Christmas at Grey Sage

by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  “See, Henry, this gracious and smart young woman took care of your problem. She’s been such a help. Now point me to the tea shop, please.”

  Defeated, Henry pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the powdered cocoa from Beatrice’s nose and the smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. Before extending his arms to his ladies, he waved to the smiling clerk. “Merry, merry Christmas. Thank you for spreading such happiness this morning.”

  While the Suttons visited with artists, and the Martins filled up burlap gift bags with local jellies and prickly-pear syrup, and Maude and Lily darted in and out of several galleries, Kent and Emily sat on a park bench unaware of the biting cold.

  Kent fiddled with the button on his coat. The brace on his wrist and the sling made clothing challenging. “First Christmas without your dad, is it?”

  “Yes, and I’m so glad Mother and I are here and not at home. I think we would have both been miserable, and I can’t bear for Christmas to be miserable.”

  “Something not right about a miserable Christmas. Tell me about your dad.” Kent angled his body toward Emily. He had interest in what she said, and he liked looking at her. Hers was a simple beauty.

  “My father was the best. My mother is too. But with my dad, things . . . Things were just easier. Mother was always this dedicated professional and a bit of an overachiever. She was so disappointed when I told her I wanted to teach kindergarten.”

  “Why on earth would she be disappointed about that? Maybe frightened for you. Kindergarteners can be scary, you know. But disappointed?”

  “She just thought I could do more. But honestly, I couldn’t think of anything more that I wanted to do. Children completely fascinate me. Somehow, I thought if I could just get to them young enough, I could give them a healthy self-image and a wholesome way of looking at things, and then there’d be no need for so many doctors in my mother’s profession.”

  Kent squirmed. If he had ever given therapy a thought, he’d thought of it as something other people did. But since he’d come home from Iraq two months ago, he’d spent many hours talking to a therapist. “That’s a noble thought, but sometimes things happen, Emily—things you didn’t count on—and they change you.”

  “I know, but it doesn’t stop me from doing what I do. My dad understood I wanted a normal life—a cottage with a garden, regular work hours minus the midnight calls my parents received. I didn’t want to live in the city—too busy and too noisy. I think I just wanted a simpler, quieter life, maybe the kind of life people had a few generations ago. So I finished graduate school, moved a hundred miles away to a small community, and bought myself a quaint cottage with a garden. No picket fence yet, though.”

  “Sounds like you have it all, and now you have a new sunflower mailbox to go with that simple, near-perfect life of yours.”

  He’d made her smile. “I do, don’t I?”

  “But is it all you thought it would be? Are you happy with your simple life?”

  “I am. I wake up every morning so ready to get to work. I come home to quiet late afternoons. I enjoy my neighbors and the community. I’m trying my hand at writing and illustrating a children’s book, and I have holidays and the summer to do that and to travel. What’s not to like, unless you’re my mother?”

  Kent nodded. “My life started out that way. I mean, simple and good, growing up in the Chicago suburbs. My mom spent all her time taking care of Dad and me. And Dad? Oh, he worked at doing the normal dad things, didn’t miss many ballgames, and taught me all about fishing. But now that I look back, he was much more interested in having deep theological and philosophical discussions with his son than he was in snagging that trout in the stream. Fishing gave us plenty of time for those conversations. I thought every dad talked to his son about life like my dad did. Sure learned differently when I went off to college.”

  “Sounds a bit like my childhood. Try growing up with a psychotherapist mother and a dentist father. One checking my brushing habits and the other always wanting to know how I was feeling. I thought that was normal too. But I always felt loved.”

  “So did I, and my childhood memories are good ones. But I’ve been to some hellish places, and I’ve seen way too much devastation of human life.” Kent paused, not uncomfortable with the silence. “I’m trying to get back home. Really home.” He slid closer to Emily and put his arm around her shoulder. It just seemed the natural thing to do.

  Emily lowered her head. “I don’t think I can even imagine those things.”

  “No, you can’t. They’d be so foreign to you, so don’t even try. One of the things I like about you is your goodness. Your life is pure, not tainted like mine. I want to get back to a life like yours, and I’m getting there.”

