“You’re awfully quiet,” Gracie said.
He raised his eyes, and meeting hers, drew in a breath. “Bows take concentration.”
Gracie was cutting lengths of stiff gold ribbon and the gold cord used to secure the middles of the bows. Merett, with Kirsten’s help, was folding ribbon, and then tying the center while she held it. After five bows, they ran out of gold cord. Looking around, Gracie came up with the idea of using silver wire, and hiding it from the front with sprigs of holly.
“Holly was my mother’s name, but she wasn’t named after that green stuff,” Kirsten said. “She was named after Hollywood.”
“The city of her mother’s dreams,” Merett said, flinching. Star-struck socialite and atheist, his mother-in-law was one of a kind.
More comfortable with wire cutters and a glue gun than tying cord, he worked faster now. After a while, he looked up to see Gracie watching him with a grin on her face. “We should have done this from the beginning,” she said, counting the bows. “Fourteen. Six more to go.”
Kirsten moaned. She’d been flexing her fingers frequently. Now she licked them, one by one, like a puppy. “My fingers burn.”
“Why don’t you go in the guest bathroom under the stairs, and hold your hands under cold water?” Gracie suggested. “Then maybe you should take a break. Spook would enjoy someone to play with. Take one of those empty ribbon spools and roll it to him. He loves that game.”
“All right!” Kirsten shouted.
Before Merett could shush her, she ran from the room, and he heard her splashing water in the bathroom. Kirsten was usually taking her bath by now, but he wanted to help Gracie as much as he could. While he glued silver roses and gold leaves, she added a red pearl to the center of each rose. Her job on the wreaths took less time than his, and between pearls, she sorted garlands into large carrying boxes on the floor.
A burst of music suddenly flooded the house.
Gracie, who was sitting back on her heels, fell on her rear with a thud. “Oh Tannenbaum? What on earth?” Scrambling up, she ran to the parlor, and he followed. “The player piano is playing.”
Sure enough, the keys were moving, and the music roll was turning. “Something must have been stuck all this time,” Merett said, bending to gaze inside the open front where the roll was revolving.
The music stopped as suddenly as it started, and he and Gracie looked at it and waited. When nothing happened, she shrugged. “If it was my Christmas ghost playing, maybe she’ll come back again.”
“I remember now,” Merett said, rubbing his hands together. “This is the house that the kids in school used to say was haunted.” It had been a long time since he’d heard the tale. “The ghost’s name was…”
“Mirabelle Mayor.”
“Mirabelle was engaged to one of the Larraby’s sons. Right? Help me out, here.”
“Jonathon, the youngest and only surviving Larraby, was going to marry Mirabelle on Christmas Eve, the night before her thirtieth birthday. In those days, a woman was considered a spinster if she wasn’t married by the time she was thirty.”
“So he was going to save her from disgrace.”
Gracie chuckled. “I assume they were also in love.”
“But he died before he married her.”
“The day of the wedding, he was shot in a hunting accident, and since he’d already had her name put on the deed, Mirabelle moved in here, alone. Less than a year later, she died. Of a broken heart, people said.”
“So every December she comes back to this house looking for her lost love?”
“According to the story, her soul can’t rest because she died an old maid.”
Merett chuckled. He’d enjoyed recalling the tale with Gracie. “Some women never give up on marriage.”
“I can tell you one who has.”
He followed her back to the workroom, where she pulled aside the heavy drape to look out the window. It was dark outside. Was she looking into the past? He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Why did you marry Sonny?”
She stiffened beneath Merett’s touch. “We dated most of our senior year, and he had what he described as a ‘big job opportunity’ in Chicago. I thought our life there would be exciting. She glanced over her shoulder. “I guess you always knew you’d marry Holly?”
“It seemed bound to happen, but I don’t know why.”
Gracie played with the edge of the drape. “Tell me about New York. Was it everything you expected?”
“I liked working my newspaper beat.” He never cared about Broadway shows and city lights, or fancy places the way Holly did. “Then going back to a news room buzzing with activity to write my stories.”
