A Christmas Hope

by Joseph Pittman

  Closing out of the web browser she was on, Nora typed in the name Alexander Casey in a search engine and found a short Wikipedia article about the little-known artist. He had been born in 1842, died in 1907, and he had spent his life as a vibrant, colorful chronicler of scenes of the Northeast region of the United States, having resided in Lee, Massachusetts, a historic village located in the heart of the Berkshires. Not quite an artist of Rockwell’s reputation, Alexander Casey was not without his admirers. Nora couldn’t believe what she was reading, just a couple hours ago she had been in the midst of those lush mountains, no more than thirty minutes from Lee. Now she knew the secret to Thomas’s lost book might just lie close over the border. With her heart beating over her surprise discovery, she began to type furiously, the tap tap tap of her fingers across the keyboard like a staccato burst of ideas. When she was done, she had found the descendant, Nicholas Casey, still alive, still living in Lee, and with it came a phone number. His first name was not lost on her.

  But she didn’t call, not right away.

  She thought of calling Thomas to tell him she had a lead on the real edition. She thought then of the expression on his face when she had handed him the facsimile edition and she wasn’t sure she could handle a second dose of disappointment. Despite what she’d learned, what if this Nicholas Casey couldn’t help her, what if the reproduction had been published because there were no original editions left, long out of print and gone from this world? She had to tread carefully here, it was when you tried too hard to do your best that you offered up the biggest risk.

  Heck, she thought, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  She was about to pick up the phone when it rang, the sound reverberating off silent walls.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  “Hey, baby.”

  “Hey, you promised . . . no more nicknames. . . .”

  “Sorry. Yes, Mr. Rainer, how can I help you?”

  “And you don’t need to be so formal,” he said, “but you do need to come home.”

  “Soon, I said I’d only be an hour.”

  “Mom, it’s six o’clock, Grandma’s got dinner on the stove, Brian and Janey are still here.”

  She’d lost all track of time, the hours flying by as her search had consumed her. Right now she was torn between her son’s needs and Thomas Van Diver’s request and realized there was little choice. She remembered her promise to Travis on the day they’d pulled into Linden Corners. She’d messed up big-time with Halloween, and Thanksgiving had been a cloying day at her sister Victoria’s house, with Travis lost among all his girl cousins. She had assured Travis that Christmas would be as special as she could make it. He was her priority.

  Thomas Van Diver had waited nearly eighty years to find his book, what was one more day? Nora knew she could phone the illustrator’s relative tomorrow and who knew what she might learn? She just might be journeying farther beyond Green’s Tree Farm and into the misty hills of the Berkshires, where perhaps she would finally find the solution to a mystery that until today had seemed to offer up no clues.

  “Tell Grandma I’ll be right there, and . . .”

  “I know, have a glass of wine ready when you get here,” he said. “I mean, why not, we drank all the hot chocolate. And Janey finished all the marshmallows. She said it was one of her family traditions, but she seems to have a lot of them. What about us, Mom? Do we have any traditions left, or is everything about Christmas brand-new?”

  CHAPTER 15

  BRIAN

  The morning after the adventure at Green’s Tree Farm, Brian Duncan awoke with a mission to launch his and Janey’s second Christmas celebration in grand fashion, and it began with an early wake-up call that found him making his way to the kitchen. He put on coffee knowing that with all he needed to accomplish today, caffeine was just the opening gambit. He would crave all the energy he could muster, and what better way to get started than with a hearty breakfast. It was the irresistible sizzling smell of bacon that awakened Janey, she appearing in short order dressed in her purple pajamas and rubbing her eyes with the lingering effects of sleep.

  “Morning, sleepyhead.”

  “Hi, Dad, wow, you’re up early.”

  “It’s going to be a busy day.”

  “But it’s Sunday, usually it’s nice and quiet, we just play.”

  “But with Christmas getting closer, we have to get ready.”

  “There sure are a lot of things to do to get ready for just one day,” she said.

