A Christmas Hope

by Joseph Pittman

  “Tell her, the whole village will know in seconds,” she said. “Well, come on over why don’tcha, the diner’s full of regulars, Marla and Darla are there and so is Chuck . . .”

  “Oh joy,” he deadpanned.

  “And Father Burton is there, too. I think he might have a few Christmas ideas himself.”

  “Indeed,” Brian said, “and what about Sara? She working?”

  “Of course, what kind of boss do you think I am, allowing my best girl a day off?”

  “You may have to arrange for one soon,” Brian said, and without further explanation he dashed across the street, Martha following close behind him, asking him just what he meant by that comment.

  It wasn’t until he’d entered the diner that Brian realized just how cold outside the air was, and all of a sudden he was grateful to Martha for having interrupted his planned lighting of the tavern. He rubbed his hands as he sat down at the counter, took a cup of hot coffee from Sara without needing to ask. That was as nice a greeting he got from her, obviously she was still annoyed with Brian’s part in hatching the tavern-set wedding.

  “Hey, Sara . . .”

  “I got a customer,” she said, briskly, but not before tapping her nails on the Formica counter for effect.

  Brian turned to see her make the rounds of the tiny diner, pouring fresh cups for nearly everyone. It seemed he knew the entire gang that had gathered; regulars indeed. Elsie and her posse were just getting settled and ordering tea, and Father Burton was breaking bread with Gerta, and Chuck Ackroyd sat just a few stools away from him. Marla and Darla hid in the back, talking quietly amongst each other, like always. Brian still wasn’t sure which twin was which; they had such a strong connection they may as well have been born Siamese. Of the principal business owners on Main Street, only Nora seemed to be missing, and of the usual suspects Brian seemed only to be missing two of the actors in the play he was formulating in his mind, Mark, busy at work down in Hudson, and Thomas Van Diver, who seemed to have pulled his disappearing act again.

  “Hello, Brian,” Gerta said, waving to him, “would you like to join us? Plenty of room.”

  He accepted the invitation, sliding away from Chuck Ackroyd with pleasure; he was the one guy in town who just rubbed him the wrong way, a guy who wore his problems on his flannel sleeves. Short of needing supplies for the farmhouse or the tavern, Brian did all he could to avoid the surly natured Chuck. Life was too short to live in his bitter world. Still, if Brian was to put his plan in motion, he’d need Chuck’s help, or at least, his hardware store, and didn’t the two come as a package deal?

  Sliding in next to Gerta, he planted a kiss on her wrinkled cheek, then shook hands with Father Eldreth Burton, the priest at the local Saint Matthew’s Church. “How are you, padre, it’s been awhile.”

  “Tell me about it, Brian.”

  Oops, that was the wrong thing to say to a priest; weren’t you supposed to see him at least once a week? Gerta saved the day, steering the conversation away from church to whatever was on Brian’s mind.

  “I know you, Brian Duncan, you have that look on your face like you’re planning something. Spill it.” And after a pause, added, “And also, how can we help?”

  So Brian told his short tale of his conversation with Mark, first the one at lunch, then the one just this morning. “I’ve never heard him so deflated, here he was just trying to give Sara the perfect day she wants and she shot him down. But it was something she said that got my mind thinking, a phrase that Sara said—if she was going to have a Christmas wedding, it may as well happen on Christmas Eve.” Brian, his voice a near whisper, “What do you think?”

  “Isn’t it up to them?” Father Burton said.

  “Oh, I think they’re so confused at this point, they need some prompting,” Gerta said. “And I for one think it’s a marvelous idea, one I think the entire village can get behind. It’s what we do best in Linden Corners, plan celebrations. Just think, what better night for them to share their love than on the holiest one of the year? Oh Brian, just think how magical it could be.”

  “What’s magical?”

  They all looked up to find Sara standing over them, coffeepot in one hand, almost like a third appendage.

  “A Christmas wedding,” Gerta said.

  “Nuh-uh,” Sara said. “I told Mark I’m not getting married in a bar.”

