A Christmas Hope

by Joseph Pittman

  “Hopefully we can raise a glass together at my wedding,” he said.

  “I’d be honored, thanks, Mark.”

  “Thank you, Nora. You, too, Brian buddy. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Nora, it’s all ’cause of this guy that I met Sara, when I got that gig down at the tavern. Hey, who knows what next year will bring, you two look great together.”

  Mark departed, again with that eager spring in his step, not even noticing that both Brian and Nora had gone the shade of her fab Cab.

  Turned out, all the drinks were on the house and the food came with a discount, so Nora insisted on leaving the tip, a larger percentage than the going rate. The two of them headed out of The RiverFront Resort & Spa’s restaurant and into the bright sunshine of the mild afternoon. As they drove back up Warren Street, Nora reminded Brian of the bookstore Katherine Wilkinson had mentioned, asking him if he wouldn’t mind one last stop. It was too good to pass up, perhaps she could kill two birds with one trip, that’s what she said as they approached the store, located just across the street from the historical Saint Charles Hotel; the sign in the window stated NEW AND USED BOOKS, RARE EDITIONS.

  “Are you sure you have time?”

  Brian double-checked his watch. “It’s only two thirty or so, I’ve still got two hours before I need to open the tavern,” he said, nodding his approval. “Sure, let’s see what we can find out. Think you’ll just magically find Thomas’s book on the shelves?”

  “This is Hudson, it’s reality.”

  “Meaning Linden Corners is fantasy?”

  “Some days, I think so. Come on, let’s go see about Saint Nick.”

  Brian pulled against the curb in an empty spot, the two of them then making their way toward the Antiquarian Book Shop, Christmas on her mind once again. It was a recurring theme, she thought, having first discussed Christmas with Mrs. Wilkinson and just a short while ago with Mark Ravens’s wedding plans, and now here she was engaging in the next, unexpected chapter in the hunt for Mr. Van Diver’s elusive holiday book. Not that she figured to find his exact edition, despite Brian’s sarcasm, but it was as good a place as any to inquire. Perhaps the proprietor would offer up some leads for her.

  Nora crossed Warren Street against the light traffic of midday, Brian following after her. They made their way inside, jangly bells just like those that hung over the door of A Doll’s Attic alerting the lone clerk to a bit of business; he stared up from a stack of unjacketed hardcover books that threatened to entomb him behind the crowded counter. He was an older gentleman with a shock of white hair and a thick pair of spectacles, a chain hanging around his neck to keep from losing them. With his vest and neatly pressed slacks, Nora believed the very professorial-looking man may just have some answers for her; living among these stacks of books, he probably knew more about the past than he did about what was printed in yesterday’s newspapers. Shelves after shelves stretched along both walls of the small store and in between, and despite its musty contents, a fresh smell like cedar pervaded the room.

  “Help you?” he asked, his voice with a New England tinge.

  “Yes, I hope so. Katherine Wilkinson mentioned your store, said you used to spend time with her husband. . . .”

  “Ah-yuh, good ol’ Chester, a fine writer, a prose stylist with the heart of a poet. A fine raconteur, shared many a story with him over at the Saint Charles. You folks looking for some of his novels?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, approaching the counter. “My name is Nora Rainer, I’m the new owner of Elsie’s Antiques up in Linden Corners—though I’ve renamed it . . .”

  “Uh-yuh, A Doll’s Attic, or so I’ve heard. A clever name, I don’t mind saying,” he said, a friendly nod accompanying his words. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Ms. Rainer. We folks in the business have to stay current, even if our merchandise does not.” He allowed himself a small chuckle at his insider’s joke. “How can I help you then today, Ms. Rainer, not thinking about expanding into the book trade, are you?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. . . .”

  “Elliot,” he said, “Everyone just calls me Elliot.”

  “And this is my associate, Brian Duncan.”

  “Pleasure,” Elliot said. “So, it’s a book you’re looking for?”

  “A particularly rare volume, one I’m not sure even exists.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, finding it will be near impossible,” he said, straight-faced.

