Engaging Father Christmas (3 page)

“Are you comfortable, Dad? I can bring you another pillow if you like.”

Andrew’s only response was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The doctor entered before Ian managed to extract a response from his father, which was probably a small kindness for the sedated man.

“What can you tell us?” Ian asked the doctor.

The doctor dove into an overview of what had happened to Andrew, what procedures had been followed, and how the test results had come back indicating no need for further concern.

“I have every reason to believe your father is going to pull through this. What he needs is lots of rest and some recommended adjustments to his diet and exercise. You’ll receive the information when we release him.”

“Does that mean he’s able to go home now?” Ian asked.

“No, I’d like to keep him here for observation overnight to see how he responds to the medication I’ve started him on. If he has no adverse reactions, I’ll provide you with that prescription. He’s a strong man, and I anticipate a full recovery.”

“What a relief,” I said softly.

“Have you any further questions for me?” the doctor asked.

Ian glanced at Katharine and me and then back at the doctor. “No. This is better news than we had hoped for. Keep on giving him your best care. That’s all I ask.”

“That is the plan, Mr. MacGregor,” he said.

I knew Ian would like his answer. Ian liked having a plan.

The doctor left, and Ian pressed his chin against the top of my head, kissing me on the crown. “This is good news,” he said. “Very good news. If you need to go for a bit, Katharine, I’ll look after things here.”

“Well,” Katharine lowered herself into the chair next to the bed and said, “I was planning to stay. But since you’re here, I should check in at the Tea Cosy. I left Ellie in charge of serving the expected holiday guests, and it is close to teatime.”

“What about the Christmas play tonight?” I asked.

For the past forty years the Carlton Heath Theatre Guild had carried on a tradition of performing Charles Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol
at Grey Hall. I knew this was the first year the Guild had an all-children cast — except for Andrew. He was playing the showstopper role of Father Christmas.

I remembered going to the production last Christmas Eve and watching Andrew take on the role of Christmas Present. Before Andrew created his own adaptation of the Father Christmas character in the Christmas Present scene, the part had belonged to my father.

Ellie, my half brother’s wife, had told me many stories of how Sir James Whitcombe took to the stage each year and embodied the role. He was Father Christmas to all the children in the village of Carlton Heath. He visited their homes and schools with gifts and good cheer, and when he passed away, the town mourned the loss longer than any of his devoted fans with their blogs and Web sites.

In some ways the town still was mourning. This year was only their third Christmas without Sir James. Andrew had given the role a worthy run, but now he was unable to don the hooded Father Christmas costume and bring hope and cheer to the stage and to the people of Carlton Heath.

“I’m waiting to hear from the Guild director,” Katharine said. “He is considering postponing tonight’s performance in light of Andrew’s situation. If they do postpone, we’ll have a performance on Christmas Eve. We hadn’t planned on that since we felt the children should be home on the night before Christmas.”

“Do you think Andrew will be well enough to resume his role by tomorrow night?” I asked optimistically.

A low rumble sounded from Andrew’s chest. “I’m not dead yet. Or had none of you noticed that?”

“There he is!” Ian leaned over his father. “Ready to give out orders again, are you?”

Ian looked at me and smiled. The room seemed to have suddenly become more spacious.

“What have they done to me, son?” Andrew’s eyelids fluttered open and then closed again.

“You had a mild heart attack, Dad.”

“Feels more like a Saxon attack.”

The three of us smiled.

“What day is it?” Andrew asked, still not opening his eyes.

“It’s December twenty-third.” I slipped my hand into Andrew’s large paw.

“And whose soft hand is this?”

“It’s Miranda’s, Dad. We’re all here for you.”

“Where’s my Katharine?”

“I’m right here.” Katharine rose and kissed his forehead. “You’re on the mend, Andrew. The doctor said we’re not to worry. You need to rest now.”

“How can a man be expected to sleep when he’s flanked by his son and two beautiful women?” Andrew’s closed eyelids fluttered as if they were just too heavy to open. A smooth expression came over his rugged face. The three of us watched as his mouth drooped, and his breathing returned to the steady rhythm of sleep.

