Finding Home (13 page)

“But I want to buy you something really
nice,” Nick said. “Something you’d never be able to afford
yourself.”

It’s not about money, I wanted to shout at
him. But instead I said, “I know what. How about you just don’t
charge me for all the legal advice?” I might as well cut costs
wherever I could.

“I wasn’t going to.” He sounded hurt. “I
mean, it’s the least I can do.”

“Oh. Well, that’s that then, I’d better go.
Thanks so much for your help.”

“Anytime.” He really had a very sexy voice.
“We can go over it again at Christmas.”

“Okay.” I pictured his solid shoulders, his
blue, blue eyes. “Okay, sure.”

“We can do, you know, whatever we want over
Christmas.”

I hung up before I said something I might
regret.

Phoebe began getting ready for Christmas in
early December, filling the house with buttery-sugary-spicy aromas.
She made shortbread, gingerbread, mincemeat, toffee and fudge. Now
that I no longer felt ill I craved these rich things, could have
devoured them all, but she whisked them away to the freezer, or
packed them in fancy tins and hid them down in the cold cellar.

The quilting group held a cookie exchange,
for which we had to produce twelve dozen frosted sugar cookies. As
we rolled the dough and cut out Santas and bells and stars I felt
like a little kid. I wasn’t good at painting icing on the finished
cookies, but it didn’t matter at all. The ones Kiera and Phoebe
iced were so perfect they made up for my feeble attempts.

To decorate the house Kiera had ordered miles
of cedar roping. When it arrived, rolls and rolls of it, the three
of us set about draping the staircases, doorways, windows and
mantles. The boughs were tied in awkward lengths which twisted and
slipped at all the wrong moments, making us shriek with
frustration. But the nubbly feel of the cedar in my hands and the
fresh forest smell of it was wonderful. When we were done we
adorned the greenery with red velvet bows.

The next day we walked down the road to cut
Nova Scotia holly, a low-growing bush whose leaves had fallen,
exposing brown stalks laden with red-orange berries. We gathered
enough to fill an old coal scuttle for the front steps and several
baskets and brass pots which we placed on hearths around the house.
Later that evening Angus MacLaren came over to help set up the
tree, a ten-foot Nova Scotia fir, also specially ordered. After
mastering the cedar roping I wasn’t sure why we needed his help,
but apparently it was something he did every year. A Malagash
tradition.

With Malagash transformed into a storybook
Christmas house, Phoebe left for a few days to visit relatives in
Halifax. Kiera and I were to fend for ourselves, although Phoebe
had left us such generous provisions there was little we had to do.
I spent a lot of time in the kitchen anyway though, helping Kiera
with what she called the finishing touches.

She was as happy as a kid who still believes
in Santa. Christmas, she told me, was her favorite time of year.
Her joy in the season was infectious, and I felt full of
anticipation too. Not just for Christmas itself though. I was
worked up about Nick’s holiday visit. I thought about him
constantly as we strung popcorn and cranberries for the tree and
made little birds with folded fan wings out of gold foil paper.

One afternoon Kiera began talking of her
childhood. It was just the sort of day for nostalgia and
reminiscences. We were sitting by the kitchen woodstove, making
pomander balls and sachets. The harvest table was spread with
oranges, lemons, cloves, bits of bright calico fabric and satin
ribbon, a basket of rose-scented potpourri. Outside a few flakes of
snow fell, nonchalant. Inside, the warm glow of the kitchen held
back the gloomy winter twilight already settling in at four
o’clock.

I remember feeling so content then. I cupped
an orange in my hands and marveled at its perfect roundness. I ran
my hands over my own plump curve of belly, pleased with myself too.
How surprised Nick was going to be when he saw how pregnant I
looked.

Kiera studded a lemon with cloves, making a
neat pattern of overlapping diamonds. “Christmas was the one time
my mother put any effort at all into Malagash,” she said, “probably
the only time she got any enjoyment out of this house. She’d have
hordes of glittering people up from New York for a quaint,
old-fashioned Canadian Christmas. But I doubt the pioneers ever had
a Christmas like we had. It was one big never-ending party. There’d
be eggnog, champagne punch, mulled wine and cider, and so much
food. And always little surprises for everyone – things like a
diamond tie-pin hidden in a party cracker, or solid gold stars to
be plucked off the tree for departing guests.”

