Christmas Roses

by Amanda Cabot

  Celia sank onto the chair across from Mark and breathed in the fragrant aroma of coffee, wondering if she would ever smell it again without remembering this moment. She and Mark had shared so many confidences over cups of coffee, but nothing—absolutely nothing—could compare to this.

  “It still seems strange to be talking about my soul.” Though he wrapped his hand around the cup, he did not sip it. “I never really believed I had a soul, but everything changed on Sunday.”

  She hadn’t been mistaken. The peace she thought she had seen on Mark’s face was real. Celia’s heart filled with joy, making her want to sing aloud.

  “I feel like a piece of newly sawn lumber.” A wry twist of the lips accompanied his words. “I’m rough around the edges. I know I’ll need a lot of sanding and many coats of paint before I’ll be ready for anything useful, but I’ve taken the first step.”

  The joy that had filled Celia’s heart overflowed, spilling throughout her body, warming every inch. “Oh, Mark, I’m so happy. God has answered my prayers.” He had given her a miracle.

  Mark leaned back in the saddle, trying to ignore thoughts of the many gifts he had yet to make, including the ones he wanted for Emma and Celia. He ought to be in his workshop, his hands guiding a saw or a plane, not holding Charcoal’s reins. But even more than he needed to be working, he needed advice. It was not something he could ask Frank or Jacob. They wouldn’t help him, and Reverend Pearson was already spending a lot of time with Mark. He couldn’t ask for more. That left Lionel. Though Mark wasn’t sure his uncle would be able to help him, he had to try, and so here he was, approaching the cabin.

  “I didn’t expect you today.” Lionel appeared on the top step while Mark hitched Charcoal to the wooden stake he’d driven into the ground for that express purpose. “I woulda made some stew if I knew you was coming.”

  Though the thought of his uncle’s stew made Mark’s mouth water, he shook his head. “I can’t stay long, but I wouldn’t refuse a cup of coffee.”

  Lionel grinned as he closed the door behind them. “Always got that.” He reached for the pot and poured out two cups. As he walked toward the table, he nodded at the wall. “It’s mighty nice havin’ all the leaks fixed. This cabin’s downright comfortable now.” Lionel slid one of the cups across the table to Mark, picking up the other as he asked, “So, why are you here?”

  There was no point in prevaricating. This was why he’d come: for advice. Mark fixed his gaze on his uncle. “You told me not to let Celia slip away. I don’t want to. I want to court her, but the problem is, I don’t know how.”

  Lionel sputtered as he started to laugh with a mouthful of coffee. “You’re askin’ me? That shore is funny, comin’ to a bachelor for courtin’ advice.” He pounded his fist on the table to punctuate his words.

  “Then you can’t help me?”

  “I ain’t said that. I ain’t never done no courtin’ of my own, but I heard tell how others did it. You gotta start with pretty words. The ladies like poetry and stuff like that.”

  But Mark didn’t know any poetry except nursery rhymes, and he was pretty sure that wouldn’t impress Celia. He finished his cup of coffee, listened to his uncle’s tales of trapping a beaver when he’d been hoping for a rabbit, then headed back toward Easton. There was work to be done, and he had just wasted the morning. Lionel’s advice might be good, but it wasn’t advice Mark could use. He was back where he’d started, with no idea how to court Celia.

  As he rode, Mark’s thoughts continued to whirl. Maybe Lionel was wrong. Maybe words weren’t the answer. Celia had been pleased when Mark had cut wood and pumped water his first night in Easton. Perhaps that was the answer. He had always believed that deeds were more powerful than words. As he led Charcoal to his stall at the livery, Mark made his decision. He would court Celia with deeds, not fancy words. And maybe, just maybe, she would understand.

  10

  “Thank you, Mark.” Somehow or another he found time to fill her wood box and pump water for her, not just every evening but several times a day. Her life was much easier, since she didn’t have to worry about those routine chores, but his . . . Celia couldn’t imagine how late Mark must be staying in his workshop to make up for the time he spent helping her. “You’re spoiling me.”

