'Twas the Night

by Sandra Hill

  He’d just completed five sled rides down a short stretch of the mountain path with Taylor and Tyler squealing happily in his protective arms. Sam didn’t realize it, but he would make a wonderful father someday. She wondered idly if those children would be made with her, then immediately banked the twinge of distress that question ignited. Not now, she told herself. There were too many other things she had to worry over, like the road conditions and George’s wedding.

  Still, she idled time away, too, as she watched Sam, now engaged in a snowball fight. Also involved in the free-for-all were JD and Stan and Morey and Mike and the colonel. New additions were Callie, wearing the silliest, most adorable fur-lined hunter’s cap with ear flaps, Dana and Penney, wearing oversized plaid hunting coats that must belong to Mike, with stretch ski caps, Maudeen in a fuchsia spandex running outfit that defied description, and the sisters, Doctors Meg and Maggie, elegant as always in big wool sweaters and tailored slacks. Everyone was laughing and issuing challenges and sputtering with indignation when they slipped and fell or were smacked dead-on with lightly packed snowballs. Even Stan, with his injuries, was getting his fair share of licks in, from behind a snow fort.

  With a sigh, Reba turned back to the activity in the great hall with its two enormous stone fireplaces blazing away at either end. John and Ethel Ross sat on an overstuffed sofa by the Christmas tree, close to each other, as they invariably did after fifty years of marriage. They were checking over the gift request list Maudeen had printed out that morning from the remaining homeless shelter they were supposed to visit. It was no small job to compare the list with the Brigade’s current abundant inventory, thanks to Big-Mart and the frantic, last-minute work of Callie and Dana, and all the seniors, really.

  Reba set her cup on the massive trestle table in the center of the room where Emma was completing the gift-wrapping for the newly refurbished Barbie dolls. Betty sat on the other side of the table, a cell phone pressed to one ear while she traced a finger over a map laid out before her.

  Reba glanced at her watch and winced. It was already two p.m., and their last shelter stop of this trip had been scheduled for five p.m. In all the history of The Santa Brigade, they’d never missed a booking, but things were looking pretty hopeless for this year, even if they were able to reschedule for a few hours later.

  Their original plans had been to finish their last shelter stop early tonight and be home in Snowdon by midnight or the wee hours of the morning, thus leaving all of Christmas Eve day to relax and prepare both for George’s evening wedding and the holidays in general. Ah, well, the best laid plans and all that!

  “How’s Betty doing?” Reba whispered to Emma.

  “Not so good. Every plow from here to the Maine line appears to be engaged by state and county crews. A state of emergency has been declared for all of New Hampshire. Betty’s working on her last resort now.”

  Reba cocked her head quizzically as she followed Emma’s silent cue and pressed a fingertip in the center of a bow which Emma was tying.

  “It’s an old boyfriend of hers who owns a small trucking company. A boyfriend that Betty ‘done wrong’ at one time apparently,” Emma informed her with a roll of the eyes.

  “Now, Lester, don’t be like that,” Betty cooed.

  Holy Cow! Betty cooing? It would seem she could learn a thing or two from this over-the-hill femme fatale.

  “I did not dump you, Lester. No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong, sweet cakes. It was all a misunderstanding. Remember. I caught you . . . I mean, I thought I saw you in that vibrating bed at the VFW convention motel with that hairdresser from the Curly Q.”

  There was a long silence while Betty listened to the male voice on the other end of the line. The whole time she was making faces at her and Emma, as if to say, “What a crock!”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, I understand. You were just lending her a Phillips to adjust the vibrations on the bed. And then you had to test out the . . . uh, vibrations. Perfectly understandable.” The expression on Betty’s face now translated to, “This is one helluva schmuck!” She was practically gritting her teeth to stop from saying what she really wanted, Reba could tell.

  “New Year’s Eve? The American Legion party? Well, I don’t know, Lester. That is really short notice. Oh, all right. What can I say? You always were irresistible.” Betty looked as if she might just puke on those last words.

  Lester must have been talking up a storm now because Betty was listening intently.

  “You will? You are? Three plows? God bless you, my man!”

