A Christmas Hope Page 9
As much as he had struggled with his decision this past year, Thomas Van Diver knew, finally and ultimately, at last that he’d made the right choice in coming back to Linden Corners. Back home, to the land of the farmhouse and to the windmill, where sails turned in the dark night and spun dreams into reality.
CHAPTER 7
NORA
Thousands of editions from dozens of publishers both big and small, and all of them contained the same poetic, rhythmic text, albeit with different illustrations and color palettes, that’s what she found during her initial research junket online. What she found were so many variations on a theme her mind spun to the point where all the books blurred together into one holiday jumble of legend and lore. And what did all these volumes have in common? Certainly the author was one, an elusively popular scholar named Clement Clarke Moore. Also the ubiquitous red suit always worn by the lead character. Yes, there was Saint Nicholas himself, his traditional suit of red, fringed with white ruff and a thick black belt. She repeated it again, to let it sink in. A red suit—never green. Santa was jolly, red-cheeked, a sack full of toys slung over his shoulder. The images on the pages she could access never varied, the famed Christmas tale was as unchanged now as it was when the books were published, some as far back as four decades, others just this past year. The endless publishing loop of Twas the Night before Christmas was something for Guinness. So there the truth lay right there on the screen, practically glowing at her, Santa had never worn a green-colored outfit.
Feeling a pulsing headache coming on, Nora set her laptop down on the floor in the living room and closed her eyes, allowing them to adjust to something other than the harsh glare of the computer screen. She’d been at it all afternoon, clicking, typing, searching, and looking . . . seeking out an answer that didn’t seem to exist, surfing web page after web page, and the end result was as fruitless as a juicy case where the defendant admitted his guilt. Why proceed, not when there was nothing to fight for.
Because of the challenge, that’s what she told herself.
Nora Rainer was not a woman to easily admit defeat, not in the courtroom and not in life, and the more she sought out Thomas’s increasingly rarer edition of Twas the Night before Christmas, the more determined she grew to solve the mystery. She considered the notion that his memory was faulty after all these years, or perhaps the book had been so old even back in the 1940s that the color had faded to the point where Santa’s suit was indistinguishable, drenched in sepia that a five-year-old mind mistook for green. Yet his adamancy that the suit was green was so strong that she had to believe him. That, and the quiet desperation in his eyes when he spoke of the book. There was something behind his eyes that he hadn’t yet revealed, which only added further intrigue to The Case of the Lost Christmas Book.
“Cup of tea, dear?”
Nora’s green-flecked eyes flicked open to find her mother hovering over her. Not in any intrusive way, just . . . she was being a mother.
“Oh, uh, hi, Mom . . . what time is it? I think I’ve lost track of the afternoon.”
“Five thirty, I was just about to start on dinner,” she said. “But you looked like you could use a pick-me-up. The way you’ve been so concentrated on your work all day, well, I haven’t seen you like this since you were in high school, determined to be the first one to get your term papers done. So different from your sisters—the three of them your father and I practically had to bribe to do their homework.”
“And I always got my work done, way ahead of schedule,” Nora said.
“You were always very conscientious about your schoolwork,” she said. “Not like when you were younger, hiding away with your dolls and imagining whatever world you had created.”
“A girl has to grow up. And being concerned with getting your work done is a good trait to have if you’re going to pursue a career in law,” Nora said, and then with a rueful smile added: “Or, if you’re suddenly not.”
Gerta opened her mouth to say something and then, apparently, thought better of it. The attempt at words didn’t go unnoticed by Nora.
“Mom, something on your mind?”
She looked down at her tightly knotted hands. “How about that tea?”
“A glass of wine would go down better. ’Bout that time of day.”
“Okay, dear, let me see what we have,” Gerta said, starting off toward the kitchen.
She got no more than two feet when she was interrupted by the opening of the front door and, along with a cool, swirling wind intruding onto the calm inside the house was the force of nature named Travis Rainer, his almost-teenage self breathless.
“I know, I’m late, I’m sorry,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“Goodness, Travis,” Gerta said. “Like the wind had hold of you.”
“Sorry if I scared you, Grandma. Looks like a storm is coming in, lots of gray clouds moving fast in the sky . . . and that wind, it’s really fierce. When I saw the clouds rumbling in, I just started to run, but I think the wind took hold of my feet and lifted me here.”
“Well, looks like we’re all in for the night,” Gerta said. “You have to listen to nature.”
“Seems we all lost track of time today, buddy. But next time if you’re running late, storm or not, just call,” Nora said, ever mindful to call her son by his name and not some affectation like honey or sweetie. She realized she had slipped, though Travis didn’t seem to notice. She was trying not to baby him, not in the presence of his grandmother and not in the face of all this upheaval. And besides, if he had been hanging out with some new friends, the last thing she wanted was for them to think he was some kind of mama’s boy. “Dinner’s not even started, your grandma and I are gonna sit and have a quiet drink. Why don’t you go upstairs, give your father a call.”
A sour expression hit his face. “I’d rather not.”