  “Maybe you’ll forget those terrible things with a little passing of time.”

  “No, I don’t think I want to forget, but I’m learning to deal with the memories in a healthy way. But for now, I want to make some new memories. Isn’t that what we’re all doing on this trip?”

  She surprised him by taking the hand cradled comfortably in his sling and holding it in both of hers. “We are, aren’t we? We put all those beautiful memories of Christmases past away and boarded a van traveling south. Sort of like perusing the family photo album and putting it back on the shelf. You return it to the shelf because you have other things to do. Things like living and taking more pictures.”

  He slid even closer to her to absorb her warmth for a moment, then sighed. “You know, I want your mother to take a liking to me,” he admitted, “but I’m afraid she won’t if I keep you out here much longer. She’ll be worried. We’d better join the group.”

  They rose together, and he took her hand. They walked in silence through the grayness of a wintry morning. But for the first time in his recent memory, he felt something familiar returning: there was color and warmth inside him. He’d never been more aware of a woman’s presence.

  He squeezed her hand and broke the silence. “You know, Emily, about those photo albums with all our Christmases? They’re always on the shelf when we need to look at them.” Like she’d surprised him by taking his hand in hers while they sat, he surprised her and himself when he leaned down to gently kiss her cheek.

  With more than enough candy, tins of tea, and jars of sweet goodies to fill many a Christmas stocking, the travelers boarded the van for the Loretto Chapel. Lily did a head count and asked Maude to take the microphone to tell them what they’d be seeing.

  Maude instructed Gordy to circle back around the Plaza and take San Francisco for a drive-by of the St. Francis Cathedral. “We are coming up on the cathedral now, right in front of us. I know you chose not to visit it today because of weather, but perhaps you will return sometime to see the cathedral and the prayer garden, with original sculptures of the Stations of the Cross. The sculpture is worth your trip. You’ll find no romanticized depictions there. In fact, some who visit find the sculpted pieces a bit disturbing and grotesque.”

  Beatrice had eaten too much chocolate, which had only erased whatever faint lines of discretion she had left. “Heavenly days, who’d want to spend time looking at something . . . did you say ‘disturbing and grotesque,’ Maude? It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Maybe I didn’t buy enough bags of happy.”

  “You do have a point, Beatrice. Artists sometimes have their own ways of depicting truth, but I suppose we all prefer beautiful things, especially at Christmas. And what you’re about to see is beautiful.” Maude continued with a brief history of the chapel and the legend of the mysterious staircase as Gordy circled the block again to find parking.

  An hour later, the travelers boarded the van again for Grey Sage. The sky was growing thicker with heavy-bottomed, gray clouds, and the wind gusts whirled the snow across the road in front of them. Maude became aware that she was tightly gripping the armrest separating her and Lily.

  Alo was right. The wind’s picking up. Not snowing yet, though. I’d better check with h
im on the latest weather and talk to Lily about timing for tomorrow’s travel plans.

  Traffic had slowed such that it took them almost an hour to get back to the inn. Silas greeted them at the front door. “Come in, you weary and frozen travelers. Go put your coats and packages away. Alo has the fire blazing, and Lita has made some of her famous hot chocolate. Auténtico, as she says.”

  Emily put her purse and one package on the bed, removed her coat, and hung it on the coat rack. “Did Beatrice keep you entertained today?” She headed for the dresser.

  Reba hung her coat and hat on the rack. “Indeed, she did. I know most of you think she’s just senile, but she’s fascinating to me. She’s a wealth of stories, and she has such an interesting way of telling them. And yes, I quite enjoyed myself.”

  Emily brushed her hair, pulled it high on her head, and secured it with the cloisonné hair stick her father had given her for Christmas last year—a beautiful piece he’d purchased on their anniversary trip to Japan. She stepped aside and looked more closely at the Picasso next to the mirror. “Did you read about this painting last night, Mother?”

  “I did. He called it Girl Before a Mirror. Full face, profile, young, old, and all that unexplainable in between. Ghastly. Not so pretty as you in the mirror.”

