by Luanne Rice
“There's no talking about this,” Danny said. “There never was. It's just your way, Pa—the farm. I have something I want to do right now. It's my dream, Pa. And I have to follow it! You've taught me not to waste time talking, when work needs to be done.”
Danny was serious, and he was right: Christy had taught him that very thing. Talking took up too much time, where there was a whole farm that needed tending to. Of course, what Danny didn't know was that Christy was afraid of talking. He feared his children asking him questions he didn't know the answers to, telling him things that would stir up his emotions. He loved his kids with passion beyond words.
Now Danny was staring at his father with the resolute, not-to-be-deterred eyes of a dreamer. How could his son have a dream, something that would keep him here, in New York, that Christy knew nothing about? Deep down he knew enough to blame himself—he hadn't exactly been an open listener. But how could he leave Danny alone in this place? It couldn't happen. Christy tightened his grip. Danny broke free.
They'd had a fistfight, right there on the street corner—Christy had scuffled with his own son, and scrambling to hold on to him had torn his jacket—the new down parka he'd bought for Danny at the start of the season. Feathers flying, Danny's elbow accidentally cracking Christy's nose, blood flowing as Christy tried to hold Danny still—if he could only talk to the boy, keep him from running—he could get him to see reason. There they were, struggling on the snowy sidewalk, Bridget screaming for them to stop.
The police were called. Squad cars had converged, sirens blaring. Christy's white lights lay tangled on the sidewalk, illuminating the bloody snow. One cop had grabbed Christy, handcuffed his hands behind his back—and Danny had used that opportunity to escape.
Christy's last glimpse of his boy had been of him illuminated by blue police strobes, dodging through the crowd of gawkers, white goose down spewing from his ripped jacket like a snow squall.
“It's frigid out,” Christy had said to the officer booking him at the station. “He's going to be hungry and cold, with his parka ruined.”
“That's the Christmas spirit. Maybe you should have thought of that before you beat him up,” the cop said. His name was Officer Rip Collins.
Christy was too proud to protest, to spill his true feelings of grief and terror, to a New York police officer. What did the cop know? What did anyone from this brutal, blazing, glittering city know? With all its false light, its temples to greed, its foolish people so easily tricked into paying small fortunes for simple pine trees?
ROR—released on his own recognizance—Christy returned to the boardinghouse. His blood was roaring through his veins—he was hoping against hope that his son would be there. But all he'd found was Bridget, sitting on the bed, her face streaked with tears.
Christy had packed up his daughter and, with the heaviest heart imaginable, gone home to Canada. There was a hearing scheduled for March, but Officer Collins spoke to the ADA in charge, telling him what had really happened. And with Danny nowhere to be found—in spite of Collins and other city cops looking for him—the charge against Christy had been thrown out. Where he should have been relieved, Christy was instead soul-sick; to the New York police and court system, his family had become just another statistic of domestic trouble, and his son had become just one more street kid.
Now, one year later, the pickup was packed and ready for him and his daughter to return to New York. They'd had just one postcard from Danny; of the Brooklyn Bridge, with not a clue in the message about where he was living or how he was really faring. Just the brash words: “I'm doing grand—don't worry about me.”
Not a word about missing Christy or Bridget or their thirty acres of fir trees on the edge of the world. The boy had come from magical northern land, inhabited by bald eagles, black bears, red and silver foxes, and great horned owls. He had left it for the urban caverns of New York, populated by players and hustlers. Christy hated the place with a passion, never wanted never to set foot in the city again.
But he knew he had to. Had to set up his trees on the same Chelsea corner, had to string up his lights so they'd set the salt crystals on the trees' needles gleaming and entice the customers, had to cock his smile and throw the charm, had to sell out his evergreens and put money in the bank. But most of all, had to be in the same place he always was, so Danny would know where to find him.
“Come on, Bridget,” he shouted up the stairs. She appeared at the top, dragging another huge suitcase behind her.
