Memory Tree

by Pittman, Joseph

  Brian gazed up at the bird, unable to determine whether the bird approved.

  She must have sensed his distraction, as the kiss suddenly ended.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You weren’t ready.”

  “Trina,” he said, “one word that should never follow a kiss is sorry.”

  “You want to tell me what you’re thinking about?”

  “You know, I think I’d rather save that for another time.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging, another time,” she said. “I thought this was a onetime thing.”

  “A kiss like that—did that seem like the end of something?” he asked.

  “No, no, it didn’t. Brian, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “It’s . . . it’s just this place, this setting. It’s too close to home.”

  “We’re miles from Linden Corners.”

  He smiled, but his smile was tinged with sorrow that left her staring hard into his eyes. “Not in my mind,” he said. “In fact, in the distance I think I can see the windmill.”

  “You too with the windmill?” she asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He could imagine his face had grown darker from the derision in her voice.

  “I don’t mean any offense, Brian. It’s just, the other night, Richie was going on about the windmill and how it inspired him when he first came to town. He told me it’s one of the primary reasons he stayed. And he’d made a friend—as much as Richie can do—with the windmill’s owner.”

  This was news to Brian. “The owner, who was that?”

  “A man named Dan Sullivan,” Trina said.

  Brian thought about Richie Ravens, who had come to town more than twenty years ago; Dan would have been only a teenager. Having arrived a broken man, Richie forged a new life, only to become, as the years progressed, more of a recluse. Was that a scenario Brian wanted for himself?

  Brian grew so quiet he wondered if he was still breathing. He thought about the portraits hung upon Janey’s wall, and not just the one of Annie, whom he’d known and whom he’d loved and who continued to swirl around him like a windblown, loving spirit, but the portrait of her father, Dan, who continued to hover over his life like a spectral force of another kind.

  “Brian, are you okay?”

  He turned back to her, and this time he was the aggressor, as he planted a fresh kiss upon her lips. She responded in kind, their kiss growing deeper, longer, so much so that not even the squawking, high-flying bird or the moonlight that glided behind a cloud could stop them. Brian, tasting her, wrapping his arms around her and feeling an embrace he’d not allowed himself to know for too long, sensed his soul had been released, as though for the first time since Annie had left them he allowed himself to think there was another life waiting for him somewhere out there. Or maybe not somewhere far, but with someone close.

  CHAPTER 8

  CYNTHIA

  Cynthia Knight was watching the front door to see who else might be joining the rest of the villagers for this impromptu meeting, pleased already at the turnout of nearly two dozen people but knowing they were still missing some key residents of their fair village. From her seat on the makeshift dais at the Corner Community Center—the CCC, as it was dubbed by the locals—she could see many elderly folks from Edgestone, the retirement center down the street, including Elsie Masters, whom she knew she could approach and ask who else from town to expect. Elsie knew things, having for decades run her antique shop on the main road until selling it last year to Nora Connors and choosing the life of a retiree, aching knees and all. With her was Thomas Van Diver, looking as dapper as ever with his trademark bow tie and his twinkling blue eyes, which somehow cast calm over a rising storm. And just now walking through the door was the reliable Gerta Connors, who made a beeline for her friends.

  Cynthia checked her watch, saw that it was just past seven in the evening.

  She’d chosen a time that ensured more of the local business owners could attend. It was Saturday night in Linden Corners, and if you weren’t home watching television or partaking of a drink over at George’s Tavern, there was little reason why you couldn’t show up for a gathering that would set in motion this year’s village Christmas plans. Leading the charge, armed with the knowledge that this was quite possibly her final Linden Corners Christmas, Cynthia was eager to make it the most special celebration they’d yet produced, a tall order considering last year’s red-and-green pageant down at the gazebo. Golden luminaries in the snow had lit their way toward a joyous wedding as they witnessed the culmination of a decades-old holiday mystery that had seen its resolution achieved with hours to spare before Christmas arrived.

  Cynthia was flying solo on this project, at least for the moment. Back home was Bradley, caring for not just Jake but Janey too. Janey had asked to accompany her, but Cynthia wanted all the plans set before telling the young girl that she’d been the inspiration for this year’s event. In fact, Brian had really set the ball in motion when he’d spilled the beans about the mysterious Secret Santa gifts he’d been receiving. Before she could tell them, first she had to rally the town into accepting her idea. It was important to Cynthia for everything to go off without a hitch, and only after signs and placards were made and hung around town would their celebration become official.

  She was waiting still on Nora and Martha, mostly, and when she noticed Sara Ravens enter the center, she got up from her seat and made her way to the pregnant young woman.

  “Cynthia, hi . . . what a turnout; this is great. But what’s it all about?”

  “You’ll see,” she said. “But while we have a chance, any word from Trina and Brian?”

  “I didn’t talk to her all day. You?”

  “Brian dropped Janey off earlier, but all he would say was that they had a good time,” she said. “Typical male. We go to all that effort to set them up, and what does he do? Gives us nothing. Makes you appreciate girlfriends; they know how to spill details.”

  Sara, rubbing her belly, sighed. “So glad I’m not in the dating pool anymore.”