  The smile he gave her was so tender that it made her flush. Ever since his last visit to his uncle, he had seemed different. It wasn’t just all the thoughtful things he did for her or the fact that he lingered after meals to share an extra cup of coffee with her. What pleased Celia most was the way Mark looked at her. He smiled more often than before. That was notable in itself, but what brought color to her cheeks was that these were not the ordinary smiles he gave to others. Instead, they hinted at secrets and sent a warm glow spiraling through her.

  As she refilled his cup, Mark smiled again. “It’s not spoiling. I’m just trying to help. I know you have extra baking planned for today.”

  With a quick glance at the calendar hanging on the opposite wall, Celia nodded. Today was December 13, St. Lucia Day. “I didn’t celebrate last year,” she told Mark. The combination of deep mourning for Josef and a difficult pregnancy had made last December the worst one of Celia’s life. All she had wanted to do was stay in bed with the covers over her head. “I want to make up for that this year.” That was why she had invited the Pearsons to join her for dinner. In return, Bertha had volunteered to keep Aaron during the day.

  “I never heard of St. Lucia Day until you mentioned it,” Mark said when he’d swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

  “That’s because you’re not Swedish.” Celia gave him a playful smile. “If you were, you’d know it’s one of our most important winter celebrations. There are a number of stories about how it started, but most agree that Lucia was an early Christian who was martyred for bringing food to the Christians in the catacombs of Rome. No one knows exactly what kind of food she brought them, but legend says she wore candles on her head so that her hands were free to carry a tray.”

  Celia nodded toward her daughter, who was playing quietly in the corner of the kitchen she had barricaded for her. “I want Emma’s first St. Lucia Day to be a special one. Of course, she’s too young to wear a coronet of lighted candles.” A laugh escaped as Celia pictured her daughter in the traditional garb designated for the oldest daughter of each household. It would be years before Emma was old enough to follow the custom of walking through the house in her white gown and red sash, carrying coffee and a plate of the traditional holiday buns. “I’d hate to see what Emma would do with a candle.”

  Mark’s gray eyes sparkled as he joined in the laughter. “I’ll bet she’d eat it, if it wasn’t lit.”

  “Probably. In the past week or so, Emma’s become curious about everything. The problem is, she seems to think the only way to learn about new things is to taste them.”

  After draining his cup, Mark placed it on the counter next to the sink. “Will you let her taste the lusse . . . ? What was it you called them?”

  “Lussekatt.”

  “Lucy cat?”

  Celia nodded. “Lussekatts are part of the tradition. They’re yeast buns flavored with saffron to make them yellow. We shape them like an S, so they look a bit like a sleeping yellow cat.” Celia smiled as memories washed over her. Her initial attempts had borne absolutely no resemblance to cats. “Whenever I smell them baking, I remember the first year my mother let me help her make them. I was so proud.”

  “Before you know it, you’ll be teaching Emma.”

  Though it was difficult to picture her daughter, who was just beginning to crawl, being old enough to place the raisin eyes on the Lussekatts, Celia knew the time would pass more quickly than she dreamed possible. In a few years, Emma would be able to help her, but Mark . . .

  Resolving that she would not worry about the future, Celia fixed a smile on her face and said, “One of the reasons I like St. Lucia Day is that it’s a reminder that Christmas is coming.”

  As if on cue,
Mark rose. “The unfinished gifts in my workshop are all the reminder I need.”

  “I wish I could help you.” Celia filled a small pot with coffee for him to take back to the workshop. Though she knew Mark didn’t want to disappoint anyone, she feared he might have taken on too many commissions for Christmas gifts, and she worried that he was working too many hours.

  He nodded as he accepted the coffee. “Thank you. The coffee helps keep me awake.”

  Even after he left, Celia continued to smile.

  Each day she felt herself growing closer to Mark as she discovered new facets of his personality. He wasn’t simply a skilled carpenter and a considerate boarder. He was also a man who thought deeply, who absorbed learning the way a thirsty plant did rain. Celia could admit it, even to herself. She loved Mark.

