Mistletoe'd!

by Cach, Lisa

  She set the box down and took out the spectacles, carefully unfolding the earpieces. She had her own pair of eyeglasses, but they were graceless, heavy things compared to these. With a glance at the door to check that Amy was not waiting and watching, she put them on.

  And took in a startled breath.

  The room around her was crisp and perfect. She blinked, and stared, and turned her head left and right.

  Her own spectacles improved her vision, but only slightly. They were nothing like this.

  Good heavens, she thought, is this how everyone else sees the world? It was no wonder her family implored her to wear eyeglasses, if so!

  She went to the window, and looked out across the narrow front yard and the street to the large white houses opposite, with their black shutters and doors, and the brass knockers surrounded by green wreaths. The bare trees were frosted with snow where the wind had not blown it off, and above it all the clouds were delicate streamers of candy floss across a blue-white sky. She felt tears start in her eyes. She had never in her life seen the details of real clouds, only how artists had chosen to depict them in paintings.

  These spectacles were magic, pure and simple.

  She would never take them off. She would sit here until the stars came out, and the moon, and she would see its shadowed craters for herself. She would walk in the woods, and see birds fly from tree to tree. She would go into town, and read shop signs from a block away. She would see everything as it was for the first time in her life!

  She had been staring awestruck at the drifting forms of the clouds for she didn’t know how long when a movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned, and coming down the sidewalk was Mr. Rose, in his elegant topcoat and hat, swinging an ebony cane.

  She pulled away from the window, her hand going to her hair. She went to the cheval mirror, and when she looked into her own face saw something she wasn’t expecting. Her eyes were sad and uneasy, not at all the way she thought she felt at this moment. She leaned closer to the mirror, looking into her amber-brown eyes, and as a knock came at the door below something of panic flared deep within them.

  It was the eyeglasses, it had to be. She took them off, and immediately she looked like her usual self again, cheerful and at ease. There must be something in the shape of the frames that gave her that illusion of looking like an unhappy mouse. She could not have Mr. Rose seeing her that way.

  She snapped the lid shut on the spectacles, tucked up the straying wisps of her hair, and went down to greet him.

  “You must find Woodbridge very quiet after New York,” she heard Mama saying as she came down the stairs.

  “There is a certain rustic charm to the village, almost as if it were caught in a past century,” Mr. Rose said. “It’s quite restful. One needn’t worry that one is going to miss anything of interest.”

  “Indeed,” Mama said.

  “Mama is a director of the Woodbridge Drama Club,” Catherine said, coming into the sitting room. “Everyone looks forward to the plays they put on. Many would be sorry indeed to miss one of their productions.”

  Mr. Rose made a half bow of apology toward Mama. “I can only imagine that the plays must be a great delight to the audience, with such a mistress at the helm. You bring elegance to all that you touch.”

  Mama’s cheeks pinkened, and Catherine wondered if it was in pleasure or because Mama found the flattery a trifle fulsome. “Thank you, Mr. Rose. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I must talk with Mrs. Ames about dinner,” she said, and left them alone.

  “Now why are you frowning at me, my precious lily?” Mr. Rose asked, coming to her and taking both of her hands in his own. “Are you not happy to see me?”

  Catherine smoothed away the frown she had not known she was wearing, and gave him a smile. “Of course I am. I just hope you are not finding Woodbridge to be terribly boring.”

  “I look upon it as an adventure into the wilds, worth enduring for the pleasure of one native’s company,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes.

  She laughed nervously, and broke the gaze. “Did you notice the portrait on the wall, there?” she asked, seeking to divert his attention.

  “The watercolor? Yes, I could not help but recognize your inimitable style. Was she truly cross-eyed, or was that your own special touch?”

