A Wish for Christmas (18 page)

“That would make sense. Though it often seems that the people who have the least give the most.”

“That leaves the field wide open. It could be anybody.”

“Could be,” he agreed. “But it would require a combination of generosity and modesty. A fairly rare combination.”

“As rare as hen’s teeth,” Carolyn said, more willing to speak frankly. “How about Sophie Potter? She’s generous to a fault and wouldn’t care about taking credit. But I don’t think she has the extra money to spare right now.”

Ben saw it the same way. Sophie would have motivation but not the means.

“Lillian Warwick? She certainly has the money,” Carolyn said. “But how would she have managed taking care of all the details? I just can’t see her making the effort for a total stranger. She hardly bothers with her own family.”

Carolyn sounded a bit judgmental, he thought. But Lillian’s distant, aloof air was well-known. She was not the type to go out of her way for a stranger, he thought, then felt bad for not giving her the benefit of the doubt.

Anything was possible, wasn’t it?

“I honestly can’t guess,” he told his wife. “But I will say it’s made me reflect about my own attitudes. It’s a lesson in generosity for all of us. And maybe, for you and me right now, in not being so judgmental of everyone.”

“I suppose.” Carolyn nodded and picked up her knitting basket. “Still, it’s fun to speculate.”

“True. But maybe it’s better not knowing. Then we can credit lots of people for being so generous.”

“Of course you’d say that. You’re a minister,” Carolyn replied with a laugh. “I have to be honest, Ben. I still want to know.”

Ben glanced at her. The truth was, he wanted to know, too.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“
M
OTHER? IT’S ME, JESSICA. I JUST WANTED YOU TO KNOW that I won’t be by until three. I forgot that it’s Thursday, and I have to see Tyler’s teacher after school. But I’ll pick you up in plenty of time for your appointment at the podiatrist. So don’t worry. Call me on my cell if you want. I’m out doing some errands.”

Lillian hit the flashing button on her phone machine, meaning to shut the annoying thing off, but only succeeded in replaying her daughter’s message.

“Mother? It’s me, Jessica. I just wanted—”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Lillian said aloud, quickly pressing every button on the phone console.

Finally, Jessica stopped talking. Lillian heaved a sigh of relief.

Well, thanks for nothing, Lillian decided. She had been waiting since noon for Jessica to join her for lunch.

Time to take matters into her own hands. She peered into the refrigerator, wondering what to eat. Nothing looked very appetizing. Another problem with getting old. So many foods disagreed now, and she had never enjoyed a terribly adventurous palate.

A lovely wedge of cheddar caught her eye. A grilled cheese sandwich would be nice. Not nice for her cholesterol count, of course. But she had not indulged in some time, and her next blood test was at least a month away.

Lillian figured she didn’t have all that long left in this world, and it was important to have some small pleasures. Like a cheese sandwich, for pity’s sake. Did they have to take that away from her now, too?

She carefully grated the cheese on a board then set a pile of it between two slices of bread. She dropped a pat of the healthy spread Jessica chose for her in the fry pan and watched as it melted into a bubbly pool.

Lillian had never been interested in cooking. While she was growing up on Beacon Hill in Boston, her family had employed servants, a cook and maids, to do all the housework. She could never recall her mother making herself even a cup of tea.

Besides, Lillian always wanted to be recognized for her mind, not for her flaky piecrust or the height of her soufflé. Her husband, Oliver, had respected her intelligence, though he had also made her feel like the most beautiful creature in the world, which was hardly the response she got from most men.

Oh, she drew enough attention when she was young to know that she had a certain look. But very few admirers had any staying power, not once the conversation got going and they saw what she was made of.

These days, it was different for young women. But not necessarily better, Lillian thought. Look at her daughters: One was a banker and the other the mayor of this town. Her granddaughter was now a reporter on a big newspaper. Meanwhile, they were all still expected to look like fashion models, be devoted mothers and wives,
and
bake a perfect soufflé. Jessica probably could, she reckoned.

Sometimes she felt relieved that she wasn’t young anymore. Sometimes.

She poked the bread with a spatula and slipped on her reading glasses to check the progress. The bread was toasty, but the cheese had not melted much. Why was that? She wasn’t sure. The flame was probably not high enough.

She turned the sandwich carefully, put a cover on top, and turned up the heat.

Out in the parlor, where the radio was tuned to the classical station, she heard the opening bars of one of her very favorite operas, Bizet’s
Carmen
, with Maria Callas singing the role of the doomed temptress. There never was a better Carmen, in Lillian’s opinion, and never would be. Callas’s passion and voice were both at their height in this recording, the combination peerless.

She walked out, turned up the music, and sat in her favorite armchair. A copy of the
Boston Globe
lay on the end table, and she picked it up, scanning the pages for her granddaughter’s byline.

Nothing yet, she noticed. Was that a bad sign? Weren’t Sara’s new editors letting her write news stories? She hoped Sara had not taken a job as some coffee-fetching lackey, just so she could say she was working at the
Boston Globe
. She was a sharp, talented girl, and Lillian didn’t want to see her demeaned.

An article on global warming caught her eyes. Lillian began to read it. The music was very soothing. She loved the flute, such an elegant instrument. She leaned her head back and listened to the notes with her eyes closed. Music was such a great pleasure, one of the few pleasures she could still enjoy.

When Lillian woke, the beloved arias of
Carmen
had faded, replaced by the blaring shriek of the smoke alarm.

She sat up sharply and coughed. The room was full of acrid smoke, and her eardrums were nearly bursting from the screaming alarm.

She covered her mouth with one hand and fumbled for her cane, so excited that she nearly fell over. She caught herself just in time on the back of the chair.

