A Christmas Hope Page 7

  Brian Duncan needed a challenge.

  “Afternoon, Martha,” Brian said as he stepped inside the warm confines of the Five O’ Diner, the cloying smell of greasy bacon strong; at least his lunch decision had been made, hard to deny his taste buds. The lunch crowd had already dispersed, just a few lingering coffee drinkers sat at the counter, the booths empty. It was just how he liked it, the rush hour here was like a meeting of the movers and shakers of Linden Corners, those who stirred the pot as much as ate from it. Gossip was always served as a side dish.

  “Ah, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “For starters, you could drop that silly nickname at last,” he asked. “Kind of worn out its welcome, don’t you think?”

  “Just like you,” she said, smacking her hand on the counter for effect.

  Martha Martinson, owner of the Five O’ Diner, was known for her bad sense of humor, and Brian usually took each sharp barb with grace, but today he just felt the sting. Brian sensed that it had more to do with his sour mood than Martha’s taste in jokes . . . barely. She must have seen him blanch, because she reached out to him.

  “You okay, sport?”

  “Yeah, think I got up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

  “You know how to fix that? Push the bed up against the wall, that way you always have to get up on the same side,” she said.

  Brian couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not, so he said, “I’ll try that.”

  “Whoa, kid, you are in some mood. Okay, what can I get you that will at least make your stomach happy?”

  “Not eating here,” he replied.

  She laughed so loudly the coffee drinkers set their cups down and gave her a look. “Now that’s the Brian Duncan I’ve come to know and love,” she said with a smile. “Tell you what, I got a chunky chicken salad on rye, pickle, fries, that sound like something for you?”

  Actually, it did. “Yes,” he said, “but make it for two. And add some bacon.”

  “For two?” she asked, an eyebrow raised. “You finally giving Janey a little sibling?”

  “Very funny, Martha. But to do that I’d first need a date, second would be a medical procedure,” he said. “And both would be miracles.”

  “You’re looking for a date, I’m right here.”

  “Oh Martha, I think you’re too much woman for me.”

  She laughed again, smacking her hand down on the counter one more time, making the ceramic cups dance in their saucers. “You got that right, kid. Okay, two chicken salad specials with extra strips of bacon coming up. I assume those are to go since I don’t see any companion at your side. You want to tell me who’s the beneficiary of my fine cooking?”

  “No,” Brian said flatly.

  “Fine, be that way.”

  Brian waited for his order, then ventured out of the diner into the mild autumn day. The trees that lined Main Street were a mix of colors, brown and orange and yellow, the streets dotted with fallen leaves and lying dormant in the windless day. Instead of crossing the street back toward George’s Tavern, he strolled down a couple of blocks, ending up in front of what was once Elsie’s Antiques, now a nameless, faceless business that nonetheless had a sign on the door that said OPEN.

  So he climbed the steps and opened the door. The jangle of bells sounded above him.

  “Hello?” a voice called from the back.

  “Delivery,” Brian called out.

  “Delivery? I didn’t order anything . . . oh Brian, hi.”

  Hope she didn’t greet all of her customers with such a lack of enthusiasm; must be she reserved it for him. Nora Rainer appeared from the back room, dressed casually in blue jeans and a gingham blouse, both of them messy, dusty. Her shoulder-length dark hair was pushed back with the aid of a beret, though some strands had come loose and she had to push them away from her eyes to see her visitor.

  “Sorry, did I come at a bad time?”

  “The farmers in town would call it mucking out the barn,” she said. “I don’t think Elsie had touched that back room in years, and now I think I’ve gotten all that grime on me. Sorry, I guess I wasn’t expecting any customers today, not on a Monday at least. Slowest business day of the week, that’s according to Elsie. For the moment I’m content to find out myself, though I’ll probably end up closing down those days. There’s something appealing about not having to wake up and go to work on a day when everyone else is dreading the start of the workweek.”

  “As someone who doesn’t start work until four in the afternoon, I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

  “So, Brian, what brings you here?”

  He forgave her her abruptness. Someone accustomed to billing by the hour probably had issue with idle, small-town chitchat. So he held up the bag of food from the Five O’.

  “What’s that?”

  “Lunch.”

  “Oh, I . . .”

  He cut her off, two could play the abrupt game. “What you’re about to say is you’ve been so busy fixing things in that dirty back room that you lost track of time and wow, thanks, Brian, for thinking of me and bringing me food, I’m actually starving. Chicken salad sandwiches with bacon, thick-cut fries, all courtesy of the Five O’. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought one for myself, too.”

  She opened her mouth, about to say something, then shut it.

  “Do I take that silence as acceptance?”

  “I can’t even remember eating breakfast,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m sure you did. Gerta would never let you out of the house without.”

  “You know my mother well,” she said.

  “Frankly, Nora, I don’t think I could have survived the past two years without her.”

  “And her, you.”

  “So, does that mean her daughter and her friend can be friends, too?”

