A Christmas Visitor

by Thomas Kinkade

  Molly couldn’t stand for anyone to give her orders. Even Matt. Even if he was right. It just pushed her buttons.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” she snapped. “How can I slow down? It’s Christmas, my busiest season. I’m booked with parties practically every night of the week, straight through New Year’s Day. What should I do, call up some of the clients and say, ‘Sorry, I can’t do that party for you. I’m slowing down’?”

  “I know it’s complicated. I know you have commitments. But you need to think of the baby first now. You can’t keep up this pace day after day. You can’t overdo it.”

  Molly made a face, rolling her eyes at him. “I have to overdo it if I’m the only one doing everything. The business, taking care of the house and the girls. Even with the cleaning service, there’s still a lot to keep up on around here, Matt. I don’t get a lot of help from the kids. They’re always too busy. And I don’t get that much help from you either, come to think of it.” She bit back her next sentence, wondering if she had gone too far.

  Matt sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know we all need to help more. I know I should be more available, spend less time at the office. I’ve been thinking about how much I missed with Amanda, because I was always working. I don’t want to make the same mistake with this child. I don’t want you to either,” he added.

  He had a good point. At least he’s thinking about these things, she reflected.

  “Before we found out about the pregnancy, I started looking for a partner to bring into the practice. Now it seems like a necessity, so I can have more free time to help with the baby.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Molly was both surprised and encouraged by this news. “Have you found anyone?”

  “Yes, I think I have. An old friend from med school, Alex Cole. She might come to visit next week and make a decision.”

  She? Molly was surprised to hear that Alex was a woman. When Matt had said he was thinking about a partner, she had automatically pictured another guy. But, of course, that was silly. Lots of women were doctors these days. And anyone willing to take some of Matt’s caseload was welcome.

  “Wow, that’s great. I mean, if it works out.”

  “Alex is a terrific doctor. I hope it works out, too.”

  Molly gazed at him, feeling suddenly sorry for the nasty things she’d said. He was only trying to take care of her and the baby. “I’m sorry, Matt. I promise I’ll try harder to delegate at work and cut back on my hours. You’re right, I have to think of the baby right now.”

  Matt slowly smiled. “Okay. You got my point. Now I want to see you stick to those words, Molly.”

  “I will,” she said. She stood up and faced him, raising her right hand and looking very solemn. “Caterer’s honor.”

  “Caterer’s honor?” Matt grinned and shook his head.

  “Well…I was never a Girl Scout. I didn’t want to fib to you again.”

  “I’ll have to take what I can get, I guess.” He pulled her close and kissed her.

  Molly kissed him back, glad he wasn’t angry anymore and that they had resolved things so easily. At least for now.

  THE FIRST THING THAT OCCURRED TO MIRANDA WHEN she woke up on Thursday morning was that it had been a week since she and Dixie had found Adam. Funny how it seemed much longer.

  She’d had another date with Greg the night before. Again, he had asked how long she thought Adam would be staying, and again she had no clear answer for him. Thankfully, Greg let the matter drop. They had gone to see a movie and then Miranda had come straight home to work on the jewelry order. That made it a short date with not much time for conversation, and Miranda was relieved to have escaped another discussion about Adam or their relationship.

  She and Greg had made plans for Saturday, their usual date night. But as she got out of bed and started to dress, Miranda had to admit, she wasn’t really looking forward to seeing Greg again so soon. She wasn’t really sure why, either. In a way, she almost felt as if the date was an obligation, something she had to do, because it would be good for her. Like eating some healthy vegetable she didn’t like.

  But that was silly. She liked Greg. They had a good relationship, a good rapport. She couldn’t just toss that all away because Adam had swept into her life…and would soon be sweeping out.

  Every morning, she wondered if Adam would even emerge from the cottage and come into the house for breakfast. Or if he would just disappear in the middle of the night. When he did show up, her heart did a little leap in her chest, a reaction she tried hard to conceal.

