A Christmas Hope

by Joseph Pittman

  “Where did you find these?” Brian asked with a sense of wonder.

  “You might have tracked down Thomas’s book,” Nora said, “but I found the original artwork, and someday I’ll take you there.”

  What Nora had tracked down was the original art to my beautiful Saint Nicholas treasure, so close up in the Berkshire Mountains, where the illustrator once lived and where his family still honors his work. The past, it’s alive everywhere, here with us and in a house up in the hills near the Hudson River, and on the walls of the farmhouse, that’s where Brian has hung those fine illustrations of the windmill. Nora had promised us all a visit to the Casey Museum, the proprietor Nicholas has invited us all to see firsthand the works of art produced by the man who gave life to the Santa in the green suit, and it is a day I look forward to, as it will no doubt be the last time my eyes fall upon such an image.

  Even an old man is not without his surprises.

  Let me tell you of the final gift.

  It was two days after Christmas when I walked my old man shuffle into George’s Tavern and found Brian Duncan behind the bar, washing the glasses in time-honored tradition. He said he’d learned how to get all the spots out, a technique perfected by a man named George Connors, who had been Gerta’s husband and Nora’s father. He passed awhile back, but not before striking a bond between himself and Brian, his first in Linden Corners. One thing ol’ George failed to teach the newcomer was how to make a Manhattan.

  “I told you, Brian, just wave the vermouth over the glass.”

  But I drank the one he’d prepared for me anyway, and when it was finished I went about my business. A package accompanied me, but I would leave without it.

  “Here, this is for you. Actually, for both of you, can’t forget that irrepressible Janey,” I told him. My hands were shaking and it could have been because I’m so old but most likely it was because I was letting go of the one thing I’d come back to Linden Corners to find. My past.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “There’s no need to open it, not today,” I said. “All it lacks is the letter written by the young girl’s father.”

  Brian did his best to try and give back the present, but that’s the thing about gifts, once they leave your possession they are no longer yours to hold on to, that’s what I told him. And when he further protested, I told him that I had long ago accepted the past for what it was, I had lived a long, good life and toward its end I had been given such an unexpected surprise in the book. I confessed that I had originally considered it all a pipe dream, pushed on me by a loving wife who wished to see me come to terms, finally, with my loss. Perhaps she was right, I’d never properly said good-bye to my father, I didn’t get to hug him one last time or tell him I loved him one more time, I didn’t get to sit on his lap and hear him tell me that story again. But Janey can experience the joy I felt over and over again, and as you read it to her, Brian, she’ll know in her heart that it came as a gift from another man who loved her so unconditionally.

  “Give it to her next Christmas, make the discovery among Dan Sullivan’s things all over again,” I said, “let her know that life can continue to surprise her each and every day. That’s certainly a lesson I take from this, and I have both you and Nora to thank for that.”

  The mention of Nora caused a reaction in Brian that suddenly had him staring down at the floor, as though he’d dropped something. When I pushed him about it, he hesitated before revealing to me that upon their return to Linden Corners, he had pulled the red Mustang into her driveway, and as the snow fell on their shoulders and a chill seeped beneath their coats, Brian leaned in and kissed her, telling me the moment was not unlike the time she had done the same, in his driveway. This time, though, what was different was there was no windmill to get between them, and Brian said that after they parted, Nora had given him this curious look.

  “What was that for?” she asked him.

  “Just consider us even,” Brian said with a wide grin.

  Such is the dance of friends who may be finding themselves growing closer, but how it ends up is for another time. As we’ve said, all stories have their moment to be told, and for now, Christmas is what has driven us, those we remember from our childhoods, those we wish to share with loved ones, those we wish to establish with new friends.

  Before I left the tavern, Brian asked about you, my dear, and I informed him that all was unchanged, you were here but not. Yes, a new year is fast approaching. Back in my new home of Linden Corners, a New Year’s celebration is taking place at the farmhouse, with Brian hosting an assortment of friends and neighbors, Cynthia and Bradley, who had been blessed with a child this year; Gerta and Nora, Travis, too; and lastly, the newlyweds, Mark and Sara, a young couple just starting out on this journey called life together.

  When I am not here, where will I go? To the village square, of course, Memorial Park, walking behind the gazebo and to the series of stones that honor those we lost. But as much as my eighty-five-year-old self is drawing fingers through the engraved letters of one Lars Van Diver, it is the five-year-old boy inside me who can be found back at the farmhouse. In my dream it is Christmas Eve again, and I am running down the hill toward the windmill; the wind is strong and it picks up even more, almost lifting me into the air and when I land I find standing by its base the man dressed in green, and his smile invites me toward him. No, he is not Saint Nick, it is my father and I welcome him home.

  “Come, Papa, read me that story again,” I ask.

  But when I blink I am back at the memorial, his name is there.

  He never came home, and at last I am at peace with it.

  I can let go.

  Yes, my dear, I can let go of many things.