  A fresh burst of air swirled inside the room, Cynthia turning to see Nora arrive, Nicholas Casey at her side.

  “Speaking of, there’s one happy couple,” Sara said.

  Cynthia thought otherwise, noticing the less-than-thrilled expression on Nora’s face. She waved in her friend’s direction, Nora departing Nicholas’s side, but not before he reached for her hand and readied a kiss. She turned slightly, so the kiss landed awkwardly somewhere between her lip and her cheek, Cynthia watching the interaction with growing interest. Not that Nora had said anything—nor was she inclined to—but a romance that had blossomed after last Christmas seemed to have lost a bit of its shiny glow.

  “Hi,” Cynthia said as Nora approached. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Like I had a choice.”

  “And you brought Nicholas.”

  “I repeat, like I had a choice.”

  “Nora . . .”

  “Sorry, forget it, it’s not important. But from the look of things here,” she said, sizing up the growing crowd filling the community center, “something else is. What’s up?”

  “Christmas,” Cynthia said, “and it’s all my doing, though I have to say I did run my idea past your mother.”

  “A big Linden Corners celebration—which I’m assuming this is about—without my mother’s input would be considered sacrilegious.”

  “Where’s Travis?”

  “With friends. Where else is a thirteen-year-old on a Saturday night?”

  “Leaving you free for date night?”

  Nora frowned. “Tell you what. Let’s finish this meeting and have a drink at George’s.”

  “What about Nicholas?”

  “He can hang with Brian; they’re chummy.”

  “Perfect. Because there’s something I need your help on. Professionally.”

  That raised a curious eyebrow on Nora’s part. “You mean, A Doll’s Attic kind of work?”

&
nbsp; “Absolutely. I need help fulfilling another childhood memory,” she said. “I’ll fill you in later. For now, let me get this going.”

  And she did, calling to order a fair representation of the village’s population, asking them to take their seats. With coffee provided by the Five-O, the residents did as instructed, Cynthia noting that among the newly arrived guests were Marla and Darla and the sourpuss Chuck Ackroyd, a man who put not just the bah but also the bug in bah, humbug. In the back row was Father Eldreth Burton of Saint Matthew’s Church, whom she’d specifically called to be here. Assembled in the front row were Gerta and Thomas, Nicholas and Nora, with Elsie, Sara, and Martha directly behind them. Missing were many of the men of Linden Corners, Brian and Bradley, Mark Ravens, and Richie too. She also noted that Trina Winter was nowhere to be seen, which distracted her for a moment. She could think it was curious that neither Trina nor Brian was here one night after their date, but she’d already checked that Brian was working the bar. Still, it was a great turnout and an indication that the town thought of itself as a collective, and she had every confidence that all would embrace her idea.

  Rising to the podium, she tested the microphone, received temporary feedback.

  She took a step back from it, then spoke without incident.

  “Thank you to everyone in Linden Corners for turning out,” she said. “Now, I realize the holidays are fast approaching us—I mean, what am I thinking? Thanksgiving is gone a week and a half already, which means Christmastime looms ever closer. Not that you’d know it from the lack of snow on the ground, but rest assured, Christmas is coming.”

  “So is this little guy,” Sara said, referencing her extended belly. “About the same time.”

  “Right, which means we need to act fast,” Cynthia said. “As many of you have heard by now, my husband, Bradley, and I—and of course little Jake—will be leaving Linden Corners at the start of the New Year, and know that we do so with great regret but also with great promise. As we leave behind our old life, know that we take with us the very spirit of Linden Corners and hopefully a chance to spread its sense of community to our new home. You are all our friends, neighbors, and we have known each other for so many years and you’ve seen us through tough times. But nothing suggests Linden Corners more than our celebrations, and so, for this year’s annual Christmas pageant, I suggest something new . . . something we can all participate in.”

  “Another wedding?” Martha asked.

  “Unless someone here has a surprise for us, I don’t think so. We wouldn’t want to repeat ourselves, now, would we?” Cynthia paused, gazing out at the crowd, her eyes landing on Nora, who appeared to want to slide under her chair. Her cold stare of daggers told Cynthia to continue, quickly, and so she did, saying, “This village is accustomed to the notion of giving, and so what I propose is an all-out, full-participation game of Secret Santa. I’m calling it ‘The Secret of Linden Corners.’ ”

  “You mean, giving everyone gifts? In this economy?” Chuck said, rising from his seat.

  “Hardly, Chuck,” she said, not surprised he was the lone dissenter in the group. “Secret Santa—which some people may know as Kris Kringle—simply means you pick one name and keep it secret, then surprise that person on Christmas Day with a special gift. Or you leave them a series of smaller gifts, almost as a tease, a guessing game of whom their Secret Santa might be. For any of you who are concerned with cost, we will of course impose a spending limit.”

  “Oh, I think it’s a splendid idea,” Gerta said, clapping her hands.

  Gerta’s reaction had been rehearsed over the phone, Cynthia and Gerta having planned for an unofficial “second” for the record. Just then a buzz erupted amidst the group, as questions of logistics emerged, when, why, and how filling the room. Cynthia tried to quiet them down to little effect, and it was only when Gerta stood next to the podium and asked them to quiet down did they do so.

