A Christmas Hope (26 page)

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Authors: Joseph Pittman

BOOK: A Christmas Hope
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The Amtrak train was coming to a stop, releasing a great hiss of steam into the air. Nora leaped onto the platform, making her way toward her old friend and client, her heart beating as she realized how close they had come to missing him, a minute or two more behind one of those slow plows on the roads might have been all the difference. She came up beside him, her hand against her heart in an effort to calm it down. She was here and so was he.
“My goodness, Ms. Rainer . . .”
She didn't have time to remind him to call her Nora, not now. “Thomas, you can't get on that train,” she said.
“Oh, but I must, my dear,” he said, his tone heavy.
“Not until you see what we have.”
“We?” he asked. “Have you brought young Travis with you?”
“No, me,” said Brian, approaching from behind them.
“Brian, whatever are you . . . both of you, doing here?”
The train whistle blew again, a warning shot as the last of the passengers were boarding. A conductor made his way toward them, asking if they were traveling.
“Yes, I am,” Thomas said.
“No, we're fine, thank you.”
“Brian, I have to make this train,” he said.
“There are others, Thomas, there have to be, it's Christmas Eve,” he said.
“Just wait until you hear what we have to say,” Nora said.
“And if you don't like it, heck, I'll drive you myself.”
Nora gave her sidekick a look that said she hoped he wasn't planning on following through on that, not with her and not in the weather, not on a day when family and friends and a tiny village were waiting for them at the Christmas Festival. But of course, they had the trump card, once they presented Thomas with the gift of the book there was no way he would refuse them.
“Whatever could you two be up to?”
“Brian, just show him.”
With a wide smile gracing his eager expression, Brian said, “I'd be happy to,” and that's when, just as he had done with Nora, he presented the box to Thomas. The old man looked up from behind thick, mist-coated eyeglasses, first at Brian, then at Nora, finally resting them on the box. The whistle blew once again as the chug of the train distracted them. The doors had closed and the train began to ease out of the station.
“Go ahead, Thomas, open it,” Nora said.
He did as she asked, his frail hands fumbling with the lid. Unsteady fingers dug beneath the tissue paper, Brian assisting him by taking hold of the box. When finally Thomas pulled out the antique book, Nora felt her heart swell with an uncontrollable wash of emotion, joy and sorrow and surprise, and that was just her. She could only imagine the range of feelings inside Thomas, disbelief perhaps the most likely, followed by wonder and surprise and a tug at his heart that transformed him from an eighty-five-year-old man to the wide-eyed boy of five.
“Is it . . . ?” Thomas asked.
Nora felt his gaze on her, and she just nodded.
Brian said, “Here, let me show you.”
He opened the front cover to the title page, displaying the inscription.
“Papa,” Thomas said, his voice more of a wail, one filled with the joy of discovery and the remembrance of loss. “Where . . . where . . . oh Nora, you found it.... I didn't even think it was possible anymore, not when you gave me that reproduction. You never stopped, did you?”
“I didn't, and I have a story to tell you about that. But all credit goes to Brian.”
“Thomas, come back to Linden Corners, celebrate Christmas Eve with us and be a part of the festival,” Brian said. “With this book in your hands, how can you refuse?”
Thomas was silent a moment, leaving Nora nervous about his answer. What if, after all she and Brian had done, if he refused, and even if he did what did it matter? As she had said, Thomas had his own destiny and it had been aboard that departed train, intent on taking him down along the river's edge to wherever in the world he wished to venture, his reasons private. Now, his journey had been delayed, his story was incomplete.
“I cannot, Brian,” Thomas finally said amidst the falling snow, like magic dust unable to transform his will to theirs. “I made a promise, I would read this book on Christmas Eve.”
“And you will, to the children of the village,” Brian said.
“This promise I made is to another,” he said.
“Thomas, please help me understand,” Brian said. “I want to help you.”
Again, silence washed over Thomas, closing his eyes as though through the power of his mind he was being taken somewhere else, something he wanted to be but couldn't yet. Nora saw him weakening, his lips moving, as though words were formulating, a secret he'd held close to his heart finally finding voice.
“My wife,” he said. “My beautiful, lovely Missy.”
Now it was the two of them who were silenced. She'd had no idea, she hadn't even known that Thomas was married. Too many questions peppered her mind, none of which she felt she had the right to ask of him. She wouldn't even know where to start, what to say. Thankfully, Brian spoke for them both, and when he did, she knew he was right.
“Thomas, come home for the festival,” he said, “and then I promise—and I know how you feel about keeping promises—I will get you to your wife's side. Whether we have to drive all night, you'll have your Christmas holiday with her.”
