Engaging Father Christmas: A Novella Page 4

  “I need to get back to the kitchen,” I said.

  “I understand. Really, I do.”

  I could tell Josh was now the one sending the cryptic message. He never had been one to overstay his welcome.

  “You seem to fit in here,” he said almost as an afterthought. “But, you know, if things don’t work out with . . . whatever, you know how to contact me.”

  In an effort to keep our parting light and breezy and as uncomplicated as possible, I said, “Well, you know, if that counseling practice of yours doesn’t work out, you can always try detective work.”

  Josh smiled.

  “I’ll see about the scones to go with your tea.”

  As if we were a well-orchestrated team, Katharine came up next to me just then and offered Josh a plate of warm scones along with clotted cream and jam. She explained how to open the scone and spread the jam first, leaving the clotted cream for the dollop on top. While she extended her hospitality, I headed back into the kitchen.

  With a quick glance to the back of the room, I saw Margaret directing a quick glance our way.

  Whatever your perception is about all this, Margaret, please don’t jump to any conclusions. I don’t care what the other women here think. I do care immensely, though, about what you think.

  Chapter Seven

  From the kitchen, I could hear everything being said as it seeped through the curtain. Flora apparently had decided to take her leave but found it necessary to shuffle over to Josh’s table to greet Katharine before making her departure.

  After exchanging pleasantries about how Andrew was improving in hospital, Flora spoke to Josh in a timbre loud enough for most of the room to hear. “I do hope you’re enjoying your tea and scones. We’re all quite fond of Katharine’s baking here. A little too fond, some of us are, I should think.”

  “I can see why you’d feel that way,” Josh said in what I recognized to be his counselor sort of response.

  “It’s not often that we see visitors in our little village. We’re not exactly a tourist destination, are we?”

  “It’s a charming place,” Josh said politely.

  “Our resident royalty seemed to think so,” a second woman’s voice chimed in. “One of the charms of Carlton Heath, of course, is the quiet. At least that’s how things have been since his passing.”

  “She means Sir James, of course,” Flora added.

  “I see.” Again, Josh seemed to be using his counselor responses to keep engaged in the conversation, yet remain aloof and noncommittal as to how much he actually knew.

  I realized at that moment that Josh’s expert “engaged yet noncommittal” demeanor had been a hallmark of our relationship. Even though we connected on a number of levels while we dated, we never had melded at the heart level the way Ian and I had almost instantly. My relationship with Margaret as well as with my half brother, Edward, bore the same characteristics as my relationship with Josh. We were connected or “engaged,” as it were, in many areas. Yet aloofness was what marked the relationship.

  Since Josh didn’t seem to be snapping at any of the bait thrown into the conversation about Carlton Heath’s most famous resident, Flora tried once more with a subdued announcement that Sir James’s widow was in their presence. “She’s the one in the corner there. A lovely woman, really. Rather given to her own company though. Not that anyone could blame her. We all understand why, don’t we? After living in her husband’s shadow all those years, the dear has spent most of her time trying to stay out of the limelight. She’s become rather accomplished at being amongst us yet staying invisible, if you will.”

  My heart suddenly went out to Margaret. She and I were more alike than I had ever thought. I, too, was acquainted with the art of making myself invisible. I knew all too well the loneliness that incubated in such places as backstage wardrobe rooms and back tables in busy tea shops.

  “I’m rather curious,” Flora said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what does one manage to cart around in such a large duffel bag?”

  Josh’s mumbled response must have been meant to be heard only by Flora because I couldn’t make out what he said.

  Flora certainly heard his answer. Her “Oh my!” response echoed off the kitchen walls. I could hear a faint twittering throughout the Cosy, as if each of the observers was checking with the others to see if anyone had heard what he said.

  The bells on the door jingled, suggesting that Flora was making a hasty exit. Katharine appeared in the kitchen with her cheeks rosy and her lips upturned.

