Engaging Father Christmas (11 page)

I thought of all the times over the years when I had heard people say Christmas was too commercial and materialistic. They were right, of course. I couldn’t disagree. But if any one of those bah-humbug, Christmas Scrooges had lived my life, if they had come from where I came from, with motel soaps and shampoos and never a Christmas tree to fill a room with cheer and wonder, I think they would have softened their railings. If they could feel what I felt at this moment, gazing at the Christmas tree with wide-eyed Julia, they would say that tradition, decorations, and gifts were a beautiful way to celebrate Christ’s birth.

“We’d better get to work on those few things your mother asked me to do,” I said.

Julia was happy to help. She stayed close most of the day while Mark seemed to find things to do that didn’t fall into the chore category. The house hummed with merry-making activity. The kitchen exhaled a stream of wonderful fragrances. Christmas music floated through the house. The lineup of tunes included everything from “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” to a variety of boys’ choir canticles sung as Mark had sung them, in soul-stirring Latin.

Edward kept to his desk in the library most of the day, but his door remained open. I was aware that Mark and Julia regularly ran in and out to tell their dad this or that about the activities.

At one point in the late afternoon, as I walked past the library on my way to the drawing room with freshly wrapped presents in my arms, I paused by the open door and smiled at Edward. He smiled at me. I could picture my father seated be-hind that desk and wondered if this home was filled with the same warmth and happiness when Sir James was the head of the household.

I found my opinion of Edward elevating. He was available to his children. They had free access to come into his presence at any time.

Gazing past the library down the long hall that led to Margaret’s quarters, I wondered what it would take for Margaret to open her door to me. If that door ever did open, would it remain open?

After the final gifts were deposited under the tree, I returned to the kitchen and admired the assortment of wonderful foods spread across the counter. In one corner Ellie had placed two large wicker picnic hampers. The tops were open, and she was filling them with freshly baked breads, wedges of imported cheese, and a big, fat, wrapped-up ham.

“That’s quite a lot of food for Katharine,” I observed. “What a feast!”

Ellie jumped and nearly dropped the ham.

“Oh, I didn’t see you come in; you startled me. Yes, so, how is everything going with the gift wrapping?”

“It’s all finished. The gifts are under the tree. Julia and Mark are both upstairs, and I was about to clean up the mess I made in the dining room with all the wrapping paper.”

“Oh, don’t fuss with that. It’s almost time for you to go. You should get ready.”

“Go where?”

“With Ian. He’s coming by to pick you up. Did Julia not tell you? Oh, me-me-me, oh my. I knew I should have told you myself.”

“That’s okay. I should have put my cell phone in my pocket so he could call me. Did he say where we’re going?”

Ellie tilted her head like a little bird and looked at me strangely, as if my question were an odd one.

“I’m trying to decide what to wear,” I went on. “If we’re going out to a nice place for dinner, I don’t want to be in jeans when he arrives.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I would say . . .” Ellie made a funny humming sound as she pursed her lips together and thought. “Something lovely would best fit the occasion, but it should be something comfortable that you love to wear. I think the red dress you wore last night would be perfect for an encore performance.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes! Because you can wear it with the black cashmere sweater, and it will look absolutely elegant.”

“I don’t have a black cashmere sweater.”

Ellie slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh me. Me-me-me. I certainly am atwitter! I can barely remember what I’m supposed to say and not supposed to say. Come. Come, come, come!”

Ellie wiped her hands on her apron and propelled her short legs at an impressive pace out of the kitchen and into the drawing room. I kept up with her, and when we stopped in front of the tree, she looked around at all the gift boxes that had been rearranged by Julia.

“This one.” She reached for a rectangular box tied with a wide, silver ribbon. “Open it now. It’s okay. You’ll see.”

I hugged Ellie before I tore off the wrapping. “Thank you for the cashmere sweater.”

She feigned surprise and blinked her eyes. “Why, Miranda! How ever did you guess what I was giving you this year?”

“I’ll open it upstairs,” I said. “Just so the children don’t think I’ve started something they would like to finish.”