“Go on, then,” Ian whispered to Katharine. “I’ll stay with him. I’m sure he’s going to be sleeping for the next while.”

Katharine nodded, as if she finally agreed leaving might be the best choice. Turning to me she said, “Is there a chance you might want to come with me?”

“Sure. Do you need some help?”

“I wouldn’t mind some. I left everything in such shambles.”

“Of course. I can go to the Tea Cosy with you now, if that would help.”

“Yes, that would be best. Ian, are you all right with that plan?”

“Yes. I can manage here. Miranda, don’t make any commitments for dinner though. Particularly with men in ski caps.” He gave me a wink. “I’ll meet you at the Cosy at seven o’clock sharp.”

“I’ll be ready,” I said.

“And I’ll be ready too,” Andrew mumbled without opening his eyes.

“No, you’ll be sleeping, Dad, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Being with all of you, that’s what’s good for me. That and maybe a kiss or two.”

Andrew rumbled right into a slurred and paraphrased version of a poem I’d heard him quote a number of times. The name of the kiss-giver seemed to change according to whom he was trying to coerce at the moment. This afternoon it was me.

“Say I’m weary, say I’m sad;

“Say that health and wealth have missed me;

“Say I’m growing old, but add —

“Miranda kissed me!”

In response, I planted a nice, warm kiss on his whiskered cheek and whispered my own paraphrased version of one of my favorite quotes from Shakespeare’s
Much Ado About Nothing.
I had many lines memorized from my mother’s performances, which I heard over and over. “Serve God, love well, and mend.”

Chapter Five

A
re you sure you’re not too tired to do this?” Katharine asked once we were in her car and on our way back into town.

She had a good point. Usually this was when my jet lag kicked in. “No, I’m wide awake. I think the scare with Andrew had something to do with that. All that adrenaline.”

“Che-che-che,” Katharine responded in soothing agreement. The funny sound she made reminded me of the indistinct call a person made to attract a squirrel or a flock of birds. During the past year her “che-che-che” had come to mean many things to me, including the sense of comfort she was bestowing on both of us now.

That’s how it was with Katharine. Her husband had just suffered a heart attack, and yet she was asking about me, making sure I wasn’t too tired. I loved Katharine. I loved Andrew, and without a doubt I loved Ian. I was more than ready for our everyday lives to intersect the way they were now. But a few items needed to be resolved to pull all the pieces together. My hopes for this trip included settling those issues.

Just as my thoughts went to one of those unresolved concerns, Katharine inadvertently brought up the topic. “I thought you should know that Margaret plans to come to the Tea Cosy this afternoon.”

Katharine turned off the main road and took the shortcut to Bexley Lane where her tea shop was located.

“Oh good,” I said. But I could tell my enthusiasm level wasn’t convincing by the look on Katharine’s face as she glanced at me.

Unlike my mother, I couldn’t act well. I could pretend, however. And ever since I had entered the scene with the Whitcombe family here in Carlton Heath, I had pretended that Margaret would one day accept me. She didn’t have to like me, but I imagined all sorts of ways she could receive me into the clan.

Margaret was the matriarch of the Whitcombe family now that my father was dead. She was my father’s only wife. Understandably, my sudden appearance along with the evidence I produced to verify my place in the Whitcombe lineage was distressing to her, which is why I had done everything I could to keep my identity quiet.

This was a small village. The Whitcombes and MacGregors were close friends. As much as I wanted the awkwardness to magically go away between all of us, I knew it would probably be like this for a long time.

Even so, I liked to imagine all would be well. Ian and I would marry. We would move to Carlton Heath. Margaret would accept me, and I would at long last be “home.” I would finally belong somewhere. And I would be part of a family.

Katharine was halfway down the bumpy, narrow back road that I called the “romantic route” because it went past the ivy-covered church with the old cemetery, the magnificent trees with their gnarled trunks, and a collection of stone cottages with trimmed hedges. One of the cottages held a special memory for me, and I was eager to see it again.

Katharine came upon what I had dubbed “Forgotten Rose Cottage” because of the surplus of neglected rosebushes that grew up both sides of the stone dwelling. She slowed the car and veered around a pothole.