“What's that?” he asked.
“It's my things, Pa,” she said.
“Your things are in the truck, Bridget! We're only going for twenty-four days. What've you got in there?”
“Party clothes, Pa.” Her green eyes were shimmering.
Christy stared up at her. She was twelve now, a young lady. She'd curled her pretty brown hair by herself, tied it with a burgundy velvet ribbon she'd found somewhere. What the hell did she think she'd be needing with party clothes? Christy worked all day every day until his trees were sold.
“Bridget,” he started.
“Danny's coming back to us, and we're going to take him somewhere special to celebrate.”
“Leave the case here. Be a good girl, and let's get going.”
“I've seen it on TV, a program about New York City, Pa,” she said, the words spilling out as she started to bump the huge suitcase down the stairs. “Fancy places we've never gone to yet. Places Danny would love—palaces, Pa! All with crystal and gold, and with Christmas trees bigger than the oldest ones on our mountain, all covered with garlands and tiny lights. Like a fairyland, honest! Girls having tea with their fathers in places like that, and boys all dressed up with ties, everyone so happy and celebrating the holiday together, Pa.”
“That's not how you celebrate a holiday,” Christy said gruffly.
“But we have to do something wonderful, when Danny comes back to us!”
“Get in the truck now, Bridget,” he said, pointing with force at the front door. She scowled, limping past him under the weight of her case. Reluctantly he lifted it for her, into the compartment behind the seat. They climbed in and slammed the doors.
Christy had warmed up the cab for her, but he didn't suppose she noticed. That's okay, he told himself. One of the ways he measured that he'd been a good provider was that his kids never commented when they were warm enough, or when their stomachs weren't hurting from hunger; they took their comfort for granted, which was just what children should do. Christy wouldn't even try to force Danny come home—he swore it to himself.
He just had to make sure his boy wasn't hungry. And to hear if he'd gotten any closer to his “dream.” Looking down the farm's hillside toward the sea, he wondered how any dream could be better than this—this was all Danny's and Bridget's. If he could harness the wind, capture the sunlight, he would. And he would give it to his kids.
THE HOLIDAY SEASON STARTED earlier and earlier every year. Once it had been the day after Thanksgiving—the unofficial day that Manhattan would start to put up decorations. Now, Catherine Tierney thought, it seemed to happen in October—even as the greenmarkets were overflowing with pumpkins and grocery shelves were laden with Halloween candy. The city began to dress in its winter finery, weighting Catherine's soul a little more each day.
All through November Catherine had watched tiny, twinkling white lights appearing in midtown shop windows. Bell-ringing Santas would clang away, standing in front of Lord & Taylor and Macy's as passersby stuffed their cast iron kettles with dollar bills. Salvation Army bands would start playing “Silent Night” and “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” outside Saks Fifth Avenue to the captive audience of people lined up to see the famous holiday windows. Squeezing past the crowd, Catherine kept her face stoic, so no one could what the carols were doing to her heart.
By the first of December, the city was in full holiday swing. Hotels were filled with shoppers and people in town to see City Ballet's Nutcracker, Radio City's Christmas sh
ow, Handel's Messiah, and, of course, the Rockefeller Center tree. The avenues crept with yellow cabs, and on her way to the subway, Catherine would be jostled by wall-to-wall people inching along in their thick coats.
Catherine Tierney worked as a librarian in a private library owned by the Rheinbeck Corporation. The Rheinbecks had made their fortune in banking, and now real estate; they were philanthropists who supported education and the arts. The library occupied the fifty-fourth floor of the Rheinbeck Building at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, just across the Grand Army Plaza from Central Park.
The Rheinbeck Tower was fantastically gothic, with arched windows, pinnacles, flying buttresses, finials, and gargoyles, rising sixty stories to an ornate green cast stone point. The offices, and Catherine's library, had astonishing views of the park—the eight-hundred-and-forty-three-acre green haven in the city's midst.
