“That’s what ours were, but you should see the beautiful chains you can make with the shiny paper ribbon I have in the workroom. I’ll show you, one day soon, if you’ll go get the fudge I made.”
“Nice kid,” Hope said wistfully, as Kirsten walked swiftly away.
“Is Frank still set against having children?”
“He’s not going to change his mind. I keep thinking I’ve accepted it, but…”
She shrugged her shoulders in an exaggerated motion, and as her sweater fell back into place, Gracie noticed how loosely it hung. Hope had lost weight, and there were circles under her eyes. She should have noticed it right away. “Are you okay, Hopie? You look…” She didn’t want to say “sick” and alarm her sister. “Tired.”
“I’ve been nauseous lately, so I haven’t eaten much. That, in turn, makes me tired.” She shrugged again. “It’s probably a virus that will go away by itself.”
“If you don’t feel better in a day or two, promise me you’ll go see Doctor Hiram.”
Hope nodded absently and smiled as she cast a glance toward the kitchen where Kirsten was talking to the kitten again. “Do you ever wish you’d had kids?”
“I wish I’d had them five years ago, even ten. But Sonny wasn’t stable, and I couldn’t bring a child into a world without knowing it would be well provided for and loved by both its parents.”
“It isn’t too late. You could marry again.”
Looking into the shiny bauble she was hanging, Gracie saw the vision that had come to her over the years, of a dimpled baby boy with dark hair tumbling onto his forehead. Merett had a daughter, but not a son. “I’ll be thirty New Year’s Eve, remember? Same age as Mom when I was born, and she was too tired to do things other mothers did. PTO. School plays.”
“I remember how furious you were when she didn’t go see you in Snow White in fourth grade,” Hope said, chuckling. “That was the only time I ever saw you throw a fit.”
“I was Snow White, for heaven’s sake. You weren’t too happy when you were sixth grade cheerleader, and she and Pop never came to a game.”
“Or that Mom went to bed before I left for my senior prom. The dress your friend Linda loaned me was so beautiful, I felt like Miss America. Mom never even saw me in it.”
Their mother had suffered from some undetermined malady for as long as Gracie could remember, and after she gave birth to Faith, she spent most of her time on the couch or in bed. “Mom was too old for kids.”
Hope opened a package of icicles, and began adding them to the tree. “Lots of women have children when they’re past thirty or even forty.”
The icicles Hope hung shimmered. The ornaments glittered. When the lights were turned on, the Christmas tree would be a fabulous sight. Gracie had a life without kids, and it was going to be a great one, she’d promised herself that. “She was never there for us. Neither of our parents were.”
“So Pop was weird, too, especially after he lost his job. And he was even older than Mom.” Hope waved her hands impatiently. “So that was them, and then, we’re talking about you now. You’d make a great mother.”
Gracie shook her head. “I thought so, until Faith...”
“I worry about her, too, but what does that have to do with you?”
“When she started acting out, Pop said it was my fault. I spoiled her.”
Hope snorted. “You were a kid. She had parents who should have raised her.”
It was hard to explain guilt, and even harder to overcome. Holding your head high didn’t remove the pain or the feeling of irresponsibility.
“Away in the Manger” poured forth from the piano, the keys moving as the song played. Hope clutched her chest. “I didn’t see you turn the piano on, Gracie.”
“I didn’t. The player doesn’t work when you want it to, but when it feels like it.”
“Your piano plays by itself?” Hope clutched Gracie’s hand. “Unexpectedly?”
Gracie nodded and pressed a coil of silver tinsel, the final touch except for the “slightly bent” star, into Hope’s hand.
The carol came to an abrupt stop. Hope dropped the tinsel, and it uncoiled, snaking across the floor. “That’s really eerie.”
“The piano didn’t cost me anything, and I’m grateful for the times it plays.” Gracie grinned teasingly at her sister. “Except when it starts in the middle of the night, and I’m awakened by music floating up the stairs.”
Hope shuddered and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You don’t think it has anything to do with that ghost woman, do you?”