  Oh, how she loved him! Though he’d never been far from her thoughts, now it seemed as if everything reminded her of him. A glimpse of blue sky brought back memories of the day he had taken her to visit his uncle. Snow reminded her of his first night here and how he’d filled the wood box and pumped water for her. Every time Celia entered the storage room, the finely crafted shelves were a testament to his thoughtfulness. And each time she made coffee, she was reminded of the night he’d revealed his renewed faith.

  She loved Mark. She loved him, and she wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with him. It was as simple and as complicated as that. The problem was, though she knew her own love to be deep, she did not know what Mark felt. He cared about her. That much was clear, but was it love or simply friendship? He was kind; he was thoughtful. If she let herself dream, she would say he was loving. His actions said he cared, but without the words, Celia was unsure what he really meant. She couldn’t ask him. A lady didn’t do that. Besides, the answer might be embarrassing for both of them. All she could do was wait and hope that one day Mark would put his feelings into words.

  Mark examined the small object he’d just finished carving, turning it slowly so he could see each side. When he had examined it from every angle, he let out a sigh of relief. This was the best work he’d ever done. The question was, would she like it? Would she realize that he was offering his heart along with the gift?

  After tucking Celia’s Christmas present into the simple box he’d made for it, Mark crossed to the other side of the workshop and reached for the piece of pine that would soon be a crumb tray and scraper. It had taken considerable restraint not to smile when Frank asked him to make an item Celia could use on the dining table. Didn’t the man realize that she wanted to be recognized for more than her cooking? When Mark had suggested a box for her gloves, Frank had been adamant. The gift had to be for the dining room.

  Even though he thought Frank was making a mistake, Mark had to admit that he was looking forward to creating the crumb tray. It wasn’t simply that the gift was for Celia, although that was part of the pleasure. Even greater was the feeling that carving was what he was meant to do.

  As he began to saw, Mark reflected on how much his life had changed. Two months ago, he’d been an itinerant carpenter, searching for his father. And now . . . his search had ended. He would wander no more, and though he knew that part of his life would always be devoted to carpentry, he harbored the hope that he could make a living turning wood into items of beauty. Carving brought joy to his heart. That and Celia.

  Mark brushed sawdust from the pine. It was softer wood than he would have chosen, but that was what Frank wanted. The store owner had confided that Celia’s main gift would be a case of canned oysters but that he also wanted her to have something permanent, something that would remind her of him even when he was away. Mark knew that he didn’t need an object to remind him of Celia. He didn’t even have to be awake to think of her, for he dreamt of her almost every night.

  Two months ago he had been searching for one thing: his father. But what he’d found was more than he had sought. Though he hadn’t been reunited with Pa, he’d discovered the truth about his parents, and he’d met Celia. Wonderful, unforgettable, lovable Celia. Two months ago he hadn’t known she existed, and now he could not imagine his future without her. Mark Williams, the man who never thought he would settle down or marry, had no trouble picturing himself spending the rest of his life in Easton.

  If Celia would have him.

  Mark could deny it no longer. He loved Celia with every fiber of his being. Only one question remained: Did she love him enough to trust him with her future and Emma’s?

  “Are you certain you don’t mind?” Celia gave Mark an anxious look. He’d done so much for her that she hated to ask for more, but Emma was adamant. No one but Mark was going to carry her to the church, not even her mother.

  He shook his head and reached for Emma. “The little one’s no trouble.”

  As she wrapped her cloak around her, Celia raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see if you’re still saying that after the service. I don’t know how she’ll behave. She’s not used to being up so late.”

  It was Christmas Eve, and though her daughter was fussing, Celia would not consider missing the services. Fortunately, once she was in Mark’s arms, Emma quieted, and the walk to the church was a silent one, the only sounds the crunching of snow beneath their boots and Emma’s occasional coos. Celia’s parents had made it a tradition that the walk to Christmas Eve services was devoted to quiet contemplation of the blessed event they would soon celebrate, and Mark had agreed it was a wonderful custom.