  “My goodness, such a ruckus among you,” Gerta said. “Now, I know you have concerns, so if you’ll listen, we will explain how this will work. For the next week, a large Santa hat will be placed inside the gazebo in the center of the town. If you wish to partake in our village-wide game, just write your name down on a slip of paper and put it in the hat. Our drawing will be two Sundays from now, plenty of time for everyone to join in the fun, and we hope you’ll all be there. Only those who put their names in the hat will be able to draw a name, which will keep our event organized and ensure no one is left out.”

  “Thank you, Gerta. Now to the exchange of gifts . . .”

  “I don’t want some stranger coming to my house on Christmas morning . . .”

  “Marla, I’m not sure even Darla would dare do such a thing to you, and she lives with you,” Martha said, laughter arising from the group.

  Her joke managed to settle everyone down, and so they all focused back on Cynthia. She filled them in on the final details. “As you know, Saint Matthew’s Church offers up both its vigil mass at five o’clock and the midnight mass on Christmas Eve, so, with Father Burton’s blessing, our gift exchange will take place between them, after the annual children’s pageant and our new tradition of the esteemed Thomas Van Diver reading ‘The Night Before Christmas.’ Only one thing will be different this year, and it’s the location of our pageant.”

  “It’s not the church?”

  “No,” Cynthia said.

  “The gazebo again?” asked Sara, who last year had been married under its snowy roof.

  “Now, what place in this town of ours can accommodate a large crowd but represents the spirit of our village? It will be lit, as always, with a thousand white lights that can blind even the sun and the stars above.” She paused, letting the idea sink in among them, but then she went in for the final impact when she said, almost reverently, “The windmill.”

  “Nice delivery, Cyn.”

  “And nice idea,” Nicholas said, sitting with Nora and Cynthia at a table inside the tavern. “But did you run that idea past Brian?”

  “Run what idea past me?”

  Brian had approached their table unbeknownst to them. Cynthia found his eyes zeroing in her, not surprising since Nora and Nicholas were also staring at her. Like she was the creative force behind whatever idea she’d yet to inform him about. Wasn’t she?

  “I’ll tell you later, Brian. Trust me, you’ll love it,” Cynthia said.

  “Oh, you mean about the Secret of Linden Corners celebration and the pageant ending at the windmill?”

  “How . . . ,” she said, and then gazed over at the bar, where she saw Chuck nursing a beer.

  “This is Linden Corners; word travels faster than Martha’s chili.”

  “Hey, I heard that,” came a voice from a neighboring table.

  It seemed as though half the residents had retreated to George’s Tavern after the meeting. Martha, sitting with Marla and Darla over a round of tequila shots, nodded their way. Cynthia, red faced, confessed that she’d meant to talk to him earlier, but time got away, and besides, “you got home late last night. I trust all went well?”

  “Changing the subject won’t help you,” he said.

  “Really, Brian, this is about Janey . . .”

  “I know, and of course I don’t mind. But, as you said, we’ll talk later. Got a full house.”

  “Speaking of,” Nora said, “Nicholas, do us a favor and get us some wine. And then hang with Brian at the bar.”

  “I think I’ve been dismissed,” he said with a scrape of his chair.

  He also didn’t look happy to have been sent away. Still, he left like a dutiful boyfriend, returning a moment later with their drinks in hand before settling back on a bar stool between the unfortunate choices of Chet and Chuck. Poor Nicholas, Cyn thought, he was a good guy caught up in a relationship with a woman who still had her past to deal with. With one hand on the stem of her glass, Cynthia reached out her other hand and placed it over Nora’s.

  “What’s going on with you two?”

  No
ra took a drink. “You said you had a job for me?”

  “Fine, I’ll go first,” Cynthia said. “But, Nora Connors, I am not letting you out of here tonight without an explanation as to what’s wrong. Nicholas seems like such a great guy—he’s smart, educated, charming, and the way his curly hair curves over the collar of his shirt gives him this sexy vibe . . .”

  “Cynthia Knight, if Bradley could hear you now!”

  “Again, changing the topic,” she said. “Okay, back to business. This job I’ve got for you. It concerns a frog.”

  Nora took a sip of her wine and grimaced. Cynthia wondered if it was the frog or the wine that didn’t agree with her. “A frog, really? How does that relate to A Doll’s Attic?”

  “You found Thomas’s rare-edition book last year, right?”

  “Actually, Brian found it . . .”

  “Regardless, Nora, you find things. Old things that help people understand their past, or just learn to appreciate it more.”

  “Sometimes it’s not the toy you remember but who gave it to you, the intent behind it.”

  “Exactly my point,” Cynthia said, taking a sip of her white wine. She too pursed her lips. “Ouch, guess I know why the bar does such good business with beer. Anyway . . . I’m not sure if you’ve ever noticed that Janey has this stuffed pet frog; it’s purple and has no name.”

  “I haven’t,” Nora said.

  “She’s had it as long as I can remember, even back as a baby.”

  “Must be kind of ratty after ten years,” Nora said. “How can I help? Are you looking for a new one?”