  Betty clicked off her phone, pumped her fist in the air with the victory sign, and smiled at her and Emma. “Tomorrow morning. First thing. Lester will be here with his crew at six a.m. We’ll reschedule our shelter engagement for ten or eleven, but we’re gonna make our last stop. Hot damn!”

  “We better go tell everyone,” Reba advised, feeling exhilarated about this turn of events, but not all that surprised that Betty had pulled off a miracle . . . once again. Frankly, she kind of liked the idea of another night at the lodge cabin with Sam. And she had no doubt that everyone else would welcome another night here, too.

  “Yep, lots of changes to make, but this works out just fine. We’ll still have plenty of time to get home to Snowdon, the way I figure.” Betty was smiling with well-earned satisfaction as she gathered up her maps and trusty cell phone.

  Emma stood, a large woman almost twice Betty’s size. She walked around the table, leaned down, and gave Betty a big hug. “Thank you, Betty, for making such a sacrifice. It sounded as if you’re going to have to date a man you despise.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Betty laughed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Haven’t you heard, there’s this strange virus visiting Snowdon this holiday season. Betcha I’m gonna catch it by New Year’s Eve.”

  They all laughed then. Everything always seemed to work out in the end.

  At least, Reba hoped they would, especially where she and Sam were concerned.

  Sam was sitting on the sofa near the Christmas tree, practically hyperventilating.

  The snow plows should be here practically at daybreak tomorrow. Everyone had pitched in a short time ago to shovel around that godawful red Santa bus, while Betty had polished up the godawful Rudolph hood ornament, and the Doctors Meg and Maggie had decorated the inside with a godawful amount of fresh holly and mistletoe. All the gifts and the personal belongings of the Brigade members were stashed on the bus.

  In essence, they were in a holding pattern. But they should be arriving at the Maine border within the next fifteen hours, God willing and the snow plows arriving. Not that Sam was counting. Hah! That’s what had him practically hyperventilating. Snowdon! A part of him wanted to run in the opposite direction and avoid confronting all his old ghosts. But he had an anchor that forced him to stay put. Reba. If the only way he could hold onto Reba was return to I-wish-I-were-anyplace-else-in-the-world Maine, then he was going to do it . . . even if it killed him.

  To his surprise, John and Ethel Ross dropped down on the couch on either side of him, bracketing him in like bookends. It would have been rude to get up and walk away, which was exactly what he felt like doing. He had a sneaky suspicion that he was in for it, senior style.

  “I’ve been married to Ethel here for fifty years,” John told him suddenly, as if he’d asked. He smiled around Sam at his wife, who smiled sweetly back at him as she adjusted her hearing aid. Sometimes he wondered if Ethel didn’t turn her hearing aid off at times, just to tune out the chaos of the Santa Brigade. They could be a rowdy bunch.

  “Hasn’t been easy at times, either.”

  Shall I play the violins now or later?

  “I remember that time you got the job offer in Snowdon,” Ethel said. “I had a good teaching position in Maryland. My family lived nearby. And it was cold in Maine, I’d heard, very cold.”

  I know exactly how cold it is in Maine. Heart chilling cold.

  John and Ethel laughed softly in remembrance.
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  Sam did not laugh softly in remembrance.

  “But love means compromise. And I decided that John was more important to me than anything else in the world. What difference did our surroundings make, if John and I could be together?” The whole time Ethel spoke in her gentle, though firm, voice, she looked at Sam, not her husband.

  Sam was beginning to get the message. He’d have to be a dunce not to.

  Just to make sure, John asked him pointedly, “How important is Reba to you? Does geography really matter in the scheme of things?”

  “Of course Reba’s important to me.” He wasn’t about to get involved in the geography discussion. They would never leave then.

  But they didn’t even wait for his answer. The two of them had already risen, smiled at each other as if to say, “Mission Accomplished,” and went off to join their friends in drinking another cup of farewell egg nog. If these seniors drank much more egg nog, Betty would be making pit stops every five miles from here to Snowdon.

  Snowdon? Aaarrgh! There are reminders everywhere.

  Before he had a chance to digest John and Ethel’s well-meaning words, speak-of-the-devil Betty sat down beside him.

