A Winter Wonderland

by Fern Michaels

  Some time later, she couldn’t have said how long, she was aware of someone gently patting her back. She looked up. It was one of the guests, a woman somewhere in her seventies perhaps, dressed in a wild assortment of warm clothing.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” the woman asked.

  The woman’s gentle touch made Iris’s tears flow ever harder. All she managed to choke out were the words, “My mother.”

  “I had a mother once, too,” the woman said. “A long time ago.”

  Iris wiped her eyes again and looked up at her comforter. “Did you . . . Did you love her?”

  The woman’s lined and careworn face became beautiful at that moment. “Oh, yes,” she said, “very much indeed.”

  Iris looked down at her mother’s ring. “I miss her,” she said.

  “Of course you do. And I’m sure she knows that up in heaven.”

  Iris nodded, afraid to venture a reply, and the woman patted her back again.

  “A pretty girl like you should have a nice boyfriend,” she said.

  Iris attempted a smile. It was enough for her companion, who smiled back and went off for the dessert course.

  When the meal was over, and cleanup was accomplished, Iris headed out for Alec’s apartment. He answered on the first ring of the bell, as if he had been impatiently awaiting her.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “You do have wrapping paper?” Iris asked, holding out a flat, square box she had withdrawn from her bag.

  Alec looked puzzled. “What? Oh. I’ll find something.” He opened the box and whistled. “Whoa. Now that’s a necklace. Even I can tell as much. Wow. Thanks, Iris.”

  Iris nodded. “May she wear it in good health.”

  Alec put the box aside and handed her an envelope. “It’s a gift certificate to Longfellow. I know how you love that bookstore.”

  “Thank you, Alec. You shouldn’t have. But I’m glad that you did.”

  “And here.” Alec took a colorful round tin from a small table beside the door and handed it to her. “Butter cookies from Tricia. They’re awesome. She used like three pounds of butter in each batch.”

  Iris laughed. “I’ll break out a backup artery just in case. So, you’re going to Tricia’s parents’ house tomorrow?”

  “Yup. I’m meeting them for the first time on Christmas Day. Can you believe it? It’s either really good luck or the worst ever.”

  “I’m betting on the good luck.”

  “Me, too. Are you going over to Bess’s tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I was invited.”

  “You should go, Iris.”

  “I’ll see.”

  Alec shook his head. “Well, we know what that means. Look, Iris, call me if you need to talk, any time of the day or night. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Alec saluted jauntily and Iris left. On the way home, clutching her tin of cookies, Iris sent out an important prayer.

  “Mom,” she said, whispering the words into the chill air, “if you can hear me, help me. There’s something important I need to do tonight. Please, Mom, help me.”

  And oh, how she hoped her mother had heard.

  Chapter 27

  Iris whimpered in frustration. The below-freezing temperature and the stiff wind it brought with it did not help to bolster her strength or her mood. She had been on the darkened streets now for close to two hours, in search of Ben Tresch.

  Earlier, she had called his cell phone only to get his voice mail. She had left no message because she felt that nothing said to a machine would be adequate. She had then tried his office only to get that voice mail, too. Well, it had been a long shot. She didn’t know if he had a landline at home but she did know where he lived so she had gone over to Bowdoin Street, on the way passing a group of carolers, people dressed in their holiday finest, and the winking lights of Christmas trees in windows.

  Ben lived in an old building similar to the one in which Iris lived. From what she could tell from the sidewalk, the lights of the second-floor apartment were off and no one came to answer her knocking, loud and insistent though it was.

  She had turned away in frustration. She realized Ben could be at a friend’s house, or even out of town. She might not see him again for days. She didn’t know how she could survive the silence for even moments longer.

  Her knee still ached from her near fall on the black ice. The damp cold seeped through the tiniest spaces between her hat and her head, freezing the tips of her ears. Her nose was numb and running and her eyes stung. Her fingers, though encased in gloves inside woolen mittens, were swollen and painful.

