“But I was, I just loved his love of language,” Gerta said with a nod of her head. “And when this firebrand of a girl was born, well, I just knew who to name her after. She can be an impulsive girl—but only when she plans ahead.”
Nicholas laughed, even as Nora looked away with embarrassment. What was going on here? Was her mother actually flirting with Nicholas on her behalf? “That sounds like quite the juxtaposition,” he said. “Nora, is your mother telling tales out of school?”
“I think my mother should just drink her tea before it gets cold,” Nora said with a pointed arch to her eyebrow.
That seemed to only solidify the growing bond between Nicholas and Gerta.
“So, Nicholas, I don’t see any of your . . . what do you call him?”
“My triple-great-grandfather,” he said, “but to expedite matters, let’s just call him Alex.”
“You said on the phone that part of the reason you keep the gallery going is so Alex gets the recognition he deserves, yes? I don’t see anything on the walls here that looks like it was painted by a nineteenth-century artist.”
“That’s right, Alex’s work is kept elsewhere,” he said. “But why don’t you tell me about your client and what he’s told you about the book and we’ll take it from there.”
So Nora began her tale from the moment Thomas had entered her store that day, asking her to find a rare edition of Twas the Night before Christmas that had Santa himself dressed in a green suit. Her story continued with the chance visit to the antiquarian bookseller in Hudson, the lead he gave her about the reproduction edition, and her purchase of it online. “I’d show you the book, but I already handed it over to the client,” Nora concluded. “It was his reaction that has me at your gallery.”
“Let me guess, he wasn’t pleased with it,” Nicholas said, matter-of-factly. “There’s a lot of confusion about that edition. Sure, it was an authorized book by the Estate, but the plates the publisher was working from were not complete; some of the original illustrations had been damaged over time. So we hired another artist to redraw them as faithfully as possible, and while she did a beautiful job and the publisher’s edition was lovingly printed . . . to anyone who had seen the original edition, it pales in comparison.”
“So why was it published? The reproduction, I mean,” Nora asked.
“It was done as part of a retrospective my family sponsored. We were gearing up for the one-hundredth anniversary of the original edition, so we wanted to do something special. A friend knew a friend who worked for a children’s book publisher. The editor simply fell in love with Alex’s illustrations, said they evoked a Victorian charm rarely displayed by an American. So, tell me what you can about this client.”
“He was born in Linden Corners, but left when he was just five,” Nora said, launching into Thomas’s story without giving away his identity; a lawyer, even non-practicing, knew all about client confidentiality. The details, though, she was happy to relate, and when she finished telling him about Thomas and his father who had gone off to war, of the last Christmas gift he’d ever received, Nicholas Casey was on the edge of his seat.
“I’m with your client, I wish I could get my hands on that book,” he said.
“Well, surely you have one,” Gerta said.
“Not anymore, sadly. The last of the family’s private collections were destroyed, waterlogged one spring after a particularly snowy winter,” he said, “which is also when the original artwork was damaged. All of this happened before I was born, back in the fifties sometime. So the book your client’s father gave to his son that one Christmas Eve, it might have been one of the only copies left in existence.”
“If only we knew where it had gone,” she said.
“You say the boy left it in the house when they moved? Can he be sure? I mean, it’s eighty years ago, perhaps his memory is faulty?”
Nora shook her head. “Not likely. When he told me of his last day in the farmhouse, the details were so vivid, it was almost like he had abandoned the book all over again. I could even see the windmill’s sails as the boy and his mother drove off, never to return to Linden Corners.”
Nicholas’s eyes lit up. “The windmill?”
“Yes, surely you know of our town’s landmark, an old Dutch style . . .”
“Yes, yes, certainly I know of it. I had forgotten it was in Linden Corners, where you hail from,” Nicholas Casey said with obvious excitement. “Ladies, I think we’ve told enough, now it’s time for show. Please, if you’ll join me, I think we each have some surprises ahead of us.”