“So you were happy? In your job and otherwise?”
Merett felt tension weave its way through his shoulder blades and into his neck. “I wanted to be the best reporter the Times ever had, so I worked long hours to prove myself. But I hadn’t made the grade when...I came back. So I left, dissatisfied.”
He’d felt cheated by time and his boss, but when he flew home to Ferndale for the funeral, he’d planned to return to work in two weeks and strive even harder. After leaving Kirsten with his dad, he went back and drank the rest of his two weeks away. And when the fury and grief went out of him, his motivation and love for his job went with it, so he’d resigned when school was out. But he still had something to prove. “New York wasn’t magic, but the job was what I wanted, and I put everything into it and...failed.”
Gracie turned to cup his cheek in her hand. “Fail is a strong word. There may have been circumstances you didn’t know about, or the kind of reporting you were doing might not have been your long suit. Even if you do your best, everyone loses sometime.”
Not him. Not until then, and when he did, he lost everything, including his self-respect. The only thing he had left was Kirsten. Gracie rubbed a finger across his brow, and realizing he’d been frowning, he smiled. She made him feel better whenever she was around. Everyone loses sometime. Was that a rule of life?
“I did my best at my marriage, but there came a time to cut my losses.” She looked out the window again, and he laid his hands on her shoulders, fragile-feeling through the silky softness of her sweater. She tensed, and he kneaded her tight muscles gently until she softly released her breath and relaxed against his chest. She’d leaned back against him like that yesterday when he helped her with her coat. She was a woman who touched and liked to be touched, and he found himself wishing he could stroke the satiny skin beneath her sweater.
“I let Holly down. I wanted to give her so much more.”
Gracie covered his hand with hers. “If you did your best, that’s all you can do. I’ll bet she knew how hard you tried.”
She must have, but she must have been disappointed. He’d promised her the moon, and given her green cheese.
“Daddy. Gracie.” Kirsten burst into the room, Gracie’s cat in her arms. “Doesn’t Spook look beautiful?”
The cat wore a crocheted doily off one of Gracie’s end tables, and Kirsten had threaded her pink hair ribbon through to hold it on.
Gracie chuckled and hugged them both while Merett looked on. “You’re welcome to look through my scrap box. I’ll bet you can find material for more outfits there.”
“Really?” Kirsten squealed, dropping Spook in her eagerness. The cat yowled, and Merett winced. She definitely wasn’t old enough for a pet.
Kirsten dug through the colorful confusion of cloth, ribbons, and lace as if she’d found a pirate’s treasure. Gracie must have saved every scrap from everything she ever made. “I thought you were going to help, too,” Merett reminded Kirsten.
Sighing, she began stuffing the scraps back in the box. Gracie stared at the work-strewn table, and Merett realized she was worn out.
“I believe we should call it a night.” He rubbed gently at the faint purple smudges beneath her eyes. “You look tired.”
“I’m tired, too. I’ll make Spook an outfit next time we help,” Kirsten called
over her shoulder as she ran for the foyer and her coat.
“I wish I had half her energy.” Gracie shook her head and smiled.
“You can have all of mine, tomorrow evening, after dinner. I’ll leave Kirsten with Dad so she can get to bed earlier.” He saw the tiredness fade from Gracie’s face as she relaxed. She needed him, and that felt good. Impulsively, Merett grazed her lips with his, and she tasted so sweet, he longed to fold her close to his heart.
* * *
Gracie’s sling had come off during the night, but she awoke with her arm still cradled against her chest. She tried moving it. It hadn’t magically healed, but it felt better, and the memory of Merett’s kiss lingered on her lips.
Closing her eyes, she said her morning prayer. She rose to wash her face, brush her teeth, and lay out a green sweat suit that fastened in the front. She’d managed to slip out of her jeans the night before, but getting her sweater off and her warm challis gown over her head was a feat she hadn’t felt like tackling. Gingerly slipping out of the sweater, she shivered and looked around. The bedroom door stood wide open, and she always closed it against drafts. In her post-Merett haze, she must have forgotten.