“What ghost woman?” Kirsten appeared in the doorway, plate of fudge in hand. “Sorry I took so long. I stopped to give Spook some milk.”
Grace glared at Hope, but she was so busy helping herself to a piece of fudge, she didn’t notice.
“What ghost woman?” Kirsten prompted Hope.
“Mirabelle, the Christmas...”
“It’s just a story,” Gracie interrupted. Turning on her sister who was savoring her fudge, she tapped her foot. “I thought you’d lost your appetite.”
“I thought so too, but this candy is perfection.”
“Tell me the story,” Kirsten said, tugging on Grace’s shirt sleeve.
Knowing there was no way to distract Merett’s child, and already sorry for snapping at Hope, Gracie told Kirsten the story. She started and ended with a reminder that there was no truth to the tale of Mirabelle’s supposed return to the house each December.
“Wow!” Kirsten’s eyes were huge. “She comes back every year?”
“That’s the myth, but of course, it isn’t true.”
“It might be,” Kirsten said, dark eyes glowing, voice rising in excitement. “And if the Mirabelle lady can come back, I’ll bet my mother can, too. She died in December, so she’ll probably come this month, like Mirabelle. Mommy never got to say good-bye to me, and I know she wanted to”
“Oh, no, Kirsten.” Gracie dropped to her knees, and took her gently by both arms. “You’ve got it wrong.” She explained again while Kirsten dutifully nodded her head.
Hope took a turn with her. “Forget that silly thing I said, honey. It’s just a story like Grace said. Look at the tree. We’re almost ready to light it.”
“Then it will be even more beautiful.” Kirsten smiled and held out the plate of fudge. “Have another piece.”
Rubbing her stomach, Hope smiled and helped herself. “One more, then...” Glancing at her watch, she gasped. “I promised Frank...I have to go.”
“Me too,” Kirsten said, running for her coat. “Sorry, Gracie, but we’ll have to put up the star and turn on the lights another time. Hope and I can’t be late getting home to Frank and Daddy.”
Gracie’s goose was cooked. Kirsten couldn’t wait to tell Merett her mother would return to visit as a ghost.
Chapter Seven
Merett heard Hope drive up, and he opened the door for Kirsten who practically leaped into his arms. He held her away to study her face. She was glowing. Relieved, he helped her off with her coat. The way she’d come running, he’d thought she was frightened of something. “Did you finish decorating Gracie’s tree?”
“The downstairs one, except for the star. Thanks for taking me tonight.”
He smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “Go say goodnight to Grandpa in the library, then I’ll go upstairs with you while you get ready for bed.”
“Really?”
She looked so surprised Merett felt a twinge of annoyance. Dad usually went up with her because he enjoyed it, and Merett didn’t. She could stretch goodnights into a three-act play. But tonight, Kirsten brushed her teeth without argument, and smiled while she laid out her school clothes for the next day. She put her dirty clothes in the hamper without being told, and set her shoes in the closet. Merett ran his finger around the inside of his collar. Something wasn’t right.
Kirsten turned back the covers and hopped into bed. Patting the place beside her for him to sit down, she grinned. “You don’t need to tell me
a story. Tonight, I’m going to tell you one.” Leaning toward him, she whispered. “It’s a ghost story, and a very happy one.”
* * *
Next morning, when Merett went downstairs to breakfast, he was still furious. He’d spent half an hour trying to convince Kirsten that the Mirabelle story was ridiculous. A myth. A fantasy. A tale that wasn’t true. She didn’t believe him.
Before he went to bed, he looked in, and she was lying on her side, her hands tucked under her face. On the bedside table was a picture of her mother, and on Kirsten’s lips, a tiny smile. Her last words before “goodnight” were, “You never know, Daddy. It could happen if we have faith.”
That sounded like something Samuel Singleton had put into his daughter’s head, and Gracie had put into Merett’s daughter’s. Have faith, and anything can happen. It was a great philosophy, but not when carried to the ridiculous. Merett slammed his cup down, sloshing coffee in the saucer.
His father handed him the sugar.