The building's façade was lit year round, Paris style, with gold light. For the holidays, the illumination changed to red and green. The spectacular four-story barrel-vaulted lobby accommodated an enormous tree, covered with colored balls and lights. The Byzantine-style mosaics glistened like real gold, and evergreen roping garlanded the frescoed second-floor balconies.
Choirs sang carols in the lobby at lunchtime, a different city school group every day. That afternoon Catherine returned to work with her sandwich, and she paused to listen. The children's voices joined together, sweet and pure.
One little girl in the back row was off-key. Catherine watched her, head thrown back with brown braids hanging down, mouth open wide, singing her heart out. The choir director shot the girl an ice-cold look and a hand signal, and suddenly the girl stopped—her eyes wide with dismay as they flooded with tears. Catherine's stomach churned at the sight. She had to walk away, hurry upstairs, to keep from getting involved—telling the girl to keep singing, berating the director for squashing her spirit. That's what Brian would have done.
The look in that girl's eyes was with Catherine all day. From “Joy to the World” to the shock of being silenced. She felt the child's shame in her own heart, and for the rest of the day found it almost impossible to concentrate on her project—pulling up material from the archives on stone angels and gargoyles on buildings in Manhattan. She couldn't wait to get home and put this day behind her.
At five-thirty Catherine locked up and headed for the subway. She lived in Chelsea. Situated west of Sixth Avenue, roughly between Fourteenth and Twenty-third Streets, that part of town had its own personality. Eighth Avenue was playful, shop and restaurant windows decorated with wreaths of red peppers, Santa in a sleigh drawn by eight flamingos, candles shaped like the Grinch and Betty Lou Who.
The side streets had a nineteenth-century feel, with many Italianate and Greek Revival brownstones set back from the sidewalk, their yards enclosed by ornate wrought iron gates and lit by reproduction gas lamps.
Some residents decorated for the holidays as if Chelsea were still part of the estate of Clement Clark Moore—the author of “A Visit from St. Nicholas”—with English holly, laurel and evergreen roping, Della Robia wreaths, red ribbons, and gold and silver balls. It was so understated that if you didn't want to notice, you didn't have to.
The minute Catherine stepped off the E train at Twenty-third and Eighth, she breathed a sigh of relief. The buildings were low, and she could see the sky. The air was frigid, crystal clear, and so dry that it hurt to draw a breath. She wore stylish boots and a short black wool coat; her knees and toes were cold as she hurried across West Twenty-second Street, on her way home.
At Ninth Avenue she turned south. The Christmas tree man had arrived again—she stopped short when she saw him there; her pulse felt like galloping horses. For a second, she considered crossing the street to avoid having to look him in the eye.
She had witnessed the scene with his son last year—and she had doubted that he would come back. But here he was, just setting up his display of spruce and pine, making the sidewalk smell like a mountain forest. The trees stretched a quarter of the way down the block of small stores—an antiquarian book dealer, two avant-garde clothes designers, a new bakery, a florist, and Chez Liz.
In a brilliant fit of quirkiness possible only in Chelsea, Lizzie sold hats, which she made, along with hard-to-find poetry books and antique tea sets. When she was in the mood, she would set the mahogany table inside with her Spode and Wedgwood china and serve tea to whoever walked in. Catherine felt so nervous, seeing the man, she dove at Lizzie's door to duck inside. The shop was warmly lit by silk-shaded lamps, but the door was locked—Lizzie and Rose had already left.
“She closed early tonight—left with the little one,” the tree man said, leaning against the makeshift rack of raw pine boards, holding numerous wreathes, sprays, and garlands. “I asked her, beautiful as she looked in that black velvet hat with the one peacock feather sticking up, was she going to the theater or opera?”
“Hmm,” Catherine said, her palms damp inside her gloves, wanting to get away.
“She told me that she was going to ‘the banquet.'”
