Kissing Father Christmas (10 page)

J
ulia begged to go with Ian and Miranda, so I gladly opted to go with Uncle Andrew. Once we were in the car my uncle said, “Are you able to confide in your old uncle?”

“Confide? About what?”

“Peter, of course. Has that young man expressed his honorable intentions toward you yet or do I need to put a lump of coal in his stocking this year?”

I smiled at my uncle. Inwardly, though, I was grimacing because I was getting tired of answering this question. “There are no honorable intentions to express.”

“Are you telling me he's been dishonorable?”

“No, I'm telling you that there is nothing to report. Peter is a great guy. Very honorable. But there's nothing between us.”

Uncle Andrew started the car and said in a jovial tone that matched his costume, “You didn't put him off, did you? On your big night on the town to see Ben. Ben with the handsome face and all the rest of it. You were clever with that one—I'll give you that. Clever enough. But when he showed you Londontown, tell me, daft girl, that you were nice to him.”

“Of course I was nice to him. How did you know about Big Ben?”

Looking straight ahead at the road, he said, “I have ears. I have a window. When my window is open, I hear what's said from the garden below.”

I tried to remember what Peter and I talked about on the back brick patio at the Tea Cosy. That had to be the conversation my uncle was referring to.

“Are you telling me you don't remember? God is the one holding the universe together; we are the ones who get out of sync. Fresh starts. Friends. And then the clever banter about the tall guy with the handsome face that lights up when he sees you.”

“You really were doing a thorough job of eavesdropping, weren't you?”

Andrew glanced at me and asked, “Where do you think the term
eavesdropping
comes from? From those of us who live under the eaves and hear it all.”

I let out a big sigh. We drove in silence for a short distance before he said, “I'm never wrong about these things. You know that I was the one who convinced Ian to meet Miranda. That turned out all right, didn't it?”

“Yes. It did.”

“Well, then, I should be right about this match as well. It's a good match.” Andrew glanced over at me and I returned a skeptical look.

“We shall see what we shall see,” he said.

“Yes, we shall,” I agreed.

Andrew steered the car through the opened gates and headed down the long drive to Whitcombe Manor. All the windows glowed with buttery warm light and even the windows on the second floor were lit up. The drive was lined with cars and we had to park some distance from the house. I took my uncle's arm as we walked. The gravel crunched beneath our feet and we could see our breath in the crisp night air.

There was something poetically enchanting about strolling arm in arm with Father Christmas under the towering trees on such a night, in such a place, headed to such a grand home filled with wonderful people. This moment was one that would long stay in my memory.

Andrew placed his hand on top of mine. “You don't mind me giving you a hard time, do you, lass?”

“No.”

“You're sure, then?”

“It makes me feel like I'm family here. I like that. Very much.”

“So do we, Anna. So do we.”

I realized that everyone has their own set of peculiarities. If Andrew were my father, I'd undoubtedly find nothing charming about his interrogation and eavesdropping. The quirks that made Andrew endearing to me during this short visit would drive me crazy if I had to endure them all the time.

The same premise had to apply to my parents. They were good people. Kind, generous, and faithful. I'd grown too familiar with their way of showing interest and concern for my life. That's why I couldn't wait to break out of the cocoon and test my wings.

I spotted the
G
RACE AND
P
EACE
R
ESIDE
H
ERE
 sign and thought of how those were the two qualities I wanted to be continually present and evident in my life.

Andrew and I entered the manor and were swept into a wave of festive guests laughing, singing, dancing, and raising their glasses in a toast to the Whitcombes. The many costumed senior citizens made it feel as if we'd stepped into a timeless version of the sketch of Fezziwig's Ball Ellie had selected for the programs. All that was missing was the fiddler.

When the guests saw Father Christmas had arrived, another cheer rose and another round of toasts. My uncle played the part, moving among the guests with a mild demeanor, asking what gift they'd like Father Christmas to bring them that year and then tilting his head back and filling the air with his roaring laughter.

I slid through the thickest part of the guests and headed for the kitchen to see if Ellie needed any help. She was filling the teakettle with water when I entered. “Oh, good! You've come. Can you help me see to the drinks? We have far more people than ever before. I wasn't expecting so many. We need tea and coffee and more cans of soft drinks added to the table in the drawing room.”

“I'd be glad to do that.” I took the kettle from her and plugged it in while she began stacking cans of soft drinks onto a tray.

“They've all decided to congregate in the entry. It's the strangest thing. And the dancing is new. We've never had dancing before. It's these pensioners. They need to get out more. They've all gone a bit wild.”

I'd come to know my way around the kitchen well enough over the last few days. When Ellie headed out the door with the tray full of soft drinks, I went about making several pots of tea and brewing a fresh pot of coffee. I checked the refrigerator to see if all the food had been put out or if we had backup trays of “nibbles” as Ellie and Miranda had called them. The refrigerator was nearly empty except for a half a jar of olives and some leftover sandwiches from lunch.