Nora realized that wasn't enough, she remembered the request Thomas had made that first day at A Doll's Attic. He needed the book not for Christmas Day but the Eve, and here it was, nearly eleven hours old already.
“No, Brian, we need to get him there today,” she said.
“Nora, I can't ask you to do that . . . either of you,” Thomas said. “Who am I but an old man, I should have known not to expect that all my of wishes would be granted on Christmas. I'm no longer that five-year-old boy, foolishly filled with empty hope as his father heads off to a war he'd never return from. Life is real, wishes are just hopeful ideas you toss to the wind.”
“That's what you think,” Brian said.
And without another word of protest, Brian led Thomas back to the truck. Nora stopped to gaze at her surroundings, at the historic train station and at the flowing river just yards away, and for a moment she recalled the paintings she had seen inside the Casey Museum, not just those of Santa in the green suit, not just those that recorded the building of the windmill, but those of the land that enveloped them. She heard Nicholas Casey's words about the ever-changing beauty of the seasons, what made each unique. Alex Casey's theory of how they came and went and came back again, living out its cycle on an endless loop, only to return with the same vigor, the same power, always the same time, always next year. Here they were in a place of transience, she could easily hop the next train and let it whisk her wherever, the same for the river, a boat and forceful currents that would transport her far, far away. Both of them modes of transportation seen as windows to the past; everyone was always in such a hurry, driving and flying, flinging themselves into the wind rather than taking a moment and letting their hopes soar first, soar higher.
She let out a heavy sigh, saw her breath as frosty mist before her. She had sacrificed so much coming home to Linden Corners, doing so for herself and for her son, and while she could imagine sharing such wonderful times with her mother, never in her dreams had she imagined a world filled with windmills and wishes, of dreams and desires, of heavy hearts and a thing called hope. Her world might have grown smaller in coming to this tiny town, but somehow she had learned how much larger the heart could grow, and it was this that fueled her now, as Brian called out to her.
“Nora, you coming with us, or are you going to stand there counting snowflakes?”
“I'm coming,” she said.
“Good, because we've got one more thing to take care of,” he said.
“That's where you're wrong, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through,” she replied, happy to have her own holiday surprise tucked away in the back of her mind, ready now to be opened up to this world. “We have two things, and don't they always look better in twos?”
The curious look on Brian's face said it all: Hadn't he heard those words somewhere before?
Making her way back to the warmth of the truck, she settled in next to Thomas, who sat between her and Brian. For the three of them, their worlds had collided, their hopes were forever entwined, and soon, too, would their Christmas traditions.
C
HAPTER
20
B
RIAN
W
hat he saw spread out before him, he could very well have been stepping inside a postcard, and on the reverse side he would find the hokey sentiment written in a friendly scrawl: “Wish You Were Here,” but in truth for Brian Duncan, sometimes called the Windmill Man and often Just Passing Through, he was glad he was right where he was, Linden Corners. Thankful that this was real life and he was witness to all that was unfolding in this village, a rare place on earth indeed. With its rainbow of shiny ornaments, the elegant pageantry, the glow of white light that permeated all throughout the village, he marveled over how busily productive the residents of the village had been while he and Nora had been off convincing Thomas to return. His thought turned to how fortunate Mark and Sara were, not just to have found each other, but to be able to exchange their vows in such a sacred, lovingly created scene, and then realized that he was the lucky one. Not only to be a part of the grandeur of the day, but having played a significant role in what was soon to transpire.
Time had advanced to three fifty-five in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, five minutes to go before the Linden Corners Christmas Festival would formally commence. He stood on the snowy steps of the gazebo, a nervous Mark Ravens at his side—or rather, he at the groom's side—warming his hands. The snow had stopped falling around noon, the wind dying down, too, and so what was left was a crisp, cold day where tree branches were coated with a few delicate inches of powder, the sidewalks white and virtually untouched, leaving the entire village covered in a blanket of white. Maybe not a postcard after all, perhaps a snow globe that had settled after being shook, all was calm and peaceful.
“Thought despite the cold you'd be dripping with nervous sweat,” Brian said.
“Nah, not when I've got a best man that I can count on to defeat even a snowstorm and a loss of power, not to mention the best girl in the world, what's to worry about? Like I said, maybe all I'll do is show up,” Mark said. “Really, Brian, the entire village looks amazing . . . I don't think Linden Corners has ever . . . well, it just glows, seriously, that's the only word I can come up with. Don't get me wrong, the windmill would have been a beautiful setting, and I probably cursed it when I said you could blow its circuits . . .”
“Don't think about it, Chuck did his best, but the windmill remains dark.”
“Can't say that about the village square,” Mark said.