  Catherine tried to smile at the jest, going over to get a closer look at the portrait she had done of her grandmother when she herself was twelve. At the time she had not yet mastered the three-quarter profile of a face, and her grandmother did indeed look as if her eyes were not in concert with each other. One shoulder was higher than it should have been, and the hands were in an unnatural posture. Her grandmother had died a few months after the portrait was painted, though, and she knew her mother treasured it for reasons other than its artistry.

  “It doesn’t show much promise for my future as a portrait painter, does it?”

  “Don’t tell me you still intend to dabble?”

  She shrugged. Mr. Rose, she sensed, would not be one to put her artworks on the wall for sentimental reasons. He’d be embarrassed for his friends or family to see such a thing, for they might doubt his aesthetic sensibilities. She wondered if he was thinking a little less of her, now that he saw she came from a town that was uncultured and provincial in comparison to the great cities of Boston and New York, from whence his own ancestors had sprung.

  Mr. Rose’s superior sense of what was fashionable and in good taste had been part of what had drawn her to him. He was so much more cultured and finely bred than she, she had gladly relied upon his aesthetic opinions to guide her, and had trusted his judgment as being more discerning than her own. She was afraid of appearing lacking in his eyes, an object worthy of his mocking ridicule, and in New York had constantly, subtly, sought his approval. She was surprised by the stab of resentment she now felt toward him, at his dismissal—however warranted—of her watercolor painting.

  “I was thinking we might take a stroll. You can explain to me this fine metropolis where you were raised,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows comically at her, lightening the mood, and sweeping away the shadowed thoughts that lurked in her mind. “Only, I do hope it is not the fashion here to go about in public with one’s skirts pinned up behind.”

  She felt a burn in her cheeks, and excused herself to go let down the train of her skirt.

  Chapter Four

  The air was bright and chill, her breath freezing in her nose. A light dusting of snow last night had renewed the sparkling beauty of winter, concealing the dirty slush that had been accumulating along sidewalks and roadsides. Catherine pulled the door of the house shut behind her, and felt her heart lift at being outside and alone. Mr. Rose, who had danced attendance on her almost every day, had gone to Boston to pay a visit to cousins, and would not be back for a week. Amy was in school, Papa at the lumberyard. Mama was planning meals with Mrs. Ames, and training the new maid. She was on her own.

  Once out of sight of the house, Catherine reached into her reticule for the box that held her spectacles. Mama and Papa had denied buying them, as had her brother. Mr. Rose she had not even asked, knowing what the answer would be. She had put them on once for Amy, and it had almost broken her heart how clear the hope and youth were upon her sister’s face.

  She had not yet come to terms with wearing them regularly. It was something she had resisted for so many years, she could not bring herself to give in so quickly to the seduction of that crystal vision. At least, she could not give in before her family, who had been pestering her for so long to wear eyeglasses. In private was different, and so was alone in public. Half the faces in Woodbridge might be familiar to her, but with the exception of her lifelong friends, no one else knew of her battle against ocular assistance.

  The street her family lived on was only a five-minute walk from the center of town. She put on the spectacles, and felt a thrill race across her skin as the world leaped into focus. The picket fences, the bare maple and oak
trees, the brook that was visible at the backs of several houses, running down to join the Ottauquechee River, it was all perfectly etched in sunlight and snow.

  Her skirt swished along the sidewalk, the train and underskirt gathering matted clumps of snow. She knew she was smiling like a fool as she turned onto Elm Street and headed toward town. Houses gave way to shops, and then she was at the intersection with Central Street, where the tall iron fountain for watering horses stood like an island in the middle of a stream. The water was frozen, she could see that even from the edge of the road.

  She was about to turn right, to make a circuit of the village green, but her eye was caught by bright colors in the nearest shop window. She stepped closer, putting up her hand to the glass to cut out the glare, and peered in at the Christmas cards on display. They were a reminder that she had yet to buy any, and that her Christmas shopping was only half done. She went in.

