Finding Father Christmas (10 page)

I stopped just a moment and held out my hand as if I could catch one of the lit-up dust particles the way I had long ago stopped
to catch a raindrop in my palm on an Oregon afternoon. Julia tugged on my hand. “Come on!”

Scrambling, I followed her into the drawing room. All evidence of the party from the night before had been cleared away. In
the corner, the full green Christmas tree was lit up with twinkling lights. Under the tree was a mound of fabulously wrapped
gifts. Ellie had accomplished her late-night goal with panache.

“Oooh.” Julia’s eager expression was worthy of a picture. I wished I had a camera just then to capture the magic in her eyes.
She hung back, looking without touching. Maybe she knew the family traditions. I guessed she knew she must wait for the others.
Or maybe all she wanted was to have a peek at this feast for the eyes. Everything about the room was enchanting in the thin
morning light. The dark wood of the fireplace
along with the deep cocoa brown leather of the chairs set the tone of sophistication, but all the added touches gave the
room its regal feel.

I joined Julia in taking in the elegance of this room that was dressed up for Christmas morning. In addition to Ellie’s pink
touches throughout the greenery swags and the strings of gold beads that hung from the chandeliers, I noticed other details
that had been hidden last night when the room was brimming with guests. My eyes went to the hand-painted blue Delft tiles
that lined the inside of the fireplace and to the large floor rug with the small red birds woven into it. An engaging pattern
of waving green and gold vines was laced throughout the thick curtains that hung from the ceiling to the floor alongside the
front window. The drapes were drawn back with golden cords, making a soft frame for the pristine view of the snow-blanketed
world outside the window. All the room needed was a fire in the hearth to warm things up, and it would be as perfect a setting
for a Christmas card as ever there could be.

A thought both tender and sad settled on me. This time it wasn’t a thought about my mother or my father or my past. The thought
was of my future. One day I wanted to be married. I wanted to have a daughter. I wanted her to know who her father was and
to have a precious, close relationship with him. I wished that if I did have a daughter someday, I could bring her to this
home, this room, on Christmas morning. I wanted her to have all this wonder.

The tender sadness covering my wish was that I didn’t belong here. Not really. This wasn’t my place or my world to dream about.

And yet I was here. Against all the odds, I was here. On Christmas Day. With family, really, even though they didn’t know
that. In my heart I knew this place, these people, were my people. And I didn’t know who to thank for that. How had I ended
up here?

The coincidences were too many. If there truly was a heavenly Father over us all, as Doralee had proclaimed until the end,
then he had chosen to play the part of Father Christmas for me and had given me this gift of knowing, of being reasonably
certain of who my father was.

Standing alongside Julia, hand in hand in this room of gifts, warmth, and light, it seemed almost possible to believe in God
the way a child believes in Father Christmas.

Thinking of the line that Andrew delivered in the performance—”Come in, come in, and know me better, friend”—I saw myself
as the trembling Scrooge, standing on the doorstep of Christmas Present. All this bounty was being opened to me, and yet I
couldn’t come in. Not all the way. I couldn’t enter. It wasn’t mine to receive.

Julia looked up at me with a different sort of “ooh!” expression. This one was along the lines of “Uh-oh, I forgot something!”

“Our stockings,” she said. “I didn’t look for my stocking.”

My eyes went to the fireplace. No stockings hung there. They were the only key Christmas item missing from this cozy setup.

“You’re right. There are no stockings hanging by the fire. Maybe Santa Claus—I mean, Father Christmas—forgot to bring them
this year.”

“You silly! Father Christmas doesn’t hang our stockings by the fire. He hangs them on our bedposts.”

“Oh. Well, then let’s sneak upstairs and see if Father Christmas remembered to hang a stocking from your bedpost.”

“No. I was the one who put the stocking there.” Julia gave me a don’t-you-know-anything look. “Father Christmas comes and
puts the sweets in my stocking. I hope I get a Lion Bar this year. They’re my favorite. Do you like Lion Bars?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Lion Bar.”