  “Yes, but isn’t it all worth it? Remember last year, all those great gifts?”

  “That weren’t under the tree,” she said.

  She would never let him forget that Christmas morning, when he’d fallen asleep on the sofa while all of her wrapped gifts remained securely hidden inside a locked closet inside the windmill, once Annie’s hiding place. Their first Christmas morning together had been a near bust, but in the end he and the red toboggan won out over thick banks of snow and had saved the day. Sometimes he thought it was Annie’s magic that had done it, fueling their day with the revolutions of the windmill, a day after a blizzard had blanketed the countryside.

  “Hey, our Christmas worked out pretty great, I seem to remember.”

  “Yes, it did. And don’t say ‘hey.’ ”

  Brian had become a stickler for proper grammar and full sentences, picking up where Annie had left off. Even on a cold, early Sunday morning, it was proper to speak properly.

  “Okay, little lady, will it be French toast or pancakes?”

  “Dad, it’s Sunday!”

  Janey was a stickler for routines. “Right, pancakes it is.”

  He busied himself with batter made from scratch, the sizzle of butter on the griddle filling the kitchen with wonderful scents. Janey set out plates and silverware and real maple syrup, and before long they were sitting down to their usual Sunday feast, Janey pouring more syrup on her plate than was needed.

  “You’re plenty sweet already,” he said.

  But her reaction surprised him, because she didn’t respond at all. She just cut a fork into the stack of golden pancakes, taking a big bite, repeating the process again, again. Oh, uh, Brian thought, he knew this version of Janey. Something was on her mind and from her silence he took that to mean she hadn’t yet formulated her thoughts. This ought to be interesting. What had changed since yesterday? Just a harmless day in the woods with Gerta and her family.

  “Did you have fun yesterday?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I always like getting the tree.”

  “And tonight we’re going to decorate it.”

  “I’m glad, I can’t wait to hang my name ornament on one of the highest branches.”

  “I’ll help you,” Brian said.

  “I’m sure I can do it myself.”

  Yup, there it was, that streak of independence that only showed up when she was upset or concerned about something; he’d seen it all during the holiday season last year, less times during the past year. He thought they had worked out their issues, learned to communicate. But with an impressionable girl like Janey who rarely missed observing human nature, you had to stay on your toes. She could blindside you with a comment faster than Nora Rainer could pull out from a parking spot. And if his metaphor seemed out of the blue, turned out . . . it wasn’t.

  “Do you like Nora?” Janey asked, her voice serious.

  Brian’s fork was midway to his mouth and it never got any further. He set it down on his plate, gathering up his thoughts as he chewed the last bites of bacon. “Sure, she’s a nice woman,” he said, being deliberately obtuse.

  “No, I mean, do you like her, like her?”

  “Oh, you mean like in school, when boys have secret crushes on girls?”

  Janey rolled her eyes. “Dad, now you’re being silly. And I’m being serious.”

  Guess “like her, like her” was a serious topic for a nine-year-old. He would have to be very careful with this issue, last year Janey had becom
e fascinated with couples—with his friend John and his new girlfriend, Anna; with his sister, Rebecca, and her boy-toy friend whose name escaped Brian at the moment; and of course with Mark and Sara, accurately predicting their engagement before they had made an announcement. She’d also been interested in Brian’s past love life when she heard about his high school sweetheart, Lucy, his big city girlfriend, Maddie, not to mention his love for her mother, Annie Sullivan. Fear had kept her awake many nights, her trembling body scared that Brian would fall in love with some new woman and want to leave her behind. He’d managed to avoid that subject most of the year, mostly because there hadn’t been a woman in the picture. . . until now. Until Nora.

  “No, Janey, I’m not interested in Nora, at least, not in the way you’re thinking,” he said. “Remember when I showed up in Linden Corners? I had problems to work out and everyone in town helped me out, which I’m still so thankful for. Well, now it’s Nora’s turn, and she needs friends.”