Catherine hid a smile. Lizzie would say that.
“What I think she'd say to you, if she was here,” he said, stamping his feet to keep them warm, his Irish brogue coming out in clouds, “is that you should buy a nice fresh Nova Scotia Christmas tree from me. And a wreath, for your front door. I see you walk by every day, and you look to me like someone who would fancy white spruce . . .”
The man was tall, with broad shoulders under a rugged canvas jacket. His hair was light brown, but even in the dark she could see it was grayer than it had been the year before. He had been warming his hands by a kerosene heater; he stepped closer to Catherine, and after what had happened last year, she leaned sharply back.
“I don't want a white spruce,” Catherine said.
“No? Then maybe a hardy blue—”
“Or any other tree,” she said. She had had a headache ever since the carol incident in the lobby, and she just wanted to get home.
“Just look at these needles,” he said, brushing a branch with one bare hand. “They're as fresh as they day the trees were cut—they'll never fall. And see how they glisten? That's the Cape Breton salt spray . . . you know, it's said that starlight gets caught in the branches, and . . .”
He paused in the midst of the sentence, trailing off as if he'd forgotten what he was saying or lost the heart for his spiel. Catherine had noticed his blue eyes sparkling during hard sells in the past, but tonight they were as dull as last week's snow. They held her gaze for a moment, then looked down at the ground. She felt her heart pounding as she kept her face neutral so he couldn't read her thoughts.
“Thank you anyway,” Catherine said, edging away.
As she walked home, she felt doubly uncomfortable. She was still upset about the little girl, and now she had to face the fact that the tree man would be in her neighborhood till Christmas Eve, and she'd probably have to change her route. She wondered whether his daughter had come with him this year. She hoped his son was somewhere warm. Her nose and fingertips stung with the cold. A December wind blew off the Hudson River, and when she turned right onto West Twentieth Street, she saw little clouds of vapor around the gaslights of Cushman Row.
In spite of the brutal chill, she paused to stare at the penumbra around one flickering lamp. The globe of light might have been due to moisture blowing off the river, forecasting a storm like a ring around the moon. It reminded Catherine of a ghost. It's a harbinger, she thought and hoped as she clenched her freezing hands and walked on.
Chelsea was haunted at Christmas. Or at least one room in one townhouse, in the very middle of Cushman Row. Like its neighbors—other brick Greek Revivals with tall brownstone steps, pocket-sized yards, and ornate cast-iron railings—the house where Catherine lived had been built in 1840 by Don Alonzo Cushman, a friend of Clement Clark Moore.
Catherine paused, holding onto the iron railing and gazing at the brick house, four stories up to the s
mall attic windows. Leaded glass, encircled by plaster wreathes of laurel leaves, they were one of the house's prettiest, most charming features. The tiny panes of glass gave onto the sky. Strangers walking by often stopped to peer upward at those mysterious little windows.
People always made assumptions about other people's lives. Catherine thought of passing strangers imagining happiness inside. Perhaps they gazed at the pretty townhouse and pictured elegant dinner parties going on inside. They would probably assume it belonged to a loving couple with brilliant children—perhaps their playroom was up in the attic, behind those small wreathed windows.
Why shouldn't they imagine such things? Catherine had herself, at one time. Her eyes on those windows, she felt a cold tingle down her spine. It gripped her as if she were being electrocuted, wouldn't let her move or look away. There were ghosts in the street tonight; she closed her eyes tight, trying to feel the one she loved, beg it to visit her tonight in the attic.
The season was here again. December, once such a source of joy and delight, had become a time of sorrow and pain—Catherine didn't celebrate at all. It brought nothing but sad memories—she wanted to rush through the pre-holiday craziness.
Shaking herself free of the shiver and such thoughts, she ran up the front stairs to close the door behind her and pull the covers over her head.
BEACH GIRLS
A Bantam Book / August 2004
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2004 by Luanne Rice
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