by Dorothy Love
“Aunt Carrie, is Griff coming for Christmas?” Joe stood on a stool in the kitchen, breaking eggs for a raisin cake. The kitchen was warm and fragrant with the smells of spices and wood smoke.
“I don’t think so, Joe. I’m sure he has plans of his own.”
“Well, did you ask him?”
She stopped stirring. Pale yellow batter dripped from her wooden spoon into the blue crockery bowl. “No, I didn’t. We’ve taken up too much of his time already. Besides, your mother doesn’t feel well enough for company.”
He sighed and cracked another egg. “It seems like Mama’s going to be sick forever.”
It felt that way to Carrie too. In the weeks since Griff’s move back to town, time had moved at a glacial pace. Her future stretched out before her, an endless string of empty days broken only by the demands of duty to Henry’s family. More than once she’d rushed to the door, imaging the sound of hoofbeats on the road. But Griff hadn’t visited even once.
Perhaps it was for the best. Every time she looked at him, every time she recalled the sweet heat of their shared kiss, she found it all that much harder to know that the joy he brought to her life was only temporary. Better to sever all ties now.
“Are you finished cracking eggs?” She set her cake tins on the counter, greased them, and dusted them with flour.
“Yes’m.” He pushed the bowl toward her. “Are we goin’ to the Christmas pageant at that big church tonight?”
“I wish we could. I miss hearing the Christmas story and singing carols, and I miss my friend Deborah. But your mama can’t make the trip into town. Besides, it’s raining up on the mountain.” She glanced out the window at the wild, dark sky. “I won’t be surprised if we have a wet night here too.”
“Can I go play with Caleb now?”
“Yes, but don’t go far. After supper we’re going to look for our Christmas tree, and I want to be back before the rain gets here.”
“I don’t know why we need a tree. Mama said there won’t be any presents tomorrow on account of our new papa hasn’t sent us any money. Why hasn’t he, Aunt Carrie? Doesn’t he love us anymore?”
Her chest went tight with sadness and worry. She wrapped her arms around the boy. “Of course he loves us. I don’t know why we haven’t heard from him either, but I’m sure there’s a very good reason.”
He shrugged. “It sure won’t seem like Christmas without any presents.”
He looked so dejected that, for a moment, Carrie was tempted to tell him about the small gifts she’d bought last week. The Verandah had acquired two new residents, prompting Mrs. Whitcomb to double her order for fresh bread. The money had been just enough to buy a gift for each of the boys. But she wanted to surprise them.
She brushed Joe’s hair out of his eyes and made a mental note to give the boy a haircut. “When the baby Jesus was born in the stable, there were no presents for him at first.”
“But then the wise men brought gold and stuff.”
Carrie smiled. “They did. And I imagine his mother must have thought those presents were another miracle.”
“One time Mama said the animals talk on Christmas Eve and it’s a miracle. Is that true? Does Miranda talk?”
“I’ve never personally heard her, but miracles make anything possible.”
“I guess. But—”
The teakettle whistled. “Go find Caleb. Tell him supper will be ready in an hour.”
Joe ran outside. Carrie finished the cake batter, set the filled tins into the oven, and went to check on Mary. Despite the doctor’s orders and Carrie’s coaxing, Mary ate hardly anything. Her reticence was irritating. How would she have the strength to deliver the child when the time came?
Carrie peeked into the room. How tranquil and saintly Mary looked in sleep . . . how truculent in every waking hour. Well, having to spend months and months abed was surely a tedious affair. Perhaps seeing the boys enjoying their Christmas presents would improve Mary’s mood and her appetite.
Carrie heard hoofbeats on the road and crossed over to the door, her heart thumping. Had Griff come at last? But it was Nate Chastain who reined in and hurried across the yard, his coat flapping in the sharp December wind.
Carrie flung the door wide and ushered him in. “What brings you out this way?”
“I heard things were a little tight for you these days.”
