Finding Father Christmas Read online

“Undoubtedly,” Katharine stated.

  Andrew removed his hat, hair and all, and handed it to our hostess as she collected our coats. “Then I propose we try something radical next year. We perform the blessed script the way it was written originally!”

  “Bravo!” Ellie laughed. “Wouldn’t that take the town by surprise!” Looking at me she added, “I’m so glad you’ve come, Miranda.”

  “Thanks for letting me crash your party.”

  Ellie looked at Katharine as if she wasn’t sure why I would say such a thing.

  “You’re not crashing into anything. It was my idea for you to come. Katharine tells me you have a mystery to solve. I’m eager to hear about that, but first I must put away these coats. Katharine? Andrew? You will pick up my duties as hostess, won’t you? Please make sure Miranda meets all the right sorts of people.”

  Ellie whooshed away in her pink gown, and I had a feeling my peacoat would forever carry sugarplum sparkles on it.

  Ellie added a final thought over her shoulder. “And do avoid introducing her to the seedy characters, won’t you?”

  “Not a chance,” Andrew said. “We’re taking her directly to all the questionable guests to give her a true impression of the sort of individuals you associate with.”

  “That would include you, Andrew,” Ellie called as she exited down a hallway.

  With a wink and an aside to me, he added, “The only person I want to introduce you to is my son, but he’s not here. So how about if I let Katharine carry on the introductions? If either of you needs me, you know where you can find me.”

  I glanced at Katharine, and she interpreted. “He’ll be wherever the food and drinks are. Come. I suppose we should start with an introduction to our host, Edward. Do you have the photo with you? Perhaps you might show it to him.”

  I realized I had blindly handed my coat and purse over to Ellie. “No, I left it in my purse. Which way did Ellie go?”

  Katharine pointed down the hall to the left. “She’s probably put all the coats in the study. It’s the second door on the left. Would you like me to go with you?”

  “No, I’ll be right back.” A small and probably childish part of me wanted to roam about the poetic home by myself. In front of me was a polished staircase just begging to be climbed the way an unattended piano on an empty stage begs to be played.

  I reluctantly turned from the stairs and went down the left hall of the L-shaped floor plan. The second door on the left led into a large study with built-in bookshelves on either side. In the air lingered a hint of worn leather and cherry almond pipe tobacco. In the center of the room sat a great desk made of a dark wood that had been polished until it reflected the amber light of the standing floor lamp.

  Wow. One could rule a small country in a room like this and with a desk like that.

  I spotted my coat, hanging from a standing coatrack near the door. My purse shared the same hanger. As I lifted off the purse, I noticed the collection of photographs on the wall. All the pictures were framed in black. The center one caught my eye, and I stepped closer. Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, was standing beside a well-dressed man, whom I guessed to be Sir James Whitcombe. His stately appearance and perfectly groomed dark hair gave him a sophisticated air of royalty.

  The framed photo directly under the knighting of Sir James was a contrasting image of the debonair figure. He was stretched out on a picnic blanket, eyes closed, as if trying to take a summer nap. Over him stood a little girl with ringlet curls and a mischievous grin. She was dropping rose petals on his face one by one.

  I cast a sweeping glance over the other three pictures. One of them showed an informal family gathering around an outdoor table. Another was of Sir James and a lovely blond woman, whom I supposed to be his wife. The two of them stood with their arms around each other in front of the Taj Mahal. The third photograph was of Sir James sitting atop a camel with a hazy view of the great pyramids of Egypt in the background.

  Leaving the study with my purse, I told myself to be on my best behavior. I had never been in such a home before nor in the company of people who possessed such wealth.

  I realized I should have felt nervous or at least a little uncomfortable about being around all these people I didn’t know. Strangely, I felt calm. Welcomed. Warmed. Ready to welcome Christmas Present with this glad company.

  Chapter Nine

  The largest room in the Whitcombes’ luxurious home was referred to as the drawing room. When Katharine and I entered, I stopped and tried to take in the architectural features as well as the gorgeous decorations. Ellie had made use of her sugarplum theme by incorporating pink touches throughout the elegant room. Swags of greenery looped around the room at ceiling level. Tiny white lights and clumps of holly berries were woven into the garlands, which also were dotted with pink sugarplums.

  The ceilings were high, and the voices of the thirty or so lively guests echoed in the large open area. Even though the room provided enough space for everyone to be comfortably seated, most of the visitors were standing, chatting in small groups. At the far end of the room a bushy Christmas tree was lit up with pink lights. At the other end, closer to the door where Katharine and I stood, was a long table covered with a smorgasbord of food.

  “Be sure to try the crab puffs.” Katharine handed me a china plate. “Ellie serves them with a fabulous sweet-and-sour dipping sauce.”

  I made my way down the line, filling my plate with petite appetizers of all shapes and adding a spoonful of each scrumptious-looking salad. We stood as we ate, balancing our plates and being careful not to bump into anyone or spill our cuisine.

  Katharine introduced me to a stout woman who had lived in Carlton Heath her entire life.

  “Miranda is curious about a photography studio on Bexley Lane,” Katharine said. “Do you know anything about the Carlton Studio?”

