A Christmas Hope (23 page)

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Authors: Joseph Pittman

BOOK: A Christmas Hope
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She was smiling for several reasons. Nicholas Casey surprised her, and in a good way.
First of all, she supposed she'd been picturing an elderly man in his late seventies or early eighties, not unlike her own client, white-haired, genial, and slightly hunched over, holding on to his family's rich legacy like so many of the older generation do. From the two conversations she had had with him over the phone, she hadn't ascertained anything from his voice, but now as he greeted them she heard a mellow, relaxed tone that went well with his slightly bohemian look, shoulder-length brown hair and round wire glasses, his casual attire. He looked all of thirty-five, maybe thirty-seven. A scruff of a beard on his face seemed to grow as his smile widened; her first thought: what an attractive man, and then she had to shut down those thoughts, this was business and she was a married woman.
Both excuses rang false; why couldn't she appreciate a handsome man?
“Mr. Casey?” Nora asked.
“Yes, you must be Nora Rainer,” he said, “and please, call me Nicholas.”
“Thank you . . . uh, Nicholas. And this is my mother, Gerta Connors.”
“A pleasure to meet you both,” he said, coming over and warmly shaking their hands.
“Likewise, thank you agreeing to see us,” Nora said.
“You mentioned my triple-great-grandfather's Saint Nicholas book,” he said. “While it was one of his most acclaimed books, I don't get many calls about it anymore. So I was interested to learn more. Come in, let me make us all cups of tea and we can start from the beginning. Lemon, cranberry, mixed berry? Anyway, you tell me your story, I'll tell you mine. How does that sound?”
Nicholas Casey had an easy style to him, and Nora found herself agreeing to his offer of tea. He left them for a few minutes, returning with a tray of teacups and the same herbal scent they'd walked in on wafting from the kettle. Nora was busy looking at the paintings on the walls, which Nicholas explained were part of a new series the gallery was getting set to show, ten young local artists who were being given their chance to show their work. “It's an initiative we support each year,” Nicholas said, setting out the tea. “The Casey Gallery can't be all about the past, with each passing year my triple-great-grandfather becomes even less known. We do what we can for new artists, they do what they can to keep us in business. And also, Alex Casey was talented, but he was no Norman Rockwell, and when you come from these parts, he's stiff competition to overcome. So I welcome the chance to talk to you two ladies about Alex.”
“I can imagine,” Gerta said. “Rockwell defines small-town charm, even today. Which is a nice thing, big cities and technology are very much overrated. Keeping alive the past, it's a noble profession. And like you, Nora's store is doing the same . . . she calls it A Doll's Attic.”
“Yes, so she said. It's an interesting name. Are you an Ibsen fan?”
Nora shook her head. “No, not really.”
“But I was, I just loved his love of language,” Gerta said with a nod of her head. “And when this firebrand of a girl was born, well, I just knew who to name her after. She can be an impulsive girl—but only when she plans ahead.”
Nicholas laughed, even as Nora looked away with embarrassment. What was going on here? Was her mother actually flirting with Nicholas on her behalf? “That sounds like quite the juxtaposition,” he said. “Nora, is your mother telling tales out of school?”
“I think my mother should just drink her tea before it gets cold,” Nora said with a pointed arch to her eyebrow.
That seemed to only solidify the growing bond between Nicholas and Gerta.
“So, Nicholas, I don't see any of your . . . what do you call him?”
“My triple-great-grandfather,” he said, “but to expedite matters, let's just call him Alex.”
“You said on the phone that part of the reason you keep the gallery going is so Alex gets the recognition he deserves, yes? I don't see anything on the walls here that looks like it was painted by a nineteenth-century artist.”
“That's right, Alex's work is kept elsewhere,” he said. “But why don't you tell me about your client and what he's told you about the book and we'll take it from there.”
So Nora began her tale from the moment Thomas had entered her store that day, asking her to find a rare edition of
Twas the Night before Christmas
that had Santa himself dressed in a green suit. Her story continued with the chance visit to the antiquarian bookseller in Hudson, the lead he gave her about the reproduction edition, and her purchase of it online. “I'd show you the book, but I already handed it over to the client,” Nora concluded. “It was his reaction that has me at your gallery.”
“Let me guess, he wasn't pleased with it,” Nicholas said, matter-of-factly. “There's a lot of confusion about that edition. Sure, it was an authorized book by the Estate, but the plates the publisher was working from were not complete; some of the original illustrations had been damaged over time. So we hired another artist to redraw them as faithfully as possible, and while she did a beautiful job and the publisher's edition was lovingly printed . . . to anyone who had seen the original edition, it pales in comparison.”
“So why was it published? The reproduction, I mean,” Nora asked.
“It was done as part of a retrospective my family sponsored. We were gearing up for the one-hundredth anniversary of the original edition, so we wanted to do something special. A friend knew a friend who worked for a children's book publisher. The editor simply fell in love with Alex's illustrations, said they evoked a Victorian charm rarely displayed by an American. So, tell me what you can about this client.”
“He was born in Linden Corners, but left when he was just five,” Nora said, launching into Thomas's story without giving away his identity; a lawyer, even non-practicing, knew all about client confidentiality. The details, though, she was happy to relate, and when she finished telling him about Thomas and his father who had gone off to war, of the last Christmas gift he'd ever received, Nicholas Casey was on the edge of his seat.
