Kissing Father Christmas (3 page)

I
stepped into the stunning entry hall of Whitcombe Manor and felt as I had on my first visit to this extraordinary home. I was welcome here.

The ceiling rose to the top of the grand staircase and beyond. Light poured through the large window above the stair landing, enlivening the dark wood floor and giving the sensation of entering a small cathedral. I saw Ellie coming down the stairs with a large box in her arms. It appeared that she had just finished looping the last garland of Christmas greenery on the stairs. The string of twinkle lights woven through the garlands was lit, adding a festive cheerfulness to the entry.

“Oh, good. I was just about to come find you and see if I could persuade you to help me with one more wee project, as your Uncle Andrew would call it.”

“A wee project?” I cleared my throat and pulled my emotions back in check.

“It's for the play. You know how every Christmas we perform
A Christmas Carol
by Dickens?”

“Yes. Miranda told me about it. She said your father-in-law, Sir James, started the tradition.”

Ellie was in front of me. “Yes, well, I volunteered to take care of the programs this year and I've fallen behind. Terribly behind. I was hoping you could help me out.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

Ellie looked at me more closely. “Are you all right? Your eyes look a bit red. Is it jet lag, do you think? Here I am loading you up with projects and you probably want to be taking a catnap right about now.”

“No, I'm all right. I can sleep later.”
And cry later.
“What did you want me to help you with?”

“It's the programs, you see.” Ellie scrutinized my expression one more time. “Are you certain you don't need to lie down for a bit? We'll be up late at the Tea Cosy, you know.”

“What exactly is going on tonight at the Tea Cosy?”

“I thought I mentioned it while we were baking. It's the soup dinner for the cast of the play.”

“Oh.” I couldn't remember if she'd told me or not. “Are there a lot of people going tonight?”

“I suppose. You can never be sure who will show up. We're going because, as you know, your Aunt Katharine is fighting a bad cold. I told her we'd take care of everything. Miranda is there now, making the soup. Ian is coming later and he said he'd ask Peter to help out. I thought you and I could go around four. Is that all right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Ellie motioned with her head for me to follow her into the study. I was grateful for the distraction as well as the detour from what would have turned into a desperately sad hideaway time in the guest room.

The moment I entered the study I was reminded that there was a long list of reasons besides Peter that had endeared me to this place and to this extended family. The high shelves were stacked full of wonderfully musty-smelling books. The leather chairs, imposing desk, and intricate rugs in this room spoke to me of stories not yet told. Tales of mystery and adventure. I belonged here. This romantic setting was enough to help me rewrite the script in my mind. It would be a different Christmas than I'd hoped for, but it would still be wonderful in many other ways.

Although, Peter will be at the Tea Cosy later.

I set that thought aside and told myself that if I kept all my fanciful thoughts centered on the charm of this old house, the enchantment of the library, and the delight of spending time with Ellie, Miranda, and Julia, my heart would sail through the rest of the visit without any additional bruises.

With my chin raised and shoulders back, I paused in front of one of the photos of Sir James that hung on the wall. He really had been the last of a breed of distinguished, honored British actors. Sir James had convinced the world that handsome gentlemen who drove speedboats, spoke five languages, and wore a tux under a scuba suit were capable of protecting England and her beloved queen from all harm. The allure of his legendary persona lingered in this dusty room.

Ellie put the box down beside one of the wingback chairs and opened the laptop on the large, dark mahogany desk.

“Don't be shocked, but this is all I've got so far.” Ellie motioned for me to sit in the chair at the desk and have a look at her open laptop.

It did strike me that it was an extraordinary thing to be casually sitting at Sir James's desk. How many people ever got to do that?

On the screen was the image of a plump couple in Victorian garb. They looked like they were dancing a jig.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“It's the Fezziwig's Ball. I had to scan the illustration three times from the book to get it right. Don't tell Edward. He's quite protective of the books around here. That one is a first edition.”

I reached for the old book on the desk that she'd pointed to and smoothed my hand over the brown cover. The title
A Christmas Carol
was in gold lettering with a detailed etched wreath circling it. I opened to the title page and checked the copyright date: 1843. I could only imagine the value of a first edition of Dickens's
A Christmas Carol
. Turning to the next page with more care, I smoothed back the tissue that covered the illustration. I recognized the process that had been used on the Fezziwig's Ball drawing and was impressed.

“This is needle and acid etching,” I said. “It's beautiful. This is not easy to do.” I had to agree with Edward that none of the pages in this valuable book should be scanned three times.