  “Chicken salad from the Five O’, it’s a good start, and I think I can smell the bacon from here,” she said. “Come on, pull up one of those bar stools I’ve got for sale, bring it over by the register. I think it’s the only clean place in the store. I’ll be right back, let me wash up a bit.”

  Brian grabbed a stool from a mismatched set, realized they were leftovers from the tavern that he’d sold to Elsie; six months ago he’d replaced all the creaky old wooden stools. Guess no one was in the market for them, as here they remained. Which got Brian thinking. He looked around the store at all the items on display; he never understood the appeal of buying stuff that others had deemed junk, we all had clutter, who wanted more? Brian wasn’t a fan of garage sales, tag sales, or whatever they were called in these parts, remnants of a life already lived, pieces of the past. Brian Duncan was currently focused on the future.

  Nora returned looking more relaxed, her hair undone and dropping lazily against her shoulders, and, though he couldn’t be certain, she’d added a bit of blush to her cheeks. He had set their lunch out on paper plates Martha had provided, and so the two of them sat down to their impromptu meal, Nora smiling for the first time when she took a bite of her sandwich.

  “Oh, that’s perfect. Brian, how did you know?”

  “I almost went with the tuna fish,” he said.

  “Oh, ick, no. Good choice here,” she said, taking another bite.

  As they ate, a comfortable silence descended upon them. It was fine to start with, both of them content to make brief eye contact while they chewed, taking occasional sips from the Cokes Brian had brought. But as the sandwiches were reduced to their final bites, Brian realized they would have to start talking soon and his mind spun with various topics. He didn’t want to offend her with anything probing but still, he wanted to know more about her.

  “So . . .” he said.

  “So . . .” she replied.

  They smiled, they laughed.

  “You go first,” she said, biting into a tart pickle, her expression newly sour. “You’ve got me curious, Brian. Bringing over lunch was nice, but there must be more to this visit than bei
ng neighborly. Where I’ve lived the past fifteen years, the business I was in, people always come with an agenda.”

  He could relate. He’d once lived the Manhattan rat race. Work hard, trust no one.

  For the moment, he was enjoying the quaint Linden Corners approach.

  “Can’t a fellow entrepreneur stop by and see how things are going with a new business?”

  “No,” she said, “not when he’s going to get a bill for the car he damaged.”

  “Can we forget about that for a moment?” he asked, his voice suddenly serious enough to catch Nora’s undivided attention.

  “Okay, Brian, what’s on your mind?”

  “Actually, your store is what’s on my mind,” he said, learning forward with the first bit of eagerness he’d felt all day. “Tell me about it. What’s your plan? Surely you’re not just taking over Elsie’s and doing what she’s done all these years. You must have a fresh approach.”

  “In fact, I do,” she said. “Of course, I realize that Elsie’s Antiques is well known in this region, and I aim to continue to deal in her stock and trade. Lots of rich city folk come up to the Hudson River Valley in search of lovely items for their summer homes, it doesn’t hurt to cater to them. But I also had to think there was something else I could do, something that was unique to me . . . for me. Something that was going to challenge me.”

  Brian could relate. It’s like the old joke, “Why do adults ask kids what they want to be when they grow up? It’s because they’re looking for ideas.” Aside from working as a corporate drone and now as tavern owner, Brian Duncan had never really known what he wanted from life.

  “I got to thinking, the generations are changing, even what we think of as recent history is fading deeper into the past. Traditions are being forgotten, families have lost sight of what made them strong. Think about those older antiques from the eighteen hundreds and before, they’re not so easy to find anymore and I suppose that’s just the natural progression of time, one generation’s likes giving way to another’s desires. People want not so much stuff as they want to recall the memories evoked by that stuff. So out of the ashes of Elsie’s Antiques has risen A Doll’s Attic, a place where your past is brought back to life.”

  “I like the name,” Brian said.

  “Thanks, I thought long and hard about it and for a variety of reasons that’s what I came up with,” she said, “though it was my first customer who already saw through my façade, he picked right up on my literary pretension.”

  “A certain play by Ibsen?”

  “My goodness, so many literate people in Linden Corners,” she said. “You and Mr. Van Diver should meet.”

  Brian had been listening to every word, but it was that last comment from Nora that made him truly look up with sudden surprise. What was it about that name, why was it familiar to him? His jumbled thought made him sound all-too-much like Janey and her search for the photographs this morning. He stretched his brain to try and understand why the name Thomas Van Diver nagged at him.

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “Oh, he’s this kind old gentleman who lives over at The Edge, he stopped in on my first day of business last week,” she said. “He had the most unusual request, one I wasn’t sure I could honor. But then it occurred to me, what he was seeking and what I was peddling were one and the same, a chance to dig into the past and find something of value—and I don’t mean financial, something personal. Something for his heart.”

  “What was he looking for?”

  “I think that falls under client/attorney privilege.”

