“Her lease starts today, first of the month,” Elsie said. “She’s a smart businesswoman, I’m sure she’s open. Way she scooped up my business with barely a night’s sleep, she’s a woman on a mission.”
Thomas could relate.
Edgestone Retirement Home was a half-mile drive off the main drag in town, too long for a man of his age to walk and he’d long given up on driving, not with his shaky hands, his unsteady feet. Not that he was necessarily afraid of hurting himself, it was the others on the road he had to be careful of. He’d shipped all of his belongings from his last home north of San Francisco, flown across the country and arranged for a car service to take him the final leg of his trip, to the blocky brick structure that was Edgestone. His new home, in a town that recalled an earlier time in his life.
Now, as Elsie concentrated on the wet conditions on the road, he was able to gaze out the window at the small village, see how it had changed and how it had not. Sure, he’d been nearly six when he and his mother had left town permanently, it was any wonder he could recall any of the details. The white-painted gazebo with the gabled black roof that stood in the center of the village park he recalled, some of the other buildings, too, had a familiar, yet faraway look. A place like Linden Corners, history was on its side, so it was a good place for an old man to come to, something they had in common.
The newly named A Doll’s Attic store was situated in a Victorian-style house along Main Street—that’s what the locals called it, though the map just indicated Route 20—the lower floor used for business, the upper floors for many years Elsie’s home. Thomas knew her story well, she’d been widowed seventeen years ago, her business becoming her life, but eventually the work and that winding staircase up to her apartment became more than she wanted to deal with, so, upon turning seventy, she made the difficult decision: sell the business, rent the house, move to Edgestone, and preserve her aching knees.
“Of course, it didn’t all happen in that order,” she said. “I moved first, Nora took over the business second, but even as I tried, I couldn’t convince her—yet—to rent the apartment upstairs. Still looking for a tenant . . . interested?”
“Not the way you describe those stairs,” Thomas stated.
“Guess Nora Connors Rainer or whatever her name is this week is not ready for a total makeover yet, but who can blame her with her life in such disarray. She’s living with Gerta Connors, that’s her mother, and it’s probably a good thing, too, for both of them. Gerta’s been alone in her big house for over a year, she, too, is widowed.”
Lot of that going around, Thomas thought.
With all that history relegated to where it belonged, Thomas was ready to concentrate on today. He was looking forward to his meeting with Nora Connors Rainer, he would tell her his situation and see if she had the wherewithal to help him. And time was of the essence, and not just because of his advanced age. As he looked around, at the snow, at the icicles hanging from pointed roofs, crisp, cold air filling his lungs, he realized that Christmas was coming faster than spring, so the time to spring into action was now.
As Elsie pulled into the empty lot, Thomas looked over at her.
“If you wouldn’t mind, Elsie, I do need to do this on my own,” he said. “I very much appreciate the ride. As always.”
“You’re a very mysterious man, Thomas Van Diver.”
“So does that mean you’re not going to put up an argument?”
She patted his knee. “You’ll tell me eventually,” she said with knowing confidence. “I’ll pick you up later, say in about an hour?”
“That’s not necessary . . .”
“How else will you get back to The Edge?”
“May I call you? I may be longer than an hour.”
She pursed her lips. “Mysterious indeed.”
Surprisingly, Elsie had nothing further to say on the matter, allowing Thomas to make his slow escape from her car. As he hit the outside, the air was bracing, and as he exhaled he could see his breath turn to mist. It had been some time since his body had been subjected to a Northeast winter, this attack on his creaky bones might take some getting used to. He bustled as quickly as he could up the shoveled sidewalk, grabbing on to the railing to help guide him up the three steps to the storefront. He pushed on the door and it opened easily, the ringing of bells overhead announcing his presence.
He heard voices further inside the expansive rooms of the downstairs. Clearly he wasn’t her first customer, as the strong baritone of a man’s voice pervaded the open space.
“You’re right, Nora, this place, it’s gonna need some repair work. A fresh coat of paint for starters, and of course you’ll need a new sign outside. Something catchy and bright, you don’t want to miss the casual passerby, all those antique-seeking people who drive through town, got to give them a reason to stop, shop, and most importantly, spend.” Then came a pause before Thomas heard, “I’m sure I can get you a good discount.”
“Thanks, Chuck, I appreciate it,” he heard, this time a woman’s voice.
Thomas sauntered around the overstuffed room, checking out the sundry items that were on display, assorted styles of lamps and vases made of ceramic and glass, old dishes and other such knickknacks, all things he expected to find in such a place. What he was seeking, he was certain was not to be found on these messy, cramped shelves. Not meaning to hover, he didn’t wish to disturb whatever transaction was taking place, but when things got decidedly personal, Thomas had to alert the owner that he was here. Clearly neither of them had heard the bell.
“Maybe you and I, you know, can grab a drink sometime.”
“Oh thanks, Chuck, that’s kind of you to offer, but I’m just getting settled,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted even as Thomas could hear the edge in her voice. “I’m barely back in town twenty-four hours.”
“I’m a patient guy, maybe next week.”