“I drink my coffee black, Dad. What’s the matter with you?”
“You act like you could stand sweetening up. What’s wrong?”
Before Merett could answer, Kirsten bopped into the room. Face shining, hair brushed, socks that matched...happiness worked wonders. But her bubble would burst, and she’d be back to where she was shortly after her mother’s death.
Kirsten smiled as the housekeeper set a plate of French toast in front of her. “Good morning, Mrs. Jarvis.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. “Aren’t we bright this morning, little miss?”
“Yes, thank you.” As the dumbfounded housekeeper exited the room, Kirsten laid her napkin neatly across her lap and smiled at her grandfather. “Did Daddy tell you Mommy might come back for a visit, Grampa?”
* * *
Merett arrived first at the Daily Reporter, he turned on the light over his desk, leaving the fluorescents in the front office unlit. With any luck, he’d have some time alone before the staff showed up. He had an end-of-the-year report to write for the board of directors, and this baby was going to take some concentration. Turning on the computer, he flexed his fingers over the keys. The Reporter hadn’t increased in circulation over the past year. It hadn’t added any significant new features or signs of progress. The members would want to know why, and what he planned to do about it.
The “why” was easy: his lack of interest, but he couldn’t tell them that. And the plan was hard. He intended to move ahead and improve the newspaper, step aside and return to New York while someone else ran it for him, or sell out. He’d placed a blind “for sale” ad in the Star, but hadn’t had any nibbles, and wasn’t certain he wanted one. He’d failed as a reporter. Was he willing to fail at this, too? Merett folded his hands behind his head, and tipped back in his chair. He could make a success of this daily rag if he chose to. But did he care enough?
His thoughts returned to breakfast and his daughter. The disappointment when her mother didn’t come back as a ghost would be like losing her all over again. If he’d taken her away from Ferndale and its old wives’ tales, this wouldn’t have happened.
A pale blue screen saver with a horse-drawn sleigh and “Happy Holidays” drifted across the computer screen. An office computer buff, not realizing the office decorations were Dad’s idea, thought he had the Christmas spirit. His father meddled, but looked like a Boy Scout next to Gracie. Merett hit the spacebar. He didn’t need any damned prancing horses reminding him to write.
He turned back his shirtsleeves and flexed his fingers over the computer keys. When Gracie was close, he wanted her closer. She was so desirable…but desirable wasn’t part of his plan. A woman wasn’t in his plan. Least of all, one who interfered with his child’s upbringing, and thought he was the god of optimism. Gracie loved small towns, and hated big business. Her letter-to-the-editor was buried somewhere in his unfinished business file.
He cracked his knuckles. Mama used to tell him that that would make them big, and he’d never be able to get a ring on and off. Staring at the black onyx on his hand, he recalled taking his wedding ring off in an act of desperation. The gold band was a constant reminder of how he’d failed Holly. The onyx was a gift from his parents on his eighteenth birthday. He’d been unbelievably happy back then with not a care in the world.
Someone, the custodian maybe, had moved the tiny tree on his desk to the opposite corner, and when Merett moved it back, the cardinal fell off. The feeder and sunflower seeds he had bought Mama were still in the trunk of his car. He’d planned to send them with Dad, and then had second thoughts.
Merett set the bird back on the tiny tree, and rolled his shirt sleeves higher. He had a report to write.
A publishers’ catalog lay on his desk; he hadn’t looked at it yet. Leafing through—anything to put off the tough decisions his report entailed—he spotted a section on pagination systems. Pushing back his chair, he propped his feet on his desk.
* * *
At four o’clock, Merett decided to go home. He’d gotten nowhere with the report. If anything, he’d sunk deeper into confusion. There were ways he could improve the Reporter, and some of them looked pretty good.
His dad called and left a message that Kirsten was getting off the bus at Gracie’s to make her grandma a star. After what had happened last night, Merett would have refused to let her go, but Dad gave his permission.
Pulling up in front of Gracie’s house, he honked the horn. Before he wrote the report, he had to decide the paper’s future, and his, and whether the two would remain related.
