Season of Angels (9781101612170)

by Kinkade, Thomas; Spencer, Katherine

  There was a lot to do before Christmas. She hadn’t even started her shopping. Molly knew she should sit down this morning and make a big, long list. She didn’t have to be in the shop until noon, though she would be working late tonight, setting up a holiday cocktail party. She tossed in a load of laundry, grabbed another cup of coffee, and sat in her planning place, on a high stool at the granite-topped island in her kitchen.

  She sat with her pen poised over her pad and dutifully started her list. But her thoughts kept wandering back to Sam, back to the argument in her shop, back to her hard words to Grandma Addie. Back to the pain in her father’s eyes whenever he tried to talk about his brother.

  It was no good. She put her pen down. She couldn’t concentrate on a Christmas to-do list this morning. She was too worked up. Her little boat was rocking from side to side, as if hit by a sudden squall.

  She checked the time and decided to leave for the village a little earlier than she had planned. Maybe she could catch Sam at his shop. Maybe they could talk about this without arguing.

  Molly reached the village a short time later. She saw Sam’s truck in the driveway, next to the Bramble. Sam was working with one of his employees, loading the bed of the truck with long white columns that Molly knew would soon be bracing up the porch roof of someone’s Victorian.

  She parked her SUV across the street from the Bramble and started toward him, brushing aside a sudden attack of nerves. Why should she feel nervous approaching her own brother? Maybe because he had glanced at her car but hadn’t looked her way once since then?

  He still did not look at her as she stood near the truck. He was crouching on the truck bed, securing the columns with heavy nylon cord.

  “Hi, Sam . . . Busy today?”

  He glanced at her a moment. “I have to get back to a job right away. What’s up?”

  It took a lot to make her brother mad, but she definitely saw the signs of that rare occurrence.

  She shrugged, feeling her courage drain through her toes.

  “Nothing. I just thought we should talk. I guess it can wait.”

  He was at the far end of the truck bed now, facing away from her. “It will have to. For one thing, I don’t have time right now. For another, I’m not sure there’s anything to talk about.” He stood up and turned to her. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about Dad and Uncle Kevin?”

  Molly took a breath. She had to be honest, she had not. She shook her head. “Not really, no. I’m still on Dad’s side, if that’s what you mean.”

  Sam’s bland expression suddenly darkened. “How can we even talk about this if you make it into some sort of war? Some sort of contest about which of us is more loyal to Dad? I love him just as much as you do, Molly. You don’t have any copyright on that,” he said angrily.

  Molly was shocked and took a step back. “I never said that, Sam. Don’t put words in my mouth now—”

  “Maybe you never said it, but you act that way. Do you think staying mad at his brother till they both die is a good thing? Never mind poor Grandma. Is that the side you’re on—being unforgiving and clinging to all this old baggage and these grievances?”

  Molly suddenly felt as if a red-hot flare were shooting through her bloodstream. “How dare you talk to me like that? You’ve got all the answers, right, Sam? I never said you didn’t love Dad, but I will say, you really don’t get this at all. None of this—not one bit of this entire mess—is Dad’s fault. And you’re still blaming the victim.”

  Sam jumped down from the truck bed and faced her. For a moment, Molly was honestly afraid of what he might say next.

  Then he shook his head. “If that’s how you see it, there’s nothing else I can say. When Dad decides—not you, but Dad,” he said emphatically, “that he does have a choice here, that he can put this aside and move on, maybe we’ll have something to talk about.”

  He brushed past her and got in the cab of the truck, then slammed the door shut and started the engine.

  Molly felt sad they had fought again, and angry at him all at once. She tromped back along the icy ground to her car, trying to watch her step as her sight grew blurry and her eyes filled with tears. She got in her SUV and fastened the seat belt but couldn’t drive away.

  Sam, you big idiot, she shouted in her head. Why can’t you just get over it and be nice to me again? We always disagree, and you just laugh it off. Why do you have to stay so mad at me this time? Why does this even matter? Why can’t things just stay the way they were, before Grandma came down here and turned everything into such a huge mess . . .