“Too bad,” Nora said. “Call him before it gets too late. No argument.”
Travis had heard that phrase often enough in his twelve years to know there was no room for debate. Tossing off his winter coat and hanging it on the rack, he trudged upstairs like it was a chore, mumbling under his breath. Nora, with a regretful ache, watched as he disappeared around the landing, listened as his footsteps hit his room. She hated that he was in this situation, hated that they’d both been put in this situation. But she and Travis would weather this storm, come out stronger. When she looked back, her mother was gone, too, presumably gone to the kitchen to fetch drinks. Nora could use that glass of wine about now.
It was Sunday, as lazy as one she could remember, even with the work she’d done online. Something about sitting around in your sweats while in the comfort of your old childhood home, the fireplace crackling to keep you warm, even as your insides felt frozen, that made her realize how much her life had changed. For the past month she’d been on autopilot, packing, driving, moving, then at the store dusting, organizing, planning, and today was the first day when she felt she could breathe a bit easier. Not that the adjustment to life in Linden Corners was complete, far from it, but a sense of normalcy had set in with each passing day, to the point where she accepted that this was no short-term visit—permanence was settling in. The jury was still out as to how she felt about it all.
“Here you are, dear,” Gerta said, returning from the kitchen with a glass of red wine for Nora, a mug of steaming herbal tea for her. Taking hold of the glass, she took a grateful sip of wine, then let it linger in her grasp. Warmth hit her insides.
Gerta, meanwhile, sat in the chair next to hers, her usual, only an end table with a brass lamp and a book of crossword puzzles separating them. Nora was seated, legs crossed, in her father’s chair, still in the same place it had been for years, even if he was no longer around to luxuriate in its soft comfort. She gazed over at her mother, who was looking at her even as she drank from her mug. The words she wanted to say kept getting swallowed along with the fragrant tea. Gerta fixated on the laptop while bubbles danced as a screen saver.
“Very little, Mom. There are so many editions of Twas the Night before Christmas, not a single one of them has jolly old Saint Nick in a green suit. Though I’ve been looking at the screen for so long maybe I can’t trust my eyes anymore.”
“It does seem odd, perhaps he just misremembers? A child so young . . .”
“If he’s still thinking about it eighty years later, I believe him,” Nora said.
“What in heaven does he plan to do with the book?”
“That he didn’t say.”
“How very mysterious.”
“Just as mysterious as his appearance in Linden Corners, after all these years,” she said. “But heck, you could say the same about me.”
An enigmatic comment, it brought an end to the gentle flow of communication between mother and daughter, with Nora realizing she’d opened up a can of worms she’d sooner see sealed tight. As it was, Gerta had her opening, but still she didn’t take it. She just sipped her tea in silence, leaving Nora squirming uncomfortably in her chair.
“Okay, Mom, what’s on your mind?”
“Oh dear . . . you know how I don’t like to pry . . .”
“Mom, I’m your daughter, it’s not prying, it’s mothering,” Nora said.
She seemed satisfied with her daughter’s overture. “Well, as long as you want to talk, that’s fine with me.”
“Ask away, I’ll tell you what I know.”
“What did you mean when you told Travis to call his father. . . ‘before it gets too late’?”
Talk about jumping into the deep end. “Dave is overseas.”
“Overseas?”
“Germany, to be specific, Frankfurt.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Working there. Living there.” Nora paused. “Without us, obviously.”
“I see,” she said, even though it was clear she didn’t.
“It’s complicated,” Nora said.
“Seems to me it’s not. Either you’re a family or you’re not.”
“Mom, you of all people should know that families come in all shapes and sizes and odd configurations,” she said, suddenly defensive. “Look at you and Brian and Janey, talk about makeshift. Not one of you shares a surname, and look how great the three of you are together. Dave, Travis, and I, we are a family also, but we’re going through a shift in its definition, and while we figure it all out, I thought it was best to give Travis some stability.”
“By moving him away from all he knows?”
“No, into the loving arms of his grandmother, who I knew would spoil him.”
“He does like my spaghetti sauce,” she said.
“And how many times have we had pasta since we arrived?”
Gerta paused, drank her tea. “I see your point,” she said. “But, Dave . . .”
“But Dave nothing. He made his choice, a big promotion with his bank came his way, with a chance to live overseas. How could he pass on that? He’s almost fifty, and it was a big deal to him.”
“So why aren’t you there with him?”
Nora felt a quick, piercing stab to her heart. She took a big drink of wine, then two more before continuing. “He didn’t ask us to join him.”
“Oh Nora, I’m sorry . . . for that, and for pushing you. If you’re not ready . . .”
“If I wasn’t ready to talk about it, I wouldn’t,” she said. “You’ve been so patient, Mom, you’ve given me my space, the least I owe you is the truth. Though what that is, I’m not sure. I couldn’t begin to tell you what the future holds, I think that’s what appealed to me about Elsie’s store, it’s all about living in the past. For now, that’s my comfort zone. As for me and Dave, we’ve agreed to a year’s trial separation, he’s going to live his life abroad and Travis and I will live ours, and then we’ll see where we are in twelve months. Even though I already know.”