  Uh-oh! Since Betty Bad-Ass rarely sat down and always seemed to be bustling about, he knew he was in for it, again. If Betty mentions one single thing about protection, though, I am out of here.

  “She would probably follow you wherever you wanted to go,” Betty started, right off.

  “Who?”

  “Who-schmoo!” Betty said and socked him a good one in the upper arm with a fist. And it hurt, too. “Reba, that’s who, you idiot.”

  “Listen. I would never ask Reba to leave Snowdon. It’s her home. Winter Haven is there . . . it’s been in her family for ages. Besides, she loves Maine.”

  Betty clucked with disgust at his apparent thick-headedness. “Reba loves you. The rest is immaterial.”

  “No, it’s not, Betty. I learned a lesson on this trip. Sometimes when you love someone, the best thing you can do is let them go.”

  Betty stared at him in horror. “You’re going to let Reba go . . . again?”

  “I didn’t say that. I was just thinking out loud.”

  “Dumber than dirt, that’s what men are,” Betty exclaimed as she stomped off. “Shouldn’t be allowed to think, the whole lot of them.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to make a life altering mistake.” It was Dr. Maggie now who dropped down on his one side, looking pretty in a lavender turtleneck sweater and gray wool slacks.

  “Now, sister, don’t jump to conclusions,” her sister, Dr. Meg, said from the other side. She wore a similar outfit with the colors reversed, gray on top, lavender on the bottom. Regular geriatric Bobbsey Twins, that’s what they were.

  Sam made a resolution right then and there. He was for damn sure going to leap off this sofa next time someone got up. He was not going to be cornered by one more Dear Abby type interfering senior.

  “What were you muttering, dear?” Dr. Maggie inquired.

  “I think he’s just confused and thinking aloud, aren’t you, Samuel?” Dr. Meg patted his arm reassuringly, as if it was perfectly all right to talk to himself. Evidently Dr. Meg didn’t have the same opinion of thinking men as Betty did.

  “I met a man once in the Himalayas,” Dr. Maggie began.

  Sam groaned to himself. Here it comes.

  “Are you referring to Doctor Welsh?”

  Dr. Maggie nodded at her sister. “He had a sweetheart waiting for him in Tuscaloosa. Phyllis Bancroft, a university professor. But he had this yen to travel. One more month, he kept saying. Then, one more year. And before he knew it, twenty years had gone by. He’d seen the world, every inch of it. And by the time he finally returned to Alabama, Phyllis was gone.”

  “Died of a broken heart, some said.” Dr. Meg actually seemed to have a tear in her eye.

  Sam felt kind of sick to his stomach . . . and he hadn’t even drunk any egg nog.

  “Some people think that dreams last forever,” Dr. Maggie said. Oh, God, I thought the story was already over.

  “They don’t,” Dr. Meg said with a sigh.

  It’s a never-ending tale. Arabian Nights with a Geritol twist.

  “Don’t be offended by our advice, dear,” Dr. Maggie concluded.

  “We’re only trying to help,” Dr. Meg added.

  Thank God, the story’s over! “No offense taken,” he said gruffly, and was about to push off from the sofa when Dr. Meg reminded him, “Don’t forget. You promised to let us interview you for our next book. Sex Habits of Warriors: From Cavemen to the Modern Military.”

  He plopped back down. I’m really am getting sick to my stomach.

  “The ancient Hittites allegedly had fixed sexual rites they performed before battles,” Dr. Maggie added.

  What the hell do I know about Hittites?

  “I’m sure there are rites that modern soldiers follow as well,” Dr. Meg said, a hopeful tone in her voice, as if she expected to interview him now.

  The only rite I can think of is “Get Laid.” Or the ever hopeful wish of men to hear, “Hey, soldier, wanna get lucky?”

  When he didn’t volunteer any information, the twins got up, giving him quick air kisses before they left.

  Maudeen stopped in front of him, before he had a chance to escape. Wagging a bony finger in his face, she said, “Second chances don’t come often in life, big boy. Don’t mess it up.”

  “I don’t intend to,” Sam exclaimed, “if everyone would just leave me alone a minute to gather my thoughts.”