  I am holding your hand, and I feel I always will, even as you grow cold.

  Stories have their time and place, just as our lives do. They have their beginnings, their endings. Your time, my dear, it is now. I am fine, but know that I will never forget you. Life journeys onward, led by the constant revolutions of a windmill that gives power to a place you should only be so lucky to stumble upon, a place you won’t be just passing through.

  Just as seen in the paintings that now hang inside the farmhouse, seasons came and seasons went, until countless years had passed and the men who had crafted her, labored in the hot sun to build the magnificent windmill, were like the wind itself, blown into the past, into the memories we coin as history. The past is a good place to remember, but it’s the present we must cling to, it’s all we have to inspire the hope of the future.

  The snow again continues to fall all across the land, blanketing the tiny village in its deep winter coat, almost as though wiping away any trace of yesteryear, starting fresh. A new year has arrived, my dear, yet all around this special world called Linden Corners it is somehow still Christmas, and, as Papa once wrote at the end of his letters to us during the war, “Yours, now, forever, and always.” The same could be said of the snow, it wasn’t yet July.

  A Note About Twas the Night before Christmas

  The antique reproduction that is featured in this story exists. It was published in 1988 by the children’s imprint Philomel Books, now owned by the Penguin Group. I am familiar with it because I worked at Philomel at the time as the publisher’s assistant, and her excitement about having the chance to bring the work back into print was infectious. Santa Claus in the green suit obviously stuck with me.

  The original edition was indeed published by McLoughlin Brothers in 1888, with beautiful illustrations by the English artist William Roger Snow (1834–1907). For the purposes of my story, this is where fact needed to become fiction. I changed the name of the artist (my apologies) to the fictitious Alexander Casey, as it was necessary for Nora to continue to track—and find—the artist’s family and gain information about the original artwork.

  There is lore about Clement Clarke Moore not being the actual author, and the story told by Elliot the antiquarian bookseller is well documented. But that
hasn’t stopped hundreds of editions of the book giving full credit for the text to Moore, as I have done in my story as well.

  If you enjoyed A Christmas Hope,

  you won’t want to miss

  A CHRISTMAS WISH

  by Joseph Pittman

  Turn the page for a special excerpt.

  A Kensington Paperback On Sale Now!

  PROLOGUE

  Theirs was a seemingly unbreakable bond, one that had been built by the power of the wind and by the presence of the mighty windmill. Today the windmill spun its special brand of magic, even as the harsh cold of winter approached and nature readied to hibernate for the long, dark months ahead. On this Wednesday afternoon in November, he found himself walking through the light coating of snow that covered the ground, venturing beneath the turning sails. It was here, on this eve of the holiday season, he sought inspiration and knowledge and strength, all of which he would need to navigate his way through the memories of a past tinged with sadness, one that threatened to undo their fragile happiness. Because as wonderful as they were together, the days and especially the nights hadn’t always been easy, and the coming holiday season would prove to be the most trying time yet, a test of that bond.

  “Annie, sweet Annie, can you hear me?” he asked, his voice a hint above a whisper. He hoped the swirling wind would carry his words forward, upward. “I need your help, Annie. Janey needs your help, and I know you’re the only one who can show me—who can show us—the way through this difficult time. Thanksgiving is just around the corner, Annie, and how I wish you were here to celebrate with us. It would have been our first—yours and mine, with Janey. The three of us together, trimmings complementing the bounty of our love. But that’s not how things worked out. We are two only, and we both miss you. Before long, Christmas will be upon us, and if we can get through a holiday based on joy, on celebration, I think we’ll be fine, just fine. Until then, Annie, I just can’t predict how Janey will react to certain situations. Can you help me, can you show me the way to make this holiday a special one for your precious daughter? She’s only eight and she’s alone, except for me, and sometimes I wonder, Annie, am I enough for her?”

  There was no answer, not today. Snowflakes fell lightly all around him, the wind was gentle and the sails of the windmill spun slowly. It was as though the old mill could reach out with those giant arms and embrace the quiet soon to descend on the tiny village of Linden Corners, on its residents and on its treasured way of life. On a Christmas wrapped in tragedy, somehow able to transport them beyond their grief.

  For this man, a kind but broken man named Brian Duncan, this coming season would be a new experience, knowing the success of the holidays rested solely on his weighted shoulders. And as much as he looked forward to celebrations, of joys, of shopping and of gift giving, there were times when his warm heart was frozen with fear. Uncertainty could stop him in his step at a moment’s notice, now being one of those moments.

  As they prepared to journey beyond the comfort of Linden Corners—he and Janey taking their first official trip out of town—panic once again seized him, a feeling he usually sensed only after Janey had gone to sleep. A time when the night awakened his insecurities. Often he went to where he could feel Annie’s presence the most, seeking her wisdom. Standing now in the shadow of the windmill—of Annie’s windmill—he began to realize she couldn’t always be there for him. Some decisions he had to make on his own.