Nora and Gerta, intrigued, exchanging quick glances, quickly gathered their belongings and followed Nicholas out the back door of the village gallery. He helped them into his car, assuring them where they were going was just a short ride. “A couple of miles, but well worth it,” and so they quietly drove out of downtown Lee, back into the countryside where they followed along the trickling waters of a rock-crusted steam, over a covered bridge whose roof was coated with snow. It was as beautiful a scene as Nora had witnessed, a wintry wonderland that had her thinking of Rockwell and seeing what so inspired his devotion to Americana.
At last they pulled into a driveway partly hidden by the curve in the road, made their way up to an old Colonial-style house; Nicholas explained this was his home, “been in the family for generations.”
“You live here with your family?” Nora asked.
“Mom, Dad, brother and his wife, their three kids. And me, sort of the caretaker, not just of them but of Alex’s legacy.”
“How interesting,” Gerta said with an eye toward Nora.
Thankfully that part of the conversation ended. It wasn’t the house that he had brought them to see but a large, restored barn in the wooded backyard. As he brought the car to stop, he helped Gerta out, steadying her feet as they tromped through the snowy drift and into the warm confines of the barn.
“This is the family jewel,” he said.
As Nora stepped in, her green eyes expanded with sudden wonder; all over the walls were paintings, lush illustrations and faded ones, too, an array of artistry that drew her attention from one to another, another, another. There must have been hundreds of them, some behind protective glass, others simply mounted on a canvas, frames made of wood or edged in shiny gilt.
“What is this place?” Gerta asked.
“By proper standards, it’s the Alexander Casey Museum, open only to private collectors and museums, by appointment only. Of course, I like to show it off to close friends, as well, and I think after what I have to show you, friends are just what we’ll be. Come, there are two places I wish to show you, if you’ll follow me.”
Nora thought she would have followed this interesting man anywhere, as his passion for art was infectious, his joy at his ancestor’s talent admirable. Gerta took hold of Nora’s arm, for support, but also giving it a squeeze of excitement. They walked the length of the barn, its exposed beams and high ceiling making it seem almost like a cathedral, and with the only sounds coming from their footsteps, there was also a reverence instilled within these walls. As they passed paintings of churches and landscapes of the Berkshire Mountains, they at last came to the back wall, where a series of illustrations hung, all of them behind glass to preserve them.
“Oh my,” Gerta said.
“How beautiful,” Nora added.
“It’s not all of them,” Nicholas stated. “Like I said, some were damaged. But there he is, your Saint Nicholas in the green suit.”
From the cover art to the final back cover circle of Santa Claus and the reindeer flying toward the shining moon and many of the interior drawings in between those covers, here were the original illustrations of Alexander Casey’s version of The Night before Christmas, or A Visit from Saint Nicholas. And at last Nora could see why Thomas had been so disappointed in the reproduction edition, because, as beautiful as it had been printed, it was no match for these original drawings. Even behind the glass she could see the expert brushwork, oil on canvas an
d still bright with color; Santa’s suit was a more vibrant green here than on the book she’d held. His twinkling eyes were that much brighter.
So were those of the Nicholas standing before them.
“That was for your client,” he said, “and while it’s not the book itself that he could hold and keep, he’s welcome to come up and see them for himself. Perhaps that will be enough for him. You’ll have to let me know. But this next series I’m about to show you, it’s for you both.”
They turned around, faced a fresh panel of illustrations, none of these behind glass. They were exposed, vulnerable to the elements but still beautiful. A series of three paintings titled The Windmill’s Creation had Nora and Gerta both easily drawing in their breaths.
The first of the illustrations showed a barren land, the unfinished sails of the windmill lying flat and on the verdant lawn, two men standing beside them, dressed in period clothes from the 1800s; the second illustration was of the windmill’s tower, the men on ladders, hammering nails into the wood; and at last the third illustration displayed the sails at last mounted on the windmill, the two men shaking hands at its base.