“Merciful heavens. . . . What in the world . . . ?”

Lillian stumbled through the foyer and hobbled out of the house, silently coaching herself to go slowly on the wooden steps that led down from her front porch.

She walked out onto her lawn just as two fire engines and an ambulance came screaming up Providence Street. Her smoke alarm was wired to the fire department. Emily’s idea, of course. Well, perhaps that was a good thing, Lillian conceded.

As if the thought of her daughter had the power to conjure her, Lillian spotted Emily’s Jeep coming down the road as well. The Jeep pulled into a space across the street, and Emily jumped out and ran toward the house.

At the same time, a firefighter stepped up beside her. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

He was a big, burly fellow. Like a cartoon of a fireman from a children’s TV show, Lillian thought, decked out in full gear, a black rubber slicker and big brimmed hat.

“Ma’am?” he said again. “Can you hear me?”

She blinked up at him, her eyes tearing from the smoke. “Certainly, young man. I hear you loud and clear. I’m not deaf, though all this noise is likely to cause some damage.”

“Are you all right?” he repeated again.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she insisted, pulling away from his hold on her arm. “I’m the mayor’s mother, did you know that?”

Before the man could answer, the mayor herself appeared. “Thank you, I’ll take care of her now,” Emily said.

“Of course, Mayor Warwick. If you need anything, let us know.”

Lillian turned to her daughter. “Emily, what in the world is going on here?”

Emily reacted with a look of astonishment. “Good question, Mother. You tell me. Looks like there’s a fire in your house—probably the kitchen, judging from that plume of smoke out back.”

Lillian saw several firemen run past with a large fire extinguisher. “Oh, dear. Where are they going with those things? Will they spray chemicals all over my house? Not on the Oriental carpets, I pray . . .”

“They’ll spray it on the fire.” Emily was tugging on her arm, trying to lead her across the lawn.

Lillian resisted. “What happened to water? Chemicals will damage everything. Can’t you speak to them about it?”

“Just come with me, Mother. We need to get out of the way, so the firefighters can do their job.”

“No need to speak to me like a child. I haven’t gone all addlepated yet.”

The next thing Lillian knew, she was sitting in Emily’s car, with Emily’s coat wrapped around her shoulders. Two paramedics from the ambulance questioned her but soon determined her fit and unharmed.

Lillian watched as they jumped in the ambulance again and drove away. So, she was not very much of an emergency, was she? Lillian felt somehow slighted.

One of the firemen had come out in the meantime and reported that it was just a kitchen fire and would soon be extinguished.

“A kitchen fire. I see. Thank you,” Emily said, turning to look at her mother.

Lillian lifted her chin and stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice. If only the TV had gone up in a state of spontaneous combustion, Lillian thought bitterly. That pitiful sandwich has given Emily plenty of ammunition.

But before Emily could start in on her, Jessica came running up to them. “Oh my God. Is the house on fire?”

Jessica and her family had survived a house fire just last winter. Their beautiful turn-of-the-century house had burned to the ground and everything they owned, in it. It was hardly surprising that Jessica seemed more upset right now than anyone.

Emily touched her sister’s arm to calm her. “Just a kitchen fire, Jess. They say it’s already out.”

“Oh my goodness . . .” Jessica let out a long sigh. “That’s a blessing. Are you all right, Mother? You didn’t breathe in too much smoke, did you?”

“I’m fit as a fiddle,” Lillian replied tartly. “I’ve just been examined by the ambulance crew. They gave me a clean bill of health and drove off, on to the next emergency.”

“She’s fine. Thankfully, she got out quickly and didn’t have any mishaps leaving the house.”

Any mishaps. Emily’s polite way of saying, “She didn’t fall and fracture any bones. Or give herself a heart attack.”

Oh, this was not a good day. Not at all.

A short time later, the fire trucks drove off, and Lillian and her daughters were allowed to go back in the house. Emily and Jessica ran around, opening all the windows and doors. Lillian sat down on the sofa with a heavy sigh.

“We need to let the smoke out. Maybe you shouldn’t come back in here today at all, Mother,” Jessica said.

“So it smells a little smoky. No worse than the chimney backing up or sitting around a campfire.”

Emily glanced at her. “When did you ever sit around a campfire, Mother?”

Lillian shrugged. “I’m sure I did. At one time or another.”

She edged into the corner of the sofa and tugged an afghan around her shoulders. It was getting cold in the house with all the windows open. But, for once, she decided not to complain and draw more attention to her . . . mishap.

She sat quietly while her daughters surveyed the damage, feeling like a schoolchild who’s been sent to the principal’s office and is awaiting her interview. She had made an egregious error today, it was true. Her daughters were bound to make the most of it. Especially Emily.

“The firemen didn’t get spray on the carpeting, I see,” Lillian had noted as they walked back into the parlor. “That was fortunate.”

“The kitchen isn’t too bad,” Jessica reported. “But you need someone to come in and clean before you can use the stove again.”

“Use the stove? I don’t think so.” Emily stood in the middle of the parlor, arms crossed over her chest.

“Really? What am I to do, go on a cold-food regimen? Is that some new weight-loss theory? I hardly think it’s wise to try fad diets at my age,” Lillian grumbled.

“Mother . . . just stop.” Emily held up her hands like a traffic cop. “Not another word. This event just proves what Jessica and I have been trying to tell you since Sara left. You can’t live alone here anymore. Not another day. It’s simply too dangerous.”

Jessica looked at her with a sympathetic but serious expression. “We know it’s hard to face it, Mother. But honestly, didn’t the fire frighten you? Doesn’t it say something to you?”