Healing Grace (13 page)

She smiled as she unwrapped some of the pinecone ornaments her mother had decorated with paint and tiny glued-on birds, beads, and glitter, and one she attempted as a child. Four glass birds from her collection. It was a big chance sending them through the mail, but they had been carefully wrapped and cushioned. Eight doilies her great-grandmother crocheted, taken from her living room chairs. They were yellowed with age, quaint dainty little things. Grace held one up to the light, marveling still at the microscopic stitches, then set it aside on the bare floor, smoothing it with her forefinger.

She brushed hair behind her ear as she bent forward again, pulling out the dozen books she requested. She smiled, thinking of whoever was kind enough to search through the numerous titles to pull these favorites for her: Sir Walter Scott, Tennyson, and Kipling. Eddy might like some of Felix Salten’s
Bambi: A Life in the Woods
, the early parts, if he didn’t already know the non-Disney version.

On the bottom was a heavy packaged set of kitchen dishes. She was tired of the unmatched and stained plastic odds and ends she picked up at garage sales and found leftover in the cupboards. Ted said Jilly took away most of what they had when she left. Grace had always liked the chunky country-art set of eight she and Jonathan had found on one of their weekend rambles. The plates and cups were moss green with folk birds and birdhouses around the edges, in old blues and deep reds and mustard yellows. She heaved herself off the floor and hauled the dishes out to the kitchen to wash, her river of tears mingling with the dishwater.

A few hours later she answered the door to Ted who stood alone on her front porch, fist raised mid-knock. He narrowed his eyes and frowned.

“I just came with a few of Mom’s old decorations, even though… I just thought it would be a kick, getting them out and I wanted to share…to tell you about some of them. I guess, really just to talk. If this is a bad time, though…” Ted stammered. “Can I, um, do anything?”

Grace focused on him, wondering why he was really there. She saw him raise his eyebrows, as if he was concerned about something. Someone. Her? She rubbed tear tracks from her cheeks.

He shifted a box under his arm and held it out. “Here. Just look at them. If you can’t use them, I’ll take them back.”

“Okay.”

Ted stared past her into the living room. “You’re unpacking.”

“Yes. I had the house in Woodside closed up and a-a few things shipped,” she replied, pressing her lips together. She squirmed under his scrutiny. He probably noticed the changes she had made in the room when he glanced at the little table near the doorway. She had put the picture there, the one of her and Jonathan on vacation, younger and carefree.

Ted swayed against the doorjamb. “Ah, well, maybe I’ll come back another time, then.”

She shook her head and blinked. “Excuse me?”

Had he come for a reason? She was so tired. She wasn’t supposed to have Eddy, was she? He wasn’t here? No, it was the weekend. She was alone with the ghosts of her past. “Thank you. I’m sorry, Ted. What did you want?”

Ted took a deep breath and straightened. “A cup of sugar?” he said with the hint of a smile. “I was mostly showing off. Look—no cane, no crutch, but—I’ll go. I’m sorry I keep turning up. Just because I live next door doesn’t give me the right to drop in any time, unannounced. Although you don’t have the phone turned on, so I couldn’t call ahead and ask.”

Grace tried to smile, a real and honest one, but she felt confused about how she should accept his news, his visit, his gifts. “Yes. I don’t. How wonderful for you. And, thank you,” she said, without any sense or order.

Ted cocked his head. Silence ensued. “Okay, then. I’ll be off.”

And to her dismay and confusion, she let him go. All these ghosts reminded her of what she’d been incapable of in the past. She couldn’t risk hurting anyone now…certainly not someone as vulnerable as Ted. It was better, so much better, if he left her alone. She couldn’t help him, anyway.

Grace gazed out on her snowy front porch and considered sweeping the wide boards. The wet probably wasn’t too good for the wood. She had not had to worry about things like that in Tennessee. She let the lace panel fall back into place at the window as she turned and wandered back into her living room.

Mmm. Aromatic cedar branches she had brought in three days ago and placed around the room whirled their Christmas scent every time she breezed by. She decided to put in a rug after all and bought a short-napped rust-colored area one. Eddy could still run his trucks smoothly across it and not scratch up the polished oak floor.