  “So you’re her friend?”

  “Just her friend.”

  “Because she’s married? Travis says his mom and dad are still together.”

  Wow, she was really throwing the book at him this morning, it wasn’t even nine o’clock. “No, Janey, Nora being married has nothing to do with it. Even if she was single and I was available, she and I would still just be friends. Like me and Cynthia.”

  That comment seemed to appease her, as she went back to eating her pancakes.

  “I don’t think I would want Travis as a brother,” she said.

  “Why is that, Janey? Do you like him, like him?”

  She stopped chewing as she dropped her fork; her face grew three shades of red. Even so, her words defied her flushed look as she said, “Oh, ick! Brian Duncan, you have to be the silliest man ever. Me, like Travis. I don’t like boys.”

  He had to stifle the laugh, hoping not to choke on his pancakes.

  “Eat up, young lady, you’ve got a big day ahead of you,” he said. “You promised Cynthia you would go Christmas shopping with her and Jake.”

  “Jake I like, he’s not like other boys.”

  No wonder. Janey liked to do all the talking; it was no surprise she preferred the company of an infant.

  The shopping spree up to the mall in Albany was really just an excuse to get Janey out from underfoot. Not that Brian necessarily wanted to get rid of her, but with what he had to accomplish this afternoon it would be easier without her darting around the windmill all day, asking questions, wanting him to stop and make snow angels or go sledding down the snowy hill. Plus, he wanted to surprise her upon her return; the mere thought of her reaction was fuel enough for him to get started.

  And start he did, the moment Cynthia had driven off with Janey in the backseat keeping little Jake company. Brian made his way to the barn, a rickety old building that had seen better days. There he climbed up the ladder attached to the inside, emerging onto the second level. From a big box he withdrew what seemed an endless string of lights, unraveling them to create one long thin line; he plugged one string into another until they were all connected, and then inserted one of the ends into the outlet. The barn lit up with a bright white glow, so powerful it was like the sun itself burned against the walls and ceilings. Checking them one by one, he made some replacements for those that had burned out, though for the most part the lights were as good as they were last year. Even so, he’d bought a few extras down at Ackroyd’s just in case.

  Gathering them back into the box, he then opened the swing door on the second level, figuring that was a far easier way to get them down than risking the box on the ladder. He pushed the box off the ledge, watched as it fell down ten feet to the snow-covered ground, a thick white drift helping to break its fall. Then he scrambled back down the ladder, pulling out a sled from the side of the barn. Outside, he placed the box on the sled, gathered up his staple gun and supplies, the ladder, then made his way down the hill and toward the windmill.

  Compared to the past week’s chill, today the air was a balmy thirty-four, with the wind all but quiet, which meant the windmill was silent as well, its sails thankfully sleeping. This would make his task that much easier, and so before the fickle forces of Mother Nature decided to play with him, he set about working. For the next hour he concentrated on the lights, trying to remember the pattern he’d used last year. From the base of the tower, all the way up to the cap that contained the spinning mechanism, Brian stapled string after string, until the lights coated the old mill. When he’d come up with the idea last year, he had pondered how to put the lights on the sails, knowing that in a strong wind the cords would get tangled and snap, and so in the end he’d foregone the sails. He did the same today, hoping for the same shadowy effect upon the reflective snow he’d produced just a year ago.

  As he was nearly done with the first side of the windmill, he saw a figure emerge over the hillside. He checked his watch to make sure he hadn’t lost track of time; he wanted to be done before Cynthia and Janey returned. But it was neither of them, instead he saw the familiar face of Bradley Knight coming toward him. Brian waved, receiving a hearty one back.

  “Need some help?” Bradley asked.

  “You? I wouldn’t want you to soil your clothes.”