I poured the olives into a bowl and took them with me as I delivered a pot of tea to the serving table in the drawing room. Surprisingly, there was still plenty of food on the trays. Nearly all the cakes and cookies were gone, though. The dancing seniors, it seemed, were more interested in caffeine and sugar than in the mini quiches, sausages, and ham sandwiches. They reminded me of teenage girls at a sleepover.

Once I had replenished the coffee and put out more cups and mugs, I stood back and watched the ever-changing kaleidoscope of color and movement and cheery laughter that filled the manor. It was a house made for a night such as this.

My eyes roamed the entry hall, looking for Peter.

It was possible, wasn't it? That he had decided to come to the cast party after his parents returned home? Peter had been the main source of entertainment the other night at the Tea Cosy. That was only a night of soup and bread. What kind of fun and bedlam could he stir up at a party like this where the guests were already in high spirits?

I walked through the downstairs rooms looking for Peter. I wanted to see his face. I wanted to watch from across the room as he effortlessly gathered a circle of admirers and got them to laugh in a way that made them believe they were young again.

But Peter wasn't there.

As I watched the cast, I thought of my parents. How would they fit in if they were here? I remembered the way my mother had hung back at the wedding. She would probably not be dancing at this party, either.

I wondered what my parents were doing. If the next few days were going to be as full as the last few days had been, I decided that this might be a good time to call them.

Heading up the stairs, I turned on the light in the guest room and pulled out my phone. It took a few attempts before the connection went through. On the fourth ring my father answered.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Anna? Is everything all right? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Everything is great. I'm having a really nice time.”

“Why did you call, then?”

“I just wanted to say hi to you and Mom.”

He didn't reply.

“And I wanted to tell you both that I love you.”

“That's nice of you, Anna. Very nice. Here's your mother. Say hello to her.”

“Anna?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“What's wrong?”

I grinned and leaned my head back. “Nothing is wrong. Everything is very good. I'm having a wonderful time.”

“Did you call just to tell us that?”

“Yes. I also called to tell you that I love you and I hope you and Dad have a really nice Christmas. Give Opa a kiss for me.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes. I'm very sure. How is everything there? Has it been snowing?”

“We had a little snow yesterday. Not much. Everything is quiet here. We're all fine.”

“That's good.”

“You're still planning to come home on Tuesday, aren't you? You haven't decided to stay there longer this time?”

“No. I'm still planning to come home on Tuesday. But Edward and Ellie invited me to come back. They offered to pay my way because they want to hire me to do some sketches for them of Whitcombe Manor.”

“When would you go back?”

“Ellie suggested I come in the spring. She said I could stay as long as I wanted.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Mom?”

“This is something that you want very much, isn't it?” My mother's tone was serious but I thought I heard softness in her words.

“Yes. I'd like to come back.”

“What about Peter? Have you seen him?”

“Yes. I've seen him a few times.”

Another pause followed.

“Be careful, Anna. That's all I would say to you. Be careful and guard your heart.”

“I will, Mom. I promise. I will.”

“Merry Christmas, Anna.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”

All in all, I thought the small gift of words she had just given me made a fine gift. She acknowledged that being here was important to me. I was grateful. And I was being careful.

I
went back downstairs only to discover that the cast party had come to an abrupt conclusion.

While I was on the phone upstairs, one of the women had thrown out her hip and was being taken away in a stretcher. She waved and was smiling and telling the others this happened before and it was nothing a little rest after a good chiropractic adjustment wouldn't fix.

The other partiers looked around at each other, unconvinced that hers would be a speedy recovery. They seemed to sober up as if she represented the Spirit of Christmas to Come if they continued as if they were at Fezziwig's Ball.

One by one I watched them go for their coats and scarves and make a short speech expressing their appreciation to Edward and Ellie, who stood at the door. I started picking up cups and plates that had been abandoned on the stairs.

“Well!” Ellie exclaimed when the house was back to its emptied, echoey self. “That was unusual.”

Edward, Ellie's reserved and careful husband, looked down at his wife, who was still dressed as a Christmas tree with her star-topper cap tilted to the side.

With a wry expression he said, “Yes. Quite unusual.” It was clear that he meant that his wife was the real quite unusual attraction at Whitcombe Manor that evening. But he wouldn't have it any other way.

Ellie clapped her hands together and one of the ornaments affixed near her elbow fell off. “Good news for all us weary souls. I have hired a crew to come in tomorrow morning and put everything aright, so for us, it's off to bed and no cleaning up tonight.”

Edward, Mark, and I were the only ones left in the great hall. I didn't know if other lingering guests and friends had found their way into the kitchen, living room, or study. But I, for one, was very glad to take Ellie up on her directive to go to bed.

I took a warm bath and wrapped my hair up into a cinnamon roll–style bun on the top of my head. When I got into bed that night, I was ready to sleep but more importantly, I wanted to dream.

I don't know how long I slept or if I dreamed at all. I awoke, as I had on my first morning at Whitcombe Manor, squinting to see the light of the new day edging its way in between the drapes. It wasn't the light that stirred me from my slumber. This morning I woke because I thought I heard something at the window.