Downstairs, she looked out on a new layer of snow, and told herself she had to buy a snow shovel next time she went out. She’d put it off, sure she could find one tucked away in some forgotten corner of this wonderful house. The basement had yielded the wicker baskets she’d arranged in the kitchen. The attic had given her the piano. And she’d found a copper ring mold in the panty that would come in handy sometime.
Grandma Carver had a copper ring mold she made Jell-O in, and Gracie, slicing banana onto her cereal, recalled the idyllic summers she’d spent with her mother’s parents on their Ohio farm. The sun rising over a faded red barn. Fields to run in. Sweet clover to pick for chains. Dandelions to blow. Those were the best times of her life, but after Faithie came, Mama needed her at home.
Unfolding the Daily Reporter at the kitchen table, Gracie skipped over the spattering of national news and went straight to local. Twins were born to the Bossos’ son Charlie and his wife. Sonya, the daughter of the Hensons who owned the fish market, was marrying a boy she’d met in college. St. Michael School’s PTO was holding a bazaar, and Marianne Heber was chairman of the craft booth.
So many wonderful things were happening. Good things. Good people. Marianne, Will’s wife, was donating time to help her kids’ school. The Hensons had been able to send their daughter to college, even though a supermarket on the same block sold fresh fish cheaper. Big companies putting “the little guy” out of business was a real sore spot with Gracie. When National Manufacturing bought the smaller factory where Pop worked, they phased out his job, and that was when things took a turn for the worse.
Even the obituaries said good things about people’s lives, but in the back of her mind, she harbored a fear of seeing the name, Faith Singleton. Silly, since it wouldn’t appear in the local paper without Gracie or Hope knowing about her death first.
As Gracie folded the newspaper, an item caught her eye. Koch’s Book Nook, the tiny store she loved so much growing up, was for sale. A larger ad on the same page heralded Simon & Sterns Superstore as having “thousands of books, a cappuccino bar, copy and fax machines.”
Mrs. Koch used to let Gracie browse endlessly, even though she didn’t have a dime. And once, she even gave her a copy of Little Women, saying it wouldn’t sell because it was outdated. By the time Gracie knew the truth, she’d read the book a dozen times. And today, it stood on the shelf in her library-workroom.
Gracie picked up a pen, and made notations on her “to-do list.” Send a baby card to Bossos. Mail Hensons a flyer about Special Effects, with a note offering them a special rate for the wedding. Drop by to see Mrs. Koch and buy a book.
If more townspeople would shop at small, locally owned stores, people like Mrs. Koch could stay in business. Resolutely picking up her pen again, Gracie wrote a letter. “Is saving a dollar or two on a purchase worth jeopardizing our neighbors’ living? Isn’t it time we remembered the little ‘guy’? Shouldn’t we turn our backs on big business?”
Ten minutes later, Gracie folded her impassioned plea into an envelope. It was the first letter-to-the-editor she’d ever written, but whoever sat at the helm of her favorite paper, the Daily Reporter, would print it, she felt sure.
* * *
“Mr. Bradmoore reporting for duty.” Merett saluted when Gracie opened the door. He wore faded jeans and a plaid flannel shirt under his jacket. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and he smelled like snow and leather. He looked just as appealing dressed down as dressed up. He clicked his heels together, she chuckled, and he pulled her close to rub his nose against her cheek.
“Oh,” she gasped. “You’re cold.”
“Punishment for laughing at my military manner,” he said, rubbing his nose against her neck. She struggled to get loose, and he quit nuzzling her neck and stood still, and held her quietly for a moment.
Looking over his shoulder, she caught sight of the moon. Big and beautiful, and unbelievably bright, it flooded the snowy ground with an iridescent light. She caught her breath in delight. “It’s a beautiful night. So quiet. So bright.”