“One of my triple-great-grandfather’s favorite pieces, done during his most productive period. He embraced this countryside with such verve, he felt there was no more perfect place on earth, since with each season came its own glories—the heat of summer and the crisp burnt colors of autumn, the snowy landscape of winter, the burgeoning return of nature in a verdant spring. It helped inspire his art year-round. He was present for many of the days the Van Diver family spent building the windmill, he sketched these and other pictures, but committed only these three paintings.” He paused. “So, what do you think?”
“I wish I could buy them,” Gerta said.
Nicholas smiled as though he’d been expecting the question and had his answer all ready. “Well, in a way, Gerta, you can,” he said, his eyes dancing behind his glasses. “Are you looking for that perfect Christmas gift?”
CHAPTER 18
BRIAN
The moonlight shined down on the land, creating a shadowy sheen across the snowy field. Stars dotted the sky, the North Star bright and sparkling. No rain or snow was falling, and just a slight wind blew in the otherwise quiet of the night. For Brian Duncan, this was as peaceful as life got, especially as he sat upon the roof of his car watching the sails of the windmill turn, the white lights that adorned the tower glistening against a black canvas. Compared to where he’d been just an hour ago, the difference was as stark as Linden Corners was to the big city.
The annual George’s Tavern Christmas Party had been a smashing success, with more food and drink than necessary, all of it capped by dozens of Gerta’s homemade pies, a rich selection of apple and peach, pumpkin and mincemeat, and of course, for Brian her sticky sweet strawberry. He’d managed to gobble up two slices, taking quick bites as he served drinks from behind the bar. He and Mark barely had time for a break, that’s how crowded and busy the bar was. The regulars had come early, found their seats, and barely moved. The twins, Marla and Darla, sat at the corner edge of the bar, knocking back tequila shots, just as they had done last year. Chuck drank cheap beer and kept looking at the door, as though waiting for some vision of Christmas to come entertain him. The senior set was out in full force, Elsie leading the charge save one person; there was no Thomas Van Diver to be seen, which disappointed Brian. He’d been working on his Manhattan-making skills in anticipation of the old man’s presence, but Brian had not had seen or heard from him since dropping him off the other day at the train station. Martha Martinson enjoyed herself, too, glad to have one day off from the Five O’, and Sara was the belle of the ball, with everyone saying how they couldn’t wait to see her in her wedding dress tomorrow. The tavern barely needed any light, that’s how much Sara glowed. The kids had a blast, too, Janey and Travis and Janey’s best friend, Ashley, all hanging together, playing darts like the grown-ups, drinking down their sparkling cider like it was champagne. Even Cynthia and Bradley managed to stop by with little Jake; despite the noise he’d fallen fast asleep and Bradley had opted to return back to their home, leaving Cynthia to hang with Nora, the two of them chatting nonstop. A sight that left Brian filled with more than a bit of paranoia.
But while the village of Linden Corners started off the holiday season in full tradition, it was Brian who was left with a touch of sadness. Last year at this time he’d had his own guests attending—his pal, John Oliver, along with his girlfriend, Anna; and Rebecca, his sister, who had brought Junior along. This year none could make it, John and Anna were now engaged and spending the holiday with her Italian family in Brooklyn. Rebecca he hadn’t even heard from. So if those traditions could not continue, there was one Brian wished to retain, and thankfully he could control that. Atop the roof of the truck with legs crossed, he stared wonderingly at the windmill, thinking about Annie and a thing called destiny.
“Hi, Annie,” Brian spoke into the wind, letting his words flow on its current. “Janey’s good . . . no, she’s great. Thriving and growing like a weed. But she’s still your sweet girl and misses you every day. I’m sure you know that, she talks to you, too. Cynthia is doing well, too, with Jake. Janey is over at the Knights’ house so often I think they are thinking of charging her rent. She’s there tonight because it was the annual Christmas party, so I had to work late. And then tomorrow is Christmas Eve. There’s going to be a big party here in front of the windmill, a Christmas Festival topped by a wedding, actually, which I know would fill your heart with joy. You might have been called the Woman Who Loved the Windmill, but so many in Linden Corners seem to be vying for that title now. You should have heard all the chatter tonight about how lucky Sara was to be getting married under all these lights, in such a picturesque scene. But don’t worry, the title remains yours in spirit, Janey’s in reality.”
