A quick check of his watch again, Brian saw the hands reach four on the nose, and like his cue had been sent out on those reliable currents of the wind, a sudden whistle could be heard floating through the air, growing louder as it neared. Mark turned to Brian, wonder written across his face, and said, “What is that?”
“I believe it’s called an entrance,” Brian said.
With a murmur of excitement spreading amidst the guests, all heads turned back toward Main Street just as a blazing red fire truck came barreling down. Bright and gleaming against the white line of lights situated on the side of the road, the truck finally came to a rest in front of the village square; the siren wailed once more, the twirling red light casting its own contrast against the white blanket of snow. From the passenger side of the truck, out stepped Nora, and then reaching inside, she helped down a man unsteady on his feet, still pushing her away in an act of newfound strength. The sight before Brian was strikingly familiar, taking him back to his childhood when Santa would ride in on the fire engine while the luminaries glowed all around them, but a detail was noticeably different here, as it should be. This was Linden Corners, where they celebrated with their own traditions. Even those they were just establishing today. Because there was Santa Claus, Saint Nick himself, his outfit causing a stir among the assembled residents. Because, of course, he was wearing a thick green suit, fluffy white ruffles lining its edge, a black-buckled belt around the paunchy middle; the only red in evidence was on his cheeks, rosy from not just the cold but the excitement that pumped from within.
He let out a holiday roar of “ho, ho, ho,” and made his way up toward the gazebo. Nora held his arm, and when Brian’s eyes made contact with them both he couldn’t help but smile as wide as he thought possible. They matched his smile, tooth for exposed tooth, until they made their way into the dazzling light of the gazebo, Santa taking a seat in a plush, wing-backed chair they had found inside A Doll’s Attic. Already situated beside him was a sack full of toys, all colorfully wrapped in the shiniest of paper, silver and gold, blue and red. Also inside the gazebo was Father Burton, who just gave Santa a happy nod. As Brian laughed at the presence of both men, the two of them representing two sides to faith and hope, he turned back just in time to see Bradley and Cynthia settled into their seats beside Gerta, shaking hands with Katherine. He acknowledged them with a slight nod, noting how strange his friend looked without baby Jake in her arms.
And then he turned his attention to the edge of the park, where a procession of light was making its way down the sidewalk, row after row, and then more rows. Candles flickered and shadows walked among them as the solemn chorus of “O, Come, All Ye Faithful” filled the falling night sky, sounds from heaven. As the children’s parade made its way up the wide pathway, luminaries dictating their way, he stole a look at Nora, who had settled in beside her mother. They shared a look of mutual satisfaction, not just at having Thomas here dressed as the Santa of his childhood, but at the chance at sharing a part of their childhood again, too. Because leading the children’s parade were Janey Sullivan on one side, Travis Rainer on the other side, she in her crushed red velvet dress beneath her coat, he in dark pants and white shirt, his tie a vibrant green, and while he might have been carrying the largest of the candles, held high in his strong arms on a golden pole, it was Janey who captured Brian’s heart and those of everyone around. In her arms, she cradled baby Jake, the young tyke celebrating his first-ever Christmas and in the lead role, to boot. Father Burton’s influence here, Santa was fine, but let’s not forget, as he put it, “the reason for the season.”
As the children’s parade marched into their designated area, their evensong came to an end, just as a string quartet set up behind the gazebo started up. The crowd looked around, the residents buzzing about what they had witnessed already, what was still to come, and in truth they didn’t have long to wait. It was getting colder with each passing minute, and so without any further pomp, the wedding of Mark Ravens and Sara Joyner began in full. From atop the fire truck the siren blew again, drowned out by the eager whoop-whoop of Martha Martinson as she led her friend, coworker, and surrogate daughter down from the inside of the truck. They came to the edge of Memorial Park, where lives of the fallen were celebrated in remembrance, where lessons of the past were learned on a daily basis, where futures were planned. As the string quartet started up with the sounds of the wedding march, Martha began to process along the path, eventually coming to a stop opposite Brian.
“So, kid, you finally got that date with me,” she said.
“And to the altar, all in one day,” Brian added.
They both had to stifle a laugh, Father Burton trying to discourage them with a wary glance. Then Sara began her procession forward, her face a mix of anticipated fear and overwhelming joy. She moved hesitantly along the path of golden light, her dress of ivory and lace, her shoulders warm courtesy of a soft white stole, reflecting off the glowing luminaries, off the glistening tinsel of the trees, from the natural beam of her own smile. At last she came to the steps of the gazebo, Mark stepping down to take her hand, guide her up the four steps and into the roofed enclosure of the round gazebo. All around her were more white lights, hanging from the roof, and from the latticed ceiling. Attached to a red and green string that twirled in the air was another of Mary Wilkinson’s ornaments, this one a glass orb that inside contained an old-style windmill, and unlike the one that stood lonely and darkened just miles away in an open field of snow and encroaching moonlight, this windmill’s sails turned under a bath of flickering light. Sara got her wish after all, to be married under the glow of the spinning windmill.