The prints she’d found at a local craft store and hung on the wall across the door were perfect. Apple orchards at dusk, the green and rusty reds in early Americana, had a primitive feel. The lamplight was low and intimate, casting long shadows on the drop ceiling panels. This was more than a nice house; it was becoming home.

What do people do about gift-giving here in Michigan? She brushed moisture from her eyelashes and struggled to keep back tears at the memories of past holidays. The first Christmas with Sean had been so much fun. Everyone had been right. Christmas with a baby was special. Bittersweet memories.

A card had come from Lena. A few colorful notes and cards from patients and some of her new friends here made a little respectable pile in her Amish apple wood bowl on the coffee table.

Grace sat down on the sofa and picked up her list. Scarf and leather gloves for the men in her life, new pads of colored papers, smelly markers, and squiggly cut scissors for Eddy, new hot pads for Matty who complained that her husband Harold burned up her last nice one when he dropped it in the oven.

She twirled the pen in her fingers as she contemplated her options for Christmas Day. Matty had invited her home.

“Harold, my man, will make you his famous Christmas punch. That’s a drink, you know.” There was something definitely mischievous about this punch, judging by the twinkle accompanying the declaration. “The children all come home with their own—thirteen so far.
Und
a neighbor or two who may be alone.” She shrugged. “You never know. Then the cats and turtle… Harold has this snapper—big as a plate! Feeds it burger. The little ones love it! The cat always tries to play, but Georgie, that’s what Harold calls it—he don’t play too much. Ja—no one should be alone on the holy day.”

Matty pronounced it as two separate words, letting Grace know that she held Christmas sacred.

* * * *

Grace wrapped up her mincemeat pie in a couple of dishtowels to keep it warm while she drove to the other side of East Bay where the Van Ooyens kept a small hobby farm. Matty had come to the United States from her native Netherlands when she married Harold, whom she met while he was studying abroad at the Hague for a semester. She was already a nurse who had no trouble getting a license in Michigan and worked while Harold finished school. A few years ago, Harold retired from the engineering firm he worked for. The two of them enjoyed their growing family, the animals, and a small orchard.

“Mincemeat!” Harold exclaimed upon opening the door. “Reminds me of home with grandma. I’ll take care of that for you. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”

Grace laughed and surrendered her coat to Matty who grinned hugely and kissed her cheek. “We’re happy you could join us!”

Grace strolled around the living room, alternately looking at her friends’ lifetime of odds and ends and dodging variously-aged grandchildren and scrambling pets. She sipped cautiously at the punch which Harold had given her accompanied by a wink, a sort of tart apple mulled with cinnamon sticks and cloves. It was a pleasant appetizer to the heavenly aromas wafting from the huge farm kitchen. The boisterous, joyous, and homey atmosphere enveloped her.

“No one should be alone,” she repeated softly to herself. She jumped at the unexpected sight of her boss admiring the other side of the tree.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Greg said, as surprised-looking as she felt.

Grace took a nervous sip of the punch. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“Yes, yes. I suppose so.” He sighed. “Matty and Harold collect strays, as you can see,” he told her, eyes full of chagrin and discomfort. He reached for her hand but didn’t meet it as he was nudged out of the way by a rambunctious waist-high little boy, closely followed by a petite curly-headed girl chasing one of the cats.

“Well, anyway, I’m so relieved to see a familiar face, no matter whether Christmas is merry or we’re all a bunch of strays getting together for a good time,” Grace said. “Are you really not a fan of Christmas? Does your family feel the same way?”

“I get back home every couple of years. In between, I’m invited here.” He indicated the pager at his hip. “A couple of us take turns watching the shop over the holidays.”

Happy chaos continued to unfold around them. “I suppose for years I’ve associated Christmas with accidents and work,” Greg said in a low voice. “My family is pretty staid. The folks are gone now. I have two sisters, one older and never married and one younger with grown-up kids. Christmas is supposed to be more like this, don’t you think?” He waved his hand at the ruckus of children and pets and the heavily-decorated tree in constant threat of toppling over. A fairy of a girl lay on her tummy, chin in hand and ringlets running riot over her head, eyeing the gaily-wrapped packages spilling from underneath it.