  “What did he say to her?” I whispered.

  Katharine cupped her hand to my ear. “He told her his duffel bag was large enough to carry his dead aunt.”

  Covering my mouth, I muffled my laugh. I’d forgotten all about Josh’s morose sense of humor. I knew he really needed to get out of town now.

  The diversion he had just created was a gift to me, whether he meant it as such or not. The topic of the day would now be about Josh and the speculations on his poor auntie instead of whether he and I were somehow connected. I owed him for that one.

  Rummaging in my purse for a slip of paper, I wrote Josh a quick note.

  Thank you! I hope all goes well for you. (And your unfortunate auntie!)

  Returning to the dining area, I planned to slip him the note as if it were the bill, even though I knew Katharine wouldn’t charge him since he was a special guest.

  When I stepped past the curtain, nearly everyone was already gone, including Josh. Margaret was gone as well. It didn’t surprise me that a number of the women had ducked out, no doubt with the objective of bustling to the nearest phone to start the alert.

  I could picture Josh trekking to the train station down Bexley Lane with his duffel bag over his shoulder. A number of certain residents between here and the station would be, at this very moment, answering their hotly ringing phones and hurrying to their windows to have a look as he passed by.

  With all the excitement over, a friendly calm returned to the Cosy. I put more wood on the fire, cleared the tables, and went to work washing dishes. Last August I’d helped out here one afternoon while Katharine went for a hair appointment and Ian and Andrew repaired the plumbing in the apartment upstairs. Even though the building was old, Andrew had managed to do an impressive job of updating the four-room apartment space where he and Katharine lived.

  I experienced a calming and unexpected contentment last August while carrying out the simple domestic tasks that accompanied the running of a tea shop. When Katharine re-turned from her hair appointment, I told her I preferred the work I’d put my hands to that afternoon over the tedious work I’d done at a large accounting firm in San Francisco for almost ten years.

  When I tried to explain to Katharine that this was a place of peace for me, she said, “You are a woman drawn to home and hearth. Never doubt the happiness such simplicity can bring you.”

  From that moment, I knew I had a place here. It was as if my internal compass had reset and would now always point to the Tea Cosy and to Katharine, the woman who filled this small space with so much love and grace.

  The timer on the stove gave a dull buzz. I put on an oven mitt and pulled out two trays of Katharine’s warm, fragrant shortbread Christmas cookies. I’d tasted these cookies on previous visits, and the sight and scent of them started my mouth watering. Katharine called these cookies “Andrew’s Scottish shortbread biscuits” and had confided to me that her secret ingredient was Madagascar vanilla bean.

  Usually Katharine used a round cookie cutter on the thickly rolled-out dough. This time the cookies cooling on the trays were cut in the shape of stars. Christmas stars.

  I looked at the plumped-up stars and once again thought of the imagery of the five-armed starfish from A Wrinkle in Time and how it related to the loss of my mother. She was the missing part of me, the part that had so defined who I was and what I would become.

  Reaching for a spatula, I slipped it under one of the Christmas star cookies and lifted it
so I could touch the warm star, my finger gently tapping on each of the five appendages.

  Just then Katharine entered the kitchen. I looked up at her, and I knew. I just knew. The broken star of my life had been made whole through the gift of her friendship. The part I thought I would go through life without had grown back when I wasn’t watching.

  Chapter Eight

  Sometimes when revelations come, they must be spoken aloud to become fully vested. Those breakthrough moments of understanding, accepting, and receiving are validated and affirmed in the presence of another.

  That had been the case for me last Christmas when I sensed a constant, gentle presence throughout my time in Carlton Heath. At the church where I sat beside Ellie on Christmas morning, studying the Christ figure portrayed in the stained glass windows, I was compelled to believe in God.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but two things were happening at once. As I was trying to find a way to enter into what I knew would be a life-changing conversation with Edward and Margaret, God’s Spirit seemed to be closing in on me with the same objective. On the one hand, I wanted to reveal to the Whitcombes that, because of Sir James, I was related to them by blood. On the other hand, God was trying to reveal to me that because of His Son and because of His blood, I could enter God’s family.

