A Christmas Hope (28 page)

Read A Christmas Hope Online

Authors: Joseph Pittman

Nora kissed Thomas on his cheek. “Happy birthday, Thomas.”
“Merry Christmas, Thomas,” Brian added.
And as Brian Duncan and Nora Rainer made their way toward the door, Thomas stole a look back at them and the twinkle that was in his eyes was not unlike another gentle soul who traveled on a cold night such as this, following the path of stars and spreading the magic that is the gift of life.
Then, with the book in his trembling hand, he turned to the woman who loved Christmas and who loved him, and he began to read and he didn't finish until he turned the last page and, with a kiss to her lips, said, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”
E
PILOGUE
T
OMORROW
J
ust as nobody knows the future, nobody need fear the past. So the only choice left was to live in the present, with a guiding light called hope leading you through your days. That's how I see it, my dear, but of course that's hardly news, not to you. You who know me so well.
Speaking of hope, let me tell you about the place I've found . . . or is that rediscovered? A sense of promise lives here, inside unfulfilled dreams of unwritten tomorrows. Powered by love and family and by the wintery whims of the wind, we called this magical little village Linden Corners. It's a place that some are born to and never leave, while newcomers accidentally stumble upon its borders, soon charmed by its welcoming sense of community. And others, like me, return to the land after many years away, looking for something that may no longer exist.
But that's getting ahead of myself. To understand then, you need to know about now.
So much has happened since the night and subsequent morning we shared, when snow fell from the sky and bathed the city in its crystalline glow. Christmas Eve came and went, our anniversary, my birthday, Christmas Day, which I must tell you about. And now, it is just hours before you turn another year, a new one for the world, but in truth, what about you? Missy, my dear, do you live inside there, listening to my stories? There's one more to tell, listen carefully. It's about this fellow named Brian Duncan, he's a smart one, quite cunning in his heartfelt way, because even with all he accomplished for the Christmas Festival, and that was a lot, it was Christmas morning where his goodness was truly felt.
He's a giving soul, but on this day he realized just what he had received.
It began when Brian and Nora returned to Linden Corners in the early morning hours.
 
“Brian, you did it again!”
Brian was asleep on the sofa inside the farmhouse; the fire had burned out, leaving only orange embers and the colored light reflecting off the tree. He had carried young Janey home at three o'clock that morning, she'd barely stirred when he'd brought her home and tucked her beneath her warm blankets. He'd fallen asleep, too, on the sofa, forgetting to set gifts under the tree, and while Janey, poking at his shoulder to wake him, thought he had forgotten . . . again, Brian knew better. He had a plan; oh, this man, he is always thinking up something, and usually for the better of others.
“I did not,” he said. “This time, it's on purpose.”
“Not accidentally on purpose?”
“No, Janey, that was last year.”
So the man she called Dad urged her to get into her warm pajamas and winter clothes, and he did the same, the two of them venturing outside and down the hill, she in the red sled, he pulling the frayed string until it snapped and she went sailing down the snowy hill until coming to a rest beside the base of the windmill. Yes, the lights were still lit, repaired by some magic trick by Chuck Ackroyd, though it was hardly necessary on this sunlight morning. The windmill had a glow all its own, no doubt inspired by Janey's presence. Brian opened up the door to the windmill, and the two them scrambled up the winding staircase to the second floor, and that's when Brian pulled out two simple, square packages.
“I know there are more gifts to be opened, back at the farmhouse, for you and for me, those can wait,” he told her, “but these . . . they cannot.”
They were wrapped in brightly colored paper, snowmen and Santa (in red suit) patterns all over, not that you could discern them after she tore at them with an eagerness that belongs only to the youth. He asked her to be careful, and that's when Janey's eyes grew wide with tears, because, after all, she's a smart girl and she remembers last Christmas and the loving gift he had given her and now she knew what these gifts were . . . yet she confessed that she had no idea what names would possibly be on them. Not until she opened the first and read the name “Dan,” in silver glitter letters on a shiny ball of blue glass; and not until she opened the second and read the name “Annie,” again, silver glitter spelling out its name, and this one . . . it was golden, and it blazed with light when the sun's reflection hit it just right. Brian tells of how speechless Janey was, a rare feat for her, he had said with a laugh. Her hug lasted almost as long as the time they had spent together as a team . . . no, a family.
When at last she broke from her embrace and the two of them had wiped away tears, they trekked back through the snow, and after waving toward the windmill and receiving back a giant wave from the four hands that spun on its axis, Brian helped Janey find the perfect place on the tree for them, near her own name ornament, and for as long as the tree remained up that season, the names Dan, Annie, and Janey hovered near each other; Brian's was not far away, either.
That's the start of Christmas, my dear.
But it wasn't over yet.
Gerta Connors was hosting a Christmas feast that night, and her daughter Nora was sitting beside the fire with a glass of red wine in her hands, still musing over the generous gifts they had received that day. Her boy, Travis, was that much closer to being a teenager, and like all kids his age his life revolved around electronics, toys that made beeps and whistles and other sounds, games that landed him in virtual worlds that, as far as I'm concerned, my dear, pale in comparison to what we have here. He also received a science kit about the weather, since he'd taken such an interest in all things about the sky since coming to Linden Corners. Nora, as promised, had been determined to give the boy without a father the best Christmas she could.
And so when Brian and Janey arrived late afternoon to partake in the holiday spirit with their good friends, it was Nora herself who greeted them with an almost childlike enthusiasm, heightened when she presented Brian and Janey with not just one gift but three. Gerta grinned and Travis jumped around even though he knew as well as Janey what was inside those presents. And when Janey opened up the first, and Brian the second, and together tearing apart the paper to reveal the third, both of them easily fell silent. Like the wind had knocked out their own sails, and if that's not a metaphor for the moment, my dear, well, nothing could be. They were staring at three picture frames, all poster size, and each of them represented a stage of the windmill as it had been built, by, of all people, my ancestors.
“Where did you find these?” Brian asked with a sense of wonder.
“You might have tracked down Thomas's book,” Nora said, “but I found the original artwork, and someday I'll take you there.”
What Nora had tracked down was the original art to my beautiful Saint Nicholas treasure, so close up in the Berkshire Mountains, where the illustrator once lived and where his family still honors his work. The past, it's alive everywhere, here with us and in a house up in the hills near the Hudson River, and on the walls of the farmhouse, that's where Brian has hung those fine illustrations of the windmill. Nora had promised us all a visit to the Casey Museum, the proprietor Nicholas has invited us all to see firsthand the works of art produced by the man who gave life to the Santa in the green suit, and it is a day I look forward to, as it will no doubt be the last time my eyes fall upon such an image.
Even an old man is not without his surprises.
Let me tell you of the final gift.
 