He paused, crossing his arms over his body as the cold seeped beneath his coat. Watching the windmill spin, he felt the wind pick up and turn those sails that much quicker; like Annie was letting him know she was listening to every word. The lights on the windmill flickered, like the blink of crystal eyes. Wait, he thought, what was that? They flickered again, then returned as bright as ever. His heart beating, he feared the worst and then took a moment to settle them.
“Power is an amazing force, Annie. These lights power the windmill just as the stars do the sky. And Janey, she’s a power all her own, and thankfully she’s got enough to fuel me. She’s my first thought in the morning, my last one at night, the light inside the farmhouse, like the twinkling bulbs on our Christmas tree. Annie, I can’t wait for Christmas morning to see the look on Janey’s face when she opens my special gifts. We’ll open them in your presence, we’ll be here again that morning, just like last year, just like always.”
He sat for as long as he could, but after thirty minutes the wind blowing across the open field grew too much; it was two thirty in the morning, he should get home and try for sleep. There was much to do in the next two days, a wedding, the Christmas Eve festival, and of course Christmas Day itself. For a moment he thought again about Thomas; where was the kindly, but enigmatic man? Brian had hoped to convince him to read Saint Nick’s story to the children as part of the festival, and though he wasn’t yet giving up—even going so far as to rent a Santa suit—time was fast running out. He would go tomorrow morning to visit the man at The Edge, hoping to catch him before he left for his mysterious Christmas Eve trip.
Hopping off the truck’s roof, he set himself behind the wheel and with a wave at the windmill, drove off onto the highway. A minute later he had turned up Crestview Road and into the driveway, his headlights guiding him, one more beam of light against the dark night. Heading inside the farmhouse, he listened for the sounds of the slumbering girl who called this place home, even as he knew that wasn’t possible, she wasn’t here now. He was all alone, not unlike last year, a stranger inside the Sullivan home. He thought again of Thomas, he who had called this hom
e even before Dan Sullivan’s parents had bought it. Brian wondered, was there something more he could do, both for Janey and for Thomas, too, that would make Christmas as perfect as it could be? A way to bridge past and present, creating a brand-new future for them both.
Foregoing sleep once again, Brian went upstairs, where he brought down the ladder to the attic, its squeaky hinges exponentially louder in the quiet of the early morning. Making his way up the stairs, he walked past the boxes that had usually contained their Christmas decorations, empty now, settling himself on the wood floor before the boxes filled with the Sullivan family memories. The tape was old, browned and loose against the cardboard; Brian hoped the contents of the boxes were secure and undamaged. Janey had lost enough already at such a young age, to be denied her father’s family legacy would be too much. So Brian tore open the first of the boxes, which were filled with trophies and photographs; a handsome collegiate man with blond hair and an easy smile. The name DANIEL SULLIVAN sketched on all the plaques and trophies—he was a star runner, a winner of his college’s triathlon. Brian quickly flipped through various items, photographs of Dan at a younger age and in the company of what were undoubtedly his parents. People who had populated this world and left it early, only their memories alive inside the place they had called home. He found nothing that connected Dan to either Annie or Janey, so no doubt there was more information to be gleaned from inside the other boxes.
He paused, unsure if he should be doing this. He felt like an intruder, delving into a life he had stolen despite the fact he had never met Dan. In his company Annie had rarely mentioned her husband, who had died in a car accident when Janey was not even five years old. But one day Janey would want to look inside these boxes and learn all she could about her birth father, and Brian thought he best be prepared. What was the rush, why tonight? Because of the gift he had for Janey, he knew it would spark emotions within the little girl. And so he opened up the second box.
A Christmas Hope Page 23