  “Well, yes, of course. Wonderful people, the Halversons, weren’t they? They were in business there on Bexley Lane for years. Such a pity when they moved, wasn’t it? We had our family photos taken at their studio when the children were young. Such a loss when they went out of business, don’t you think? One can only assume the failure of the enterprise was the result of the computer industry. All the digital cameras for sale these days. People are too impatient to wait and have something done right or to go to a specialist to have it done. They would rather take care of everything themselves at home on their computers. I don’t have a computer. I don’t plan to get a computer. This is all leading to terrible destruction, really. Don’t you think? I tried to get my grandson to go one entire day without using any of his computer gadgets, and do you know, he would not do it. He would not. It’s not only the computers, is it? It’s all the other machines they carry with them to listen to their music and make all their unnecessary phone calls. Quite irritating, really. Have you seen them on the trains these days? All wired up as if they belonged in a hospital bed in the cardiac ward. They have this wire that goes to this ear and this wire that goes to that ear. Somehow they talk through something and carry on conversations that are entirely too private while out in public. It’s deplorable, really.”

  As the stout woman paused for air, I glanced at Katharine, and she attempted a polite escape for us. “Yes, deplorable. If you don’t mind, I’ve a few others to introduce Miranda to before she slips out to catch the train to London.”

  “You’d best check the schedule for the times. This being Christmas Eve, you know. I’m sure you’ve considered that. Tomorrow, of course, being Christmas Day, well, it goes without saying that when it comes to National Rail, I’m of the opinion that it, such as it is, is not accommodating the travelers trying to be with family for the day. No, I would think it’s more along the lines of National Rail trying to accommodate all the employees who would doubtless ask for outlandish additional wages on the holidays. Not that anyone—”

  Katharine interjected, “Oh, I see someone I need to introduce Miranda to. You will excuse us, won’t you?”

&nb
sp; Before the woman could answer, Katharine nudged me across the room through the maze of people. Some of them were still in costume, which made the gathering a familiar setting and awoke childhood feelings in my heart. Doralee had a lot of opinionated friends like the woman we had just listened to. I was much more comfortable around that sort of party guest than the ones who might ask me questions. It was all part of my preference to blend into the background when in a crowd.

  We came through the human obstacle course with our plates of food intact and only a few bumps. A tall, dark-haired man stood in front of us, holding in one hand a small plate emptied of appetizers and in the other hand a piece of fluted stemware with some sort of pink beverage.

  He wore rectangular-shaped glasses that gave him an English professor aura in a cool retro sort of way. He looked like the young teacher-of-the-year sort of professor who could be living on a sailboat near Belize if he chose to but instead spent his days shaping impressionable minds with the classics.

  The person with whom he was chatting had just stepped away, making a natural opening for Katharine to move closer and make the introductions.

  “Edward, I would like you to meet someone. Miranda, this is our host, Edward Whitcombe.”

  “Son of Sir James Whitcombe,” I added, without realizing I was drawing from my earlier conversation with Andrew in the car.

  Edward tilted his head with a vague weariness. “Were you a fan, then?”

  “A fan?”

  “Of my father. Were you a fan of his work?”

  I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Katharine, hoping for some sort of clue as to what Sir James did or why I should be a fan. But she had turned to greet another guest, leaving me alone with my bumbling mess.

  “I… I don’t know.”

  Edward looked oddly humored by my response. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard that answer.”

  I looked down at the uneaten crab puff on my plate and considered popping the whole thing in my mouth so I would be assured of not speaking for at least thirty seconds.

  Instead, I chose an unusual path for me, especially with strangers. I spoke the truth. Rather involuntarily, I might add.

  “I’m from the US and… ” If my lack of British party manners hadn’t already given away that I was an outsider, I was sure my American accent had. I tried another approach. “What I meant to say is that I’m not familiar with your father or his work. So I don’t know if I’m a fan or not.”

  “Is that right?”

  I nodded. “I am familiar with his name only because of a few details Andrew and Katharine told me as we drove over here tonight.”

  “And they didn’t tell you what my father did?”

  I shook my head and offered a tiny smile, hoping my faux pas would be dismissed.

  He nodded slowly. It was the kind of nodding motion one makes when thinking. He kept looking at my eyes the same way his wife, Ellie, had tried to make eye contact with me at the theater.

  I realized how jet-lagged I was and how much I could use a little freshening up before I tried to carry on a serious conversation with anyone else in the room. At least if I wanted them to take me seriously. I reminded myself that my objective was to see if any of these guests had a lead for me on the photograph.

  For a fleeting second I considered asking Edward if I might show him the photo and ask for his input. But I felt off balance and didn’t want to risk offending the “Founder of the Feast” by letting him know the only reason I was there was to carry out some amateurish detective work.

  Instead of continuing the conversation in any direction, normal or abnormal, I looked away from his questioning gaze. “Would it be all right if I used your restroom?”

  “Our restroom? Do you intend to have a rest?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Were you asking if you might lie down to take a nap?”