It was two days after Christmas when I walked my old man shuffle into George's Tavern and found Brian Duncan behind the bar, washing the glasses in time-honored tradition. He said he'd learned how to get all the spots out, a technique perfected by a man named George Connors, who had been Gerta's husband and Nora's father. He passed awhile back, but not before striking a bond between himself and Brian, his first in Linden Corners. One thing ol' George failed to teach the newcomer was how to make a Manhattan.
“I told you, Brian, just wave the vermouth over the glass.”
But I drank the one he'd prepared for me anyway, and when it was finished I went about my business. A package accompanied me, but I would leave without it.
“Here, this is for you. Actually, for both of you, can't forget that irrepressible Janey,” I told him. My hands were shaking and it could have been because I'm so old but most likely it was because I was letting go of the one thing I'd come back to Linden Corners to find. My past.
“What's this?” he asked.
“There's no need to open it, not today,” I said. “All it lacks is the letter written by the young girl's father.”
Brian did his best to try and give back the present, but that's the thing about gifts, once they leave your possession they are no longer yours to hold on to, that's what I told him. And when he further protested, I told him that I had long ago accepted the past for what it was, I had lived a long, good life and toward its end I had been given such an unexpected surprise in the book. I confessed that I had originally considered it all a pipe dream, pushed on me by a loving wife who wished to see me come to terms, finally, with my loss. Perhaps she was right, I'd never properly said good-bye to my father, I didn't get to hug him one last time or tell him I loved him one more time, I didn't get to sit on his lap and hear him tell me that story again. But Janey can experience the joy I felt over and over again, and as you read it to her, Brian, she'll know in her heart that it came as a gift from another man who loved her so unconditionally.
“Give it to her next Christmas, make the discovery among Dan Sullivan's things all over again,” I said, “let her know that life can continue to surprise her each and every day. That's certainly a lesson I take from this, and I have both you and Nora to thank for that.”
The mention of Nora caused a reaction in Brian that suddenly had him staring down at the floor, as though he'd dropped something. When I pushed him about it, he hesitated before revealing to me that upon their return to Linden Corners, he had pulled the red Mustang into her driveway, and as the snow fell on their shoulders and a chill seeped beneath their coats, Brian leaned in and kissed her, telling me the moment was not unlike the time she had done the same, in his driveway. This time, though, what was different was there was no windmill to get between them, and Brian said that after they parted, Nora had given him this curious look.
“What was that for?” she asked him.
“Just consider us even,” Brian said with a wide grin.
Such is the dance of friends who may be finding themselves growing closer, but how it ends up is for another time. As we've said, all stories have their moment to be told, and for now, Christmas is what has driven us, those we remember from our childhoods, those we wish to share with loved ones, those we wish to establish with new friends.
Before I left the tavern, Brian asked about you, my dear, and I informed him that all was unchanged, you were here but not. Yes, a new year is fast approaching. Back in my new home of Linden Corners, a New Year's celebration is taking place at the farmhouse, with Brian hosting an assortment of friends and neighbors, Cynthia and Bradley, who had been blessed with a child this year; Gerta and Nora, Travis, too; and lastly, the newlyweds, Mark and Sara, a young couple just starting out on this journey called life together.
When I am not here, where will I go? To the village square, of course, Memorial Park, walking behind the gazebo and to the series of stones that honor those we lost. But as much as my eighty-five-year-old self is drawing fingers through the engraved letters of one Lars Van Diver, it is the five-year-old boy inside me who can be found back at the farmhouse. In my dream it is Christmas Eve again, and I am running down the hill toward the windmill; the wind is strong and it picks up even more, almost lifting me into the air and when I land I find standing by its base the man dressed in green, and his smile invites me toward him. No, he is not Saint Nick, it is my father and I welcome him home.

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