She led him into the parlor and tossed a couple of logs onto the fire. Bright sparks flew up with a popping sound. “Oh, Nate, ‘tight’ hardly begins to describe the situation. We’ve had no word and not a dime from Henry since October. I’m worried that something awful has happened. In his last letter he said some of the men in the rail yard were nearly ready to riot. What if he’s hurt? What if he has lost his job?”
Nate patted her shoulder. “It’s worrisome, all right, but don’t go borrowing trouble. If Henry was hurt, somebody would have sent word. We ought to hope for the best until there’s a reason not to.”
From his pocket he drew two small, flat packages wrapped in brown paper. “I brought a couple of books for the boys.” He smiled shyly, his eyes suspiciously bright behind his spectacles. “I realize Caleb is not as fond of books as Joe, but they ought to have something for Christmas morning, and these are all I have to give.”
Carrie threw both arms around her old friend. “Thank you. And thank Rosaleen for me too.”
“Rosaleen’s gone.”
“What?”
He jammed his hands into his pockets and stared into the flames. “Packed up and bought a train ticket to who knows where. New Orleans most likely.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
“Oh, Nate, I am terribly sorry. What are you going to do?”
He shrugged, his expression pitiful as a hen in a hard rain. “Wait for her to come back, I reckon.”
“But do you think she will?”
“I haven’t a clue. It’s obvious she married me only as a means to an end, but what that end is, I can’t imagine.”
He looked so hurt and bewildered that Carrie told him everything she’d overheard the day Rosaleen came to see Griff. “I’m nearly certain she is Sophie’s mother. She came here looking for the girl and needed some way to pay her expenses.” She paused, remembering the night Nate and Rosaleen had arrived back in Hickory Ridge after their wedding. “That night, when she passed me on the stairs and said she was sorry, I wasn’t sure what she meant, but now—”
Nate was stunned. His face went red as a blister. “She didn’t care one iota about books, or me, or about hurting you. It’s plain to see that she set her cap for me so I would provide her with a home while she searched for Sophie. And I fell for it.” He polished his glasses on his sleeve and put them back on. “Helpless as a fly in a spider’s web.”
She couldn’t bear the look of hurt in his eyes. “I could be wrong. I hope I am wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I have no one but myself to blame.” He sighed. “I was tired of being alone in the world. Rosaleen came along, and I didn’t think that you would ever . . .” His voice softened. “What happened to us anyway?”
“I don’t know, Nate. I suppose we both made promises we couldn’t keep.”
He stared into the flickering firelight. “Are you going to tell Ada and Wyatt about Rosaleen?”
“I’m not sure what to do. Finding Sophie’s mother at this late date would be a shock to everyone. But I keep thinking that the girl deserves to know who her real mother is. Wouldn’t it make a difference to Sophie to know the reasons she was abandoned?”
“I’d agree with you if Rosaleen were a different kind of woman. She didn’t say a lot about her past. Maybe we’re wrong, but I think you should write to Ada. You’re her closest friend. Tell her what you suspect. Let her and Wyatt decide whether to tell Sophie her mother may be alive and looking for her.”
“That’s the other thing.” Carrie lit the lamp and turned up the wick. Wind whistled down the mountain and rattled the window panes. “What
if I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion? What if Rosaleen isn’t Sophie’s mother after all? Then I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest for nothing.”
“Aunt Carrie?” Caleb burst into the parlor, his nose and cheeks red from the cold. “The cake is burning. And guess who’s coming up the road? Griff Rutledge, that’s who.”
TWENTY-NINE
Nate picked up his hat. “I’ll be on my way, Carrie. I hope you all have a happy Christmas.”
“Thank you . . . for everything.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Try not to worry about Rosaleen. We must pray she comes to her senses eventually.”
She and the boys followed Nate onto the porch. Carrie peered into the dusk. Bundled into his winter coat, a bright blue scarf knotted at his throat, Griff stood beside his rented wagon, untying an enormous evergreen. She waved to him. Nate offered Griff a curt nod as he crossed the yard to his horse and rode away.
Griff hauled the tree onto the porch. “I figured the boys might be wanting this.”
Joe and Caleb danced around the tree, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked as English princes.