  “This old shirt?” asked Bradley with an affable laugh. He was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, visible beneath his yellow Lands’ End jacket and scarf; he looked cool and refreshed, with his blond hair perfectly combed, the preppy tax attorney very much in weekend mode. Bradley’s philosophy in life was a simple one: If he wanted something done, he was perfectly willing to pay someone to do it. Such was life when your world revolved around billable hours, he understood the concept of work-for-hire. As opposed to Brian, a sweaty mess in his jeans and sweatshirt, his once corporate self turned hard laborer, and he wasn’t seeing a dime from this venture.

  “Cynthia told me what you were planning, thought you could use some company at least.”

  “Thanks. Feels like I’ve been at this for days, might as well take a break.”

  From a knapsack slung over his shoulder, Bradley produced a thermos and two cups.

  “Coffee?”

  “Oh, you are a lifesaver,” Brian said. “I think my hands are numb.”

  “At least it’s not that cold out today, we finally got a break after the week of bitter temperatures.”

  “Nah, it’s not the temperature, it’s that staple gun.”

  Bradley surveyed Brian’s handiwork, pronounced it a disorganized mess.

  “Yeah, well, wait till the night, that’s when it matters,” Brian said.

  “Where did you ever get this idea? And why all white lights?”

  “You know, I was thinking about that,” Brian said, “and I realized what I had done last year was an extension of a tradition back we used to do in the neighborhood I grew up in outside of Philadelphia. All of our neighbors would line the curbside with luminaries—votive candles that would flicker in white paper bags; the entire development would glow all Christmas Eve, supposedly it was used as a guiding light for Santa and his team of reindeer. Except in our neighborhood, Santa would arrive on the back of a fire truck, the siren’s wail a signal to all the neighborhood kids that he was coming. Santa would have a gift for each kid.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “I later learned it was actually our parents, dropping one of our Christmas presents at the firehouse,” he said. “Still, the neighborhood looked so beautiful. So I guess that’s what I see in my mind when I’m lighting the windmill, my past mixing with Annie’s world . . . with Janey’s.”

  “I remember how nice it looked last year,” Bradley said. “Still, I thought you were nuts then and I remain convinced of that today.”

  “Now you sound like Chuck Ackroyd.”

  “Ouch. That’s really not nice, Brian,” Bradley said, but the two of them exchanged knowing smiles, a Linden Corners in-joke. “Cynthia tells me that you’re decorating the windmill not just for C
hristmas, but for some wedding? What’s up with that? When did you go from farmer to becoming a wedding planner?”

  “I’m just in charge of putting the lights on the windmill, maybe help calm Mark’s nerves, too,” he said. “Martha is handling most of the details. Sara is like a daughter to her. But this being Linden Corners, she’s enlisted the help of many others—including Chuck, who has agreed to come by with his sidewalk plow and cut a path through the snow so Sara has something to walk down; oh, and Father Burton has agreed to perform the ceremony outdoors, switching the Christmas Eve vigil mass later, to nine o’clock. We’re also redirecting the children’s parade to help light the way, and even Santa Claus may show up.”

  “On a fire truck?”

  “Maybe. Just maybe.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re playing Santa.”

  “That’s a promise I can keep.”

  “The whole day sounds very ecumenical,” Bradley said. “What, no manger scene?”

  “Not a bad idea, Bradley,” Brian said.

  “I was kidding, please don’t credit me with that one,” he said.

  Brian assured him that one was just between them. “I’m sure there’s a lot more going on behind the scenes, but with less than two weeks to go before the big day, it’s going to sneak up on us fast, just like the holidays do every year. But that’s for then, this is now and I’ve got to finish lighting the windmill. So, you want to get a little dirty and help me finish getting these lights up? Might even score you an invitation to the wedding.”

  “Gee, can’t wait,” Bradley said, but that didn’t stop him from stepping up and assisting.

  It was about fifteen minutes into the next stage of stringing the lights around the windmill that Brian noticed they were getting additional company. It was Mark Ravens, the groom, who had parked his car along Route 20’s shoulder and made his way through the big open field, coming upon Brian and Bradley.