  Reba replaced Emily at the mirror, removed the clamp from her graying hair, brushed it, and pulled it severely to the nape of her neck before clamping it again. “Quite a brain Picasso had. He would have been a case study. I don’t know why Maude had to put us in this room with these sharp-edged, anguished paintings.”

  “Oh, I think she meant nothing, Mother. I mean, look at the view. And the room does have twin beds. I’m certain it was just a matter of practicality.”

  “I’m certain you are correct, my practical daughter. But look at this one.” Reba took Emily’s arm and led her to the framed work in the corner above the wooden rocking chair. “Look at this. Nothing short of purely painful.”

  Reba’s strong reactions to the paintings surprised Emily. “I agree. I don’t think I’d want either of them hanging in my cottage. What do you know about this one?”

  “The Weeping Woman.”

  Emily looked at her mother, not sure she believed her. “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “No. Apparently Picasso thought the world needed one more image of universal suffering, and when I look at it, it feels like he’s been inside my head the last few months.”

  Emily took her mother’s hand.

  Reba stared at the painting. “How thoughtful of him. Picasso called women ‘suffering machines,’ you know. Although, by nature, I suppose we are.” She let go of her daughter’s hand. “But I refuse to look like that on the outside or to feel like that on the inside. After all, it’s Christmas, the season of hope, peace, joy, and love.”

  She pointed to the painting on the opposite wall, a monochromatic blue depiction with softer lines. “I’m assuming Picasso loved his mother. He entitled that one Mother and Child. Or perhaps it’s the Mother Mary. Or maybe it’s you and me, daughter. At least it makes me feel better.”

  “Me too.”

  “Speaking of feeling better, daughter of mine, at the risk of sounding as though I were spying—which I can assure you I was not—how are you feeling about holding a certain young man’s hand this morning?”

  Emily looked at her mother, turned, and walked toward the door. “Later, Mother.”

  Reba, feeling nothing like Picasso’s Weeping Woman, watched Emily leave the room and smiled. “Later, daughter.”

  Iris stood at her window. “Greg, have you really looked at this view? I know it’s in shades of gray now, but it’s still magnificent. I’m so glad we decided to make this trip.”

  Greg joined his wife at the window, put his arms around her, and looked toward the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. “I can imagine it’s even colder on those peaks. If I’m not totally turned around, I think Taos is through those passes, and we’ll be headed there tomorrow.”

  “I can only imagine what this panorama would look like with the sun shining?”

  “Maybe like this?” Greg pondered the painting next to the window. “Didn’t Maude say something about the chestnut trees down on Canyon Road?”

  “I think she did.”

  “I’d wager that’s why she chose this Renoir, Chestnut Tree in Bloom.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely. Makes me want to sit down by the water in its shade for a spell. You may be right about why Maude chose it. I’ve never known you to be a betting man, but I wouldn’t bet against you.”

  “Ordinarily I’m not.” He pointed to the painting on the wall next to the closet door. The subject was a well-dressed man reaching down to the take the hand of a young maiden. “See that. Not sure if they’re in a garden or a park or on a path through the woods, but he’s inviting her to go with him somewhere.”

  Iris approached the painting to read its title on the brass plate beneath it. “La Promenade. I think that’s French for taking a walk, maybe a leisurely walk. And this lovely lady seems a bit coy and yet eager to take that walk.”

  “I’m hoping she is.”

  “Are we talking about Renoir’s La Promenade, or are we talking about Emily and Kent?” Iris’s face brightened with her wifely, motherly, knowing smile.

  “You know who I’m talking about.”

  “I do, and I have a very good feeling about this.”

  “Frankly, I’m hoping. I can remember standing in the trout stream in Wyoming when Kent was fifteen, describing the kind of girl he should be dreaming about. And I tell you, I was describing Emily as if I already knew her. I know we haven’t known her long, but my discernment is that she would be quite a catch.”