  Iris struggled not to cry and made her way resolutely into the heart of the city. Not much was open this late on Christmas Eve but she tried what was—the bar at the Regency Hotel, the Grill Room on Exchange Street. But Ben was nowhere to be found.

  Iris huddled in the door of a watch repair shop, feeling close to despair. She considered calling Alec—he had told her she could call him night or day—but she rejected the idea. He would be with Tricia and possibly fast asleep, and besides, what could he do but offer her a shoulder to cry on? And that was just not going to be enough, not this time.

  Think, Iris, think, she urged herself. He must be here; he has to be here!

  And then, something came to her. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before. Ben’s family was Episcopal, and though Ben himself didn’t attend Mass every Sunday, he always celebrated Christmas and Easter. The Cathedral Church of St. Luke was on State Street, mere blocks from both of their homes.

  It was a long way back up to State Street but Iris wasn’t sure how easily she could get a cab on Christmas Eve, so she made her way on foot, up Congress Street, and then along the buckled brick sidewalks of State, dodging dangerous patches of ice, trying and mostly failing to favor her sore knee. When she reached the cathedral she pulled open the heavy outer door and stepped gratefully into the vestibule.

  The sound of organ and voices came to her from behind the closed second set of large wood doors. Iris scanned the table on which were stacked various brochures and saw a sign that told her the Festival Eucharist had begun at ten o’clock. She checked her watch. It was almost eleven thirty. The Mass should soon be over. Quietly, Iris made her way into the church and stood half hidden behind one of the massive marble pillars. In spite of her aching heart, she was moved by the church’s beauty. Every pew was packed and it took a long moment before she saw Ben’s golden head above the crowd.

  A feeling of intense relief swept through her, followed by a feeling of dread. What if Ben walked right by her? What if he refused to acknowledge her? Well, she would deal with that awful possibility if it happened.

  Before long the priest was giving the final blessing and then he dismissed the congregation. The cathedral’s magnificent organ soared to life again. People began to exit the pews and make their way toward the back of the church. Finally, Iris saw Ben approaching. An old, extremely well-dressed couple walked by his side, chatting quietly.

  When the three were only feet away, Iris stepped out from behind the pillar.

  “Hello, Ben,” she said.

  Ben looked startled and not altogether pleased. He said farewell to the couple and stepped out of the way of the crowd behind him.

  “Iris,” he said evenly, “I didn’t see you earlier.”

  “I wasn’t at the Mass. Do you have plans? I mean, are you going somewhere?”

  “I had planned to go home to bed,” he said. “Why?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you. I should have told you a long time ago. I should have told you the other day, when you asked me for the truth. But I . . . I couldn’t.”

  Ben’s expression was wary. Iris understood that.

  “What’s changed since the other day?” he asked.

  “My mother talked to me.”

  Now the wariness became a look of outright concern. “Are you feeling all right, Iris? You’re shivering. Did you take anything�
�”

  “No, no. I mean, yes. I’m fine. What I mean is that my mother wrote me a letter right before she died. It somehow got lost. My father found it and sent it to me.”

  “Oh,” Ben said, his look of concern lessening only slightly. “Okay.”

  “Will you listen to me?”

  Ben seemed to think about his answer before saying, “All right.”

  Iris spoke in a calm, hushed voice. It took every bit of her courage. She told him about her mother’s request that they marry before she died, and about her failing to honor that request. She told him about the magical thinking that had caused her to believe she could keep her mother alive by force of will. She told him about the guilt that had driven her away from him. And then, she told him about the contents of her mother’s letter.

  “Mom understood,” she said. “She didn’t hate me at the end. She wasn’t disappointed in me. She loved me. She still loves me.”

  Ben shook his head. “So you ran away because . . .”

  “I ran away because I thought I had let her down and let you down, too. I believed I didn’t deserve to be happy. I . . . I didn’t think clearly about what you deserved. I think I must have gone a little mad. I’m so, so sorry, Ben. I know you must be so angry with me.”