There was a frosty pause before she said, “You do know I’m married, right?”
“I don’t see no husband.”
“You see this ring?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s attached to my fist.”
Stifling a laugh, that’s when Thomas cleared his throat loudly and stepped into their line of vision. The two other people turned with wide eyes.
“Pardon me, I wonder, are you Nora Connors?”
“Rainer,” she said. “Nora Rainer. Yes. And you are?”
Thomas paused, his expression falling to the man she had called Chuck, and if he had his way, chuck him out was what he would do. He was fortysomething, a slight paunch to his belly, a graying mustache and uncombed hair both in bad need of some fresh maintenance. A messy man indeed; even an unmarried, available woman would be rejecting his cheesy overture. Guy was probably a bully, and not a very good one, as he easily backed down, not just from Nora’s offer of a fist sandwich but from Thomas’s withering glance. Chuck bid a hasty retreat, though not before adding, “Hardware supplies, paint, they can be expensive. Just you think about it.”
He left, the bell sounding again.
“Unpleasant man,” Thomas said.
“He’s harmless. I knew him back in high school, he was two classes ahead of me,” she said, “and he hasn’t aged well in any respect. Unlike you, Mr. . . .”
“Van Diver. Thomas Van Diver.”
“You don’t see many bow ties these days,” she remarked. “So nice.”
“My sole mark of distinction. If you’d believe it, I have a drawer full,” he said, with a slight nod of his head. “Dress well, you feel well.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Van Diver, it’s the mark of a gentleman,” she said, extending her hand warmly. He shook it with a grip as strong as he could muster. A slight pause passed between them before their hands separated, strangers when they connected and now new friends as they parted. “A pleasure to meet you, my good sir, welcome to A Doll’s Attic. Not counting Chuck, and I don’t, you are my very first customer. Or so I hope—is there somethi
ng I can help you with?”
With a sudden twinkle in his eye, Thomas said, “If you can, my dear, you may just make these final days the most special of my life.”
CHAPTER 4
NORA
While his words may have shaken her, it was his subsequent request that had her mind spinning, with possibilities and with surprise, and with the thought that maybe she had bitten off more than she could chew with this impulsive new venture. There were no rules suddenly, no easy place to start. Unlike life as an attorney, which had you so attuned to strict schedules. There was safety in the law, procedure to follow, dates to adhere to, and ultimately a judge and jury to tell you whether you did well or not. Going out on your own with the winsome wish of trying to fulfill the dreams of complete strangers, it came with a different responsibility, one that you could not foist off on the system. Nora, though, had made the conscious decision that if she couldn’t satisfy her own dreams, she might as well try and help others achieve theirs. And so A Doll’s Attic was created, a place for her to crawl into, lost in the safety of the past.
“Before we get started, tell me your favorite Christmas memory,” Thomas asked.
“I’m sorry . . . Christmas?”
“Surely a lovely woman such as yourself has some treasured moment from childhood?”
“I’d have to think about it,” she said.
“Then it’s not truly memorable,” Thomas said, with a weary shake of his head.
Was that disapproval over her reluctance to play along, or the result of some condition he was suffering from? Nora was not having an easy time getting a read on her curious customer, he was all wisdom and age, with a certain air of mystery, a rare case of intimidation insinuating itself into her soul.
“Mrs. Rainer, the kind of moment I’m talking about should pop into your mind instantly. It should be ingrained like knots in wood, part of its fabric.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just . . . you surprised me. We only just got through Halloween and already you’re putting visions of sugar plums dancing into my head. Like a department store eager to get the holiday shopping season going.”
“Sugar plums,” he said. “Is that a memory?”
“No, just a cliché.”
“Oh Mrs. Rainer, we’ll have to do better than that if we’re to find what I wish.”
She looked away, red-faced at her lack of professionalism. This would take some getting used to, controlling her tongue. When she had composed herself, reminding herself this was business, a retail one, and part of its success would lie with her interaction—and indulgences—with her customers. She dropped the defense she’d raised when the word Christmas was floated in the air and said, “Please, call me Nora.”
“I could call you stalling.”
At Nora’s suggestion, they were sitting in a pair of wicker rockers, soft cushions helping to relax them, or at least, him. Situated by the large bay window that looked out over Main Street, she saw snow covering the ground and folks walking by all bundled up against the cold. Because of the weather, this talk of Christmas seemed wholly appropriate, even if it was only November first. All Saints’ Day, a holy day of obligation in the Connors family, her mother had always insisted they go to church before coming home for a tasty feast. She could smell the pot roast in her mind.
“Baked Virginia ham,” Nora suddenly said, her body leaning forward eagerly, as though ready to pop out of her seat. “I’m thinking of those meals my mother made every Christmas, we could smell it cooking all day long while we played with our new toys, Dad sitting in his chair smoking his pipe, the burning tobacco melding well with the smoky flavors coming from the kitchen. It was the one day of the year he wasn’t telling us girls to quiet down. He just let us play. With our dolls and their houses.”
Nora paused, looking over at Thomas. He just nodded politely.
“Wow, you’re good,” she said. “I haven’t thought about that stuff in years.”