  Molly dried her eyes and headed for her shop. Two weeks and five days until Christmas Eve, when Sam and Jessica would have the big family party at their house. She thought about the promise she had made to Matt. How she wouldn’t let this family feud ruin their holiday.

  Sorry, honey, but I just made things even worse. Sam can’t stay mad at me until Christmas . . . can he?

  She didn’t even want to imagine what would happen then.

  * * *

  Jonathan drove into the village on Friday evening, just as darkness was falling. The weather forecast had predicted snow today, but once again, the area had only been dusted by a few flurries. Jonathan thought the village looked like one of those miniatures set under a tree, with just the edges of rooftops and lampposts and cars frosted by a light coating of snow.

  The Bramble fit into this picture perfectly. The building, once a Victorian house, was decorated for Christmas with lights and garlands strung around the porch and front door and a big pine wreath. He parked in front, got out of his car, and waited for Tess. She was meeting him here at six but he was a little early.

  A path leading up from the street to the shop had not been shoveled yet, but he could still see the remains of flowerbed borders and flowerbeds all around the porch and picket fence. The porch was packed with collectibles: wooden benches and rocking chairs, painted signs, milk cans, old bottles, and lanterns. He wondered how much was actually valuable and how much was just junk that the shopkeeper hoped to pass on. If he ever had a house, he knew he wanted a lot of old, interesting things in it, treasures from the past. He wondered if Tess would like that, too, then caught himself, feeling silly for even wondering how she would decorate a house.

  Small candles glowed in all the windows, and Jonathan could easily imagine a time when a family lived here, when a horse and carriage rolled up the gravel drive and parked in the back, near the barn. He could picture the mother, wearing an apron over a long dress, taking something out of the oven. The table was set for dinner, and a fire glowed in the hearth. The children were playing games and reading. There was no TV, computers, or video games, of course. They ran to greet their father when he came home in from the cold and jumped into his arms. Oh, and there was a dog, Jonathan decided, a big, friendly yellow dog, stretched out by the fire.

  Would he ever fall in love with someone and have a home like that? Would he have children? Would he ever live such a simple, happy life? It seemed a dream, so different than the way he had grown up.

  He smiled to himself, wondering what had sent his thoughts into such a sentimental tailspin. He did get nostalgic around antique stores. It was easy for him to imagine the lives of the people who once owned all these things. But he also knew it was something more. The holidays coming, maybe. Meeting a girl like Tess . . .

  He suddenly felt someone watching him and noticed a woman looking out from behind the curtains on the bay window. She either realized he had come for the interview and wondered why he didn’t come in—or she was about to call the police.

  He checked his watch and when he looked up, Tess was walking toward him down the sidewalk with that long, graceful stride of hers. He waved and started toward her.

  She waved back and smiled. She wore a dark blue peacoat, jeans, and boots, with a red-and-white-striped scarf s
lung around her neck. Her long, shiny hair hung loose, waving around her shoulders, and when she finally faced him he noticed two red circles on her cheeks from the cold. Like a china doll he might find inside.

  “Waiting long?” she asked. “Sorry I’m late. My mother was going to give me the car, but she was held up at work. So I had to walk.”

  “No problem, I got here early. I could have picked you up. You should have called me.”

  Tess didn’t answer, just smiled. She wasn’t used to asking people for help. So far, all the guys she dated had disappointed her that way. Jonathan seemed different. He was older for one thing and did seem more mature.

  He was definitely a cut above in the looks department, if that counted for anything. He looked very handsome tonight, she thought, in a dark brown leather jacket, worn jeans, and a burgundy scarf. The dark red color brought out his brown eyes and thick lashes. Some girls would kill for lashes like that, she wanted to tell him. But of course, she didn’t.

  He suddenly leaned closer and she wondered why. Was he going to kiss her hello or something? Instead, he whispered in her ear, “I think we’d better go in. A woman keeps peeking out from behind that curtain.”