“Are you able to fit that image onto the template for the cover? I had no success in lining it up properly and I'm desperate. The play is only two days away.”

“Sure. I can try. Graphic design is not my specialty but I know a few basics.”

“If you click on the other open file, you'll see the rest of the information.”

I was relieved to see that the interior of the program was completed and that I wouldn't be responsible for listing the names of the cast and crew.

“My thought with the Fezziwig's image was to play off the pensioners. Although you don't call them pensioners in the States, do you? Seniors. Is that right? Those who are in retirement. Last year the cast was all children. It was delightful. This year it's all pensioners. You'll meet them at the Tea Cosy this evening.”

All I could think about as I clicked and resized the image to fit the program template was that I shouldn't be thinking about the fact that Peter would be at the Tea Cosy this evening. I tried to convince myself that our uncomfortable conversation was the last awkward moment I'd experience with him. We were both going to be in the same small circles this week. It would be fine. It had to be fine.

I'd almost convinced myself when a paralyzing thought seized me.

My mother was right. I have made a fool of myself by coming here.

I was sure there were worse realizations that could befall a young woman as she's trying to carve out her own life, but at that moment, I couldn't think of anything worse.

I decided that if things went poorly that night when I was around Peter, I'd make up an excuse to have to leave and spend the rest of my trip at a hotel in London. I didn't want to put a strain on any of these lovely people during their Christmas celebration by being the one person in the bunch that Peter would be trying to avoid.

Christmas in London would be wonderful. I could see Big Ben and Buckingham Palace and even visit some of the art museums Julia talked about. The trip to England wouldn't be a waste.

Just a disappointment.

And that would be the most humiliating part of it. I didn't want to go back to Minnesota and admit to my mother that I'd finally grown up and she was right. Capricious dreamers only set themselves up for heartache while solid, forthright women know that fairy tales don't come true.

T
he Tea Cosy was already humming with activity when Ellie and I arrived.

The bells that hung over the front door chimed merrily as we entered the tavern-style café that was built over two hundred years ago. A fire crackled in the soot-stained fireplace. Flickering votive candles dotted the mantel and the welcoming scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen behind the drawn curtain.

The cast wasn't supposed to come until five o'clock but they had shown up in costume at teatime and had made themselves at home around the tables. The thick wood beams across the low ceiling drew their conversations in close.

I felt as if I'd stepped into a Dickens novel and should be checking the corner for Tiny Tim's stool.

When my uncle Andrew's wife, Katharine, purchased the building several years ago, she did her best to keep as much of the original design as the building inspectors would allow. Her insistence paid off handsomely. The charming Tea Cosy along with the village of Carlton Heath had received top ratings on a popular tourist website that promoted the must-sees of their area.

Miranda appeared from the kitchen with two large, white teapots. As soon as she saw me, she delivered them to the closest tables and sashayed around the tables to get to me. Her dark hair was pulled up and her face was rosy. She wrapped her arms around me and said, “It's so good to have you here, Anna. I can't wait to have a chance to sit down and talk.”

“Chatting comes afterward,” Ellie said, heading for the kitchen. “We have a dinner to serve.”

Miranda took me by the hand and led me through the gauntlet of friendly guests. They wanted to know if I was the “visiting American” and if more tea was on its way.

I was surprised to see how small the kitchen was. I hadn't gone behind the curtain when I visited last May. It was impressive to see how Katharine had made clever use of all possible open space. Ian was stirring one of two large pots of soup. He put the spoon down and slid over to greet me with a kiss on the cheek. His gesture brought an immediate reminder of Peter's explanation of hello and good-bye kisses and the unspoken rule of turning your head.

I immediately took note of the fact that Peter wasn't there. Perhaps he was planning to come later. Or maybe he'd bowed out so that it wouldn't be awkward with me there.

There was no time to chitchat. Ellie and I had brought in three shopping bags of supplies, including the fourteen mini loaves of cranberry orange bread we'd baked that morning.

“Since they've come for tea, let's serve the cranberry bread,” Ellie suggested. “Save the rolls for when we serve the soup. Have you pulled out all the teapots, Miranda?”

I pushed up the sleeves on my sweater and pulled my hair back into a knotted ponytail. Miranda pointed me to the teapots and canister of loose tea leaves.

“I think Ellie and I should switch tasks. I'll cut the bread and serve it to the tables. She's better suited to know how to make a pot of tea.”

“There's nothing to it,” Ellie said. “As long as you always add one more teaspoon for the pot.”