  “No. I would like to use the restroom… the bathroom… I want to wash up.”

  “Oh, of course. The WC. It’s in the hallway, to the right of the stairs.”

  “The what?”

  “WC. Short for water closet, of course.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” I turned to go, wondering how it could be that though we were both speaking English, neither of us understood the other.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what my father did?” he asked.

  I stopped and looked at him over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure of the proper way to respond, so I simply took the cue as if it were a riddle. “What did your father do?”

  With a hint of grin he said, “My father was a famous actor.”

  Without a feather of a thought, I said what came immediately to my mind, borne of my life experience. “Then I’m very sorry for you.”

  A smile burst onto his face. He gave me an appreciative nod and raised his nearly empty glass in a toast.

  I tried to inconspicuously slide out of the room.

  Chapter Ten

  I gave myself a stern lecture in the bathroom mirror. Or the “WC” mirror. Or was it a “looking glass” like in Alice in Wonderland’?

  Whatever it was I was looking into and whatever tiny room I was in with the itty-bitty sink and pull-chain toilet, I gazed at my pale expression and reminded my sorry self that I had never been particularly good in social settings and that this evening was further proof.

  “Try to be polite, Miranda. Get some information, and then get out of here. Don’t make these people remember you for all the wrong reasons.”

  Taking a minute to comb back my dark hair, I gathered my shoulder-length mane up in a clip and found some lip gloss for my dry lips in the side pocket of my shoulder bag.

  Slightly freshened, I returned to the drawing room. The guests had gathered in an organized circle, and a game of some sort had begun. I stood at the back, observing. It took me only a moment to realize what type of game had been initiated. This was a company of actors and other theater aficionados. They were playing a form of charades, of course.

  The guest who stood in the center of the room recited a line from a play, and everyone else tried to come up with either the play’s name or the line that followed.

  I hung back as a large man took to the center of the room and called out, “’What light through yonder window breaks?’“

  The group laughed at his attempted falsetto.

  Young Scrooge was the quickest to shout out, “Romeo and Juliet’.”

  Hearty pats on the back were in order for nimble Scrooge, who then moved to the center and recited one of his lines from the performance that evening.

  “’Do not force me to look any longer at what I have become. Tell me instead what is to come.’“

  The immediate response came from Andrew, as he delivered the following line in his Spirit of Christmas Present stage voice: “’And so it shall be!’ That would be from A Christmas Carol, of course.”

  The group rumbled with comments on how, from then on, the lines should be from plays other than A Christmas Carol, especially because the Carlton Heath adaptation had so mercilessly slaughtered the original lines, making the quotes less than authentic. Everyone gave Scrooge a kind word or two, saying he’d done just fine.

  Andrew moved right along with, “’Does it occur to you, Higgins, that the girl has some feelings?’“

  “My Fair Lady,” someone called out.

  “Also known as… ” Andrew prompted the group, as if this were a trick question. To add to the clues, he continued with the next line, ‘“Oh no, I don’t think so. Not any feelings that we need bother about. Have you, Eliza?’“

  “’I got my feelings same as anyone else,’“ I said, filling in the next line under my breath. Only one person heard me. That person was Ellie.

  “Well done, Miranda! You should receive extra points for coming up with the next line.” To the group she said, “The play is My Fair Lady. Why are you stalling, Andrew?”

  “Ah!” Edward stepped forward and said with a triumphant flash, “My Fair Lady,
originally entitled Pygmalion.”

  A collective “of course” sigh rippled across the room.

  “Miranda, were you in a performance of My Fair Lady at one time?” Ellie asked.

  “No, I’ve never been in a play.”

  “Really? Neither have I. I like you better by the moment. Here I thought I was the only one in this group who was inexperienced on the stage.”

  I didn’t respond to her comment because I couldn’t say I was inexperienced on the stage. I just had never officially been in a performance. My mother had played the role of Eliza Doolittle on a stage somewhere when I was around six. She taught me how to read with that script.

  Edward was in the circle now. He paused, thinking, glancing around the room. He looked at Ellie, as if seeking some bolstering of his courage. She glittered and glowed and blew her dashing husband a kiss. The charming moment led me to believe that Edward was much more humble than his circumstances would have suggested. I felt a fondness for both of them, which surprised me because I barely knew them.

  Edward kept looking at Ellie, and then his sweeping gaze turned to me. In that moment, he seemed to have found his line. I told myself I could be imagining the connection, but when I heard his line, I knew I had inadvertently inspired him. It was my name. He delivered Miranda’s final line in The Tempest:

  “’O wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world that has such people in’t!’“

  No one in the room responded. They looked at each other with shrugs and mumbles.

  "Where did he come up with that one?” Ellie shook her head at her husband and showered my arm with her fairy dust.

  “It’s from The Tempest,” I said, being sure to keep my voice low.

  “The Tempest?” she asked. “Shakespeare, right? How do you know all these lines?”

  I shrugged, hoping to appear naive. I hadn’t seen a production of The Tempest. I knew the line because I had read the script many times. During my years with the television-less Doralee, I read. I didn’t go to plays, but I read dozens of them, many times over.