Tapping the steering wheel, he watched the second hand go around on his watch. Two minutes passed. So he was an hour early, that didn’t mean Kirsten couldn’t leave. He honked again. Gracie’s ghost story further complicated his life. She’d better have set Kirsten straight today.
Kirsten strode down the walk and climbed in. Turning in the seat, she glared at him. “That was very impolite. You should have come to the door, like you always do.”
He spun the wheels in the snow taking off, and while Kirsten pouted, allowed himself the satisfaction of mentally reading Gracie the riot act. After a while, Kirsten wiggled in her seat and sighed. “Are you mad?”
“Not at you.” None of this was her fault. “And not mad, but worried. I don’t want you to be disappointed. I understand you want to believe Mommy will come back, but she won’t. She can’t. Heaven is for good.”
“Grandma Meredith doesn’t believe in heaven. She doesn’t even believe in God.”
Merett bit his lip. He’d hoped Kirsten didn’t know. “Well, I do.”
“Me too,” Kirsten said, casting him a shy smile. “But if Mommy was like her mother, God might not let her into heaven, and she could be drifting around out there.” Kirsten waved her hand toward the window and the sky. “So, she might come see us.”
“Where did you get an idea like that?” Merett’s words exploded into the warmth of the Jeep, bouncing off the fogging windshield.
“In my head.” Kirsten tapped her temple. “The problem is, that ghost woman, Mirabelle, is looking for her almost-husband at his house. So what if Mommy looks for us at our apartment? If she goes to New York, she won’t find us, and she’ll be unhappy.” Kirsten screwed her face into a frown, the way she did when she was trying not to cry.
Merett’s head reeled, and his gut hurt.
She laid her hand on his leg. “She won’t know to look at Grampa’s. We have to do something, Daddy. I don’t want to leave, but I think we should move back.”
“Kirsten,” he said, as sternly as he dared without causing an outburst of tears. “Mommy isn’t going to—”
Kirsten looked up at him with wide damp eyes. “I hope she does, don’t you?”
He parked the Jeep in front of the house, and looked at the stars blinking brightly in the cold night sky. Kirsten thought her mother was floating around up there, waiting to come see them. “It would be nice.” He took both her hands in his. “But it’s not going to happen. The
whole story about Mirabelle is untrue. Someone who lived in that house heard something, and thought it was a footstep. Or a door banged. Or...”
“Gracie’s piano plays by itself. You heard it, and so did I. She found it in the attic. I bet it was Mirabelle’s. She might even be playing it,” Kirsten added in a whisper.
How did she come up with such ideas? And why did she have to decide they should move back to New York now, when he was thinking about staying at the Reporter, for a while. Pagination, with computer layout and paste-up, was more efficient and offered a more polished appearance; he knew that from the City Times. He’d just never considered it for the Reporter until he looked at that catalog. It would be an expensive improvement, but he really believed it would increase circulation.
“Let’s go.” Merett opened the Jeep door. His head was reeling. Gracie. The newspaper. Ghosts. “It’s dinner time, and Grandpa will be waiting.”
Kirsten tucked her gloved hand in his as he strode up the walk. She had to hop-skip to keep up. “We could move back for a while.”
To an occupied apartment and a job filled by someone else? “You’d miss Grampa, and Gramma.” She talked about Mama a lot.
“I know. I’ll miss Gracie, too, and Spook and Mrs. Jarvis.”
“Really?” Merett smiled. “Mrs. Jarvis, too?”
“Don’t joke, Daddy. This is umportant.” Opening the front door, she slammed it behind her, leaving Merett standing outside in the cold, alone.
Umportant. Nothing in his background qualified him to rear an unpredictable, imaginative, stubborn—slightly rude—child alone. Leaning against the front doorjamb, Merett looked up at the heavens, and wished Holly would appear.
* * *
What effect did the ghost story have on Merett’s little girl, and what would Harry Bradmoore have to say to Gracie when she decorated his house later today? Kirsten would have told him and Merett both the ghost story. Would they be angry? Upset?
Merriest Christmas Ever Page 10