  “I told my mother, Annie, that I wasn’t coming for Thanksgiving unless she made peach pie,” Brian said with a touch of levity he thought was needed. He had been introduced to the sweet, gooey pastry just this past summer on a picnic high above the lazy Hudson River, on a rocky bluff he had subsequently named for her. “Mother claimed never to have heard of such a thing. I had to search your recipe box, and even after I found it I doubted it would taste the same. Sweet it would be, but missing that special ingredient you sprinkled into the mix—love. A piece of that pie for Janey was crucial, knowing it’s a piece of you. To make her feel at home even when she’s not.”

  There were more questions, more requests. Brian spoke and he listened. And still there was no answer, just gentle, flowing wind and falling snowflakes and the languid spin of the sails. Nothing was different, no sign came to him that he’d been heard. Just then Brian smiled, perhaps interpreting this calm silence as an acknowledgment that if the wind didn’t see fit to shift its direction, neither should he. Steady the course, follow your instinct. Trust your heart.

  “Okay, Annie, I think I hear you now,” he said with a wry smile.

  She was like that, mysterious, elusive, even when she’d been in his arms.

  He removed his glove and placed a bare hand on the windmill’s wooden door, as though searching for a pulse from inside. Its touch was cold. Then, turning back toward the farmhouse, he saw young Janey emerging from over the hill, her fingers laced through those of Gerta Connors, neighbor and friend, honorary grandmother. They both waved at him, with Janey suddenly breaking free of her hold. Janey began to run down the hill, her boots making faint impressions on the snow, as though she was barely touching the ground.

  “Brian, Brian, I’m ready for our trip, come on, let’s go. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us,” she said with easy glee, conjured from her redoubtable spirit. Where a small girl stored such energy, Brian didn’t know. Then she wrapped herself around his waist and held him tight.

  “I was just making sure everything was secure,” he said. “I see now that it is.”

  Together, they made their way back up the hill where Gerta waited patiently. Gerta, who had invited them to spend Thanksgiving with her and her four grown daughters, Gerta, who had herself faced terrible loss this past year and persevered, just like them all. It was a Linden Corners trait. Brian had politely declined her invitation. Maybe they both needed this first holiday with their own families, he explained. Holidays were about families, she should be with hers and he, his.

  “My mother, she needs her family during these times more so than any other time of year,” Brian stated with little explanation. He didn’t often speak of his family; they hadn’t shared his recent journey, didn’t understand his new life. “It’s a time of year when the Duncan family remembers what we have and what we lost. Maybe the only time we do remember. We so rarely understand each other.”

  In every family there were both treasures lost and found, Gerta had said with her customary grace and understanding.

  Back at the farmhouse, Brian Duncan and Janey Sullivan said their good-byes to Gerta with quiet hugs and heartfelt emotions, and then piled into Brian’s car. Suitcases were already stored in the trunk, ready to travel. Was he? Brian wondered.

  “Ready?” Brian asked Janey. Just to be sure.

  “I already said so,” she replied, not without a sense of exasperation that reminded him of the young girl he’d met at the start of summer, before anything had happened. Of the time they had first met that sweet summer day, right here, at the base of the windmill. “Why, did you change your mind?”

  Brian realized she was giving him a chance to change his mind. He grinned at her maturity, her intuitiveness. Sometimes he wondered which of them was the adult, which the child.

  “The open road awaits us,” he said.

  Soon they were tucked in their seats and then they had pulled out of the driveway, tires crunching on the small amount of snow in the driveway. Then the winding road captured them, taking them out of Linden Corners, passing the windmill one last time as the car rounded a curve. Janey waved to it, while Brian, smiling nonetheless, kept his eyes on the road. Because he’d already made his wish upon the wind, and it was up to nature now to send his message to that special place where all his wishes belonged.

  Christmas was coming.

  Surprises awaited them all, not all of them to be unwrapped.

  A season of love, of hope, was just around the corner.

  They would be back in Linden Corners to celebrate.

&n
bsp; For now, it was time to learn about each other, of what lived inside their hearts.

  PART 1

  OLD TRADITIONS

  CHAPTER 1

  If tradition dictates the direction of your life, then it was inevitable that my mother called me two weeks before Thanksgiving to ask whether I would be joining the family for our annual dinner. Every year she makes the same call, every year she asks in her deliberately unassuming way, and every year I respond in my expected fashion. Yes, of course, where else would I be? This year, though, so much had changed—in my life and in my parents’ lives, too—that I had to wonder whether the notion of tradition belonged to a bygone era, appreciated only by thoughts of the past, no longer put into practice. How I answered my mother on this day proved that indeed change was in the air, a first step toward tomorrow. Because I informed her that before I could give her an answer, I needed to consult first with Janey.

  “Brian, dear, that’s very sweet, but you don’t ask children what they want to do. You tell them,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  “No, Mother, Janey and I, we’re a team. We make decisions together.”