ll sort it all out eventually.” She swings into mom pep talk mode. “Right now, honey, it’s Christmas Eve. See if you can pull yourself together and make an effort to be cheerful—as your gift to the Delaneys. It was so kind of them to invite you along.”

  “I know,” I reply. “It’s not like I’m trying to be a Scrooge.”

  “Of course you’re not,” my mother tells me. She pauses, then adds, “Remember when Betsy and her boyfriend break up right before Christmas, and Betsy realizes that unless she rises to the occasion and stops moping around, she’s going to make the holiday miserable for everyone else?”

  “Y-e-s,” I say slowly. My mother thinks in books, the same way I do.

  “Well, just hang in there, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We talk for a while longer, and I tell her about Nestlenook, and the train ride to the Christmas tree farm, and by the time I hang up the phone I’m feeling a lot better.

  I wander into the living room. Soft holiday music spills from hidden speakers somewhere, and there’s a fire crackling in the stone hearth. Guests are clustered in the rocking chairs and sofas around it. Dylan and Ryan and other kids are laughing over some game they’re playing at a table in the corner. There’s no sign of Jess. I figure she must be in the kitchen, because I can hear muffled voices and the clatter of pots and pans, and smell the aroma of dinner being prepared. I take a deep breath. The Edelweiss isn’t home, but it’s still a pretty nice place to be on Christmas Eve.

  Snagging an afghan from one of the sofas, I head for the window seat at the far end of the room. I need some inspiration. Didn’t I jot something down about Christmas music, something I just read in Betsy Was a Junior? I rummage in my tote bag for my book of inspiring quotes, and flipping through it, I find what I’m looking for: “Carols were being practiced by the choir. Betsy wondered what gave these songs their magic. One strain could call up the quivering expectancy of Christmas Eve, childhood, joy and sadness, the lovely wonder of a star.”

  I sigh. Sheer poetry.

  Hungry for more literary comfort, I open the slim volume that I brought downstairs with me—Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales. My father reads this aloud to our family every Christmas Eve. Since I can’t be there tonight to hear it, I figure I’ll read it myself. In my mind I can hear my father’s voice wrapped around the opening words: “One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”

  I love Dylan Thomas and the lilting rhythms of his prose. As I fall headlong into the book, the room fades away, and soon I’m as oblivious of my surroundings as I am of the wave of homesickness that had threatened to engulf me. Reading is the antidote to a great many troubles.

  I emerge eventually, still a bit woolly-headed from my visit to snowbound Wales, and tucking the book back into my bag, I grab my journal. I didn’t write in one for a few years, after Becca stole the one I kept back in sixth grade and read aloud this poem I’d written about Zach Norton. Talk about humiliating. It seems like ancient history now, and even a tiny bit funny, although it still makes me squirm to recall how mortified I’d been. At any rate, last year when we went to England I decided it was time to start keeping one again. I’m glad I did, because already some of my memories of our year there are starting to fade.

  My eye falls on another quote in my inspiration book, this one from Betsy in Spite of Herself: “It was pure romance to sit at a table spread with glossy linen and eat a delicious meal while looking out at a flying white landscape.”

  I decide to start with lunch on the Christmas tree train, and after that I write about yesterday’s outing to Nestlenook. I haven’t been skating all that much since we got back from England. Now that Mrs. Bergson is gone, it’s made me a bit sad to go to the rink in Concord. But yesterday reminded me how much I love to skate. There’s nothing like that feeling of flying over the ice, and outdoors is so much better than being inside a rink. Sometimes Jess and I skate on her pond back home, but that’s like a teaspoon compared to Nestlenook, plus the Delaneys don’t have a Zamboni at their disposal to keep the surface smooth.

  I try to capture in words all the sights and sounds from yesterday—the way it sounded under the bridge when the sleigh passed over, the thunder of the horses’ hooves mingled with the brighter notes of the jangling bells; the way the blue bowl of the sky arched overhead; the way the air filled my lungs, so cold that it hurt; the way the enticing scent of hot chocolate drifted from the little gazebo on the island. I describe the Edelweiss Inn, too, and how much it reminds me of Betsy and the Great World, when Betsy travels to Oberammergau, the village in the mountains of Bavaria.

  When I’m finished, I flip back idly through my journal to this time last year, remembering Christmas Eve at Ivy Cottage in England. I could never have imagined back then that the Winding Hall of Fate, as Betsy calls it, would find me at the Edelweiss Inn this year, instead of at home in Concord.

  I’m feeling much calmer by dinnertime, and I decide to make an effort to sit with Jess. At the last minute, though, Felicia squeezes in between us. She’s off duty tonight as a waitress, because Christmas Eve dinner is served buffet-style.

  “How was the trip to the Christmas tree farm?” she asks me, casting a significant look in Jess’s direction.

  “Um
, fine,” I reply. I don’t really want to talk about Jess and Jonas, though. It will only make me gloomy again, and I promised my mother I’d try and keep my spirits up. So I quickly change the subject.

  After dinner, Jess’s aunt and uncle invite us to join them in front of the library. It’s time for the unveiling of the Christmas tree! A current of excitement runs through the room, and as the adults take out their cameras, Uncle Hans calls the younger kids to the front of the crowd.

  “Can you all say ‘eins, zwei, drei’?” he asks them, and they parrot back his words.

  “Sehr gut! You are now responsible for the countdown. Ready?”

  Dylan and Ryan and the other kids nod, and Jess’s aunt dims the lights. A hush falls over the room and then, at Uncle Hans’s signal—

  “Eins, zwei, drei!” the children cry.

  Uncle Hans flings back the doors to the library. “Fröhliche Weihnachten!” he cries. “Merry Christmas!”

  An audible gasp goes up from the gathered guests. There are real candles on the tree! They glow so beautifully, so softly, that it takes my breath away.

  “Merry Christmas!” we chorus back.

  Then we form a semicircle around the tree, and taking hold of one another’s hands, we sing “O Tannenbaum”—“O Christmas Tree”—stumbling over the unfamiliar words on the slips of paper that Felicia has been busy handing out.

  In Germany it’s traditional to open presents on Christmas Eve, so the Delaneys decide to go with the flow. Families take their piles of presents and retreat to various corners of the sprawling living room, and pretty soon all you can hear is the tearing of wrapping paper and squealing of little kids. My parents sent along several presents from home for me to open, including Emily of Deep Valley and Carney’s House Party, two of the Deep Valley books I don’t have yet, and The Synonym Finder from my father. He adds a reference book every year for my “writer’s shelf,” as he calls it, a tradition he started back in sixth grade, when he slipped Strunk and White’s Elements of Style into my stocking. There’s one more present too—a small box from Stewart. Inside is a heart-shaped locket.