“I love that little place,” I said.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Katharine offered me a soft smile.

The long-neglected stone cottage looked different than it had last summer. Someone had done a significant amount of cleanup.

“Did someone buy the cottage?”

“It’s possible.”

My heart sank. I had dreams about that little, fairy-tale house. I dreamed of one day acquiring the place with Ian. I could see us working side by side in our jeans and sweatshirts, painting and decorating and making the long-neglected cottage into a home. Our home.

But that would never be if someone else had snatched up the Forgotten Rose Cottage and decided to make it their dream.

A chest-tightening sadness came over me, and I felt an urge to fight for the house. “Is there a way to find out if someone has bought it?”

“I’m sure there is. You should ask Ian. He has ways of finding out such things quickly.”

I crossed my arms in front of me and thought of the many things Ian and I needed to discuss this week. Maybe I should have stayed at the hospital with him instead of stepping right into seeing Margaret my first few hours in Carlton Heath.

Glancing at Katharine, I realized I’d been so wrapped up in my own world that I hadn’t asked how she was doing with the fright of Andrew and his trip to the hospital. For the rest of the short drive to the Tea Cosy, I put my attention on Katharine.

And in her Katharine way, she put twice as much love and attention right back on me.

As she turned her car onto Bexley Lane, the long awaited sight didn’t disappoint. Every lamppost on this beautiful stretch of road was adorned with a large evergreen wreath. Long garlands of evergreen and ivy dotted with red berries hung from one lamppost to the next. The wreaths as well as the swaying garlands were trimmed in twinkling lights and pert, red ribbons.

Even though it was only dusk, all the lights were lit, turning this street into a twinkling fairyland that looked like a Victorian Christmas card. Of all the places of business on Bexley Lane, the Tea Cosy exuded the most charm. The building was one of the oldest in Carlton Heath; made of rock and limestone, it hinted at being a well-aged, diminutive castle. The sign that hung on the lamppost adjacent to the shop was in the shape of a teapot.

As Katharine and I approached the front door, I stepped ahead of her just for the personal delight of being the one to reach for the oddly-shaped metal latch and to open the heavy, wooden door. The string of merry silver bells jumped and jingled, and once again I stepped over the timber threshold and entered one of my favorite places in the world, the Tea Cosy.

A warm, amber fire burned in the ancient hearth of the permanently soot-covered fireplace. Along the mantel and at each table small red votive candles flickered contentedly.

I took a quick look around and spotted Margaret. She was seated in the far corner in a tall chair with her back to the door.

“Shall we?” Katharine asked.

I knew she was asking if we should go and greet Margaret. With a nod, I followed Katharine across the uneven wooden floor. She spoke in her buttery smooth way. “Hallo, Margaret. We’ve good news on Andrew. Did you hear?”

“No. Only that he had gone to hospital. How is he?” With a sideways glance at me, Margaret added, “Welcome back, Miranda.”

She was a round and rosy woman with fair skin, white hair, and wire-rimmed glasses. Not the sort of looks one imagines for the wife of such a distinguished film star, but Margaret carried herself with a regal air.

“It’s good to be back.” I reached for Margaret in preparation to greet her with a hug or at least a handshake. When she didn’t respond in kind, I ended up giving her arm an awkward pat.

Ellie, my half brother’s petite, sparkling wife, must have heard Katharine and me because she flitted out of the kitchen in her white apron with a tray of warm scones in her hands. On her head perched a headband with felt reindeer antlers.

Ellie loved life. She loved people. As soon as she saw me, she put the scones on the table for Margaret and threw her arms around me in a welcoming hug.

“You’re here! This is perfect. Julia has been counting the days until her Auntie Miranda arrives. She’s at the house, hoping you’ll go there first. I suppose you’ve been to hospital, though, isn’t that right? How is Andrew? We’ve all been so concerned, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “What is the news of Andrew?”

Katharine gave the good report and added, “We don’t anticipate any complications or further problems. It’s the best report we could have received, really.”

Ellie clapped her hands together. “Wonderful news!”