I wasn't sure what she meant but I had no trouble falling into sync with the rest of the kitchen crew. The jovial cast all wanted me to linger and talk with their table when I served the small plates with the sliced bread artistically arranged. They wanted to know where I was from, how long I'd be staying, and how I was related to Miranda.

I heard several times that my accent sounded just like Miranda's and I thought that was funny. I responded by saying, “And here I thought you were the one with the accent.” They chuckled and guffawed at my response.

I told Miranda what they said when I returned to the kitchen and started stacking up soup bowls next to the stove.

“It feels like I've stepped into an alternate universe each time I go back out there.”

Miranda smiled. “What would a group like this be doing in Minnesota right now, do you suppose?”

“They'd probably be playing bingo in the church hall. Or having a white elephant gift exchange and eating way too many Christmas cookies and homemade fudge.”

“And let me guess,” Miranda added. “The women wouldn't be wearing silly caps with ringlets and fifty-year-old fuzzy sweaters. Instead they'd put on their favorite sweatshirt appliquéd with a Christmas tree and they'd wear headbands with felt reindeer antlers.”

I saw her point. The way older people gathered and celebrated in my corner of the world was just as silly if not sillier than the jovial bunch celebrating here in Carlton Heath.

Miranda grinned. “I do love having another American around here. It makes me want to go back to Rose Cottage so we can watch
Elf
and eat candy corns. I miss candy corns.”

“Really? You don't have candy corns here?”

“I've not been able to find any. What I miss even more is Ghirardelli chocolate chips. I used to live in San Francisco, so to me there is no better chocolate in the world. I've tried to make chocolate chip cookies here but they just don't taste the same.”

“Well then, when I go home, I'll be sure to put together a care package for you with candy corns and lots of Ghirardelli chocolate and send it to you for the new year.”

Miranda's expression narrowed. “What makes you think any of us are going to allow you to return to the US?”

“I think British immigration might have a thing or two to say about it.”

“You belong here, Anna. One way or another, we'll get you to stay.”

I didn't have time to choke up over Miranda's kind words because Ellie had decided that we would move right into serving the soup and rolls. We set up an assembly line, and my task was to carry the soup out to the tables.

I was concentrating so intently on my waitressing skills that I didn't notice when Peter arrived. I only found out he was there when a round of laughter rose from one of the tables by the fire. Peter was using large hand motions as he told them a story. He had the rapt attention of everyone around him. Another round of laughter erupted as I scurried to the kitchen for another tray of soup bowls.

“Peter must have arrived,” Ian noted.

“Yes. He's here.”

“He always livens up a party,” Miranda said.

“Someone go tell him to get in here and liven up our soup service!” Ellie was red in the face as she stood by the stove with a ladle in her hand.

I returned to the dining area with more bowls of soup and shyly glanced over at Peter. He was greeting another table full of cast members and didn't notice me. I didn't want to be the one to activate Ellie's command and try to herd him into the kitchen. He looked so happy. The guests were all happy. I watched him from across the room and made a terrible discovery.

My heart still felt fluttery when I saw him.

This is going to be more difficult than I thought. I have to guard my heart. I have to keep my feelings to myself.

I served a bowl of soup to a woman wearing an odd cap with lots of ringlets bouncing underneath the ruffled edge. She reminded me of Miss Piggy's character of Bob Cratchit's wife in the Muppet version of
A Christmas Carol
. The woman turned to me and said, “Thank you ever so much, sweet Anna.”

“You know my name.”

“Of course. We all do. Small village, you know. Peter has been telling us about you.”

I glanced across the room. Peter's back was toward me. I felt a clenching sensation in my stomach. Exactly what had Peter been telling everyone? Were they laughing because he was relating stories about me? Was it the braids in my hair?

I hurried back to the safety of the kitchen.
He wouldn't be telling them about the way I misinterpreted his kiss at the wedding reception, would he?

“I need to step outside for a bit of air,” I told Miranda. “Do you mind finishing up the soup service? There are only two more tables waiting.”

“Sure.” Miranda took the tray from me. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Just a little woozy.”

“Jet lag can do that to you. Try drinking some water. Better yet, see if there's any orange juice in the refrigerator.”

I settled for a glass of water and slipped out the back door of the kitchen onto a small brick patio area where a clothesline was strung from the side of the building to the fence. The sky had darkened and a crisp chill was in the air. It felt like Minnesota on an autumn night. That sense of familiarity comforted me.

I folded my arms across my middle and tilted my head back, staring into the heavens.

What am I going to do?

“Hey, pardon me,” a gruff voice called out from the kitchen doorway. “Did you get clearance to come out here on a break?”