  Miranda had been concentrating on her jewelry-making the last few days. She had been working so hard on the Golden Moon order that she hadn’t seen much of Adam. He had been spending nearly all of his free time on the Internet, looking at maps and pictures of nearby towns, trying to find some clue to his past. Just last night he told her that some of the images of New England seemed familiar to him. He was fairly certain that he had been living somewhere in the area.

  Adam also spent time at the library, skimming old newspapers and magazines, searching for any mention of a lost vehicle or petty crimes that might be connected to his disappearance. Sophie had done most of his chauffeuring, driving him back and forth to town whenever she did errands.

  They had finished painting the cottage, and Sophie had put Adam to work in the house. With Christmas coming, Sophie was expecting most of their huge family to arrive; guests would be sleeping in every available space. A leak in the roof last fall had stained the ceiling and wallpaper in two rooms, so Sophie set Adam to work stripping the wallpaper—a messy, time-consuming job—then painting.

  Miranda walked into the kitchen and headed straight for the coffeepot. Adam was on the phone.

  “Detective Lester,” her grandmother explained. “He called so early, we both thought it was good news. But I don’t think it’s anything important.”

  Tucker Tulley had passed Adam’s case on to a county detective, Roger Lester. The detective had been in touch a few times by phone, following up on the fingerprint database search, which had turned up negative. Good news and bad news, Miranda thought. The bad news was they still didn’t know his identity. The good news was that he wasn’t a criminal. Or at least, had never been arrested.

  The Cape Light police department had received a few calls in response to the news article, but so far none of the inquiries had held up. Miranda was still hopeful, but she could see Adam’s optimism fading day by day.

  “Yes, Detective. Thanks for the number. I guess I’ll call and see if it’s worth a try.”

  She heard Adam say good-bye and hang up the phone.

  “Morning, Miranda,” he said, helping himself to the orange juice.

  “Good morning.” She was dying to ask him what the detective had said but didn’t want to pry.

  Sophie, though, had no such scruples. “Adam, dear, do you have any news? Why did Detective Lester call so early?”

  Adam glanced at her, then spread some of Sophie’s homemade apple butter on a warm biscuit. “Um, two things. The first is that they showed my photo to the staff at the Regatta Bar and in the Charles Hotel. No one remembers me.” Adam gave a bitter smile. “Maybe amnesia is contagious. The second thing is Lester thinks I should see a psychiatrist in Newburyport who knows a lot about memory loss. He thinks maybe that would help.”

  “Of course you should go,” Sophie urged him. “I was watching my show yesterday and there’s a character who’s had amnesia for weeks now. He got hypnotized by accident, and he snapped right out of it. Just like that, he remembered that his evil half brother…”

  Adam listened patiently to the soap opera plot. Miranda could tell he was struggling to keep a straight face.

  How could someone get hypnotized by accident? She didn’t even want to ask.

  Adam smiled gently at Sophie. “Yes, Detective Lester mentioned hypnotherapy. I’ve read about it, too. It can work. But it’s very rare that a person’s entire memory comes back in a snap.
It usually takes quite a few sessions to break through.” Adam sounded discouraged, frustrated.

  “Well, it may be a long process,” Sophie said, “but you really shouldn’t leave any stone unturned. Do you have the doctor’s name? I think you should make an appointment.”

  “Grandma’s right,” Miranda said. Much as she didn’t want Adam to leave, she did want him to recover his memory. “I could take you there.”

  Adam glanced at her. The warm look in his dark eyes seemed to fill something inside her. She was going to miss that. “Okay,” he said, and she got the distinct feeling that he was agreeing because she wanted him to go. “I need to speak with the doctor first, to find out if he can even see me.”

  Suddenly, Miranda understood his hesitation. The doctor wasn’t going to treat him for free, and Adam was too proud to ask them for any more help. Perhaps he hoped to work out some deal with the doctor, without them knowing.

  Her grandmother realized it, too. “Don’t worry about the cost, Adam. For goodness sake, you’ll pay us back when you’re able. This is important. That’s all there is to it.”