I could tell by her amazed expression she thought I had come from Jupiter because Jupiter had to be the only place in the
universe that didn’t have Lion Bars.

“If Father Christmas didn’t put a Lion Bar in your stocking and if he put two in mine, I’ll give you one of mine,” Julia said.

Stroking her soft cheek I whispered, “Thank you.”

Together we retraced our trail upstairs with more noise than we had managed on our way down. Julia raced to her room. I followed,
still not sure if I was aiding and abetting a wild little tradition-breaker running free in the Whitcombe household.

When Julia pushed open her bedroom door, she gave a happy squeal, and I knew that Father Christmas had plumped up her stocking.
I also heard another bedroom door open farther down the hall.

Assuming either her brother or her parents were up and about, I slipped back into my guest room and closed the door. I didn’t
want to be in the way.

To my surprise, Father Christmas had visited my room while I was downstairs with Julia. On one of my bedposts hung a long
red sock. My name had been written with curling letters on a piece of white fabric, which was attached to the top of the stocking.

I sat on the end of the bed and examined the stocking. I had never had a Christmas stocking before. The gesture of sweet hospitality
was almost too much to swallow. In the toe of the stocking was a mandarin orange that made a nice bulge and added a fresh,
sweet scent to the room as I emptied all the goodies onto the top of the down comforter.

Along with the orange, my treats included a purple pen attached to a notepad, six pieces of candy (four hard pieces and two
chewy), the highly praised Lion Bar (a chocolate candy bar), and a small bag of cashews.

Snuggling back under the covers, I started with the chocolate bar, remembering all the times my mother and I had dined on
chocolates for our Christmas morning breakfast. The Lion Bar had a strip of caramel inside. My mother would have liked that.
One bite, and I knew why it was Julia’s favorite.

I moved on to the cashews and the two chewy pieces of candy. The orange I saved for last. I sucked each wedge slowly, savoring
the fresh taste in my mouth. Glancing up, I caught my reflection in the large mirror above the dresser across the room. Positioning
the orange slice just right, I spread my lips and flashed a wide, orange-toothed smile at my reflection.

The image made me laugh. I kept smiling and realized it had been a long, long time since I had laughed. A happy thought settled
on me. Could it be that after all these years of winter in my life, it was finally, at long last, Christmas?

I dared to believe it could be so.

R
emaining under the cozy down comforter, I smiled to myself, thinking of being here on Christmas morning and not alone in a
London hotel room. Father Christmas had brought me something else for Christmas—being here, in this place, with these people.
And I felt blissfully young.

Decisions regarding some strategic conversations would have to take place eventually. But for now I could linger, open my
gifts of Christmas morning ever so slowly, and relish the lavishness of it all.

That’s what I told myself as I lounged in the puffy comfort of the guest bed, gazing outside at the sunlight on the new-fallen
snow.

A soft tapping came on the bedroom door. It was more like a patting than a tapping. I guessed it was Julia and called out,
“Come in!”

Instead of Julia, Ellie’s curious face appeared when the door opened. “So you are awake. Good morning and happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas to you, too.”

“Julia said you showed her the snow and the presents under the tree.”

“I hope that was okay.” I sat up in bed.

“Yes, yes, of course it’s okay. I told you to feel at home, and that’s exactly what we want you to do.” Ellie’s hair had returned
to its natural brunette shade, sans sparkles of any kind. She was wearing a plush white robe and fluffy slippers on her bare
feet. The ensemble was quite a departure from the Sugarplum outfit of the evening before.

“I’ve come to see if you would like to join us downstairs around the tree.”

I hesitated, still not sure how it could be okay for me to crash another one of their parties. “I think I’ll stay here,” I
said. “But I would like to go to church with you later.”

“Lovely!” Ellie surveyed the combat zone on my bed where all the food items had been annihilated quickly.

“Thanks for the stocking,” I said, feeling shy. “I loved it, as you can see.”

She smiled. “I’m sure Father Christmas would be pleased to know how much you enjoyed the gifts he left for you. Now, would
you like a cup of tea, or perhaps some hot chocolate? I always make hot chocolate for the children before they open their
gifts.”