And indeed, you couldn't. Wrapped around the tall pine trees that lined the edges of Memorial Park were strings of white light, and dangling from their branches were numerous ornaments that introduced the small village to the greater world; Travis and Janey and Bradley and a ragtag team of others had spent the morning adorning the sticky needles with glass, silver, and porcelain ornaments, all of them from around the globe, purchased by a woman who had taken to the wind as soon as she could fly, sending back home treasures that had tales of their own, into the hearts of parents who could only dream of all their daughter saw. Mary Wilkinson might have steered clear of small-town America, but it was her travels that were dotted all over it now, sparkling against a smattering of stars that had fallen from the sky she so took to. At Janey's insistence, silver tinsel had been gently tossed across the many branches, each of them a tiny mirror that reflected the joyous smiles of those gathered.
But what struck at Brian's heart the most were the lights that lined the edge of the park and all down the street, from George's Tavern down to A Doll's Attic, by the Five O' and lining the lot of Marla and Darla's Trading Post and Ackroyd's Hardware Emporium, an endless line of glowing luminaries that flickered in the wind. How this feat had been accomplished in such record time, all while the storm raged, Brian couldn't guess. Small votive candles, encased by a white paper bag and secured to the ground by a handful of sand in the bottom of the bag, only a strong wind could knock them over or silence their glare, and thankfully, for now, all was quiet.
Chairs also lined the village square, set upon a green matting over hard-packed snow. All of them faced the gazebo, where the ceremony would take place, and the pathway leading up to its steps had been cleared of fresh snow. It, too, glowed with the luminaries, creating a swatch of light between which Sara would walk. Half the town seemed to have turned out already, with others arriving by the minute, everyone bundled up against the cold but somehow warmed by the celebration about to take place. All of them were settling into seats, waiting for the festivities to begin. In the front row, Brian could see Gerta, and at her side was a friend she had just met this afternoon, Katherine Wilkinson, who was still gazing around the trees at her own memories of Christmas; it had been Nora's idea to ask her to join them, and it had been the right decision. Sitting behind them, the gang from The Edge, Elsie and Myra and even Jack, who looked wide awake and attentive. Sitting alone, in his own world, was a rail-thin, pale-faced Richie Ravens, Mark's uncle and the proprietor of the Solemn Nights Motel. Richie, a bit of a recluse, rarely attended village events, so it was extra special to see him here for his nephew's wedding. Marla and Darla were there, of course, they were the opposite of Richie, as they never missed a celebration, and unless Brian was mistaken they were taking turns toasting the night with a flask; hey, whatever to keep them warm. At their sides, a pair of golden retrievers, whom he had come to know as Buster and Baxter. Around the corner, he could see a yellow school bus, and he knew inside were all the children of the village who would make up the parade of lights, keeping warm until it was time for their entrance.
A quick check of his watch again, Brian saw the hands reach four on the nose, and like his cue had been sent out on those reliable currents of the wind, a sudden whistle could be heard floating through the air, growing louder as it neared. Mark turned to Brian, wonder written across his face, and said, “What is that?”
“I believe it's called an entrance,” Brian said.
With a murmur of excitement spreading amidst the guests, all heads turned back toward Main Street just as a blazing red fire truck came barreling down. Bright and gleaming against the white line of lights situated on the side of the road, the truck finally came to a rest in front of the village square; the siren wailed once more, the twirling red light casting its own contrast against the white blanket of snow. From the passenger side of the truck, out stepped Nora, and then reaching inside, she helped down a man unsteady on his feet, still pushing her away in an act of newfound strength. The sight before Brian was strikingly familiar, taking him back to his childhood when Santa would ride in on the fire engine while the luminaries glowed all around them, but a detail was noticeably different here, as it should be. This was Linden Corners, where they celebrated with their own traditions. Even those they were just establishing today. Because there was Santa Claus, Saint Nick himself, his outfit causing a stir among the assembled residents. Because, of course, he was wearing a thick green suit, fluffy white ruffles lining its edge, a black-buckled belt around the paunchy middle; the only red in evidence was on his cheeks, rosy from not just the cold but the excitement that pumped from within.
He let out a holiday roar of “ho, ho, ho,” and made his way up toward the gazebo. Nora held his arm, and when Brian's eyes made contact with them both he couldn't help but smile as wide as he thought possible. They matched his smile, tooth for exposed tooth, until they made their way into the dazzling light of the gazebo, Santa taking a seat in a plush, wing-backed chair they had found inside A Doll's Attic. Already situated beside him was a sack full of toys, all colorfully wrapped in the shiniest of paper, silver and gold, blue and red. Also inside the gazebo was Father Burton, who just gave Santa a happy nod. As Brian laughed at the presence of both men, the two of them representing two sides to faith and hope, he turned back just in time to see Bradley and Cynthia settled into their seats beside Gerta, shaking hands with Katherine. He acknowledged them with a slight nod, noting how strange his friend looked without baby Jake in her arms.