  Brian stepped forward at that point to move things along, seemed Elliot could talk around the subject all day long and not get to the point of it all. “It’s a vintage edition of Twas the Night before Christmas by . . .”

  “Uh-yuh, sure, by Clement Clarke Moore,” he said, “or so the so-called experts would have us believe. Complicated history there with that tale. Legend behind who actually wrote that poem is not nearly as famous as the writing itself, but it sure makes for some interesting debate among us bibliophiles. History has it that Moore originally wrote the story for his young children, back, oh, eighteen twenty something or other, but academic scholar that he was, he was worried about his reputation after writing what many considered a frivolous piece of pop, and so he had it published anonymously. Which, of course, opens up a whole can of worms about its true authorship; some claim, you know, a man named Henry Livingston, Jr., was the original author—he was a distant relative of Moore’s wife. But whoever wrote it, it’s fair to say that little volume is one of the most published books in the world, even if it’s only read once a year.”

  Nora nodded; interested as she was in the lore behind the tale, she knew they had a limited amount of time today, and thus she had to press forward. “Yes, Elliot, I’ve certainly discovered how many editions there are of that book, hundreds at least,” she said. “But the one I’m looking for is quite unique . . . and old, dating back at least eighty years, probably longer.”

  “Let me guess, Saint Nick in a green suit,” the man said.

  Nora visibly blanched, surprised at how quickly Elliot had known what she wanted.

  “How did you know?” Brian asked. “Was Mr. Van Diver here, or maybe called you?”

  “Don’t know any Mr. Van Diver, but I do know my books,” he said. “I remember a book published, oh, maybe twenty years ago, a beautiful reproduction of a Victorian-era edition of The Night before Christmas, actually called A Visit from Saint Nicholas; no Twas about it. What was special about it was the fact that the illustrations were based on an original edition, long out of print and nowhere to be found, published by the once-heralded publishing firm of McLoughlin Brothers . . . and yes, Santa Claus . . . Saint Nick himself, was dressed in a green suit.”

  “So it does exist,” Nora said with a bit of wonder and excitement enveloping her. “But why didn’t my search online come up with the new edition? I found all sort of books and saw many images, but that specific volume . . . I couldn’t find it.”

  “Perhaps now that you know more about it, you can track it down. Like you said, you weren’t even sure it existed, perhaps that colored—if you can pardon the pun—your judgment,” he said. “But like I said, the book in question was a reproduction edition, as faithful to the original as possible, but certainly not the actual one you’re looking for. I assume that’s why your customer hired you, to find the original?”

  “You certainly know a lot, Elliot, and I appreciate the lead you’ve given me,” Nora said.

  “Hang on a sec, I’ve got a question,” Brian stated, getting their attention. “Not that I’m doubting you at all, Elliot, but you seem particularly well-versed—if you’ll pardon the pun—about the book and it seems rather random that we would come in here on a whim, and learn so much. Are you sure Mr. Van Diver didn’t contact you? His name is Thomas, he’s eighty-four, living now at Edgestone Retirement Home up in Linden Corners, says he once lived there, in the farmhouse near the old windmill.”

  Elliot nodded as though he knew all of this. “Now, so you know, that’s a fine little town you’ve go
t there, Mr. Duncan, and yes, I know all about the windmill and such. But alas, it was not an elderly gentleman who asked me about the book. Rather, I’m guessing she was elderly, oh, I should say late seventies, even though I only ever heard her voice, never saw her in person. But I’m good with old things, eh, that’s my business? She called my store about six months ago, maybe more, asking for the exact same thing.”

  “A woman?” Brian asked.

  “Who was she?”

  “Never did say her name, all I remember is her telling me I was one of many antiquarian bookshops she had called,” he said. “Left me intrigued, so I did some research all on my own, that’s kind of why I’m in this business. Curiosity and a fair amount of downtime tend to lead to some surprising discoveries. That’s how I learned about the book I just told you about—not that it got me any business—she had said she might call back but then I never heard from her. Didn’t hear another thing until just today, when the two of you walked into my store.”

  “Well, Elliot, this case has certainly taken an interesting turn,” Nora said. “And I thank you for imparting what you found out. Would it be too much trouble to call on you again, that is, if I can pick your brain further? Depending upon what else I can learn.”