She giggled suddenly. “What I remember most
though is that I could get away with anything, as long as I stayed
out of the adults’ way. Angus MacLaren used to come up with his
mother when school was out, he always spent most of the holidays
here. I thought he was so fine. Being at boarding school I didn’t
know many boys, and the ones I was normally allowed to meet were
all spoiled, arrogant rich kids.” She paused, holding up the lemon
she was working on, which was wet with juice from the piercing
cloves. Inhaling deeply she said, “Mmm, this smells good!”

At that moment she looked so beautiful, and I
liked her so much, I was absolutely certain I was doing a good and
noble thing having a baby for her. “Please go on,” I said. “My
early Christmases aren’t worth remembering.” I felt a vicarious
pleasure listening to her melodious voice relate the privileged
life I’d only dreamed of.

“Oh, it was such a special thrill to be
allowed to play with Angus. He was the one regular kid I knew. He
didn’t ride or play tennis or take violin lessons. He played hockey
and went tobogganing and had snowball fights. So while the grownups
made merry with food and drink, we’d race around in a wild game of
tag, up the back stairs and down the front ones. Once, I was about
ten or eleven I think, he caught me. And he tried to kiss me.” She
laughed then. “I don’t think anything or anybody ever thrilled me
as much, ever again. It was so innocent, but so potent at the same
time ...”

She got up and poked around in the woodstove.
We’d let the fire burn low and now she stirred up smoke and ashes
and sparks. Then she tossed on a couple of birch logs, urging the
flames back to fragrant crackling.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I still decorate
the house the way my father liked it all those years ago. I don’t
know why. Really, it’s kind of a waste of time and money if you
don’t entertain much. But it just doesn’t feel right, not to.”

“Well, Nick’s coming down ...”

“Oh Nick. He doesn’t care a pin. He’d just as
soon go south. You know, sunshine and nightlife and drinks by the
pool. He doesn’t have the memories, you see.” She inspected her
half-finished pomander, turning it round and round in her hands,
then resumed her work with vigor.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast I said, “I
really should do some Christmas shopping, do you think we could
drive in to Halifax?”

“Oh sure, you go ahead,” Kiera said, “but
I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind. I’ve already mail-ordered most
of my gifts anyway. I’ll get my cards done.”

So I set out alone, happy to be going
somewhere, to have something definite to do, pleased to be driving
the Mercedes farther than Airdrie Bay. Christmas carols chimed on
the radio, and I sang along at the top of my lungs. Snow began to
fall in delicate, lacy flakes, but between the clouds the sun still
shimmered over sea and shore.

About halfway to Halifax though, the clouds
merged, turning the tentative snow into a thick billowing. I hadn’t
listened for a weather report before I left, the day had looked so
tame. I wasn’t sure what to do. I really hadn’t much experience
driving in winter conditions. At the lodge I relied on Baptiste’s
snowmobile in bad weather. Disappointed, I decided I had to turn
back. I didn’t want to take a chance on being stranded, for the
baby’s sake.

By the time I got back to Airdrie Bay I was
glad I hadn’t tried to go on. The snowflakes I thought merry
earlier now clumped together in blobs, dropping in sticky masses
that covered the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it.
Not that a clear windshield would have made the driving any easier.
The snow now filled the air, taking up every bit of space. I
couldn’t see beyond a few inches in front of me anyway.

Agitated and scared, I finally negotiated the
road up to Malagash. I didn’t bother parking in the garage at the
back, just pulled up in front of the house. As I climbed out of the
car I could make out the bit of bright red ribbon on the door
wreath. But the gluey flakes kept forcing my eyes shut, trying to
bury me alive.

When I reached the window of the living room
turret I noticed that someone had adorned the Christmas tree with
strings of tiny white fairy lights which twinkled on and off. I
peered in.

Kiera entered the room, carrying boxes which
she knelt to place like offerings on the floor in front of the
tree. She looked like a teenager in her jeans and black turtleneck
sweater. Then she turned and smiled radiantly at the person, also
bearing boxes, who followed.