  “A thinking man? Now that’s an oxymoron.” It was Emma Smith who spoke now as she breezed by on her way to the egg nog . . . and, man, Mrs. Smith could create one big breeze. She and Betty ought to form a club, Women Who Think Men Can’t Think, or some such thing. Mrs. Smith was smiling at him, as she spoke, though, which made him think she was only teasing.

  “I have a super keen suggestion for you, son. A never-fail method for snagging a woman.” The colonel had come up on him from behind the sofa and about scared the crap out of him. Leaning over the back of the sofa, the colonel cupped his hand near Sam’s ear to hide his undertoned message. “Remind me to tell you about it once we board the bus. We military men need to share our secrets.”

  Oh, yeah, I’ll do that, all right. Super keen.

  “Have faith,” someone else said, but when Sam glanced around he realized that, suddenly, he was alone. It must have been a voice in his head. How odd!

  He looked up then and there was Reba standing at the Christmas tree with her back to him. She was examining the red Christmas bows which everyone had put on the tree last night . . . Christmas wish bows, actually. He and Reba had written their wishes on the ribbons with black markers, then hung them on the tree. He knew just where they hung, though, and so did Reba apparently. She had just pulled his off the tree. He stood and walked toward her, snagging her bow off in the process.

  She looked down at his wish bow and let out a little sob. He looked down at her wish bow and felt like sobbing.

  The only word on his Christmas wish bow had been, “Reba.” What he discovered now was that the only word on Reba’s wish bow had been, “Sam.”

  Well, that settles it. He held out his hand to her. “Come on, baby. Let’s go somewhere private. There’s something I need to do before we get on that bus tomorrow.”

  “Can’t it wait ’til later . . . at the cabin?”

  “No way. If I don’t do it now, I’ll probably chicken out.”

  She nodded, but not before he saw the fear in her eyes.

  Oh, ye, of little faith!

  “Reba.”

  “Sam.”

  They both spoke at the same time.

  Sam had pulled her into a pantry just off the kitchen. It was one of those old-fashioned rooms with floor to ceiling oak cabinets for storing supplies and a special sink for washing crystal and polishing silver. The scent of clover and cinnamon and licoricey anise
hung in the air. Sam must have a thing about storage rooms. She was beginning to, as well.

  “You go first,” she said. Her heart was beating so fast it was scary. Reba could see that Sam had something important to tell her, and since he’d already told her dozens of time that he loved her, she just knew there was going to be a “but” attached to the statement this time. Returning to Snowdon . . . to home . . . filled her with pleasure, but Sam obviously dreaded the prospect with a passion.

  She could see what was coming. Oh, Reba had prepared herself for this inevitability. When she’d made love with Sam last night, it had been with her eyes wide open. But that didn’t make it easy.

  “I bought you a gift.”

  Huh? That’s not what I expected. Oh, wait. I get it. A good-bye gift. As if I need some memento of him. The big jerk!

  He was digging in his pants’ pocket, and, oddly, his face had turned red with embarrassment.

  “This is really, really tacky, Reba. Don’t laugh. I pulled the manager of the Big-Mart aside, and he sold me the best one he had, but it was really small, and probably not very good quality. Hell, how could it be? It only cost a couple hundred bucks. And, oh, God, I am really bungling this.”

  Reba tilted her head in confusion. “Sam, whatever are you talking about? I thought you brought me in her to read me the `I love you, baby, but . . . ’ speech.”

  “You thought that?” There was hurt and disbelief in his voice.

  “Sam, I told you before. No commitments. You are free to do whatever you want. There are no strings tied to our having made love last night, or any other night, past or future. No matter what happens, I love you. I probably always will.”

  “Damn straight. You better. I’m going to hold you to that promise, honey.”

  Sam was still fumbling in the tight front pocket of his pants. “Must have gained five pounds from that freakin’ chocolate,” he mumbled.

  Finally, he pulled out a little black velvet box.

  And Reba’s heart stopped.

  Sam got down on one knee and gazed up at her. The expression on his face was totally serious and so vulnerable she could have wept. “I hope I’m doing this right because it’s the only time I intend to do it in my entire life.”