  “Be happy to,” he said, and then wished them both a good day.

  Back outside, Nora felt invigorated, not just by the fresh air, but by having this first real clue in her pursuit of the old book. But time was fast slipping away from them, so with Brian urging her, the two of them returned to the truck and began the journey back to Linden Corners. Nora was mostly silent, thinking about what she had learned, plotting her next step. Perhaps Mr. Van Diver’s request wasn’t so impossible after all, and if she’d made this much progress in just a few weeks, maybe . . . just maybe she could find it by Christmas. First things first, she had to find a copy of the reproduction edition and see that she was on the right trail.

  Twenty minutes later, the truck zoomed over the cresting highway, emerging back onto Linden Corners soil. The towering windmill rose up seemingly from nowhere, its sails silent, the tower riding alongside them as Brian drove along the route before turning onto Crestview Road and into the driveway of the farmhouse. He parked beside her red Mustang, but that wasn’t what captured her attention now. Nora could still see the mighty sails jutting up over the land, like it was taunting her, this ever-present symbol of Linden Corners like a beacon, drawing them into its power.

  As they stepped out of the truck, Nora went around to Brian and thanked him.

  “For what?”

  “For driving, for indulging me . . .”

  “I had fun,” he said.

  “So did I. I think we accomplished more than we ever set out to do.”

  “You got a lead on Mr. Van Diver’s antique book, and I was handed a dose of inspiration for the tavern Christmas party. I’ve been looking for some kind of distraction, and I think I found it. Who knows, Nora, maybe our paths have crossed for a reason bigger than the both of us could envision. I get to help Mark and Sara, and you Thomas. Look at the two of us, planning a Linden Corners Christmas the town won’t soon forget.”

  “A team,” she said. “So far, it’s worked well.”

  He nodded. “Uh-yuh, so far.”

  She smiled at the memory of Elliot’s thick accent. But then words ceased between them, both of them suddenly as quiet as the gentle wind. A nervous feeling hitting her, Nora looked away, then back to find Brian staring directly into her eyes. Inside them she felt a warmth she hadn’t seen in too long, not from Dave, and it unleashed uncertainty inside her. How had things gotten so complicated so quickly, today had been just one day, a non-date, but suddenly she felt like a teenage girl coming home from the senior prom. She blinked and when she opened up her eyes again, Brian was still staring at her. She took an impulsive step toward him, then quickly pressed her lips against his. He reacted with surprise, but didn’t back away either. The taste of him was sweet. The smell of cedar surrounded them, almost like they were back in the old bookstore, lost behind the shelves, horny teenagers experiencing their first kiss. When they parted, she saw a confused expression on Brian’s face; she could only guess what hers was.

  “Uh, wow,” he said. “Not that I mind, but why did you kiss me?”

  “To quote Mark, ‘to get it over with.’ ”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “You told me earlier. . .”

  “I know what I said, and I meant what I said,” she said. “Brian, I’m married, my life is a mess, and starting over isn’t easy.”

  “I can relate,” he offered, supportive words that actually had an impact on her.

  “I know, I think that’s why I’m so comfortable around you, Brian. But the last thing I need is a boyfriend or a relationship or . . . whatever the experts call it these days. What I need is a friend, plain and simple. So I kissed you now just so we could end any speculation between us, stop any expectation from others. You don’t have to wonder if you can kiss me, I don’t have to wonder if I should let you. The moment is over, so let’s move forward.”

  Brian nodded, but words were not forthcoming.

  “Do we have a deal?” she asked, extending her hand.

  Brian had no choice, he shook her hand. Her touch was warm. “Friends,” he said.

  “Friends,” she agreed.

  Making her way toward the red Mustang, she hopped in behind the wheel and then looked back to find him still standing in the same place. She waved at him, once more smiling her thanks before driving off. Again, in the rearview mirror she saw not Brian but the windmill, even as it grew ever more distant in her eyes it remained with her. Its four sails continued to stay silent in the falling darkness of the day, as though there was nothing left to say.