“Good idea. And if it doesn’t fit, or if you don’t like it, it’s not a problem to return or exchange. Although, we won’t be able to do so today since Ian will be here in fifteen minutes. You really should get going, Miranda!”

I smiled at my willy-nilly sister-in-law and dashed up the stairs. Behind my closed door, I opened the box and pulled out a beautiful — and I was sure very expensive — black cashmere sweater. The fitted, classic sweater went perfectly with the cheery-cherry-merry red dress and made me feel elegant. It transformed and completed the outfit.

I added my fun sparkly necklace and earrings. They weren’t expensive, but they added a final glimmery touch, and since I hadn’t worn them last night, it felt as if I really were wearing a different outfit.

I didn’t have enough time to pay extra attention to my hair, but Ian said he liked it when I wore it down so that it skimmed my shoulders and could easily be, as he said, “tussled by the breeze.”

I tried not to think about the obvious fact that everyone else seemed to know this was going to be a “special” evening with Ian. I knew what that meant. How could I not see all the clues?

A little coaching seemed in order so I told myself,
Whatever you do, Miranda, when he pulls out “the box,” try to act surprised.

When I heard loud voices downstairs echoing up the stairway, I knew Ian had arrived. With one last look in the mirror, I thought of how much this felt like a long-buried, youthful wish that never had come true. I never had gone to a high school prom or even a dance where I dressed up and made a grand entrance.

The day had begun with my playing the princess role, and so it continued as I opened my guest room door and promenaded down the fantastic staircase. I was just at the window seat in the landing when Ian came into view in the wide entryway. He was flanked by Mark, Julia, Edward, Ellie, and . . .

Oh, Ian!

He was wearing his dress kilt.

Chapter Seventeen

T
here she is!” Julia announced my descent with a happy squeal.

All eyes were on me as I carefully made my way down the polished wood stairs. The only eyes I cared about were Ian’s, and his eyes definitely were shining with all the affection and admiration a woman could ever dream of receiving.

He placed his hands behind his back and stood tall, as if he were ready for me to inspect him in his formal white shirt, bow tie, jacket, MacGregor plaid kilt, and knee socks held up by elastic bands that we had found in a shop last summer in Windsor.

I smiled my immense approval, and he smiled back the same. Offering me his arm, Ian said, “See you later” to our small audience and led me to the front door.

“Your coat, Miranda!” Ellie rushed to hand me my coat. “I put it in the pocket, just in case.”

“Okay,” I said, having no idea what she was talking about.

Ian helped me with my coat, and we stepped out the front door under the motto for the Whitcombe manor that was engraved over the entrance, “Grace and Peace Reside Here.”

I slipped my hand in the coat pocket and smiled. Ellie had put a handkerchief into my pocket. That was her “just in case” gift. I knew it wasn’t just any handkerchief. As I fingered the edges, I could tell it was one of Margaret’s handkerchiefs, with her defining touch of a tiny pink rosebud she embroidered in the corner.

I felt squeamish about having one of Margaret’s hankies with me. Ellie was free with her gifts for others, but Margaret only gave her embroidered handkerchiefs to those who were closest to her. On several occasions during the past year, Margaret had opportunities to give me one of her unique works of art, but she hadn’t done so. What would she think if she knew Ellie had given me one of the rosebud hankies?

Then it occurred to me how much time I spent fretting over what Margaret thought of me. Margaret wasn’t coming with us this evening. This was my time to be with Ian. I turned all my focus on him.

Ian opened the car door for me and there, waiting on my seat, was a single red rosebud. The deep merlot fragrance tickled my nose as I gave the rose a twirl across my lips. Apparently the pink rosebud on the edge of the handkerchief wasn’t the only rose that would lace this enchanting evening.

“Thank you.” I looked into Ian’s set expression.

He took my face in his hands and kissed me tenderly on the lips. We shared another kiss before Ian got in the driver’s side and headed around the circular driveway and through the open gated entrance.

“How’s your dad doing?” I still twirled the rosebud and drew in the scent.

