Home for the Holidays (8 page)

Wendell showed his approval by making a beeline for the gift boxes, which in years past he had considered his personal scratching surfaces.

“Oh no!” Alice scooped him up and firmly closed the closet door. “I can’t get away with claiming that the shredded-wrapping look is the latest thing again.”

The tabby jumped down from her arms, gave a single, slightly disgusted look and stalked out of the bedroom.

For their other friends, Alice and her sisters were giving gift baskets like the one Louise had taken to Viola Reed. In each basket Jane had tucked two dozen assorted cookies and a loaf of Louise’s aromatic fruit-and-nut bread. Alice had left the cooking to her sisters and had done her part by decorating the baskets with white ribbons, and red and green fabrics with snowflake patterns.

All she needed was one last gift, a gift for Jane, who had been insisting all month that she wanted nothing special for Christmas.

She should have something special. She
needs
something special
. As Alice went downstairs to finish stapling the caroling booklets that she had made up for her ANGELs group, she thought of how busy Jane had been keeping herself.

Ever since the last of their guests had departed, her sister had thrown herself into hectic activity and had spent most of the day in the kitchen. She had already made so many cookies, candies and pans of fudge that her output could satisfy the entire town’s sweet tooth. Alice could not recall the last time she’d seen Jane sit down for longer than two minutes.

“Lord, I hope it’s only excitement and not something else.” Alice went into her father’s study, where she had been working at the desk, and sat down to finish the booklets.

Although the ANGELs went caroling from house to house each Christmas, this year’s forecasts of colder temperatures and heavier snowfall made Alice decide to try something different. At their last weekly meeting, she had suggested that the girls perform in front of Town Hall. By doing so the girls could sing without having to tramp through the snow, and visitors as well as townspeople could enjoy the carols.

Clarissa Cottrell had generously offered to provide free hot chocolate and some of her beautifully decorated sugar cookies for the girls after their performance.

“I’ve been keeping the bakery open an extra hour every
night so I can catch up on orders,” she had told Alice, “so it’s nice and warm inside. Just send them over when they’re through for their treat.”

The red kettle one of the mothers had given her to use to collect donations after the performance was a little dusty inside, so Alice took it to the kitchen to wash it. There she found Jane sitting at the table, a mug and an open cooking magazine in front of her. Holiday music spilled from the radio on the kitchen windowsill, while two large pans of oversize brownies iced with a textured, golden brown mixture added the scent of dark chocolate and caramelized sugar to the cozy kitchen atmosphere.

The sight of her sister relaxing for a change made Alice’s heart lighten.
Maybe I’m simply imagining things
.

“Can you spare a treat for your poor, overworked sister?” she joked. When Jane did not reply, she set the kettle in the sink and the sound it made caused her younger sister to jump. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s only what I deserve for sitting here daydreaming.” Jane came to join her at the sink, but her smile seemed a little dim. “What’s this for? You’re not having the girls bob for apples in this weather, I hope. They’ll need to chip a hole in the ice first.”

Alice chuckled at the image. “No, we’re hoping to collect some donations after the caroling for our Christmas
mission.” As she filled the kettle with water, she gave her sister a sideways glance. “You were a million miles away when I came in here.”

“Yes, and it was much warmer where I was. I want to go back.”

Alice was not fooled by her casual explanation. “Something bothering you?”

“Nope.” Her younger sister squared her shoulders and picked up two potholders in order to move the pans from the cooling racks to the table. “How about I ruin your lunch with one of these? They’re German chocolate brownies with coconut and pecan frosting. Guaranteed to make your taste buds sing a Wagner aria.”

“Maybe I’ll have one for dessert.” Alice turned off the water and added a squirt of dishwashing liquid to the kettle. In a nonchalant way, she added, “So what did you get Louise for Christmas? You never did tell me.”

“A complete set of Peter Rybar and Marcelle Daeppen’s classical duets on CD,” she said. “He was a famous Czech violinist, and she was a pianist and his wife. I thought it might remind her of happier times, when she played duets with Eliot.”

“I’m sure she will love it.” She picked up the scrub pad and went to work on the kettle. “You always find the most unusual gifts for people, and yet they’re so appropriate.”

“That gorgeous piano shawl you found for Louise made me green with envy,” Jane confessed. “The colors, the silk fringe, everything about it is just
so
Louise.”

“I thought so too.” She rinsed the soapy water from the kettle. “Christmas gifts should be special, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“I think they should be tailored to people’s tastes too. Like the shawl with Louise—you know she’ll love that.”

“Of course she will. She was admiring one just like it in a catalog a few weeks ago.” Jane stopped cutting the brownies and looked at her. “
Uh-oh
, I’ve talked myself into a corner, haven’t I?”

“Just a small one.” Alice smiled. “You have been a bit evasive about what sort of gifts you’d like for yourself, you know.”

Jane glanced back over her shoulder. On the wall over the kitchen table, Louise had recently hung a photo of Daniel Howard with the three of them when they were girls.

“Do you remember when that picture was taken?” she asked, nodding toward it.

Alice studied it. A very young Jane was dressed in a green velvet jumper and had her dark hair in tiny, lopsided pigtails tied with red ribbons.

“Yes, I think I do. That was at one of the Sunday school
Christmas parties. Father had Henry Ley dress up as Santa to take pictures with the children, but you flatly refused to go near him.”

Jane frowned. “I’m trying to imagine myself being afraid of Santa—or Henry—and I’m failing.”

“You weren’t afraid. You told Henry straight out that you knew that he wasn’t the real Santa because he didn’t have any reindeer parked on the roof.” She sighed. “The only way we could coax you in front of the camera was to let you sit on Father’s knee instead of Henry’s.”