  Cinnamon-scented warmth greeted her, and for an instant she wondered if she had stepped into someone’s kitchen. A woodstove sat at the center of the room, and on the braided red rug in front of it sat five children, all listening raptly as a girl only a few years older read to them from a picture book. The girl sat in a rocker, her black-booted feet several inches above the floor.

  Catherine moved closer to the stove, and saw that a vat of spiced cider sat simmering there, cups and cookies on a tray to the side, apparently for the customers to take as they pleased. She realized then that she had been in this store once before, a summer a few years ago, but only for a few minutes. It had been lemonade on offer at that time, and meringue cookies.

  She moved away from the stove, listening with half an ear as the girl read her story, and gazed at the goods stacked upon the shelves and arranged under the glass counters. She had seen goods in stores before, but never all at once, the sheet music twenty feet away as plain to her vision as the roll of ribbon in front of her. There was a young clerk helping a woman across the room, and up on a ladder a boy was arranging cans. A few other shoppers milled about.

  Catherine wandered through a doorway into a room displaying house wares, then into another with dry goods. She heard an odd, irregular rapping sound coming from behind a curtained doorway, and idly wandered toward it, her curiosity prompting her to pull the edge of the curtain aside and see what was making the noise.

  A man stood in a storeroom, facing half away from her. In his hand was a can of peaches, and as she watched he turned it slightly, then with a hammer whacked a dent into the side of it. He set it in a box along with several others, then searched the shelves. It was potted beef this time that fell to the hammer.

  She stared, transfixed by the odd behavior. He was slightly taller than average, his frame strong, his hair a dark brownish blond. When he turned the right way she could see part of his face, and could not help but think that it was a good countenance, something level and steady in his features that spoke of a well-grounded man. The impression made it all the more difficult to understand what he was doing.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Catherine found herself saying, and the man tensed. “Is the owner of the shop aware that you are damaging his goods?”

  He turned around, and she met the loveliest pair of soft blue eyes she had ever seen. It was as if the first warmth of spring resided within them, and she was struck speechless.

  “Miss Linwood,” he said, his cheeks taking on a faint tinge of pink. “You’ve surprised me.”

  “I beg your pardon—” she began, then stopped herself. “Mr. Goodman?” she asked, astonished, and not at all certain the name was the right one. Surely this was not the same man who had hovered silently at her elbow? Surely not! She would have remembered a face of such calm strength and kindness.

  “Did Robert not tell you that this was my store?” he asked.

  “Oh! I see!” But she did not see. Her eyes went again to the box of canned goods.

  He grimaced. “I don’t suppose you could pretend not to have seen me doing that?”

  “It is no business of mine what you do with your goods,” she replied. “I should not have disturbed you in the first place. My apologies, Mr. Goodman. Good day.” She started to let the curtain fall back into place.

  “Wait!”

  She opened the curtain again. “Yes, Mr. Goodman?”

  He put his hammer down atop a box. “Was there something you were looking for?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In the store,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the room behind her.

  “Oh. Well, yes. Christmas cards. I have suddenly recalled that I have yet to write a single one. Those in your window are quite lovely.”

  He came toward her, and she stepped out of the way, feeling suddenly embarrassed that this man she had met in her own home was now going to wait on her in his shop. It felt a peculiar and awkward situation.

  “I ordered them from Louis Prang, the lithographer in Boston. I wasn’t certain they would sell well. Not so many here have caught on yet to the fashion of sending them, and I worry the fad will die out before I sell them.”

  She let him lead her back to the front room, and to the small collection of cards. One was of a girl lighting candles on a tree, one of a striped stocking stuffed with toys, there was a trio of trumpeting angels, and last a row of tiny toddlers alternating with songbirds on a branch, with the title “A Christmas Carol.” Mr. Rose would have chosen the trumpeting angels, she was certain, but the silly, sentimental toddlers made her smile. “These will do, I think,” she said. “Could I have sixty?”

  His eyebrows went up. “You’ll have cramped fingers when you’re done with that lot.”

  “I suppose I shall.”