“Oh Mark, it’s so beautiful,” she said.
“A subject you know all too well, my love,” Mark said.
Brian stole a loving look over at Janey, and the easy way with which she smiled back at him nearly melted his heart, could have melted the snow all around him if given half a chance. How lucky he was, to have found her and to be blessed with her sunny spirit day in, day out, filling his world with a love more rare than the wind on a calm night. As he turned back to the gazebo, his eyes settled upon Nora. She was placid, focused, watching the events unfold before her, but Brian imagined her mind was miles away, perhaps time stripping away the years to her own wedding day, when she, too, had been filled with hope. Today was a new beginning for Mark and Sara, but for Nora it was no doubt a reminder of promises made, promises broken. Brian knew something about such betrayals, too, so he offered her a supportive nod when their eyes met, receiving one back in return. While some nosy folks in town might see them as a couple someday when their lives were free of complication, when things like holidays and celebrations were in hibernation, he knew, deep down, that Nora Rainer and Brian Duncan were friends, just as she had asked, and he was more than happy with such status. In the short time he had known her, she had taught him much, and she had helped him, too . . . well, he need only to gaze upon Thomas Van Diver dressed in his green Santa suit to know the power of like-minded individuals achieving the impossible together.
But even as the wedding progressed, as prayers were offered up to the heavens, and vows were exchanged and then sealed with a tender kiss, Brian knew that the festival was far from over. There was much still to come on a night when the world expected an array of gifts to fill lives with joy, yet what Brian was most looking forward to was something more powerful. Not receiving, not giving, and so as the best man, with the newlyweds seated on a bench inside the gazebo, with all the town watching and waiting, as a light dusting of snow began to fall from the sky, Brian Duncan stood beneath the spinning windmill ornament and announced that a special treat awaited them all, “for all the kids, as well as for the kid in all of us.”
And that’s when Thomas Van Diver took from his sack of toys a thin, hardcover volume, opening it up with a slight squeak from age, the other hand pushing his glasses atop the bridge of his nose. Brian stood beside him to assist if needed, having transformed himself fro
m best man to helpful elf faster than the revolution of the windmill’s sails. After a quick check of his green-suited Santa, all systems were good to go. Thomas cleared his throat, the only sound in all of Linden Corners, and, with a crowd of children gathered on a blanket inside the gazebo and countless others gathered on steps and in the field around them, he began to read....
“Twas the night before Christmas. . . .”
The village of Linden Corners listened rapt with attention, even Buster and Baxter, who lay quietly, almost sensing the reverence that spread through Memorial Park, throughout the entire village. Brian, too, listened, even as his gaze fell elsewhere, far down Main Street and back toward the farmhouse, and in his mind he saw a flash of light, as though the windmill had suddenly burst back to life, vibrant once more against its former black backdrop. Perhaps it was only in his hopeful dreams, or perhaps it was true. Regardless, he knew that his world was filled with an energy powered by something more than electricity, love in its many forms swirled all around them, sweeping across the land like in an all-encompassing wind. Yes, Annie was here, he thought, and she wasn’t alone. George, too, and maybe Dan Sullivan and maybe even Lisbeth and Lars Van Diver, Mary Wilkinson and her father, Chester, and perhaps even the artist, Alexander Casey, and Philip Duncan, a brother who had first taught Brian the meaning of Christmas. They all hadn’t come just for a visit, because like life itself they arrived with a purpose, carrying with them mysteries that could only be understood in the world in which they thrived.
“When are you going to be back?”
“Before you wake up in the morning,” Brian said. “Just after Santa’s visit.”
Janey Sullivan scrunched up her freckled nose, just like she always managed to do when she didn’t understand or just plain didn’t like something. “Are you sure about that, Dad? I mean, your track record with Christmas morning isn’t exactly stellar.”
Brian laughed. “Guess I didn’t have to get you a dictionary for Christmas,” he said.
“So I’ll stay at Cynthia’s then, right?”
“Uh, no, not tonight, sweetie,” Brian said.
“Why not?” she said, disappointment in her voice.
“Sometimes, sweetie, you have to allow families to have their special moments together. This is Cynthia and Bradley’s first Christmas with Jake, so we should let them establish some new traditions of their own that Jake will remember for the rest of his life. Like you have, like I have, and now like we both have. So let’s leave them some privacy; and don‘t worry, we’ll see them later in the day tomorrow, we have to—we have gifts for them all. By the way, you did a beautiful job tonight with Jake, I barely heard a peep out of him.”
“Jake and I, we’ve got a really strong bond, he listens to me,” Janey said. “But if I’m not staying at the Knights, where am I staying?”
“With Gerta, of course,” Brian said. “And Travis.”