“I'm with your client, I wish I could get my hands on that book,” he said.
“Well, surely you have one,” Gerta said.
“Not anymore, sadly. The last of the family's private collections were destroyed, waterlogged one spring after a particularly snowy winter,” he said, “which is also when the original artwork was damaged. All of this happened before I was born, back in the fifties sometime. So the book your client's father gave to his son that one Christmas Eve, it might have been one of the only copies left in existence.”
“If only we knew where it had gone,” she said.
“You say the boy left it in the house when they moved? Can he be sure? I mean, it's eighty years ago, perhaps his memory is faulty?”
Nora shook her head. “Not likely. When he told me of his last day in the farmhouse, the details were so vivid, it was almost like he had abandoned the book all over again. I could even see the windmill's sails as the boy and his mother drove off, never to return to Linden Corners.”
Nicholas's eyes lit up. “The windmill?”
“Yes, surely you know of our town's landmark, an old Dutch style . . .”
“Yes, yes, certainly I know of it. I had forgotten it was in Linden Corners, where you hail from,” Nicholas Casey said with obvious excitement. “Ladies, I think we've told enough, now it's time for show. Please, if you'll join me, I think we each have some surprises ahead of us.”
Nora and Gerta, intrigued, exchanging quick glances, quickly gathered their belongings and followed Nicholas out the back door of the village gallery. He helped them into his car, assuring them where they were going was just a short ride. “A couple of miles, but well worth it,” and so they quietly drove out of downtown Lee, back into the countryside where they followed along the trickling waters of a rock-crusted steam, over a covered bridge whose roof was coated with snow. It was as beautiful a scene as Nora had witnessed, a wintry wonderland that had her thinking of Rockwell and seeing what so inspired his devotion to Americana.
At last they pulled into a driveway partly hidden by the curve in the road, made their way up to an old Colonial-style house; Nicholas explained this was his home, “been in the family for generations.”
“You live here with your family?” Nora asked.
“Mom, Dad, brother and his wife, their three kids. And me, sort of the caretaker, not just of them but of Alex's legacy.”
“How interesting,” Gerta said with an eye toward Nora.
Thankfully that part of the conversation ended. It wasn't the house that he had brought them to see but a large, restored barn in the wooded backyard. As he brought the car to stop, he helped Gerta out, steadying her feet as they tromped through the snowy drift and into the warm confines of the barn.
“This is the family jewel,” he said.
As Nora stepped in, her green eyes expanded with sudden wonder; all over the walls were paintings, lush illustrations and faded ones, too, an array of artistry that drew her attention from one to another, another, another. There must have been hundreds of them, some behind protective glass, others simply mounted on a canvas, frames made of wood or edged in shiny gilt.
“What is this place?” Gerta asked.
“By proper standards, it's the Alexander Casey Museum, open only to private collectors and museums, by appointment only. Of course, I like to show it off to close friends, as well, and I think after what I have to show you, friends are just what we'll be. Come, there are two places I wish to show you, if you'll follow me.”
Nora thought she would have followed this interesting man anywhere, as his passion for art was infectious, his joy at his ancestor's talent admirable. Gerta took hold of Nora's arm, for support, but also giving it a squeeze of excitement. They walked the length of the barn, its exposed beams and high ceiling making it seem almost like a cathedral, and with the only sounds coming from their footsteps, there was also a reverence instilled within these walls. As they passed paintings of churches and landscapes of the Berkshire Mountains, they at last came to the back wall, where a series of illustrations hung, all of them behind glass to preserve them.
“Oh my,” Gerta said.
“How beautiful,” Nora added.
“It's not all of them,” Nicholas stated. “Like I said, some were damaged. But there he is, your Saint Nicholas in the green suit.”
From the cover art to the final back cover circle of Santa Claus and the reindeer flying toward the shining moon and many of the interior drawings in between those covers, here were the original illustrations of Alexander Casey's version of
The Night before Christmas, or A Visit from Saint Nicholas.
And at last Nora could see why Thomas had been so disappointed in the reproduction edition, because, as beautiful as it had been printed, it was no match for these original drawings. Even behind the glass she could see the expert brushwork, oil on canvas and still bright with color; Santa's suit was a more vibrant green here than on the book she'd held. His twinkling eyes were that much brighter.
So were those of the Nicholas standing before them.
“That was for your client,” he said, “and while it's not the book itself that he could hold and keep, he's welcome to come up and see them for himself. Perhaps that will be enough for him. You'll have to let me know. But this next series I'm about to show you, it's for you both.”
They turned around, faced a fresh panel of illustrations, none of these behind glass. They were exposed, vulnerable to the elements but still beautiful. A series of three paintings titled
The Windmill's Creation
had Nora and Gerta both easily drawing in their breaths.
The first of the illustrations showed a barren land, the unfinished sails of the windmill lying flat and on the verdant lawn, two men standing beside them, dressed in period clothes from the 1800s; the second illustration was of the windmill's tower, the men on ladders, hammering nails into the wood; and at last the third illustration displayed the sails at last mounted on the windmill, the two men shaking hands at its base.

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