“Well, just don’t stand there, boys,” Griff said, “help me get it inside.”
Carrie held the door and they dragged the tree into the parlor. Griff went back to the wagon and returned with two short pieces of wood, a hammer, and nails for constructing a tree stand. Soon the tree stood tall and secure in front of the parlor window, filling the room with the smell of fresh cedar.
Memories of other Christmases flooded Carrie’s heart. If only her family—her real family—were here now to share in the wonder that was Christmas.
Caleb ran upstairs to fetch the paper garlands he and Joe had been working on for the past week. While Carrie disposed of the ruined raisin cake and Griff made mysterious trips to his wagon, the boys draped the tree with the garlands, a string of buttons, and a small bird’s nest. Griff lifted Joe so he could place a shiny tin star at the top. Then Carrie set the table and went to wake Mary.
“Mr. Rutledge has brought Christmas,” she whispered when Mary roused herself from sleep. “Do you feel like having supper at the table?”
“Not really. But I want to, for the boys’ sake. Can you help me dress?”
Carrie took Mary’s best blue dress from the clothes press. It was too tight now; the buttons wouldn’t close. But they covered that fact with a new lawn dressing gown Mary had made. Carrie brushed Mary’s lank hair, tied it back with a bit of ribbon, and led her to the table.
Griff, who had been admiring the tree with the boys, rose and bowed over Mary’s hand. “Mrs. Bell. I’m pleased to see you up and about.”
“Thank you.” Spotting the tree, Mary let out a little cry of delight. “It’s beautiful.”
Griff nodded, his expression unusually grave. Something flashed in his dark, expressive eyes. Sorrow? Compassion? A shiver of uneasiness moved through Carrie. But it wouldn’t do to let worry spoil this moment.
She clapped her hands. “Time for supper.”
They took their places around the table. Carrie nodded to Caleb. They bowed their heads.
“Lord, thank you for Griff and his tree and Aunt Carrie and Mama and for Christmas even though there aren’t any presents. Make our new papa come home soon. Amen.”
The boys rushed through their meal of fried ham, biscuits, and spiced apples, then hurried to the parlor to admire the tree. Mary, seemingly near tears, picked at her food. Carrie felt like crying too. But at least they had a home, a warm fire, and enough food, even if it wasn’t a feast. And Griff was here.
She sipped her coffee, and he smiled at her across the table. Watching him smile was like watching the sunrise over the Smokies, the light beginning soft and tentative before bursting into brilliance. She would miss that smile when he was gone.
“I’m sorry there’s nothing sweet,” she said. “I burned the cake.”
“Don’t worry.” Griff rose and started toward the door. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
He went out on a burst of frigid air.
Carrie stacked their plates. “Mary, do you feel well enough to sit in the parlor for a while?”
“I’d like that.” Mary caught Carrie’s hand as she passed. “Thank you for—”
“You’re welcome.”
Carrie helped Mary into the parlor and went upstairs to get Nate’s presents and the ones she’d bought for the boys. She returned just as Griff walked in with a stack of gaily wrapped packages and a paper sack.
He winked at Joe. “Who wants a present?”
“I do.” Joe lunged for a box.
Griff handed each of the boys a box and watched while they opened them—a wooden train set for Joe and an elaborate puzzle for Caleb—then Carrie gave them her presents. Joe grinned when he saw the brightly painted mechanical bank from Jasper Pruitt’s mercantile, but Caleb seemed less enthusiastic about his shiny penknife. He tested the blade and fingered the smooth wooden case, his expression sober. “Thanks, Aunt Carrie.”
Disappointment welled inside her. “You don’t like it?”
“I like it fine. But I was kinda hoping for a rifle.”
“You’re too young, Caleb,” Mary said. “We talked about this before, remember?”
“Yeah, but that was before Papa left. I’m the man of the family till he gets back. I need a gun for going huntin’. And to protect you in case robbers come around.”
Mary drew Caleb onto her knees and wrapped her arms around him. “I appreciate that, son, but we don’t have to worry about robbers. And Papa will be home soon, just like he promised. You’ll see.”