  Tess followed his glance, and they both saw the lace panel on the bay window slip back in place again.

  “That’s just Grace,” Tess explained. “She can be a little nervous. You’ll get used to her.”

  They walked up to the porch and Tess rang the doorbell, an antique, brass pull-style that had a high, sharp ring.

  Grace opened the door a few seconds later. “Hello there. Come right in. I’ve been waiting for you,” she told Tess.

  It was dim inside the shop, with only the light coming from the Christmas candles in the windows and a small milk glass lamp on a table near the door. Tess hoped that Jonathan could still get a good look around at the various rooms off the entrance and the interesting items that filled them.

  She saw Jonathan’s head turn as they passed the room to the right of the door, which displayed old sets of china on tables covered with handmade lace and flowery chintz. There were also china dolls and lamps, elephants, and pugs. Many, many china pugs. They must be a popular item, Tess reasoned.

  The room to the left held antique furniture, a graceful fainting couch, with carved wooden edges and vibrant fuchsia silk upholstery and fringed pillows. There were love seats and velvet-covered rockers and ballroom chairs that looked too fragile to be sat on by a modern-day body. In and among these furnishings, Tess spotted other smaller items—antique teddy bears and toys, clocks of all sizes, glass ginger jars, and punch bowls set randomly on end tables. A hat rack was covered with dusty hats, some trailing long feathers, and several bookcases held brown tattered volumes.

  The walls of all the rooms were covered with framed watercolors, sketches, silhouettes of Victorian ladies and gentleman cut from paper, cross-stitched scenes, and homely mottos. There were two more rooms in the back, packed with more treasures, but out of view in the shadows. A glass counter just across from the entrance held jewelry. Tess loved to browse here but had so far never bought herself any of the antique earrings or necklaces she admired.

  Grace took their coats and scarves and hung them on a coat tree with arms that looked like deer antlers. She was a small, thin woman with a narrow face and pointed chin. Her hair, silver and dark brown, was straight and thin, cut to her chin and held back on each side with a bobby pin. She wore a black cardigan sweater with a blouse underneath, buttoned to the top. The lace edge on the collar and pin-tuck pleats made it look antique.

  “This is my friend Jonathan,” Tess said. “The one I told you about. He’s a graduate student at Tufts in the history department.”

  “Welcome. Nice to meet you,” Grace said, tilting her head.

  “Nice to meet you. Thank you so much for having me here.” Jonathan smiled and held out his hand.

  “Oh, it’s no bother. My father loves to talk about the old days. He can hardly wait to show you his letters.” Grace was shy with strangers, Tess knew, and didn’t look Jonathan in the eye when she spoke, though she was trying to smile.

  They followed Grace up a flight of steps. “How is Digger?” Tess asked. “Is he feeling well?”

  “Oh, he’s still fit,” Grace reported. “Stronger than I am. But he’s so forgetful now, I have to watch him every minute,” she added in a hushed tone.

  Tess had told Jonathan last night on the phone that Digger was a bit senile. Digger’s concentration and state of mind seemed to come and go. Tess warned Jonathan that there was no telling how reasonable the old fisherman would be tonight, but Jonathan seemed willing to take his chances. Digger’s condition might compromise the interview, he told her, but it wouldn’t compromise the value of the letters. “Dad? Our guests are here,” Grace announced as she led them to a living room off the landing. “Remember, I told you that Tess was coming with a friend who wanted to see your letters?”

  “Yes . . . yes, I remember. Hello, Tess. You look prettier every time I see ya.”

  Tess saw Jonathan smile as the old man enveloped her in a big hug. Digger always looked the same to her, but she knew that he was getting older and must look very eccentric to Jonathan.

  His long white hair melded into a long beard that started at the top of his cheeks and hung down to his chest, though both hair and beard looked smoothly combed and freshly washed. And when he hugged her, she had smelled his old-fashioned, spicy cologne.