That person was Angus MacLaren.

I stood perfectly still, not caring anymore
about the snow mounding over the abandoned car and me. Angus set
down his boxes before the tree also, then straightened up to take
Kiera in his arms. They laughed a moment before kissing, gently at
first, then with passion.

I plowed on to the door and stood gawking at
the wreath with its berries and pinecones and jaunty red bow. The
implications of what I’d just seen raced through my mind.

Should I leave Kiera and Angus alone?

But I had nowhere to go. I was cold, wet and
tired. Hell,
I was pregnant!
Why should I stand out there
worrying? Kiera was the one raised to be socially correct in every
situation. Let her handle it.

I flung open the door, shaking snow all about
as I kicked off my boots and burst into the living room. Kiera
whirled to face me, dropping the ornament she was just about to
hang on the tree. As it hit the polished hardwood floor the glass
ball smashed, filling the room with a delicate splintering
sound.

In the silence that followed, Angus, who had
been attaching something at the back of the tree, stepped forward.
“Oh, hello, Lucienne,” he said, as if there was nothing the least
bit strange in his presence.

Kiera, who had been staring at me
open-mouthed, said, “You didn’t go to the city?”

“I tried, but I had to turn back. Didn’t you
notice the storm?”

“Storm?” She glanced toward the window. “No.
No, I didn’t.” She stooped to examine the remains of the shattered
ornament. “Oh, it’s ruined! Just look, a zillion pieces.” She swept
at them randomly with her dainty foot.

For several moments nobody spoke. Christmas
music floated in the background, but unlike the brassy carols I’d
heard in the car, this music was intimate. Harps and flutes full of
love. From my church-going days I recognized “What Child Is This?”
and then “O Holy Night”.

It’s odd how in certain situations your
thoughts can slide back to something that seems totally irrelevant,
but also somehow totally connected in a way you can’t quite put
your finger on. Instead of lashing out at Kiera, demanding an
explanation, all I could think of was the time I was fourteen and
played an angel in the Kingsley United Church Christmas
Pageant.

I’d worn a long white gown and a tinsel halo.
In order to be allowed to carry a lighted candle instead of a hymn
book through the darkened church, I’d learned all the verses of all
the carols. As I’d looked around at the other child angels – some
with gowns trailing too long, some with winter boots showing
beneath, some with halos slipping down over eyebrows – I’d thought
how perfect they all were anyway. What mattered was the occasion,
the coming together in song.

Church was new to me then and I thought such
a special feeling was a normal part of the splendor of religion.
I’d had no idea how rare such moments are in any life, religious or
not.

Now I felt infinitely far from such a state
of grace. I stood there like a geek in the long gray cape Phoebe
had made me, which smelled of wet wool from the melting snow. My
hair was plastered to my head. But my stomach protruded with the
child of Kiera’s husband.

“Is that all the decorations out of the attic
now, Angus?” Kiera asked.

He nodded.

“And the tree’s sturdy, can’t tip over?”

He nodded again, arms crossed in front of
him. He too seemed to be waiting for Kiera to say something more,
to acknowledge the situation.

But all she said was, “Thanks so much for
giving me a hand with this. You’d better go now. Your patients will
be waiting.”

“Okay,” he said. He still looked puzzled.
“I’ll get back to the office then. Be talking to you later.”

“Be careful,” I said as he left. “The
driving’s really bad.”

Kiera, as if a statue freed to move by my
words, bent to pick up the bits of broken glass. “My mother brought
that ball from Germany, there used to be a whole set of them, hand
painted, but over the years they’ve all been broken, one way or
another.” She bent to sweep at the splinters with her fingers as if
they were fluff from a rug. “That was the very last one.”

I rushed to stop her. “Don’t do that! You’ll
cut yourself!” I grabbed her wrists, holding them tightly. She
looked up at me like a guilty child, tears in her eyes. “Now
suppose you tell me just what the hell is going on?”

Kiera’s tears, as she tried to blink them
back, spilled out and trickled down her cheeks. “That was my very
favorite Christmas ornament, and now it’s gone forever.”