“That’s why you’re here? Too many reminders of the life you shared?”
Nora raised her glass, a sarcastic lilt in her voice. “Here’s to Linden Corners.”
“There are worse places to be in this world,” Gerta said.
“Yeah, Frankfurt for one,” Nora said.
It wasn’t a funny comment and neither woman laughed, both of them masking emotions with their chosen drinks. At last, Gerta stood up, her aging knees crackling like the burning embers in the nearby fireplace, saying she’d better get dinner started. A boy of Travis’s age needed constant nourishment. Nora asked if she could help.
“I cook, you clean.”
“And Travis eats.”
“It’s what twelve-year-old boys do,” Gerta said.
“How do you know, you only had girls,” Nora said.
Gerta smiled, her wisdom shining through. As she came up beside her daughter, she took hold of her hand and with a gentle squeeze, she simply said, “All mothers know their way around children, whether boys or girls. Look at yourself, Nora, at all you’ve sacrificed for Travis.”
“See, that’s what I wonder about, whether moving back here was for him . . . or for me.”
“Let me tell you how I see it. If you were living your lives as you knew them, well, Dave would still be in Europe and you’d be trying to take on more and more cases to keep the money coming in, working long into the night, whether at the office or at home. Regardless, you’d hardly get to see your son, probably have to hire someone to come in and look after him after school, or get him off in the mornings if you had an early court appearance. So now, instead of a stranger he gets you full-time, and presumably, happy. And, as an added bonus, he also gets me.” She paused, that knowing smile still on her face. “And lucky me, I get you both.”
Nora felt like she wanted to cry. Her mother took her into her arms instead.
“Sometimes it’s me who feels like the child,” Nora said. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to just sit in a corner and play with my dolls again.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing, Nora, with your store? Recapturing your past?”
Gerta’s words weren’t meant to be harsh, they were spoken almost with a dose of envy. Nora couldn’t find the words to agree, so she just nodded.
“Now, let me get the sauce heating,” she said, “and you, how about a refill of that wine?”
“See, Mom, you always know just what your child needs, even when they’re no longer a child,” Nora said. “And speaking of kids outgrowing their years, let me see how Travis did with his father.”
“Which one is the child?” Gerta asked, a rare, wicked sense of humor coming through.
Nora found herself laughing aloud as she went up the stairs.
Mothers, both of them, each doing for their children, no matter the age.
Nora was beginning to think Linden Corners had been the right place to come after all.
Nighttime found Nora wide awake, the wind howling at her window like a persistent dream. For the past hour she had tossed and turned, her scattered mind unable to shut down and her body uncomfortable amidst the messy pile of blankets. She was in her old room, but other than the first night when past and present had conspired against her and kept her awake, sleep had come naturally to her. With the sad status of her marriage at last out in the open, there was no reason why she shouldn’t already be deep in slumber, like a load had been lifted off her shoulders. Yet her mind was still churning, thinking mostly about Thomas Van Diver and that darned, elusive book. Was she crazy to take on such an assignment, one that seemed not only improbable, but near impossible to complete by the looming deadline. Christmas . . . actually, Christmas Eve, he had said.
She realized she knew very little about the man who, like her, had been born to Linden Corners and left, only to return under a cloud of mystery. Had he been married, did he and his wife have any children, and if so, where were they? And just what was the provenance of the old book? Did his father purchase it at a store, did he find it in a store similar to Elsie’s, or stumb
le across it . . . where? A tag sale or garage sale . . . did they even have those things back in the forties? Nora’s mind swirled with possibilities, just as outside the wind continued to batter the shutters. She wondered then about the old windmill and whether its latticed sails were spinning wildly, victim to nature’s blowing fury. Thomas Van Diver once called the farmhouse home, he’d been given the book as a gift his last Christmas in Linden Corners, and when they moved he’d left it behind. Which made her wonder. . . could the book still be in the village somewhere? Could it even still be in the farmhouse somewhere? Had the Van Divers sold the house to the Sullivans? Or had other family stories been wedged between them, and if so, the book could have been found by one of them and now . . . could be anywhere in the world, or thrown out, fallen apart . . . someone’s garbage. If Thomas didn’t have those answers, she wondered what the farmhouse’s current tenant knew. All of these were good questions, none of which would be answered before sunlight.
But that didn’t mean she could rest easily.
Tossing back the covers, Nora slipped out of bed and made her way to her laptop. Firing it up, she typed in her password and waited for the screen to appear. Then she began to make notes, all she had wondered about, careful not to miss out on a single question. The furious typing of her fingers across the keyboard sounded loud in the quiet of the house and she hoped she wasn’t disturbing anyone. A few minutes into her note-making, a hesitant knock came at her door.
“Come in,” she said.
The door opened with a slight squeak, Travis’s head pushing its way through. The glare from the computer screen created a halo effect behind him.
“Hey, what are you doing up? Did I wake you?”
“No, just couldn’t sleep,” he said.