“I don’t remember that,” Jane said, her voice a little sad. “It seems like there are so many things I’ve forgotten or I missed.”

Alice recalled a discussion during dinner with her sisters and Aunt Ethel several days earlier. They had spoken of Christmases Jane had only barely remembered. “Honey, did we make you feel left out when we were reminiscing the other night?”

“No, I love listening to your stories.” Jane leaned against the counter and scrubbed at a nonexistent spot. “I miss Father. I miss having Christmas with Father, and you and Louise too. You know, I can clearly recall only about eleven of the Christmases I spent at home with the family.”

“You counted them?” Alice had never done that and was a little disturbed to know that Jane had.

“When you’re far from home, all you have are your memories.” She shrugged. “It just seems like my childhood raced by in a flash and then it was over. So many Christmases since then have felt hollow and, well, pretty meaningless.”

“Is that why you’re working yourself into exhaustion every day?” She gestured around the kitchen. “Is this your way of trying to recapture those memories? The fact is we never spent all day in here baking.”

“I know.” She looked at the brownies. “I think I’m trying too hard.” She met Alice’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“You have no reason to apologize,” she said in her most comforting tone, “no reason at all.”

Jane looked uncertain for a moment. “Do you really want to know what I want for Christmas?” When Alice nodded, she said, “It’s something you can’t buy. I want, so badly, to have that same, joyful feeling I had as a girl. I want good memories to outnumber the bad ones. I know it sounds greedy, but Alice, eleven Christmases weren’t enough.”

“You’re not greedy.” Alice went over and gave her younger sister a hug. “I promise that we’ll make this Christmas Happy Memory Number Twelve.”

Chapter Five

L
ouise accompanied Viola to the kitchen, where she helped her friend prepare two trays with cups of nutmeg-sprinkled eggnog and plates containing small scoops of a dark brown, very moist-looking cake.

“It was good of you to provide this treat for our visitors, Viola,” Louise said as she placed some folded paper napkins on the tray. “I also appreciate your help with the tour of the house. Even with the tour company’s literature, I could never have told them as much about it and your family’s holiday traditions as you did.”

“I needed room in the refrigerator and I enjoy showing off for a crowd,” her friend replied as she topped each portion of cake with a drizzle of thin, sugary glaze. “I must say I’m surprised to find you guiding a house tour. What got you involved with this bunch?”

Louise gave her a brief explanation of what had happened at the Coffee Shop. “I am trying to keep a good Christian attitude about it,” she added, “but sometimes I wish my sisters would …”

“Control their impulses?”

Louise laughed.

“Your patience never ceases to astound me. How do you manage people like that decorator woman?” Viola’s tone went up an octave. “Where was she reared, in a designer
barn
?”

“I don’t believe Laura meant to be deliberately rude,” she said as she picked up the tray of eggnog cups. “Although I must wonder at her reasons for coming on a holiday home tour if all she intended to do was shop for her business.”

“She’s a troll.”

That startled another laugh out of Louise. “Dear me, I don’t think she is quite that bad.”

“Not the
Lord of the Rings
kind of troll. A business troll. It’s what my father used to call estate buyers who’d read the obituaries so they could be the first to make an offer to the heirs for the valuables of the deceased. They make large profits that way, especially if the family needs money fast. Some people call them hearse chasers.”

Louise grimaced. “That sounds ghastly.”

“It’s more common than you think. Most people don’t realize the value of their belongings, particularly if they’re inherited. Along comes a troll and …” Viola rolled her eyes. “I imagine our decorator friend makes a good living buying antiques and such in that manner.” She fussed for a
moment over the arrangement of the plates on the tray. “Before I forget, you and your sisters are invited to my house for dinner on Boxing Day. One of my customers sent me a fully dressed goose, and Lord knows, I can’t eat it all by myself.”

Louise suppressed a smile. Viola always made her dinner invitations sound as if they were made only for her personal convenience, when she suspected the exact opposite was true. Despite her often brusque nature, Viola liked entertaining more than she would ever admit.

When the two women returned to the parlor, the tour group was discussing what they liked about the house and their own family traditions. All but Max Ziglar, who was standing by the bay window and looking out at the snow-covered garden.

Louise could not see his face and she hardly knew enough about him to guess what his thoughts were at the moment. In spite of this and his cantankerous personality, she had the strongest sense that the businessman was extremely lonely.
In this lovely, warm room, filled with all these friendly, interesting people, no less. What could have made him so determined to keep others at a distance if he doesn’t like being alone?

As they handed out the refreshments, Viola asked, “Has anyone ever had plum pudding before?” When some indicated that they had not, she added, “Before you try it,
let me tell you something about it. This recipe was handed down to me by my mother and dates back three generations before her. English families have enjoyed plum pudding as their traditional Christmas dessert since the seventeenth century. I should also point out that the pudding has never once been made from plums.”

“It smells delicious,” Ted said, “but it doesn’t look like any pudding I’ve ever seen.”

“The original version was made of thick porridge, to which the cook added chopped meat, liquor, a variety of dried fruits, sugar, spices, butter and eggs. The mixture was boiled, not baked, in a cloth bag or special basin. Every member of the family took turns mixing the batter so that they could make a wish as they stirred.”

The young man grinned. “Sounds as intriguing as the pudding smells.”

As Ted lifted a large forkful to his lips, Viola cautioned, “Before you taste, mash it a little with your fork first, young man. The rest of you do the same. You might find a surprise.”

“I’ve found something.” Max prodded his portion with his fork. “It’s sticking up out of the center.”