He turned on the threshold, and gazed out over her yard. “It’s been a long time since I looked at the moon, and listened to a snowy night.” A dimple flickered in his cheek as he cocked an ear toward the snowy scene and darted a sideways glance at her.
“Let’s take a walk,” she said impulsively. Tonight, he seemed to be the carefree Merett he used to be.
“Shouldn’t we work first?”
“I always do the responsible thing first. Just once, I’d like to be spontaneous.” Reaching into the corner inside the door, she pulled her coat from the hall tree and stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.
Merett’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “I haven’t taken a moonlight walk since I was young.”
Gracie laughed softly. “Listen to you, talking like an old man.”
He helped her on with her coat, slipping one arm in a sleeve and securing the other around her. She’d left her boots on the porch, and while she balanced herself with her good hand on his shoulder, he pulled them on for her. His hand grazed the calf of her leg, sending a thrill of excitement through her. When he rose, the heat in his eyes told her he’d felt it, too. For a moment, they stood still, looking at one another, and she remembered the saying that eyes are the windows of the soul. Merett’s eyes said far more than he’d ever said aloud.
Strolling down the walk, her hand in his, she sighed contentedly. The only sound was the crunch of snow beneath their feet. The lights in the houses seemed remote as they passed. Their breath clouded in front of them, and moonlight bathed the footprints they left. “Snow seems to insulate you from the world,” Merett said. “It’s as if no one else exists on the planet except you and me.”
Their camaraderie gave Gracie a warm feeling, and she squeezed his hand. He returned the gentle pressure, and they walked silently for several blocks. What would they do if they were the only two people?
Coming upon a small park with a playground, Merett picked up a double handful of snow, made a ball, and shot it overhand through a basketball hoop. Hitting the ground, it broke apart. “Two points, and that shot calls for a new basketball,” Gracie said, laughing.
He began forming another one. “I feel like a kid.” He wound up, threw his second snowball at a light post, and hit it.
“If there’s only you and I in the world, then I’m a kid, too.” It was hard to pack snow with one arm hampered by a sling, and her snowball fell apart in the air. When she tried to make another, he slipped his arms around from behind and helped her. His breath, hot against her neck, made her shiver, and he hugged her tighter as he packed the snow in her hand. “I could learn to enjoy being taken care of,” she said softly, and he kissed her cheek.
Grace threw her snowball at a tree trunk, missed, and he made her an
other. She tried again. This time, it hit, but they were standing close, and when it broke, snow showered their faces and hair. “Now you’ve done it.” Laughing, Merett tried to put snow down her collar.
“No fair. I can’t fight with one arm,” she said. And as soon as he let go, she dropped a handful of snow down his neck.
“Truce,” he cried, shaking like a dog, so the snow would fall out.
She raised an arm in surrender, and he caught her by the shoulders and rubbed noses with her.
They looked into one another’s eyes, and his breath warmed her lips, making her long for his kiss. But afraid she’d appear overeager, turned away. She heard a whisper of a sigh escape him, and she wondered if he was disappointed, but when she turned around, he was already scooping up more snow.
Standing in the entrance to the park, he pitched a snowball overhand at a sign that said STOP. A police car cruised around the corner, lights spilling over the snowy street just as it hit. The noise from the metal sign reverberated. Ping-g-g.
“Duck.” Merett dived behind a shrub, pulling her with him. She landed on top, and held her head up, trying to peer through the frozen evergreen. She couldn’t see, but as the lights from the car disappeared, he started chuckling.
“This is no laughing matter,” she said in her best strict-mother voice. “What would your father say if you got arrested for throwing snowballs?”
Merett laughed harder, and she giggled, until she became aware of the movement of his body beneath hers. “What would my daughter say?” he asked.
His voice faded to a whisper in the matter of five words, and she knew he’d become aware of it, too. His eyes shone in the moonlight with what she hoped was desire. Gently shifting her so her sprained arm wouldn’t be crushed, he pulled her closer and groaned softly. Her coat lay open, and her breasts pressed against him. “You smell so sweet and feel so soft.”
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