  Sparkling blue eyes, which didn’t seem the least bit confused, peeked out from under bushy silver brows and the edge of his woolen fisherman’s cap, which was pulled down low on his brow. He wore a thick brown cardigan sweater that looked hand knit, perhaps by Grace, Tess thought. He wore a gray pinstriped vest under that and a plaid flannel shirt. His baggy corduroy pants looked brand-new, and his heavy black work boots were freshly polished.

  Digger stepped back from the hug and pressed a hand to his head, making sure he hadn’t lost his cap.

  “This is my friend Jonathan. He’s studying the epidemic that struck the early settlers in Cape Light and the quarantine on Angel Island.” Tess tugged on Jonathan’s sleeve to bring him closer to Digger.

  “Oh, you’re the one,” Digger said, nodding at him.

  “That’s me.” Jonathan nodded. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting.”

  “Oh, no problem, son. I wasn’t doing anything special . . . Just thinking about my family. I’ve got some very special letters that have been passed down to me by my great-granddad and his great-granddad before that. The museum up on the Beach Road wants them. Says they’ll give me money. I won’t sell,” he added quickly, shaking his head. “You can’t sell away your family heritage.”

  “Of course you can’t,” Jonathan agreed with him.

  “You’re darn right.” Digger’s tone was vehement, as if Jonathan had been arguing with him.

  “Dad, they came to see the letters. Do you remember? What did you do with them?”

  “I have them right here, Grace. In my pocket, don’t trouble yourself . . .” He reached into the pocket of his pants but came up empty. Then he tried the other side. Still nothing. Then he tried the pockets of his brown cardigan.

  Jonathan glanced at Tess nervously. She knew what he was thinking. If letters that old had survived all these years, the documents could not be roughly handled, stuffed into pockets, or stored without extra care. Tess wondered if the letters would be legible at all, or torn to shreds.

  “They can’t be in your pockets, Dad. We keep them in a special box, remember?”

  Tess shared another glance with Jonathan. She could practically hear him sigh with relief, and she felt the same herself.

  “That’s right, in a box. I was just holding the box on my lap, thinking about what was inside. The paper is old, see? It breaks off in your hand,” he explained to Jona
than. “You can’t touch it much or put it in sunlight. Once a year maybe, or less. I don’t want them letters to crumble away to dust.”

  Jonathan nodded again. “Old documents are fragile. They shouldn’t be handled at all.”

  “Or just thrown about and lost,” Grace added, looking around the room for the storage box.

  Digger seemed distressed. “Geez, I hope those people from the museum didn’t come and take them when I wasn’t looking. They’ve been after me, calling and calling . . . They know where we live, too,” he said quietly to Jonathan. “But I keep the letters hidden. In a secret place. Nobody would think of it,” he said proudly.

  “Good, that’s good, Digger.” Jonathan wondered if the documents were in this secret place right now . . . and Digger couldn’t think of it.

  “Is this the box?” Tess had wandered over to the Hegmans’ Christmas tree, which stood in a corner of the room. There was a crèche scene below the lowest branches and a few gift-wrapped packages. But one package, about the size of a shoe box and made of plain dark brown cardboard, seemed out of place. When she knelt down to get a better look, she knew in an instant it was an archival storage box, the kind used at the historical society to protect documents from humidity and light.

  “Smart girl. You found it under the tree?” Digger seemed amazed at her discovery. “I never put it there. Maybe Grace did . . . and she forgot. She gets like that.”

  Grace gave him a look, her mouth twisted to one side. “Yes, maybe I did. In my sleep, I guess.”

  “All right, let’s take a look at these now . . . once a year.” Digger’s thick, gnarled fingers trembled as he tried to open the box. “Here, Tess. You open it. My hands are tired and complaining today.”

  That was a good way of putting it, Tess thought. She imagined when a person got older their spirit still felt very lively—at least it seemed that way for someone like Digger—but their bodies were like worn-out machinery, frustrating to operate.

  Tess sat on the love seat across from Digger’s chair. She set the box on the coffee table, carefully opened it, and removed the letters, handling them with great care.