Caleb shrugged and stared at the floor. Despite everything he had done to vex her, Carrie couldn’t bear the sadness in the boy’s eyes. She patted his arm. “Spring will be here before we know it.”
“Why don’t we sing some carols?” Mary asked. “It is Christmas, after all.” She smiled. “I’m sorry we’re missing the church program this year. I always looked forward to the singing.”
“Me too,” Carrie said. “And the pageant. Deborah asked Mrs. Musgrove to help Jeanne Pruitt sew costumes after Mr. Musgrove passed on. Deborah says they’re absolutely lovely.”
“Maybe we can go next year.” Joe looked up from his new train set and grinned. “Maybe Jimmy D. Washburn will play the part of Joseph. Or maybe he’ll be an angel.”
Caleb snorted and laughed at last. “Jimmy D. an angel? Not likely.”
“Well, at least we can sing about angels,” Carrie said. She led them through “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks” and “Angels from the Realms of Glory.” Then, when the last note died away, she handed the boys the books Nate had brought for them. Joe immediately curled up before the fire with Peter Parley’s Annual and studied the lavish illustrations, his other presents forgotten. Caleb flipped through Hawthorne’s Tanglewood Tales and set it aside. “I’ll read it later.”
Once the presents were opened, Carrie settled back with a sigh of satisfaction, but Griff had more surprises. He handed out chocolates and oranges and gave each boy a silver whistle. “But don’t go blowing those things inside, boys. You don’t want to give the womenfolk a headache.”
Joe barely looked up from his book. “Thanks, Mr. Rutledge.”
“It was my pleasure, Joe.”
Carrie couldn’t help smiling as she watched Griff with the boys. What a shame he’d chosen a life that precluded his having a family. He handled Joe and especially Caleb with just the right combination of authority, affection, and respect. He would have made a wonderful father.
“Mr. Rutledge?” Mary reached for her Bible on the side table. “Would you mind? Reading the Christmas story is a tradition in our home.”
“I’d be honored, Mrs. Bell.”
Settling next to Joe and Caleb, he fished his spectacles from his pocket. He flipped the thin pages back and forth until he found the right passage and began to read. “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed
. . . . And Joseph also went up from Galilee . . . to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.”
“Like Mama,” Joe said, grinning.
Griff nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
“Don’t interrupt, son,” his mother said. “Go ahead, Mr. Rutledge.”
“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
Carrie listened, a familiar tightness in her throat. The story of the coming of the Savior into the world never failed to move her. She thought of Granny Bell, of her lost parents, of Frank, safe now with the Lord, and said a silent prayer for them all.
Closing the Bible, Griff said to Caleb, “Would you put another log on the fire? And excuse your Aunt Carrie and me for a moment?”
Joe looked up from his place on the hearth, his eyes bright with Christmas wonder. “Are you going to kiss her?”
Heat rushed to Carrie’s face. She couldn’t meet Griff’s gaze.
Mary laughed. “That’s an impertinent question, son.”
“What’s impertinent mean?” Joe reached for another chocolate and wiped his fingers on the front of his shirt.
“Never mind. And don’t use your shirt as a napkin.”
Griff put on his coat. Carrie got hers from the coat tree, and they went out into the darkness. A frigid wind scythed down from the mountain, bringing with it a light, icy rain that needled her cheeks. Griff’s horse stamped and snorted in the cold, his breath coming out in small, white clouds.
Carrie looked back at the house. The front windows glowed with light. Hickory smoke billowed from the chimney like exhaust from a train before dissipating into the wind. The boys’ faint laughter danced in the air. For a moment, time slipped behind a curtain, and despite Henry’s absence and her constant worries, she felt almost happy.
“Carrie.” Griff took both her shoulders and turned her to face him. Her heart sped up. “Yes?” Dampness plastered her hair and clung to her eyelashes. She shivered.
He looked into her eyes. “I would rather be keelhauled than to tell you this. I’m afraid I have very bad news.”