  “Just so you don’t expect me to be quiet afterward,” he’d warned Celia. “I want to be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  The smile he’d given her had been so tender that Celia had felt color rush to her cheeks. Would Mark say more than “Merry Christmas”? Would he say the words she dreamt of each night? She could only hope and pray.

  Once they entered the sanctuary and took their places in the last pew, Celia looked around. As she had expected, it seemed as if everyone in town was there, filling the room with the scents of hair oil and toilet water, the sounds of whispered conversations and fussy children, and the almost palpable sense of excitement. The moment everyone in Easton had been waiting for approached.

  When the last notes of “Adeste Fideles” faded and the congregation resumed their seats, Reverend Pearson took his place behind the pulpit. “‘And it came to pass in those days . . .’”

  As he read the familiar story, Celia’s heart filled with happiness. Here she was in the church that had brought her so much comfort, with her long-awaited daughter and the man she loved. It was an almost-perfect moment. She looked down at Emma, who had finally agreed to let her mother hold her. The child was sleeping, but as Celia watched, Emma opened her eyes and reached for Mark.

  “Dada.” The word was soft but distinct.

  Celia stared, not quite believing what she’d heard. She had never used that term around Emma, but Aaron had. Perhaps that was where Emma had learned it.

  “Dada.” As Emma repeated the word, Mark stroked her cheek with his fingertip, then raised his eyes to meet Celia’s gaze, giving her one of those special smiles that made her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. But this smile was different, for there was a sense of wonder in it, and the way he touched Emma told Celia that he loved her daughter as much as she did.

  She had been mistaken. This moment wasn’t almost perfect. It was perfect. The happiness that had been building inside Celia’s heart overflowed, sending bubbles of joy throughout her. Even if only for a moment, for this one perfect moment, they were a family.

  Celia wondered if the happiness that surged through her was evident on the outside. She felt as if she were glowing like a lantern. Though she had never failed to be thrilled by the story of the nativity, this year it had an even deeper meaning, for this was the first Christmas that she held her own child in her arms. Like Mary, she had known the pain of birth and the infinite joy of hearing her baby’s first cry. She was a mother, and though Emma was only human, Celia doubted if even Mary had
loved her child more.

  “‘And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of heavenly host praising God, and saying, glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’” While Reverend Pearson read the timeless words, Celia closed her eyes in silent prayer. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for my daughter, for Mark’s presence in our lives, and most of all for the gift of your Son.

  As they rose for the benediction, Emma stretched her arms out to Mark. When he nodded, Celia transferred her daughter to him, watching as Emma cuddled close to the man she’d called Dada. Though Emma would not recall this moment, it was etched on Celia’s memory.

  “Merry Christmas.” It wasn’t quite midnight, but Mark seemed to be taking no chances.

  “Merry Christmas, Mark.” Celia smiled at him and added, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.” They weren’t the words she’d hoped for, but this was not the time or place for a declaration of love.

  Celia and Mark had reached the bottom of the steps and were heading home when she heard the cry. “Mrs. Celia. Mrs. Celia.” Aaron pushed his way through the crowd still leaving the church and raced toward her, tumbling down the steps and landing with his face planted in the snow. “I hurt, Mrs. Celia. I hurt.”

  Crouching, Celia put her arms around Aaron. Though his face might sport a bruise tomorrow, he had not broken the skin. “You’ll be all right,” she said softly. Then, as the church bells began to chime, she whispered, “Merry Christmas, Aaron.”

  The boy was once again smiling when his father reached them a minute later. As Jacob hoisted his son onto his shoulders, he looked at Celia. “He wants you to be his mother, you know.”

  She nodded and started to turn back to Mark and Emma, but Jacob put a hand on her arm. “I know it’s still a week until New Year’s, but I was kinda hoping you’d give me your answer tonight. Marrying you would be a sight easier than sending for a mail-order bride, especially since there’s no telling how Aaron would take to her.”