I smiled and nodded. “I can come down to the kitchen and get it.”

“No, no, no! You stay right where you are. I’ll bring it to you.”

Ellie backed up and closed the door behind her before I could protest. I was still having a hard time believing her generosity.
What woman with a husband and two children wouldn’t consider a stray houseguest to be a burden on Christmas Day? Especially
a houseguest who was a stranger?

Ellie returned with a red Christmas mug on a tray and served it to me while I was still in bed. Along with the cocoa she had
brought a small croissant, a slice of well-toasted wheat bread, and a little dish of orange marmalade. I felt foolish, like
a child being showered with kindness on a day she had faked an illness to play hooky from school.

“Come downstairs whenever you wish.”

“Thank you.”

With a flutter of her hand Ellie closed the door, but the end of her long robe got caught. Giggling, she opened the door,
pulled up her robe and, with a swish, closed the door again. She may have washed away all the sparkles in her morning shower,
but from where I sat, she still appeared to be a Sugarplum Fairy.

I leisurely finished my breakfast in bed and then slid back under the inviting comforter for a little doze. I was beginning
to see how my mother could so easily fall into nap mode on Christmas after our breakfast of chocolates. So much chocolate
at one time may release lovely endorphins, but that much sugar on an empty stomach could cause a lull, and that’s exactly
what it did to me.

The sleep I swam into was soothing. I dreamed of Ellie and Edward wanting me, inviting me to dine with them. The table was
heavy with all sorts of wonderful things to eat. The laughter echoed off the walls, and Julia came over and climbed into my
lap.

I woke and stretched. I had slept for probably only ten or fifteen minutes, but the nap had rejuvenated me. I reached into
my shoulder bag beside the bed and pulled out the blue velvet pouch with the golden tassels. The photo was still there. I
stared at it and knew I hadn’t imagined any of this. It was the same photo as the one sitting on the mantel downstairs.

My birth certificate had been locked up long ago in a home safe in the closet of my San Francisco apartment. The folded-up
playbill lay in the velvet pouch. I had a look at it and ran my eyes over words I had read many times.

“Lake Shore Community Theater Presents Shakespeare’s
THE TEMPEST.”

My mother’s name was listed beside the role of Miranda. It would have been so helpful, so obvious, if the name “James Whit-combe”
appeared next to one of the other characters’ names. It would have all been there in black and white, and I could explain
how my mother had fallen for one of the other actors, who happened to be James Whitcombe, and nine months later I had made
my grand entrance onto the stage of life.

But like every other detail of my mother’s life, this one wasn’t that easy or that obvious.

I studied the playbill one more time. At the bottom of the paper, in small print, I read the words, “With a special thank
you for the support given by the Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre.”

Sitting up more fully, I read the fine print again. The Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre was the name on the plaque
in front of Grey Hall where the performance had been held last night. I hadn’t made the connection then.

In front of me was another small clue. Had James Whitcombe been involved in the Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre? Andrew
said Sir James had contributed much to this community with his status and dedication to the theater. Had
his involvement led him to the US and to this small-time community theater performance of
The Tempest?

How was the Lake Shore Community Theater connected to the Grey Hall Community Theatre? Lake Shore group was in Michigan. I
was born in Michigan and somehow ended up on the West Coast soon after. Did my mother have family in Michigan, or was she
simply passing through when she joined the theater group?

It seemed that with each clue I uncovered, I picked up another string of questions. Many of those questions would never, could
never, be answered. Other answers seemed to be so close, so nearly within my reach.

Tucking the photo and the playbill back into the blue velvet bag and setting it on the nightstand, I decided to venture downstairs
and find a way to begin my very necessary conversation with Edward and Ellie. The evidence was mounting. I needed to say something.

I found the Whitcombe family poetically gathered around the tree. A fire blazed in the hearth. From where I stood, all the
gifts appeared to have been opened. Julia was busy brushing the long hair of a new doll, and Mark, who looked tall for a twelve-year-old,
stood beside his father, who was trying to fit together a control box of some sort.