  “Ever the lawyer,” Brian said, understanding though unsatisfied. “Sorry to pry, but the reason I ask . . . it’s that name. Van Diver. It’s sounds so familiar, like I’m supposed to know it . . .”

  “What I can tell you is that he used to live in Linden Corners, many years ago.”

  “Oh my God, of course,” Brian said, feeling his eyes widen with wonder. “Of course, how could I forget? The Van Diver family, they lived here years ago. Nora, do you realize who he is . . . I mean, who I think he must be? A descendant of the family that originally owned the farmhouse that Janey and I live in . . . it was the Van Divers who built the windmill. Can you tell me anything about him, about what he’s looking for?”

  Nora seemed to be struggling with her conscience.

  “Please, Nora, this could be important,” he said. “Not for me, but for Janey. The past is a place of healing, knowing more about her home and the people who lived there, it may help Janey understand more about her own parents.”

  “That sounds like you’re guilting me, Brian Duncan.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Fine. I can tell you one thing,” she said. “He’s searching for the meaning of Christmas.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THOMAS

  It wasn’t every day you were invited for dinner at the house in which you were born.

  Which might explain why he was so jumpy. He hadn’t felt this nervous since he’d asked his Missy to marry him, though he had to take some comfort in the fact that she said yes right away. And hadn’t that worked out well, sixty-two good years. So he told himself to just swallow his growing apprehension, wasn’t this what he’d come back for after all these years, an old man determined to rediscover one last time the little boy who lived inside of him? Rather than try to rationalize his concerns, he instead turned his attention to which of his bow ties would complete his outfit tonight. Not the navy blue solid—he’d worn that one to meet Nora; perhaps something more upbeat was appropriate, like a polka dot or the goofy one with the little green frogs.

  “Oh, of course,” he said as though he should have known, and from his drawer full of bow ties (both clip-ons and traditional), he withdrew a bright scarlet tie with a snowflake pattern. It was wintery without being overtly Christmas-like, though some might say it was too early in the season for such a festive accoutrement. Putting it around his neck felt so right, soothing both any naysayers he might encounter as well as his frayed nerves. He knew instantly he’d made the right choice, one he was sure tonight’s host would appreciate.

  The invitation had surprised him when it arrived, he didn’t even know Brian Duncan was aware of his presence in town, much less of his connection to the weathered old farmhouse. But give credit to the small network of gossipers in Linden Corners, they meant well when spreading their stories of scandals and new arrivals and old men with secret pasts, and the result had one of them (he suspected Elsie) speaking about the new-to-town Thomas Van Diver.

  He’d been comfortably ensconced in his apartment at Edgestone when Susie at the front desk had buzzed him, announcing that he had a visitor.

  “I’m not expecting anyone,” he said, suspecting it was Nora with some news about the book, but his natural curiosity was piqued even more when the name announced was one Brian Duncan. Thomas of course knew who he was, he’d done his homework about the current owner of the old farmhouse, and subsequently the windmill. But how the young man had learned about Thomas, well, he supposed he was about to find out. He asked that Mr. Duncan be allowed in and moments later came a knock at the door.

  “Mr. Van Diver,” said the gentleman, tall, slim, handsome. “I’m . . .”

  “Yes, yes, Brian Duncan, please come in.”

  He escorted his guest to a chair in the living room, asked if he could get him a beverage. The time was just after five o’clock and Thomas had already mixed his daily Manhattan, very dry. Brian declined his offer by saying he didn’t touch the stuff, following up by saying, “But I have an offer for you, which I hope you’ll accept. Sorry if I’m just jumping into my reason for being here, but I’m already late to the tavern, got Sara from the Five O’ pouring beers for me till I can get there.”

  “You don’t drink but you own a bar?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Thomas raised his glass, took a grateful sip. “We all have stories, Brian.”

  “And I’m curious about yours,�
� he said.

  “Color me intrigued,” Thomas said.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re related to the Van Diver family that used to live in Linden Corners.”

  “As stated, no correction needed.”

  “So my home, it was once your home, yes?”

  “Yes, many years ago.”

  “Well, I’ve come to you with an offer to join us for dinner, say this Friday night,” he said. “Janey and I would love to host you and show you around the property. If that’s not too much trouble . . . or short notice. Nora Rainer tells me you’ve asked her for a favor, something about your past—that’s all she said, no violation of your privacy. But that it had to do with Christmas.”

  “Ah, so it was Nora, I’ll have to apologize to Elsie,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

  “So you’ll join us?”

  “I’d be very honored,” he said. “What may I bring?”

  “Oh, I think yourself will be plenty enough. Janey will be thrilled.”

  “Janey, she’s the young girl you have taken over guardianship for, yes?”

  “You have me at a certain disadvantage, Mr. Van Diver,” Brian stated. “You appear to know so much about me, and yet I didn’t even know you were in town. We’ll see about changing that status come Friday night. I would love to hear about your life and about your family, and also about what brings you back to Linden Corners, that is, if you don’t mind.”