  “No, my dear,” Gerta said with a friendly cluck. “A church wedding for you and Mark, and on Christmas Eve, what do you say? You want magic, what better place?”

  Her eyes lit up, warming to the new idea. But it was Brian’s comment that really won her over, and sent her squealing to the point that everyone at the Five O’ heard her, one cup even splattering to the floor with a loud crash. But no one paid it any mind, least of all Sara or even Martha, as nearly everyone was suddenly chattering about the idea that Brian had presented the bride-to-be with.

  “You can get married at the base of the windmill, amidst all those glittering white lights,” Brian had suggested. “You want magic to swirl around you, there’s no better place than beneath those ever-turning sails.”

  CHAPTER 13

  THOMAS

  “Did you hear that sweet waitress down at the Five O’ is getting married . . . finally.”

  “On Christmas Eve of all days, I hear.”

  “By the old windmill, it’s what everyone is talking about.”

  “I can’t imagine a lovelier setting. Remember that time last December when we all took the trip to see the windmill, it was the talk of the town, lit with what seemed like thousands of bright white lights. Like the blinking lights from heaven.”

  “Which you’re not too far from visiting.”

  “Why, Elsie Masters, you’re more of an antique than that junk you used to peddle.”

  That comment was followed by peals of laughter; elder humor, supposed Thomas Van Diver, sitting as far from the yammering ladies as he could and still be in the same room. He wasn’t in the mood for their antics this morning, and thankfully they had respected that. Elsie, Myra, Edna, and, reluctantly, Jack, and assorted other cronies—the “Edge Mafia”—were sitting around a long, folding metal table, supposedly playing a game of mah-jongg but instead just plain gossiping about the latest news to hit Linden Corners, news they couldn’t wait to spread, comment upon, and toss around their opinion on. Some of the ladies had been there at the diner when Brian Duncan had suggested to Sara Joyner a Christmas Eve wedding at the windmill, others of course claimed they were there, while a few just waved the news away with an apparent display of disinterest.

  “Hogwash, who gets married on Christmas Eve?”

  Thomas jolted to attention at the comment, turned to see who had said such words. Myra Cole was shaking her head, as though agreeing with herself.

  “Well, at least the groom won’t forget his anniversary,” Edna said pointedly.

  Jack had the look of a man who wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

  Such was life here at Edgestone.

  All this endless chatter in the otherwise spacious recreation room was starting to close in on Thomas. He was awaiting a guest who had her own news to share. For now, the breakfast dishes had been cleared and those who were hanging around were doing so for companionship, a way to pass another long day filled with nothing but the busy lives of others. Thomas Van Diver missed the old days when he relied less on reliving memories, always forward thinking in his approach to his life. Yet since he’d returned to Linden Corners, it was the past he’d been absorbed by. Even at his advanced age, he liked to think new memories were just waiting to be made, wasn’t that what all this effort was about? One final, beautiful memory?

  It’s not that he didn’t appreciate a heartwarming story about an upcoming wedding or the pleasant-natured preparation of Christmas coming from the other corner, where a few spry folks, along with the aid of The Edge’s staff, were putting up their artificial Christmas tree, but because he was anxious about what his soon-to-arrive visit
or had to show. Christmas, indeed, he thought. Today was the fifth of December, and for Thomas, watching the tree go up filled his mind with memories of yesteryear. Lately signs of the encroaching holiday were appearing everywhere, and why not, December had settled in for its thirty-one-day marathon, with much to look forward to in a busy month that culminated with folks taking a breather from the stresses of the regular routine of life.

  Stress, he supposed that was what most affected him, and why he could barely keep his eyes open, even at eleven o’clock on a bright, sunlit morning, with the village still coated with a layer of snow that had fallen just a few days ago. It was what kept him awake at night, his tired eyes watching as three, four, five o’clock rolled around on the dial, constantly thinking about the countdown to Christmas and whether his deadline would be met. The phone call he’d received just two hours ago from Nora Rainer had filled him with apprehension. Had she found the book? he had asked her. She wouldn’t say exactly say, “Not on the phone, it’s something I need you to see without prejudice.”

