Kissing Father Christmas (2 page)

I
wasted no time starting on the sketches of Whitcombe Manor.

As soon as I'd helped Ellie and her daughter, Julia, pop the pans of Christmas bread into the oven, I bundled up, collected my sketch pad and pencils, and settled into the comfortable garden chair Edward had set up for me in the front yard.

The sunlight filtered through the trees behind me, giving the face of Whitcombe Manor an enchanting glow.

Seven-year-old Julia joined me as my self-appointed assistant. Just like her mother, Julia was all sweetness, clever ideas, and boundless energy. She spread a blanket at my feet and contentedly combed the tail of her toy pony while telling me about her older brother, Markie, and how he never came along when she and her mum went into London for Christmas shopping.

“We are going to London this week. Did you know that? Miranda is coming with us. Will you come with us, too, Anna? Mummy and I always go to tea at Harrods. It's our favorite tradition.”

“It sounds like a very nice tradition.”

“Well, we actually only had tea there one time before, on my birthday, but now it's our tradition. We're going to go Christmas shopping and then have tea.”

“How fun.”

“Oh, it's very fun. You have to come with us. Please!”

“Yes. Of course. I'd love to come.”

“Goodie!” Julia looked up at me as I tried to get the outline of the turret just right. “My daddy says you're quite talented, you know.”

“No, I didn't know that.”

“He said he was glad you were coming for Christmas because this house must always have an artist and that's why you're here.”

“Is that right?”

“I like all the books you made very, very much, but you know that because I already told you that when we were baking.” She paused before changing topics slightly. “Did you know that my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather who built this house was an artist and his friends came here to paint?”

I was pretty sure Julia had gone a few too many
great
s past the mid-Victorian era when Whitcombe Manor was built, but I did know about Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, which was the group of artists to which she referred.

“I've seen some of their paintings,” Julia said. “In a museum in London. Have you been to see their paintings in any museums in London?”

“No. Not yet.” I took my eyes off the sketch and smiled at Julia. Her wispy brown hair fluttered around her pixie face.

“Am I bothering you? Mummy said I'm not to bother you.”

“No, you're not bothering me. Not at all.”

“Good.” Julia popped up and came over and stood by my side. Instead of examining the sketch, she seemed to examine me. “Do you ever wear your hair flowing down like a princess?”

I chuckled. “Like a princess, huh?”

“Yes, because you already look like a princess because you're so pretty. But you also have very long hair.”

“Yes, I do have long hair, don't I?”

“I wondered,” Julia said, taking on a coquettish stance in front of me. “Do you ever let anyone brush your hair or make braids in it?”

“Would you like to braid my hair?”

Julia's eyes grew wide. “Could I? Really?”

“Yes. Unless it distracts me from my work.” I put on a stern look that didn't seem to fool her one bit.

“I won't keep you from your work. I promise. I'm very good at braids.”

I undid my hair and let it hang down over the back of the chair.

“I want my hair to grow as long as yours.” Julia gently smoothed her small hand down my mane. “I would brush it every morning and every night.”

A sweet memory floated over me as I remembered all the bedtimes when I sat cross-legged on the end of my bed and my mother would brush my hair.

Julia looked over my shoulder at the sketch pad. “Anna, what if you were in the turret of our house and you couldn't get out? You could let down your hair like Rapunzel and the handsome prince would climb up and rescue you.”

I smiled and kept sketching. At that moment my childhood bedroom in Minnesota seemed far away. I found it easy to believe in castles and princes and dreams about to come true. It made me happy that Julia shared my love of all things fanciful and enchanting.

As Julia did her styling, I could tell that instead of folding my hair into a single braid, she was adorning me with a haphazard assortment of small braids going every which direction. When she ran out of the ties she used on her pony, she pulled a long pink strand of yarn from the frayed edge of her sweater. She then made use of the rubber bands that held my pencils together.

She tugged a little too much as she secured a tight, thin braid that felt as if it were sprouting out the side of my head above my left ear. I was finding it impossible to draw but I didn't have the heart to say anything.