  CHAPTER 10

  THOMAS

  One week until Thanksgiving, a little more than a month before his eighty-fifth birthday and what he hoped would be a Christmas to remember, Thomas Van Diver found himself walking along the sidewalks of downtown Linden Corners, content to wander aimlessly as he enjoyed the mild weather. His gait was slow, but that was okay, as the fresh air filling his lungs was almost like fuel to his system, keeping him moving. He was in no hurry to be anywhere, at least that’s what he told himself; his subconscious might have other ideas, might even be directing his steps. The countdown toward the holiday was, of course, always on his mind, but he had realized there was little he could do to control time. All he’d set in motion with Nora Rainer, it was in her hands now.

  Lights were beginning to be turned on outside storefronts, across the street at the Five O’ Diner and down the street at Marla and Darla’s Trading Post, where he could see one of the twins—which of them he couldn’t be sure—flicking a switch to the point where bright lights illuminated her, and at her side two dogs happily swirled between her legs. Ackroyd’s Hardware Emporium appeared to be doing good business for midweek, folks getting ready for what forecasters were predicting to be a brutal winter season. Not that the weather today held any hint of such doom, winter seemed months away still, as the day was alive with a gentle breeze and the same, mild temperatures that had been hanging over the land since that rainstorm from earlier in the week. He saw a couple emerging from the hardware store with shiny shovels and bags of melting ice; Thomas could appreciate their preparedness for the unknown future, he would have done the same.

  He walked past a quiet George’s Tavern, knowing Brian Duncan didn’t open his business until four, and so the building was dark, uninhabited. Even upstairs, the windows were devoid of light, whoever lived there no doubt still at work. But that was life in Linden Corners, the early risers breathed fresh energy in the waking hours, while the night owls happily kept the midnight oil lit; such were the daily revolutions of a town built on the sense of community. For Thomas, such a dichotomy was what truly separated his two experiences of having lived here, then and now. Back when he was five years old, he stayed close to the farmhouse and by his mother’s
side, only occasionally journeying into town; now it was quite the opposite, Thomas suddenly an integral part of the downtown scene, whether with his co-habiters down at The Edge, or while meeting with his new friends back at the farmhouse.

  Speaking of, Thomas watched now as Brian Duncan’s truck drove down Main Street. He wasn’t alone, as he could see a small head bobbing up from the passenger seat, no doubt the pigtailed, irrepressible Janey Sullivan, her mouth yammering on while Brian’s head nodded either in genial agreement or resigned acquiescence. With a spirited girl of her age, sometimes it was easier to let her ramble, all that energy needed to be released somehow. He recalled the night she had brought him near the base of the windmill, her connection to it so strong, more so than he’d ever felt. Remembered, too, the way she had gone on and on about it, the way it made her feel connected to her mother. To Thomas, the windmill represented all he had lost, but for this little girl who had seen her own share of loss, she somehow managed to find inspiration there. Like the windmill spoke to her, reaching deep down to her soul.

  Thomas turned the corner and made his way into Linden Corners’ Memorial Park, going up the shoveled path toward the large gazebo that stood as its centerpiece. Painted a bright coat of white, with a black, gabled roof, it called to him, not just as a place he could rest but a place maybe he could find his own bit of inspiration. For just beyond the gazebo were a series of gray stones jutting up from the ground, engraved marble statues arranged in a concentric pattern; flowers adorned their sides, fresh even in the chill of November—remnants from a just passed Veterans Day. And it was to this memorial he had come, that much he realized. He stepped up inside the gazebo, settling on a hardwood bench under the protective roof, and that’s when his tired old body let out a deep sigh of content. The walk had done him good, but it had also taken a lot of strength from him. A check of his watch told him it was nearly four, the light in the sky beginning its nightly fade. He had asked Elsie to pick him up at five outside Marla’s shop, where she had needed to pick up some basic supplies and groceries. So for the next half hour he could sit and think how differently his life had become in the last six months; heck, the last eighty years. Linden Corners, could this really be you? Can a person’s long-ago past still exist somewhere beyond his mind, did time exist on different planes? Looking around, his being here still all seemed like a dream.