  So here he sat, a newspaper at his side but unread, still watching the slow progress of the clock, still listening as the old biddies talked about a new Linden Corners Christmas tradition, a parade of lights that would wind down the hill from the farmhouse on Christmas Eve, leading up to the wedding of Sara Joyner and Mark Ravens in the presence of the windmill. Though he barely knew the happy couple, Thomas was sorry he would have to miss out on the village party. The way he’d been embraced by all of its residents had kept his heart warm for months; but Christmas Eve for him would hopefully find him elsewhere, and it was the presence of the book that would dictate just where that was.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Nora Rainer, a large bag slung over her shoulder, like a female Santa come to leave presents under the tree. But their tree here was not yet lit, old Charlie and Harry still arguing over whether you strung the lights from the top of the tree down or from the base to the pointed tip. At this rate, the baby Jesus would be a teenager before the men could agree.

  “Thomas, hello,” Nora said, coming up to him.

  “Ms. Rainer, a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

  “Please, it’s Nora. We discussed that.”

  He allowed himself a polite smile, feeling his bow tie constrict against his throat. Today he wore one of deep, rich navy, a splash of yellow coming from the waddling ducks that adorned it. “Of course, Nora. Please, have a seat. Don’t mind all the activity around here, from what I can tell, my neighbors really get into the Christmas spirit here, even though the tree is artificial—too many allergies among us all, I suppose. What I miss is the evergreen scent of pine.”

  “You’ll have to visit my mother’s house sometime, she believes a real tree is the only way to go. Besides, The Edge is hardly alone in getting ready for Christmas,” she said. “Already the other businesses downtown have begun to hang lights outside, and there are several snowmen populating the park at Linden Square, turning its gazebo into a village hotspot—or, I guess, a coldspot, really, keeping them from melting.”

  “And at your store?”

  “The only thing that says holiday there are those annoying bells over the door,” she said.

  “I’m sure you’ll do the village proud,” he said.

  “We’ll see. I’ve been so busy getting the interior of the store ready, I haven’t yet had the chance to worry about the outside, my little red shingle notwithstanding—which is buried in snow right now. I don’t even have any decorations for the outside.”

  “I’m sure Elsie would be happy to tell you how she used to do it,” he said. “She’s just back there, talking with her gals about the latest village gossip. Or creating more.”

  Nora stole a look behind her, saw the gaggle of gals and two elderly men, both of whom seemed to be nodding off. “I’ll take a pass. It’s a new store, so new traditions,” she said. “But of course that’s not why I’m here, as you know. I have something special for you, but before I hand it over, I wonder, Thomas, how you’ve been feeling. It’s seems you’ve been MIA lately from Linden Corners. I called the day of the storm and left a message with the receptionist at the main desk, she said you were out of town.”

  “Ah, yes, a weekly trip of mine,” he said with a slight pause, “a doctor’s appointment, up in Albany. And I’m afraid with the storm that battered us, this untrustworthy body of mine found it easier to stay holed up in a hotel in the capital until the worst of it had passed. A simple explanation, really, just an old man playing it safe. Elsie does me the great favor of taking me to the train station down in Hudson, where I catch Amtrak—a bit of going backward to go forward, but I have little choice. Driving is not an option I myself have.”

  Even as he offered up his explanation, the words rang hollow inside his mind, sounding like a sentence in search of a period. Thomas wondered if he had revealed too much. Nora had not really been grilling him, yet he suddenly felt like a suspect under interrogation lights, wiping at his brow. His hand came away sweaty, and he realized it had nothing to do with any suspicion on Nora’s part, instead his eyes were gazing at a thin, hardcover book jutting out from the heavy bag she’d brought. Had she indeed found the book? How had she discovered it so quickly after its having gone missing for eighty years?

  “My mother is the same way, she drives but she doesn’t like to,” she said.

  “Time is not on anyone’s side, Nora,” he said. “Speaking of . . . perhaps I could see what you have uncovered?”