“Much improved.”

“That’s good news. Katharine must be relieved.”

“That she is.”

“So, will he be able to come home for Christmas?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Do we need to help Katharine get him at the hospital?”

“Not at the moment.”

The car rumbled down the familiar country lane, and I looked at Ian. He was being unusually brief with his answers. But he looked happy. I had the feeling that, in the same way I had put away thoughts of Margaret for our evening together, Ian was setting aside the concerns he had over his dad.

This was our time at last. A contented smile settled on my lips.

The car ambled along, and the slowly setting sun peeked out from behind the gray clouds for the first time that day. As if elated for the chance to finally break through the gloom, the sun shot stunning beams of light that pierced the dormant winter landscape like shafts of translucent hope.

We drove past a row of narrow birch trees lining the road, and the determined sunlight played a flitting game of hide-and-seek between the birches. Elongated strips of light and dark flashed across the lane, producing a strobe light effect. Ian cut through the pulsating lines of sun and shadow and came into an open place in the road where he stopped and let the car roar a moment before making a turn.

We were fully in the sunlight for the briefest of moments, and then the precocious ball of waning fire found her way into the pocket of a waiting woolen cloud. In that brief, sunlit moment, I looked at Ian and smiled. I saw flecks of winter gold reflected in his eyes.

“You’re glowing,” he said to me.

I could imagine how the slipping sunlight behind me had cast one last fling of radiant amber lights to the ends of my tussled hair.

God, in all His glory, seemed to have sent His golden blessing to lightly touch us both in the closing of the day.

Ian smiled. I smiled back. Then he turned left.

I expected him to turn right. The high road was the most direct way to reach any one of the neighboring towns that had restaurants that would be open on Christmas Eve. Nothing in Carlton Heath would be open.

“Where are we going?”

Ian only smiled.

His low-to-the-ground sports car bumped along the road, and I contented myself to settle into his secret. Maybe we were going to the train station. I kept watch out the window in the twilight to get a glimpse of the Forgotten Rose Cottage.

I felt a wave of the same sadness I had felt the day before when I had realized someone else had stepped up to that small dream of mine and taken the Forgotten Rose Cottage for his own.

The first time I had seen the cottage was last Christmas. I had walked past it on my way to find the Tea Cosy and had noted that it appeared no one lived there.

A few days later, after I had met Ian, the two of us went for a stroll. I was about to return to San Francisco, and the time had come for us to talk about where our relationship might be headed. We were walking past the cottage when Ian stopped, squared his shoulders, and said, “I don’t think we’re done yet, Miranda.” His simple declaration began to topple the fortress that had long protected my untrusting heart.

My response to him that day had been, “I don’t think we are either.”

Then we kissed for the first time. It was the most natural, mutual, perfectly timed and perfectly executed kiss ever. When I opened my eyes, there was Ian’s strong and handsome face. And in the background, behind Ian, was the stone cottage.

That image seared itself into my heart and mind and had kept me hoping and dreaming for the past year.

Resolving not to be sad about the Forgotten Rose Cottage as we approached, I saw a warm, amber light glowing from the two front windows. Curls of smoke rose from the chimney. The front walkway was lined with lanterns on shepherd’s hooks just like the ones that lined the entrance to Grey Hall.

The revived cottage looked like something from a fairy tale.

A small “oh” escaped from my lips. Forgotten Rose Cottage looked exactly as I had dreamed it could look. In my fanciful imaginings of what might happen with some strategic renovations to the property, this was what I had seen.

Ian pulled the car to the side of the road and cut the engine.

Memories of our outing at Windsor last summer came back. “Is something wrong with the car?”

“The car is fine. Come with me.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You’ll see.”

We walked up the lit pathway past the well-groomed shrubs. I tried to see inside the windows, but they were covered with shades.

“Did someone buy this place and turn it into a restaurant?”

“It’s not a restaurant.” Ian walked to the front welcome mat and glibly motioned toward the door. Another single red rose was tucked through the ring of the lion’s head brass door knocker.