  A look of something like awe flickered across Adam’s face. “Sophie Potter, I will always remember you as the most generous person I’ve ever known. I’m sure that even in my past, there could be no equal.”

  Sophie beamed. “Well, you see this doctor, and maybe we’ll find out if that’s true.”

  “Maybe we will.” Adam smiled at her, then headed back to the phone. Miranda could tell his spirits had lifted. He had some hope again. Didn’t everyone need hope in their heart about the thing they wanted most?

  Funny how, while he had more, she was left with less.

  THE BRAMBLE ANTIQUE SHOP DIDN’T OFFICIALLY OPEN on weekdays until eleven, and it was exactly five minutes before the hour. Ben knew Grace Hegman stuck to her schedule and made few exceptions—perhaps not even for him.

  The small Victorian house at the end of Main Street stood on its own amid the other shops and buildings. The Bramble was decorated beautifully for Christmas. There was a wreath on every window hanging by a thick red ribbon, and a long white candle in every window, too. A larger pine wreath hung on the front door, studded with holly, dried white roses, and a few tiny ceramic angels. Ben couldn’t help wondering if the angels were a recent addition.

  He knocked on the front door, using the vintage brass knocker in the shape of a sea shell. Ben had not called in advance; he assumed they would be in. They rarely went out these days, except for doctors’ appointments. Now he wondered if he should have called. He tried to peek around the lace curtain behind the glass, then quickly stepped back, hearing footsteps on the stairs. Finally he saw Grace coming to open the door.

  “Reverend Ben, what a surprise.”

  “I was just in town and thought I would drop by to say hello. How is Digger feeling? He mentioned his knee was acting up on him again. Is he still in pain?”

  Ben was sincerely interested in Digger’s welfare. But he was even more interested in finding out if the Hegmans had witnessed another miracle cure. Word around town was that they had and were telling everyone who came into the shop.

  Ben could easily imagine Digger saying such things. The old man’s mind was so foggy lately, he couldn’t tell real life from his dreams or memories. But Grace? Ever level-headed, no-nonsense Grace Hegman? That part, Ben could not believe.

  “He’s much better, thank you.” Grace nodded and smiled. She held an account book to her chest, and a handful of yellow pencils, the points very sharp.

  “Good to hear.” Ben nodded. “I know on Sunday, he told me it hurt something fierce. Has he been taking any special medication?”

  “Just his usual brand of liniment. But he’s been using that for years, ever since I was a little girl.”

  Ben knew what she meant. He was familiar with the strong menthol scent that often lingered around Digger.

  “Grace, I’ll be honest with you. A report has reached me that your father believes his knee has been miraculously healed, that he was helped by the statue at church—the statue of the angel. Has Digger been telling people that?”

  It was hard for Ben to put it so bluntly, but he had to know if the gossip was true.

  Grace shifted on her feet and looked out at the street, over Ben’s shoulder. “My father does believe that, Reverend. We visited the angel on Sunday. We sat and said a prayer. He woke up on Monday and said the pain was gone. The angel had fixed it for him. He said he saw it all in a dream.”

  Visions in dreams? What next? Ben felt his blood pressure rise and took a deep breath.

  “Grace…you don’t really believe that, do you?” he asked quietly. “Couldn’t it be that Digger is just having a good spell with his knee? Perhaps he’s feeling better because of the dry weather or maybe because of those new supplements he’s taking?”

  The rational possibilities were endless. Didn’t Grace see that? Didn’t everyone?

  Grace met his gaze with her typical, level look. “Well, Reverend, I suppose any of those could be the reason. But I believe Dad. He wouldn’t make up a story. It’s not in his nature, you know?”

  Ben nodded, fearing he had offended her. “Yes, of course. I’m not saying he purposely made up a story, Grace. But his mind isn’t sound. I’m sure he tells you a great number of things all day that don’t quite make sense.”

  “Yes, he does,” she admitted. “It’s the dementia. He’s better some days. But it’s pretty much a steady decline.” Her eyes filled with a sad light.