Warmed by the punch and the commotion, Grace agreed. She drew a ragged breath at the memory of a little boy who once looked at a brightly lit tree with rapt amazement.

Right then Harold, dressed in an old white butcher’s apron proclaiming “Kiss the Cook,” banged a ladle against the lid of a pot and announced, “Feeding time!” It was a mad scramble for the table. Greg ushered her to a corner seat, her mouth watering in anticipation of the flavors emanating from the various covered dishes.

Greg’s tranquil baritone was another surprise when Harold started singing. She joined in. “We gather together, to ask the Lord’s blessing…”

Everyone at the table knew the words. She smiled inwardly at the Norman Rockwell moment around the table, the faces glowing in candlelight and every mouth open in praise.

An hour later the scraping was done, the dishwasher humming, and the refrigerator boasted leftovers for a few easy meals. Grace joined the intimate group to watch the exchange of gifts; all of them arranged about the living room and spilling back into the dining area. Parents begged the children to go slow, be properly thankful and figure who gave what to whom. Greg somehow worked an arm across Grace’s shoulders and whispered in her ear, “And what would Grace like for her Christmas gift?”

She sat still, dismayed, unsure what to say or do, or how to read the situation. She liked him and did not think he would turn on her if she rebuffed him—or wasn’t that what he was doing? Making a pass? He hadn’t acted like more than a friendly uncle during work hours and she had only bumped into him a couple of times in town while shopping, once at the diner. Maybe it was the punch. She hesitated, trying not to twitch her shoulders but failing. The arm was immediately removed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, no, please,” she hissed, checking around to see if anyone was looking at them, feeling her cheeks unnaturally warm. “It’s not that…” She risked a peek at him. She leaned back again and closed her eyes briefly. “What Grace would like this Christmas is just being here” —she gestured at the room— “with my new friends.” She included him in her smile. “In my new home.”

He nodded, pursing his mouth as if he understood. Matty brought over a small package. “Thank you, dear, for the new hot pads, then,” she told Grace. “I’m keeping Harold away from them.”

They laughed.

“Here’s a small token of my esteem for you.”

“Why, thank you.” A beautiful blue and silver box revealed a small bottle of perfume. She applied a touch of scent to her wrists and wafted it toward everyone within reach.

“Thank you,” Grace said again to Matty, who had taken Greg’s place beside her when he got up to admire something with Harold. The two men stood looking out a side window.

“We bought a new snow blower,” Matty explained. “Beddar than jewels when you get as old as us, and more romantic!”

An hour later, after a quiet cup of tea, Grace declined dessert and said she had to be going. Greg helped her with her coat. She stood mesmerized by the sight of one of the daughters rocking her sleeping toddler. She shivered and turned to find Greg looking at her, asking with his expression for answers she could not give.

At least, not here. Should she ask him over to her place for coffee? What would he think?

You’re a grown woman, Grace. The situation can’t get any more awkward.
“Greg, would you like to stop in for some coffee?”

He quickly agreed. “Sure. See you in a little bit. It’s still slippery out there. Be careful, okay?”

Hugs, thanks, and waves were all that remained between home and a coffee date for which she had no answer why she’d made the offer.

* * * *

Greg started talking from the moment she opened the door to him forty-five minutes later. She served aromatic chicory coffee and some of the shortbread cookies a patient had given to her a few days earlier. Lights from the Christmas tree glowed softly.

“Did you know that Ernest Hemingway spent his summers near here?” Greg asked. “In nineteen-nineteen he came to recuperate from wounds he received in the war and then, in nineteen twenty-one to get married. The museum in Petoskey is interesting but…”

He paused and looked at her, next to him on the couch. Grace flicked a strand of hair behind her ear and offered what she hoped was an interested gaze. Now that she was in her home, so close to the hedge, she couldn’t help but think what might be going on at the house on the other side. What were the Marshalls doing for Christmas? What was it like with Eddy there? Did he get up early…

“It’s only open in the summers. Although this time of year there’s skiing and other winter sports. Actually, it’s cold and snowy usually right through Easter. I don’t know if you like that kind of thing, but would you like to go sometime? We can stop for a nice dinner…” His voice trailed off. “You haven’t blinked in the last two minutes,” he said, giving her arm a little shake.