  With such a prompt, Nora had no choice but to withdraw the book from her bag, and with a hesitant smile gracing her lips, she handed it over to Thomas. For a second he closed his eyes, even as his shaky hands took hold of the thin volume, almost as though he wanted his senses to experience this moment on separate planes, touch giving way to smell as he put it up to his nose to breathe in its musty odor. But then his eyes flew open and he gazed down on the once-familiar image of Santa Claus himself, ol’ Saint Nick and his green suit. Green, he breathed, green, he heard himself speak inside his mind . . . green, not red, and he felt the world grow fuzzy around him, as though his body were being transported back in time to his initial discovery of the wrapped present up in the farmhouse’s attic and the subsequent presentation of the gift from his father. Oh, how he had reveled in such joy that night, sitting on his father’s lap and hearing the sweet rhythm of the poem bounce off his tongue, swirling in the warm air around them, the pictures embedding themselves in his subconscious.

  “Nora . . .” he spoke, his voice a whisper.

  “Is it the book? I mean, I know it’s not the actual one you owned, but . . . it’s good?”

  He stared at the cover, and then without another word he began to flip through the pages. It wasn’t the text he concentrated on, or the colorfully antique-looking illustrations, the physical book was what captured his attention. Similar to the book from his youth, it was hardbound but came without a dust jacket, the artwork printed directly on the case. An image of a friendly Saint Nick graced the cover, and on the back was an illustration of his sleigh and reindeer flying off into the glow of the night’s silver moon. And just then he felt the prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes and let them roll down his cheeks.

  “Oh Nora, what you have done for an old man . . . I can never repay you.”

  “So . . . it’s the same edition?” Her voice was a curious mix of hope and worry.

  He said nothing again for a while, silence falling between them, nearly enveloping the entire recreation room. Like the gossip and the decorating had ceased, leaving Nora and Thomas alone to this moment in time, so long in coming, so fraught with doubt. Yet it was actually happening, the past somehow reaching beyond yesteryear to make a revelation in the present.

  “Tell me more,” he said, “like a piece of art, it must have a provenance.”

  And so Nora launched into her tale, detailing to him her online research and random visit to Elliot’s Antiquarian Book Shop down in Hu
dson, and finally to ordering a used edition from a bookseller. Thomas listened and nodded, asking questions and commenting when he felt it was appropriate, and as the words spilled from Nora’s mouth he wanted nothing more than to embrace her and thank her for her resourceful efforts. Yet a part of him held back, because he knew, deep down, that while this edition of The Night before Christmas, or A Visit from Saint Nicholas did indeed include a Santa dressed in a green suit, it was just a facsimile. But how to tell her? He saw the joy on her face, the look of a woman who took pride in the completion of her job, and so he had to weigh the impact of telling her the truth and have her keep looking for the original . . . or be content with her efforts.

  “Nora Rainer, you are an angel,” he finally said, clutching the book close to his heart.

  “No, Thomas, I’m just a businesswoman,” she said. “You hired me to do a job, I did it.”

  “And very well indeed, I might add,” he said, not looking at her, focusing on the book cover and Santa in the green suit. “And you performed your duties with such great respect for the needs of your customer, no matter how crazy they may have sounded. This is just beautiful, the memories this volume evokes . . . I believe I need a moment to myself. If you do not mind, my dear, I think I need to retire back to my apartment to peruse the volume very carefully. I’m afraid I’ve been left with an emotion I’m not quite ready to process, not in front of others. After so much time, to hold this dream in my hands, it’s almost too much. Yes, much to absorb. And so I bid you adieu, Ms. Rainer . . . Nora, and wish you a very good day.”

  With that, Thomas stood up, his legs a bit unsteady as he grabbed the arm of the chair to balance him. He waved off any assistance from her, and began to walk out of the recreation room. That’s when he found Nora suddenly at his side, looking like she had something on her mind.

  “Yes, Nora?”

  “It’s not the book, is it? Not your book.”

  “It is. I assure you. Saint Nick is wearing a green suit,” he said. “You did as I asked.”