And then he turned his attention to the edge of the park, where a procession of light was making its way down the sidewalk, row after row, and then more rows. Candles flickered and shadows walked among them as the solemn chorus of “O, Come, All Ye Faithful” filled the falling night sky, sounds from heaven. As the children's parade made its way up the wide pathway, luminaries dictating their way, he stole a look at Nora, who had settled in beside her mother. They shared a look of mutual satisfaction, not just at having Thomas here dressed as the Santa of his childhood, but at the chance at sharing a part of their childhood again, too. Because leading the children's parade were Janey Sullivan on one side, Travis Rainer on the other side, she in her crushed red velvet dress beneath her coat, he in dark pants and white shirt, his tie a vibrant green, and while he might have been carrying the largest of the candles, held high in his strong arms on a golden pole, it was Janey who captured Brian's heart and those of everyone around. In her arms, she cradled baby Jake, the young tyke celebrating his first-ever Christmas and in the lead role, to boot. Father Burton's influence here, Santa was fine, but let's not forget, as he put it, “the reason for the season.”
As the children's parade marched into their designated area, their evensong came to an end, just as a string quartet set up behind the gazebo started up. The crowd looked around, the residents buzzing about what they had witnessed already, what was still to come, and in truth they didn't have long to wait. It was getting colder with each passing minute, and so without any further pomp, the wedding of Mark Ravens and Sara Joyner began in full. From atop the fire truck the siren blew again, drowned out by the eager
whoop-whoop
of Martha Martinson as she led her friend, coworker, and surrogate daughter down from the inside of the truck. They came to the edge of Memorial Park, where lives of the fallen were celebrated in remembrance, where lessons of the past were learned on a daily basis, where futures were planned. As the string quartet started up with the sounds of the wedding march, Martha began to process along the path, eventually coming to a stop opposite Brian.
“So, kid, you finally got that date with me,” she said.
“And to the altar, all in one day,” Brian added.
They both had to stifle a laugh, Father Burton trying to discourage them with a wary glance. Then Sara began her procession forward, her face a mix of anticipated fear and overwhelming joy. She moved hesitantly along the path of golden light, her dress of ivory and lace, her shoulders warm courtesy of a soft white stole, reflecting off the glowing luminaries, off the glistening tinsel of the trees, from the natural beam of her own smile. At last she came to the steps of the gazebo, Mark stepping down to take her hand, guide her up the four steps and into the roofed enclosure of the round gazebo. All around her were more white lights, hanging from the roof, and from the latticed ceiling. Attached to a red and green string that twirled in the air was another of Mary Wilkinson's ornaments, this one a glass orb that inside contained an old-style windmill, and unlike the one that stood lonely and darkened just miles away in an open field of snow and encroaching moonlight, this windmill's sails turned under a bath of flickering light. Sara got her wish after all, to be married under the glow of the spinning windmill.
“Oh Mark, it's so beautiful,” she said.
“A subject you know all too well, my love,” Mark said.
Brian stole a loving look over at Janey, and the easy way with which she smiled back at him nearly melted his heart, could have melted the snow all around him if given half a chance. How lucky he was, to have found her and to be blessed with her sunny spirit day in, day out, filling his world with a love more rare than the wind on a calm night. As he turned back to the gazebo, his eyes settled upon Nora. She was placid, focused, watching the events unfold before her, but Brian imagined her mind was miles away, perhaps time stripping away the years to her own wedding day, when she, too, had been filled with hope. Today was a new beginning for Mark and Sara, but for Nora it was no doubt a reminder of promises made, promises broken. Brian knew something about such betrayals, too, so he offered her a supportive nod when their eyes met, receiving one back in return. While some nosy folks in town might see them as a couple someday when their lives were free of complication, when things like holidays and celebrations were in hibernation, he knew, deep down, that Nora Rainer and Brian Duncan were friends, just as she had asked, and he was more than happy with such status. In the short time he had known her, she had taught him much, and she had helped him, too . . . well, he need only to gaze upon Thomas Van Diver dressed in his green Santa suit to know the power of like-minded individuals achieving the impossible together.
But even as the wedding progressed, as prayers were offered up to the heavens, and vows were exchanged and then sealed with a tender kiss, Brian knew that the festival was far from over. There was much still to come on a night when the world expected an array of gifts to fill lives with joy, yet what Brian was most looking forward to was something more powerful. Not receiving, not giving, and so as the best man, with the newlyweds seated on a bench inside the gazebo, with all the town watching and waiting, as a light dusting of snow began to fall from the sky, Brian Duncan stood beneath the spinning windmill ornament and announced that a special treat awaited them all, “for all the kids, as well as for the kid in all of us.”

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