Fortunately, Julia realized she needed more ties and took off in her usual skip-hop-trot manner. I concentrated on getting the lines of the windows on the second floor to come out in accurate proportion to the roof.

From the end of the long gravel driveway came the sound of the front gate opening. I heard the rumble of a sports car engine. A shiny Austin-Healey came into view and stopped directly in front of the house. The top was down despite the chilly weather and a bicycle protruded from the passenger side.

Everything around me seemed to hush. The driver opened the door, got out, and tossed his cap onto the front seat. My heart fluttered like a butterfly going around in dizzying circles.

Peter!

He turned and gazed across the lawn. I knew he saw me. For a moment, I held my breath. I didn't move. I'd practiced what I'd say when I saw him but at the moment all those clever, rehearsed lines escaped me.

All I could think was,
My hair!

I
quickly fumbled to undo Julia's handiwork as Peter strode across the lawn. He was smiling. I smiled back and felt a flush of embarrassment racing up my neck. I could only imagine how I must look with a half dozen braids shooting out of my head and my face the shade of a persimmon.

“Hello!” I blurted out while Peter was more than twenty feet away. I would have stood to greet him but I was still balancing the sketchbook on my lap and had wadded up the hair ties into a little ball and was clutching them in the center of my palm. The left side of my head remained a tumble of mini braids.

Peter tilted his head as he approached, as if sizing up the situation. He looked just as I'd remembered. Clean-shaven and fit. His short brown hair was slightly matted from the cap he'd been wearing.

He paused in front of me for a moment and then leaned over to press a whisper of a kiss just above my right ear. It was awkward but sweet. I didn't grow up in a community that greeted each other with friendly kisses, so when my mother and I were welcomed that way at the wedding by nearly every one of Ian and Miranda's relatives and friends, it took us both by surprise.

“Hello,” I repeated.

In the back of my mind, all I could hear was a string of admonitions my mother had repeated to me throughout my childhood.
Don't be forward. Be careful around men.
You, more than most women, will have to learn to discern the intentions of any man who stares at you.

Her cautions made sense when I was young. It was because all the best traits of her Swedish heritage began to blossom in me at an early age. My blue eyes, white-blond hair, and uncomplicated Scandinavian complexion would always cause me to stand out in a crowd. She had delicately warned me that men would stare at me.

Peter was definitely staring at me now. But I had a feeling it was for other reasons. He seemed nervous, too, which surprised me.

“How was your flight?” he asked.

“Good.”

“That's good.”

He glanced down at the sketch pad. “May I have a look?”

I carefully handed it to him. “Ellie asked if I'd do some drawings for her. It's only a start.”

I fiddled with the remaining octopus braids, trying to undo the last ones while he continued to examine the rough sketch.

“Nice. Very nice.” Peter handed the pad back with an approving nod and looked at my hair.

“Julia,” I said, holding out the tight braid above my ear. I hoped the simple explanation was all that was needed. I knew that Peter had a sister who was much younger than him. I'd met Molly the day after the wedding when he was taking her on a bike ride. Certainly he knew something about the fanciful doings of little girls.

“She went inside to get more ties,” I added.

“Then by all means, don't undo her handiwork on my account.” Peter grinned that half grin of his and I felt myself beginning to relax.

“I suppose you have a lot of plans while you're here,” he said.

“No, not really. I mean, not yet.”

“I'm sure that will change once Ian comes back from London this afternoon.” Peter glanced back at the car. “I promised I'd leave his car at the station for him. I was on my way but wanted to come by here first.”

I smiled, trying to anticipate what he'd say next. It looked like he planned to ride his bike back from the train station, so it wasn't likely that he was about to invite me to go along for the ride. Perhaps he was going to ask me to do something afterward or later that evening.

“Listen, Anna.” He looked uneasy and I tried to understand why it was so unnerving for a guy to ask a woman to go out with him. Certainly Peter knew that I'd say yes.