  “I am angry, Iris,” he said after a moment. “At least, I was. But mostly I’m sad for you. I’m sorry you’ve been suffering alone all this time. And I’m sad for me, too. God, it could have been so different. For both of us.”

  Iris felt tears slipping down her cheeks. “Will you ever forgive me? Can you?”

  “All those things you said the other day. About never having really loved me. About wanting me to leave you alone. Did you mean any of it?”

  “No. Of course not. Everything was a horrible lie. I was so afraid . . .”

  Ben put a hand on her shoulder. “Then of course I forgive you. Of course.”

  Iris hung her head. “I can’t believe you’re even talking to me, after all I’ve done to you.”

  “I’m talking with you because I love you more than I was ever mad at you,” Ben said. “It’s pretty simple, really.”

  “Is it?” Iris managed a smile. “Yes, I guess it is after all.”

  Ben took her in his arms. “Oh, Iris. What are we going to do?”

  She shook her head against his chest.

  “Well, we’ll figure out something. After all, we are creative sorts.”

  Iris laughed and held him tighter.

  “As pleasant as this is,” Ben said after a moment, “we should probably go.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m supposed to be at my parents’ house at one o’clock,” Ben said when they left the building. “How about I pick you up at eleven.”

  “But I can’t just show up at your parents’ house!” Iris cried. “Not after all this time without a word. Not after what I did to them.”

  “Trust me, they’ll be very happy to see you. Really.”

  “But you can’t just bring in a guest unannounced,” Iris protested, somewhat feebly.

  “You know my mother always makes room at the table for one more.”

  “She’ll be making room for the stray.”

  Ben pulled her to him in another strong embrace. “Iris,” he said, “you’re not a stray. You never were. You always belonged, to all of us.”

  How wonderful those words sounded!

  Together, hand in hand, they began to walk down the path from the cathedral to the sidewalk.

  “You’re limping,” Ben noted.

  “Yeah.” Iris smiled sheepishly. “I slipped on some ice the other day.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be.”

  “Good. Merry Christmas, Iris.”

  “Merry Christmas, Ben.” Iris paused for a moment and then said, “ ‘If ever two were one, then surely we.’ ”

  “That’s lovely.”

  “It’s not mine,” Iris admitted. “It’s a line from a poem by Anne Bradstreet. I read it in one of Bess’s books once. I didn’t even know it had stayed with me.”

  “I’m glad it did. Come on,” Ben said. “Let’s get out of this cold.”

  “Thank you, Mom,” Iris whispered as together she and Ben made their way home.

  Epilogue

  It was mid-March, not quite spring, but the air was warmer than it should be, and on the way to her studio Iris had spotted purple and yellow crocuses in the front yards on Neal Street. Once in the studio she had opened the one window that actually opened and breathed in the fresh air. She touched the gold and ruby ring on her right hand and smiled. So much had changed since last December, and all of it for the better.

  Take, for instance, Iris’s relationship with her father. In January she had paid him a lengthy and long overdue visit. The time together had benefited them both, especially Iris, who learned some important things about her father, like the fact that he hadn’t been able to open the door of Bonnie’s studio since the day she had died. Iris had simply never realized how badly her father had grieved. Just because he had married Jean didn’t mean that he had forgotten his first wife.

  Together Iris and Robert began the process of cleaning out the studio, deciding what could be donated to an art school, what might be sold, and what should be kept. It was a healing process and Jean and Ben had let them work alone.

  Once back in Portland, Iris had begun to design a new line of jewelry. The ideas just seemed to be there for the developing, the designs happening organically. It was, Iris thought, the best work she had done in some time. She had decided to call this new line “Joy,” in honor of the joy her mother had brought to everyone she met.

  Iris had brought from her father’s house not only inspiration but also tangible reminders of her past, like a large packet of family photos, one of her mother’s early abstract works in marble, and several of her small sculptures in wood. Iris was creating a life in which her mother was still an important and integral part.