  I still don’t know how to describe what happened that day in such a simple, quiet way except to say that I believed. I went from not belonging to God and His kingdom to being accepted and belonging to Him and His eternal family. I understood that my connection to Him came because of Christ’s blood. It was that simple and that impossibly complex all at the same time.

  With Edward and Margaret, it seemed to be still mostly complex. I was related to them — or at least to Edward — by blood. Yet I still was waiting to be fully accepted into their family.

  Last Christmas Katharine had been the first one to whom I had entrusted the story of what seemed to me mysterious, ancient, and true. The story of how I had been pursued by God, and now I was changed. I belonged to Christ.

  When I spoke my revelation to her, the truth was sealed. I was a believer of infantile status, but a Christian nonetheless. I was a fledgling follower of Christ, and I knew she was someone who had followed close to Him for many years.

  The foundation of our friendship began to grow that day, I think. And now, a year later, as I held the Christmas star cookie in my hand, I saw what had grown in my life where for a long time all that had existed was great loss.

  I put down the cookie and stepped over to Katharine in that small kitchen space. Wrapping my arms around her, I whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Miranda.” She stroked my hair and released a breathy “che-che-che” sound, as if she were calming a small bird.

  Aside from my mother and Ian, Katharine was the only other person on this planet to whom I had said, “I love you.” I think she knew that.

  We pulled apart. Not awkwardly, but like two dancers. I hadn’t hugged Katharine exactly like that before, but it instantly felt like a familiar motion, as if we were well acquainted with the ways of all close mothers and daughters.

  She smiled at me and spoke a single word filled with hope. “Soon.”

  I nodded. I knew what she meant. Ian took Katharine into his confidences as well. I’m sure she knew about the small box he had picked up that morning in London. She undoubtedly knew what was in the box. And she was probably feeling a similar anticipation, waiting for what we both knew would be one of Ian’s well-planned moments when the box was opened.

  Katharine slid two more cookie sheets of shortbread into the oven, and the two of us went about the kitchen duties as if this were the next act in the ancient, domestic ballet of women.

  We had nearly finished all the cleanup from the afternoon teatime when the jolly jingle bells let us know someone else had entered the Cosy. We didn’t need to step out of the kitchen to see who it was. The merry voices let us know right away that Ellie had returned with her observant thirteen-year-old son, Mark, and precocious six-year-old daughter, Julia.

  “Auntie Miranda!” Julia sang out her greeting. “Auntie Katharine! Where are you?”

  “In the kitchen,” Katharine called out in a matching, singsong voice.

  -Brown-haired Julia burst through the curtain and entered the kitchen with a squeal. She wrapped her arms around my middle and hug, hug, hugged me.

  “How’s my favorite little girl?” I asked, kissing the top of her head.

  “Your favorite little girl is happy you are finally here! Have you seen it yet?”

  “Have I seen what?”

  Katharine intervened. “Julia, it’s not yet Christmas. We have to keep a few things secret until then.”

  Julia placed both hands over her mouth, and I gave Katharine a raised eyebrow look. Katharine, the one who didn’t make it a practice to keep secrets, was directing young Julia to do just that. Well, well, well!

  Peeking around my middle, Julia eyed the cookies. “Are those biscuits for anyone special?”

  “Julia!” Ellie spouted, entering the kitchen and catching her little beggar in the act.

  Julia turned her innocent eyes to Katharine, and a Christmas star was in her hand before Ellie had another opportunity to protest.

  “Only one,” Ellie said. “And see if your brother would like one as well.”

  “Markie!”

  “Please don’t screech like that, Julia. Go ask your brother politely and in an inside voice,” Ellie said.