“I wanted to set the record straight on something that happened at the wedding.”

I managed to untangle the final braid and brushed back my hair, giving Peter my full attention.

“After we danced, if you recall, we shared a kiss.”

I nodded, finding it cute and sort of funny that he'd said “if you recall.”

Does he think I've forgotten it? How could I?

That brief brush of a kiss, as awkward and unexpected as it was, had been reviewed in my memory a hundred times. No, a thousand times. I didn't want Peter to know it, but that kiss was my first kiss.

He looked down at his hands and then back up at me. “I should have said something sooner, but I never found the right moment and I didn't want to write it in an e-mail. But you see, I hoped I didn't give you the wrong message.”

“The wrong message?” I repeated.

My expression must have reflected the flash of fear that coursed through me, because he moved closer and in a low and soothing voice said, “It was lovely, mind you. I'm not going to pretend I didn't enjoy it. But…”

I waited.

“I intended to only give you a kiss on the cheek, you understand.”

I nodded even though I most definitely did not understand. I thought our lips met because they both wanted to.

“You know how it is here. We say hello and good-bye with a small sort of kiss. So, at the end of our dance I thought you and I were saying good-bye. The error was all mine. I seem to have missed the mark, so to speak.”

My heart was pounding wildly and I could feel my face turning red.

Peter looked over his shoulder and both of us spotted Julia hop-skipping her way across the lawn, heading toward us.

“I just wanted to set things right,” Peter said quickly. “Since I'm sure we'll be seeing each other quite a lot while you're here. I didn't want us to start off on the wrong impression.”

Peter released a nervous laugh. “Or, I guess, I meant to say, start us off on the wrong foot.”

I couldn't move. It felt as if seven months of stardust was invisibly showering all around me and I was caught in the downpour without an umbrella to protect my poor little heart.

How could I have been so naıve?

Peter glanced back at Julia who was almost upon us and with a tilt of his head he added in a low voice, “You didn't take my actions to mean anything else, did you?”

“No. No, of course not.” I looked down at the sketch. It turned into a blurry tangle of unfinished lines as I blinked quickly.

Julia eagerly started chatting away. “Hallo, Peter. Did you bring Molly with you?”

“Not this time. She's at home.”

“Is she going with you to the Tea Cosy tonight?”

“No, she won't be there.”

“Would you tell her that I'm happy that your family is going to have Christmas with us? And tell her to bring her pony.”

“Yes. I'll tell her.”

I drew in a stabilizing breath and glanced up. Peter was checking his watch. “I should be going.” He caught my eye for a moment and said, “I'll see you tonight, then.”

“At the Tea Cosy?”

“Yes. At the Tea Cosy.” His parting smile seemed promising.

I nodded and forced what I'm sure was an unconvincing smile. It was all so confusing. As soon as Peter drove out of sight, I planned to close my sketchbook, collect my pencils, and escape to the guest room where I could set free the tears of embarrassment I was trying so hard to hold back.

“Molly is his sister,” Julia informed me. “She has some different kinds of problems but she's my friend. Peter made her a special seat so he can take her on bike rides with him.” Julia turned her full attention back to me and squealed. “Oh, no! What happened to your hair?”

I handed her the wad of hair ties I'd been clutching in my fist and said in a strained voice, “Sorry, Julia. I need to go inside for a bit.”

“That's okay.” Julia sounded very mature all of a sudden. She picked up her pony and took over my vacated throne. “When you're a princess, sometimes you have to go do important things. That's what Miranda told me.”

“Miranda is a wise princess.” I barely made it across the lawn before my throat closed and the onslaught of all my bruised feelings threatened to overwhelm me. I paused in the alcove trying to compose myself before going inside the home that only a short time earlier had seemed like a castle.

Looking up and blinking back the tears, I saw five words etched over the front door, the motto of Whitcombe Manor.

GRACE AND PEACE RESIDE HERE.

I pressed the latch on the ornately carved front door and entered, dearly hoping those words were true for innocent, “feathery women” like me.