  Iris cautioned her husband. “Now, let’s don’t go and get our hopes up too high. They are both adults—adults with good judgment—and we should just leave them be. Kent’s still mending. If Emily can spark his interest, then I’m all for it. But no meddling, understand?”

  “Well stated, wife. No meddling. But since I’m in this wagering mood. I’ll wager you a jar of prickly-pear syrup there’ll be a smile on our boy’s face for the next few days, like it was Christmas morning every day.”

  Iris batted her eyes playfully, took his hand, and led him to the door. “Let’s go sample that hot chocolate and get to know Reba better. After all . . .”

  Christmas music seeped through the background of several conversations in the gathering room, making a blur of sound like the blur of color when watercolor paint touches water-washed paper. Silas and the colonel were deep in conversation again. The Suttons sat silently on the sofa. Greg and Iris joined Reba in front of the fire. Beatrice was absent.

  Kent and Emily stood in the curve of the piano, sipping their hot chocolate and talking with Lita. Kent asked, “So there’s another secret ingredient in the hot chocolate? I get the chocolate, and the cream and milk combined with a sprinkle of cinnamon.” Kent licked his lips. “Is it vanilla I taste?”

  Lita beamed. “Oh, yes, Mexican vanilla and Mexican cinnamon.”

  “You mean there’s a difference? I never thought about where vanilla and cinnamon come from, but Mexico would not be my best guess.”

  “Oh, my friend. Vanilla originated in Mexico, so I only use Mexican vanilla. Something special about the alcohol content. But you’re right about the cinnamon. But for it to be Mexican cinnamon, it must come from Sri Lanka. Only from there. It has the best taste.”

  “Mexican cinnamon from South Asia? Okay, if you say so.” Kent took another swallow and closed his eyes. “And the secret ingredient?”

  “Still my secret, my friend.”

  Lily entered the room in a flurry. She clapped her hands. “Sorry, Party people, but I still can’t find my whistle. Dinner’s in an hour, so just make yourselves comfortable until then. I don’t think we’ll have a show-and-tell this evening since I saw only bags of jelly and chocolate. So what do you say we talk about our impressions of the Loretto Chapel? And especially
the part about Saint Joseph?” She pointed her finger at Greg. “As our resident theologian and philosopher, perhaps you could lead our discussion and offer us some sage wisdom.”

  Greg responded. “If I have any left after dinner, Lily, I’ll be delighted to share it. But you might consider getting Alo in on this discussion. He’s a builder and carpenter, and he knows things none of us know. He even knows about halos around the moon.”

  “Good idea. I’ll ask him.” Lily looked around the room. “Where’s Beatrice? I thought I counted heads. Please tell me we didn’t leave her in the tea shop.”

  Henry answered. “I think she’s resting, coming down off her chocolate high.”

  “Fine. Just make sure she knows dinner’s in an hour.” With a swish of her shawl, Lily headed off to the kitchen.

  Another of Lita’s specialties was served for dinner, followed by her mincemeat pie.

  “The only way to finish off mincemeat pie is with a cup of Silas’s eggnog,” she stated. “He’s famous around here for it. Why don’t you find a comfortable spot in the gathering room? Alo is looking forward to sharing the legend of the miraculous stairway at Loretto Chapel with you, and I’ll be serving eggnog a little later. And just so you can look forward to it, I’ll tell you now you’ve never had anything like it. Can’t find this in any store, and you’ll need a spoon—no sipping.”

  Lita returned to the kitchen to oversee the cleaning. But I also need to serve the eggnog, Lita thought to herself. The local girls who lived down the road could finish the cleaning—they needed the extra Christmas money. But she needed to serve the eggnog.

  Maude and Silas gave their guests first choice of seating before sinking into one of the well-worn love seats off to the side. Maude took the afghan from the back of the seat, spread it over their legs, and scanned the room.

  The colonel’s in his favorite wing chair next to the fireplace, and Greg is opposite him. Hmm, Reba is between Iris and Beatrice on the sofa. Kent and Emily are cozying up on the other loveseat. But Ted and Laura took the chairs next to the window. You’d think they’d want to take advantage of the fireplace. I think I have an idea to fix that later.