  “Here.” Katharine handed over another biscuit. “I have a feeling his answer will be yes.”

  Julia trotted out with a plump star in each hand.

  “Have you heard the news about tonight’s performance?” Ellie asked.

  “We understood the Guild was considering canceling,” I said.

  “Not so,” Ellie said gleefully. “The Theatre Guild has decided not to cancel the performance tonight. The curtain will go up as scheduled, and guess who will be donning the robes of Father Christmas?”

  “Certainly not Andrew,” Katharine said.

  “No, not Andrew. Have you another guess?”

  Neither Katharine nor I could come up with an obvious choice. Ellie’s husband, Edward, would be the next logical Father Christmas since he was Sir James’s son and therefore would be immediately received by the townspeople since Andrew wasn’t available. However, Edward wasn’t the sort to ever appear onstage. He stayed far away from his father’s footsteps. In this regard, he and I shared a common goal.

  “I will give you a hint,” Ellie said. “We were just at Grey Hall and saw the new Father Christmas having a costume fitting, and Mavis was telling him he was quite a catch. But he told her he already was taken.”

  “Ian?” Katharine and I said in unison.

  “Ohh. Did I give too much of a clue?” Ellie looked disappointed at our deductions. Had she forgotten what a small village this was?

  Just then my cell phone rang with the customized tune that told me Ian was calling. “Speaking of the jolly ole elf . . .”

  “Ho, ho, ho,” I answered.

  “Madam, you seem to have mistaken me for my American counterpart.”

  “Then should I have said, ‘Hee, hee, hee?’ I heard the news.”

  “So you did. Ellie is there now, I take it?”

  “Yes, she’s here with the kids. How’s your dad?”

  “Much improved and sleeping soundly. Listen, you and I will have to reschedule our dinner plans.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing because it just so happens I have a play to attend tonight. I’m hoping to get a good seat right up front.”

  “I’ll be looking for you there. How is Mark?”

  “Fine, I guess. I haven’t seen him yet. Why?”

  “He’ll be onstage tonight as well.”

  I knew Mark was an understudy for Scrooge in this all children performance of Dickens’s classic play. Apparently Andrew wasn’t the only one who wasn’t well eno
ugh to carry on that evening.

  As soon as Ian and I said our “see you laters,” I left Ellie and Katharine and went to check on Mark. The two women had stepped up the biscuit production now that the treats were definitely needed for that evening’s refreshment table at intermission.

  I found Mark seated beside the hearth about to make the last bite of cookie disappear. Julia was pretending she was the tearoom hostess, flitting from table to table with an imaginary pot of tea and chattering with her invisible friends.

  Mark greeted me politely, and I pulled up a chair next to him by the waning fire. “I heard you have the leading role tonight.”

  “Yes, I do.” His thin lips pulled tight in a squiggly line. Bits of shortbread crumbs dotted the corners.

  “You’re going to do a great job. I’m just sure of it.”

  Mark didn’t look convinced, but he thanked me all the same.

  “Are you feeling nervous?”

  He shrugged bravely.

  “I’ll tell you a little trick that might help. My mother used to tell herself every opening night that it was only a dress rehearsal. She said she never got the jitters.”

  “Was your mother in a lot of performances?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Did she go to a lot of parties?”

  “A lot of parties? I don’t know. I suppose she went to some. She went to cast parties with the other actors.”

  “What did they do at those parties?”

  “Same sort of things you do at the cast parties here. Eat and talk about the performance.”

  Mark reached for the iron poker and taunted the roasted logs into bursting into what looked like a thousand escaping fireflies. He seemed to be pondering my answer rather intensely.

  “Did that answer your question, Mark?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What is it you wanted to know?”

  “I wanted to know . . .” he hesitated, breaking the depleted log in half by hitting it directly in its hollowed center.

  “What?” I wanted him to know he had my full attention.

  “Did your mother kiss a lot of men?”