“You’re home now, it’s only natural such memories will come to you.”
“And you, Mr. Van Diver? Are you home?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he said. “And what brings me here—because I know that will be your next question—has everything to do with home and with memories, with Christmases past and, God willing, Christmases present and future.”
“If you don’t mind my forthrightness, you mentioned ‘final days,’ ” Nora said, feeling like she was intruding even as she posed the question. “Are you sick, Mr. Van Diver?”
“Not that kind of sick, no. It’s just . . . well, let’s say I am a long way from my youth.”
“With each passing day, even today’s youth can say that.”
He nodded again. “Very astute, Nora. You have an appreciation for the past.”
She gazed around at her new store, a mix of the old junk that Elsie’s Antiques still called inventory and ethereal ideas that existed in her mind of what she wanted to sell. “So, Mr. Van Diver, tell me about this past you wish me to find for you.”
“It’s appropriate that your store is called A Doll’s Attic—a nod to your childhood and those aforementioned dolls you once played with,” he said. “Not to mention a rather subtle nod to Ibsen and his own Doll’s House.”
“Not for nothing was I named Nora,” she said. “Just ask my mother.”
“Ah yes, a heroine who is forceful, loyal, but at times foolhardy.”
“Got me this far in life,” she said.
He pursed his thin lips, not saying anything when others might have a stinging retort. Not from Thomas Van Diver, this man was a true gentleman. Others would have pounced on such a pronouncement, especially in her vulnerable state.
Then he resumed the conversation, diving into the deep end. “I want you to find a book for me,” he said, getting to the point quickly. “When I was a young boy, five years old to be exact, I accidentally stumbled upon a gift that my parents had hidden in the attic of our farmhouse. It was Christmas Eve, and the curious boy in me was rather impatient when it came to waiting for his gifts. Rather than scold me for my behavior, my forgiving father whisked me downstairs and allowed me to unwrap the gift . . . which turned out to be a book. It was a hardbound, illustrated version of Clement Clarke Moore’s Twas the Night before Christmas. With my mother at my side, and with our tree so beautifully decorated and the snow falling lightly outside, you couldn’t have pictured a more perfect scene, Rockwell at his finest, eh? Oh, I won’t bore you with all the details now, but I lost that lovely volume. I want you to find it for me.”
“Mr. Van Diver, there are probably hundreds of editions of that book around,” she said. “Finding yours would be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.”
“And are you not in the business of locating those needles?”
She considered his words before finally admitting he was right. “Touché.”
“I can pay handsomely, an hourly rate, plus the cost of the book when you find it.”
“If I find it.”
“Doubt should never enter the picture when you have a mystery to solve.”
“Okay, when I find it,” she said agreeably. “But don’t expect miracles right away. Might take me a few months. I’m just getting my business open and getting myself up to speed and so I have many contacts to establish; this is a new world for me. But of course I can do some early digging, put out some feelers to out-of-print bookstores and antiquarian book dealers . . . oh, you’ll have to get me as many specifics about the volume . . . wait, let me get a notepad, I want to jot down some ideas . . .”
Thomas had raised his hand, asking for a stop to her flow of words. “Please, wait.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Indeed, there is,” he said, clearing his throat in an attempt to gather his thoughts. “You see, Nora, I may not have as much time as I’ve previously indicated. You need to do all you can to get that rare edition into my hands by this Christmas. No, wait, correction. By this Christmas Eve. The book is not call
ed, after all, Twas the Night after Christmas. It’s before. And it would make not only the most wonderful Christmas present for this old man, it would also be the ultimate birthday present.”
“Birthday?”
“Yes. I wasn’t quite five years old yet when I found the book, but may as well have been. I was born on Christmas Day, so many cold winter nights ago,” he said, “and I wish to celebrate what could possibly be my last one by reliving the most special moment of my childhood.”
“You like to pile on the pressure, don’t you?” she said. “And the guilt.”
“I understand you were once a lawyer,” Thomas Van Diver said, straightening his bow tie for effect, heightening the drama escalating between them. “That means you’ve got the drive inside you. You never back down from a fight. You like to win. It’s in your blood.”
“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” she said, her sarcasm biting.
“Unlike the so-called gentleman from before.”
For a moment she didn’t know who he meant, was that some veiled reference to her husband? But then she recalled the unwanted attentions of Chuck Ackroyd, local hardware store owner and unhappy grump. “Oh, him, he’s harmless,” she offered, “but as for the rest of Linden Corners, I’m not so sure. It’s the last place I ever wanted to live again.”
“And yet here you are. Oh, how I beg to differ, Ms. Nora Connors Rainer,” said the all-knowing, all-seeing gentleman with the fancy bow tie and the sparkling blue eyes that twinkled like those of the fantastical Santa Claus who populated the book he sought. “Like me, I think you are exactly where you are supposed to be, and at just the right time.”
She allowed herself a surprise grin. He was good.
“So, do we have a deal, Nora?”
She shook his hand and said, “Let’s get to work, Christmas Eve has a way of sneaking up on you.”
“Just like the past,” Thomas said enigmatically.
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