  He began to count out the cards, but was interrupted by a raw female voice.

  “Mr. Goodman! There you are. Where is my order? I’ve been waiting these past twenty minutes, wondering where you’d gone off to.”

  He paused in his counting, casting a wide-eyed look at Catherine.

  “Go ahead,” Catherine said. “I’ll count them out myself.”

  “I’ll be back in a moment. Do excuse me.”

  She nodded and smiled, and took his place at the drawer of cards, her mind only partially on what she was doing. From the corner of her eye she watched him hurry to the discontented woman, confer with her for a moment, and then disappear into one of the back rooms.

  She had her cards counted out by the time he came back, carrying the small crate with the dented cans and placing it on the wooden counter next to several other goods, most of which were already wrapped in brown paper and string. Catherine moved slowly closer, keeping her eyes averted, her ears straining to catch their exchange.

  “It’s a good thing there are people like me who are willing to take damaged goods off your hands,” the woman was saying.

  “Indeed, I am fortunate in that regard,” Mr. Goodman said. “Every shopkeeper knows that it would not do to have such as these sitting on the shelves, giving an impression of poor quality. You, however, are a Vermont woman through and through, and know the value of your money.”

  The woman sniffed, her chin going up. “A pretty can makes no difference to me, so long as the contents are as they should be. Half off, you say?”

  “One third.”

  The woman grumbled, then nodded her consent. Catherine surreptitiously looked the woman over, noting the faded fabric of her skirt and her aged coat, the seam at the comer of the pocket having clearly been mended. Her eyes went back to the woman’s face, and the tough-jawed pride evident there, and finally comprehended Mr. Goodman’s peculiar behavior with the hammer.

  Mr. Goodman called over one of the younger clerks to finish wrapping the woman’s parcels, and then he came back to her.

  “I’ve taken half your cards,” Catherine said as he came up to her.

  “No matter,” he said, pulling out a sheet of paper and stacking the cards neatly in the center. He would not meet her eye, his attention all upon the engrossing task of wrapping her
Christmas cards. She thought she could detect a tinge of red color in his neck and cheeks, contrasting with his white collar. A lock of his hair fell forward over his brow.

  He doesn’t like anyone knowing what he does, she understood. He ‘d rather people thought him a poor businessman, than that they be aware of his charitable nature. How very peculiar.

  “I’ll put these on your family’s account, then,” he said, tying the string and finally looking at her.

  “Yes, thank you.” It would save the awkwardness of handing him money, turning him into a clerk who waited upon her. “I must congratulate you on your store, Mr. Goodman. The stores in New York may be larger, but they have not half the atmosphere of congeniality as yours.”

  “Thank you, Miss Linwood,” he said, and favored her with a smile that transformed his face, taking his regular features for a moment into the realm of masculine beauty. Coupled with that warm gaze, it was a powerful combination.

  Something stirred deep within her, a gentle shifting of she knew not what. She gave an uncertain smile, and picked up her package, suddenly feeling ill at ease and eager to be gone. “Good day, Mr. Goodman.”

  “Good day, Miss Linwood. I do hope we meet again soon.”

  Will watched her as she left his store, the sleigh bells he had put above the door for Christmas jingling at her departure. He saw her pause outside the door for a moment, then turn to the right, toward the village green.

  When the last glimpse of her figure, gowned in dark chocolate brown and a coat edged in mink, disappeared from sight, his shoulders sagged. He gave a quiet moan and grimaced, hitting himself upon the forehead with the heel of his hand.

  What a dolt she must think him. Hammering at his own cans, babbling on about Boston lithographers and Christmas cards—what did she care if his cards sold well, or where they came from?—then grinning like a simpleton when she had complimented his store. “I do hope we meet again soon,” he’d said, eager as a puppy. “You’ll have cramped fingers.” “Did Robert not tell you this was my store?” Lord save him from himself. He must seem crude as clay in comparison to the urbane Mr. Rose.