  Ben suddenly wished he had not pursued this face-to-face confrontation. He wanted to get to the bottom of this story, but not at the cost of hurting Grace’s feelings.

  Ben reached out and touched her arm. “I’m sorry. Let’s not bother about this anymore. Digger feels better and that’s the main thing.”

  Grace nodded. “I know what your point is, Reverend. But I also know my father. I can tell when he’s…off somewhere. Or lost in the past. When he told me about the dream, why, it was the most lucid I had seen him in months. Perhaps it was just his imagination. But he did convince me.”

  Ben didn’t know what more to say. He thanked Grace for her time and headed down Main Street, toward the church. He never would have guessed that Grace Hegman would side with the angel-believers. Now who would convince Digger that perhaps the angel had not really healed him and that he should stop repeating the story?

  Ben wrapped his muffler around his throat and pulled his cap down lower. The wind off the bay whipped up the wide street, cutting right through his wool overcoat and thick sweater. He shielded his eyes with his hands and suddenly found himself walking straight into Emily Warwick, who had just come out of the Village Hall.

  “Emily…I’m sorry. I nearly knocked you over.”

  “The wind is wicked today, isn’t it?” Emily gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Reverend. Perhaps I shouldn’t have put it quite that way.”

  “That’s all right, Emily. I’m permitted to hear the word. It won’t corrupt me.”

  Emily laughed and fell into step beside him. She wore a long brown coat and an elegant scarf, a paisley pattern on velvet. She hugged the coat closer around her slim figure. “Are you headed this way? I’m running down to the newspaper office.”

  “Yes, I’m on my way back to church. I was just over at the Bramble, visiting the Hegmans.”

  “Oh? Something wrong with Digger?”

  “No…not exactly. He’s feeling unusually fit, in fact.” Ben glanced at her, trying to decide how much of his morning business he should confide. Emily was sensible, intelligent, and unfailingly discreet. He knew she would be a good sounding board for his dilemma.

  “Digger believes he’s had a cure from the angel. The arthritis in his knee is miraculously improved. He saw it all in a dream, he says. And whether through Digger or Grace, I’m not sure, but the story is making its way through town.”

  “You seem worried about it,” she said, sounding surprised. “We all know that
Digger’s reasoning powers are failing him. Who would actually believe the story once they know the source?”

  “But people do believe it. I know it sounds absurd, but the word is spreading like wildfire. Visitors are coming to the church every day. They come to see the angel. I’ve no idea how they’ve heard about it. They tuck notes under the statue’s base, even on the floor at the bottom of the pedestal. It’s very touching really…”

  He could see that Emily was taking him seriously now. “Yes, that is touching.…What do you do with them, the notes I mean?”

  “I don’t read them. I feel they’re private, written to the angel. Or maybe they’re notes to God. I’m not sure the authors would want someone reading their requests. But I do pray over them. That seems the least I can do.”

  He had been spending time lately collecting the notes. The little folded bits of paper were important to him, each one holding a prayer, perhaps a desperate plea to God. He had spent not only time but emotional and spiritual energy on these petitions. He really had no choice in the matter—he felt it was his duty to pray over them. In all his years as a pastor, he had never experienced anything quite like it. Watching the visitors come and go, some who looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world, reminded him that everyone suffered in some way. Everyone had a burden to bear. At the very least, the angel statue had served to remind him—reteach him—that lesson.

  He looked at her again. “The thing is, Emily, you’re the mayor. I think you ought to have some say in all this—where it might lead, what we can do to stop it.”

  “Stop it? Why would you want to stop it? It seems harmless enough to me.”

  “Think about it, Emily. Do you really want your town known as some sort of holy shrine? One that many people will believe is totally bogus. Is that what Cape Light will be famous for? Aside from Charlie’s clam rolls, I mean.”

  Emily smiled a bit. “Normally, I’m in favor of anything that might deflate Charlie’s ego. And I see your point. But I don’t know what I can do about it, Ben. Don’t you think it’s just the holiday season inspiring these stories? Maybe after Christmas, it will all die down.”