“And Nora?”
“No, actually, Nora is coming with me.”
“So, you do like her,” Janey said.
Brian just ruffled the little girl’s hair; she was always looking for motives behind every little moment. “Can we leave that discussion to another time? Right now she and I have to keep a promise we made.”
“Helping Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a good thing, Brian.”
“Well, thank you, Janey, I hope so,” he said. “And you know, your understanding of why I need to do this, it’s just the best Christmas gift you could give. To me, and to Thomas.”
“I liked the book he read, it had such pretty pictures,” Janey said. “Now I get why Thomas wore a green suit tonight, weird as it was.”
A short pang of regret hit Brian in the gut, knowing the book’s ownership was somewhat in doubt. Not that Janey knew anything about its existence beyond Thomas’s possession of it, but had she known the book was a gift to her from her father—the last gift she would ever receive from him and that it had been up in the attic all this time, he wasn’t quite sure how she would react. The parallel of the two fathers and their final gifts to their children hit too close to home. So for now, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Christmas Day would be all about her, but for now, Christmas Eve, the promise lay with him and Nora fulfilling the dreams of an old man who had come to town in hopes of finding his past, succeeding beyond his wildest imagination. He was ready now to say good-bye in the only way he knew how.
It was seven o’clock when Brian and Nora and Thomas said good night, all of them back at Gerta’s house for a quick cup of hot chocolate or coffee, anything to keep them going on this exhausting, long day. As the families exchanged hugs and assurances they would see each other in the morning, the three of them made their way toward Brian’s truck.
“Not a chance I’m getting in that thing, not tonight,” Nora said. “Fifteen-minute trips here and there are fine, but not a three-hour journey on snowy roads.”
“What do you suggest?” Brian asked.
Nora pulled her keys from her coat pocket and tossed them at Brian. “You’ve so been wanting to drive my sporty little car ever since you rear-ended it on Halloween. Even though I still suspect you were the one who wasn’t paying attention to where he was going that day, that’s how much you liked my car. So here’s your chance, Windmill Man, get behind the wheel of my red Mustang and take us into the wind.”
“Like Rudolph himself,” Brian said, happily.
They headed out of Gerta’s driveway and down the road toward Main Street, eventually working their way west toward the Thruway, but before they even left Linden Corners they found a good-luck charm riding alongside them. In the open field near the village borders, there stood an old-style windmill, and not only were its sails turning in the gentle wind, it was all aglow with a powerful glow of white light. And even after it disappeared from the rearview mirror, its power fueled them onward, headed as they were into the darkness and into a night filled with sudden uncertainty. Brian was still unsure of what awaited them on the other side of this journey, but he put his trust in Thomas, just as the man had done with him.
There were mysteries still to uncover.
CHAPTER 21
THOMAS
He had shared the story of his life with so few people, but now, on the eve of his eighty-fifth birthday, Thomas found himself wondering why he had maintained such a tight aura of privacy for all these years, more the past few months. His world had been a small one to begin with, just he and his parents in a big farmhouse on a piece of land dotted by an old windmill, and then one day it grew smaller still, just he and his mother, the larger world having swallowed his father and in turn a piece of Thomas he would never recover. Even when they went to live with his maternal grandparents, the boy with the big name had kept to himself, quiet and studious. Was it any wonder he had grown up to be a college literature professor, immersed in stories told to and written in the past? He was never happier than when lost amidst endless stacks of other people’s lives. Until the day he had met her, and she had opened up one part of himself he thought was closed forever.
His heart.
Her name was Melissa Dinegar, yet to him and him alone she was his “Missy,” and from the moment their hands had touched upon the same volume in the school library—a gilt-edged, leather-bound edition of Miguel Cervantes’s Don Quixote, he knew his life had shifted to a new axis. They shared a nervous laugh and each tried to offer the other the book, and when Thomas admitted with a sheepish grin that, “I’ve already read it,” the woman with the dazzling smile and the sorrowful eyes he would come to call Missy said, “Me, too, three times. There’s something about Quixote’s fanciful lunacy that continues to appeal to me, the way he sees enemies when it’s only windmills he is fighting.”
“Tilting,” Thomas had said to her, “the phrase in the text is tilting at windmills,” and he said it again now, to Brian and Nora, his story flowing out of him with images of literary allusion making it all seem like a fairy ta
le. “Something I felt I did, too, always battling against enemies I could never see, and when in college I read the misadventures of Quixote and Sancho, it was like Cervantes himself was talking to me. I could picture the windmill, of course, and why not? I had been born under one’s shadow, and even though Linden Corners was far from my life, it was never gone from my mind. For much of my youth, that Christmas memory defined me and so when it came to starting anew with Missy at my side, I knew there was only one way to close out the past. We were married, like Mark and Sara tonight, on Christmas Eve.”
A Christmas Hope Page 26