  And as for Ben, he had moved into Iris’s home until they found a place that suited them both. Iris had retrieved from her father’s garage their old soup tureen as well as all the other household items they had collected. The apartment was a little cramped at the moment but cramped felt nice.

  A wedding, a marriage, children—it would all happen. There were difficult days—Ben’s heart had been badly bruised, his ability to trust, tested—but together, they were healing.

  Iris turned away from the window and pulled a sketch of his-and-hers wedding rings from a folder on one of the worktables. She and Ben weren’t the only ones contemplating years of marital bliss. Alec had asked Tricia to marry him and unsurprisingly she had said yes—but only if he agreed to shave his head. He looked so much more attractive now. Alec had been right all along. Tricia was smart in the ways that really counted, like the ability to make another person truly happy.

  On the topic of happiness, Bess’s son, Michael, had moved back East. Southern California no longer agreed with him and it seemed that his interest in becoming a chef was meeting with a lot of resistance from his father. Here, in Portland, Marilyn had given him a job at the restaurant. It was a menial position and meant to test his commitment to the business. So far, washing dishes, mopping floors, and chopping vegetables hadn’t deterred him. Bess was very happy to have Michael home with her. Iris thought him a nice guy and Ben thought he was okay, in spite of the huge plug in his left earlobe. Ben didn’t care for piercings and internal horns and tattoos, though Michael vigorously argued that they were a legitimate form of art. “They might be art,” Ben replied, “but they’re ugly art.”

  “It’s me.”

  Iris looked up from the sketch to find Maeve, her second-floor neighbor, at the door of her studio. Since January Maeve had been working as Iris’s part-time assistant and had proved invaluable, not in small part due to her good conversation.

  “Hey, you. Isn’t it gorgeous out there?”

  “Beyond gorgeous,” Maeve replied, “in spite
of the puddles of muck on our street.”

  “They don’t call it mud season for nothing.”

  “Who’s they?”

  Iris shrugged. “No one really knows.”

  “Well, here are the pencils you wanted. The receipt and your change are in the bag.”

  “Thanks, Maeve. So, see you later at Snug?”

  “Right after my computer class.”

  With a wave, Maeve left.

  Yes, so much had changed since the night Iris had seen Ben across the crowd. And the month of December had been transformational. She would never fear it again, as the countdown to death. She would, instead, regard the month of December as a time in which to celebrate life.

  Abandoning the sketch, Iris went back to the open window. The trees were still largely bare so she could see the Rising Cairn in all its simple splendor. In her mind’s eye she saw the great stone and steel body rise to its full height until it was standing erect, head set to bravely face the future, free to create a new life for itself.

  Indeed, Iris had risen.

  The Christmas Thief

  LESLIE MEIER

  For my editor, John Scognamiglio.

  Twenty years and counting!

  Thank you, John, for taking such

  good care of me and my work.

  Chapter 1

  “That bag is to die for.”

  As a graduate of the Cavendish Hotel chain’s Guests Come First program, Toni Leone was too well trained to point, but Elizabeth Stone followed her colleague’s gaze, which was fixed on a Chanel-style handbag made of silver quilted leather with a long, woven leather and chain strap. The woman carrying the bag was dressed in tight black jeans, stiletto heels, and a fluttering silk tunic. Her hair was bleached blond and she was hanging onto the arm of an extremely muscular man.

  “It’s probably not real,” Elizabeth replied, speaking in a whisper. The two young women were wearing matching forest green blazers and standing behind the reception desk at the very posh, very expensive Cavendish Palm Beach Hotel. It was strictly against hotel policy to comment on the guests, but the staff members all did it, especially during the quiet times. The hotel was a historic landmark and attracted the rich and famous from around the world. Located right on the beach, the pink stucco building had eight restaurants, four pools, a spa, and recreational options ranging from tennis courts and an eighteen-hole golf course to paddleboats and shuffleboard. It was also steps away from Worth Avenue, which was lined with designer boutiques such as Gucci, Armani, Ralph Lauren, and Cartier.