Pulling the comforter up to my chin, I listened carefully. Was it hail? A woodpecker? Or was it the Spirit of Christmas Past, Present, or Future here to take me on a life-altering journey?

Carefully padding over to the window, I pulled the drapes back far enough to look down on the wintering gardens. A ready smile came, causing my lips as well as my spirits to rise like the dawn.

Peter was standing in the center of the garden.

He had a fistful of pebbles and was tossing them at my guest room window. I waved and wondered if he realized that he was standing where we'd stood together when we danced last May. As a matter of fact, he was just about in the spot where we had shared the unintended kiss that had launched the unraveling of my cocoon.

I tried to figure out how to open the guest room window but it appeared to be permanently sealed on all sides. I waved and held up my open palm, indicating that he should wait there.

Peter pointed to his bicycle that was parked to the side by a large tree. It was the bike with the wagon seat in the front. I realized what was happening. He was inviting me to go with him on his morning bike ride that he'd told me about the other night in the taxi.

I scurried around, pulling on a pair of jeans, rummaging for a clean top, and pulling a warm fisherman cable-knit sweater over my head. I undid my sleep-frazzled hair and gave it a shake.

Julia's prince comment from the morning on the lawn came back to me. I wasn't exactly in the turret portion of this grand castle and the prince wasn't climbing up my hair. But he had come to me, Romeo style, and we were going to go for a “gorgeous ride” as he'd called it.

Grabbing a scarf, I took the stairs as quietly as I could. I pulled on my socks and boots and opened the front door.

Peter was standing in the alcove. His bike was waiting behind him. He grinned but didn't say anything. I stood there, breathless, with nothing clever coming to mind.

He held out his hand to me and said, “Nice morning for a gorgeous ride, don't you think?”

I slipped my hand in his and wondered for a moment if I was still asleep and if this was the dream I'd hoped would come to me in the night. The roughness of his hand and the cool sensation of his palm clasping mine made it evident that I was awake. Wide awake and ready to ride off from the castle.

Peter steadied the bike as I got into the wagon. It was a tight squeeze but comfy enough. I settled in and he got on the seat.

“Hold on.”

I grasped the sides of the wagon and off we went, bumping our way down the gravel driveway. I laughed out loud.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“It tickles!” I'm sure I must have looked ridiculous, a grown woman folded up in a child's wagon seat like that. Saying that it tickled must have sounded ridiculous, too. I didn't care. I loved that he had schemed up this little rendezvous.

“How's your sister?” I called over my shoulder.

“Molly is much better. Thank you for asking. How was the play?”

“Great! It was well done and a lot of fun.”

“That's what my parents said.”

“Did they tell you we met?”

“Yes. How did that go?”

“It was a short conversation.”

“My parents are reserved.”

“So are mine. I called them last night just to say hi. They kept asking if something was wrong.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them I was fine and everything was going great. Then I said I hoped to return in the spring.”

“So you're serious about returning, then?”

“Yes. I want to finish the sketches of Whitcombe Manor. I haven't gotten very far.”

“I suppose you'd get a lot further along if people didn't keep taking you around London or kidnapping you at all hours and gallivanting around the countryside.”

I laughed. “Is that what we're doing? Gallivanting?”

“Yes. Gallivanting. I don't even know if that's a word people use anymore or if that's the right way to use it. But let's pretend it is. Now tell me, how are you enjoying the gallivanting so far?”

I leaned back in the wagon like a lady of leisure with my hands still holding tightly to either side. “It's wonderful. You can enjoy the view and have your backside massaged at the same time.”

Peter said, “Since you enjoy the outdoors, you should plan to go glamping when you come back in the spring.”

“Now you really are making up words.”

“No. I'm not. Glamping is a real word. It's camping but they put you up in large heated tents on raised wooden floors. The tents are big yurts. You know, they go up in the center. It's popular in the area where Beatrix Potter's home is located. You have the luxury of a comfortable place to sleep and civilized food to eat.”

“It sounds like a British-style safari from the last century, like in the movies.”

“Exactly. Teatime at four every day. The biggest difference would be that in Africa you'd have elephants and lions roaming about. At Windermere Lake you'd only have sheep. And an occasional fox, I suppose.”

Peter was pedaling down the country lane now. The morning mist was rising and in the tranquility I could hear the chittering of birds in the distance.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Glamping sounds like fun. I'd like to try it.”

“It's a nice morning, isn't it?”

“It's gorgeous. Just like you said.” We rode on and I was so happy and content that I started humming.

“Would you like some coffee?” Peter asked.

“Sure.”

I'd been down this same road a half dozen times and was pretty sure there weren't any cafés or other places to get coffee in this direction. We'd have to be going the opposite direction and heading into town to the Tea Cosy if we were going to get something to drink.

But if “gallivanting” was what we were doing and
glamping
was a real word, then maybe there was a woodland café run by fairies a little farther down the trail.

After all, he was the driver and I was just along for the ride.

And what a gorgeous ride it was.