Finding Father Christmas (7 page)

Edward tilted his head with a vague weariness. “Were you a fan, then?”

“A fan?”

“Of my father. Were you a fan of his work?”

I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Katharine, hoping for some sort of clue as to what Sir James did or why I should
be a fan. But she had turned to greet another guest, leaving me alone with my bumbling mess.

“I… I don’t know.”

Edward looked oddly humored by my response. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard that answer.”

I looked down at the uneaten crab puff on my plate and considered popping the whole thing in my mouth so I would be assured
of not speaking for at least thirty seconds.

Instead, I chose an unusual path for me, especially with strangers. I spoke the truth. Rather involuntarily, I might add.

“I’m from the US and… ” If my lack of British party manners hadn’t already given away that I was an outsider, I was sure my
American accent had. I tried another approach. “What I meant to say is that I’m not familiar with your father or his work.
So I don’t know if I’m a fan or not.”

“Is that right?”

I nodded. “I am familiar with his name only because of a few details Andrew and Katharine told me as we drove over here tonight.”

“And they didn’t tell you what my father did?”

I shook my head and offered a tiny smile, hoping my faux pas would be dismissed.

He nodded slowly. It was the kind of nodding motion one makes when thinking. He kept looking at my eyes the same way his wife,
Ellie, had tried to make eye contact with me at the theater.

I realized how jet-lagged I was and how much I could use a little freshening up before I tried to carry on a serious conversation
with anyone else in the room. At least if I wanted them to take me seriously. I reminded myself that my objective was to see
if any of these guests had a lead for me on the photograph.

For a fleeting second I considered asking Edward if I might show him the photo and ask for his input. But I felt off balance
and didn’t want to risk offending the “Founder of the Feast” by letting him know the only reason I was there was to carry
out some amateurish detective work.

Instead of continuing the conversation in any direction, normal or abnormal, I looked away from his questioning gaze. “Would
it be all right if I used your restroom?”

“Our restroom? Do you intend to have a rest?”

“Excuse me?”

“Were you asking if you might lie down to take a nap?”

“No. I would like to use the restroom… the bathroom… I want to wash up.”

“Oh, of course. The WC. It’s in the hallway, to the right of the stairs.”

“The what?”

“WC. Short for water closet, of course.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I turned to go, wondering how it could be that though we were both speaking English, neither of us understood
the other.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what my father did?” he asked.

I stopped and looked at him over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure of the proper way to respond, so I simply took the cue as if it
were a riddle. “What did your father do?”

With a hint of grin he said, “My father was a famous actor.”

Without a feather of a thought, I said what came immediately to my mind, borne of my life experience. “Then I’m very sorry
for you.”

A smile burst onto his face. He gave me an appreciative nod and raised his nearly empty glass in a toast.

I tried to inconspicuously slide out of the room.

I
gave myself a stern lecture in the bathroom mirror. Or the “WC” mirror. Or was it a “looking glass” like in
Alice in Wonderland’?

Whatever it was I was looking into and whatever tiny room I was in with the itty-bitty sink and pull-chain toilet, I gazed
at my pale expression and reminded my sorry self that I had never been particularly good in social settings and that this
evening was further proof.

“Try to be polite, Miranda. Get some information, and then get out of here. Don’t make these people remember you for all the
wrong reasons.”

Taking a minute to comb back my dark hair, I gathered my shoulder-length mane up in a clip and found some lip gloss for my
dry lips in the side pocket of my shoulder bag.

Slightly freshened, I returned to the drawing room. The guests had gathered in an organized circle, and a game of some sort
had begun. I stood at the back, observing. It took me only a moment to realize what type of game had been initiated. This
was a company of actors and other theater aficionados. They were playing a form of charades, of course.

The guest who stood in the center of the room recited a line
from a play, and everyone else tried to come up with either the play’s name or the line that followed.

I hung back as a large man took to the center of the room and called out, “’What light through yonder window breaks?’“

The group laughed at his attempted falsetto.

Young Scrooge was the quickest to shout out, “
Romeo and Juliet’.”

Hearty pats on the back were in order for nimble Scrooge, who then moved to the center and recited one of his lines from the
performance that evening.

“’Do not force me to look any longer at what I have become. Tell me instead what is to come.’“

The immediate response came from Andrew, as he delivered the following line in his Spirit of Christmas Present stage voice:
“’And so it shall be!’ That would be from
A Christmas Carol,
of course.”

The group rumbled with comments on how, from then on, the lines should be from plays other than A
Christmas Carol,
especially because the Carlton Heath adaptation had so mercilessly slaughtered the original lines, making the quotes less
than authentic. Everyone gave Scrooge a kind word or two, saying he’d done just fine.

Andrew moved right along with, “’Does it occur to you, Higgins, that the girl has some feelings?’“

“My Fair Lady,”
someone called out.

“Also known as… ” Andrew prompted the group, as if this were a trick question. To add to the clues, he continued with the
next line, ‘“Oh no, I don’t think so. Not any feelings that we need bother about. Have you, Eliza?’“

“’I got my feelings same as anyone else,’“ I said, filling in the next line under my breath. Only one person heard me. That
person was Ellie.

“Well done, Miranda! You should receive extra points for coming up with the next line.” To the group she said, “The play is
My Fair Lady.
Why are you stalling, Andrew?”

“Ah!” Edward stepped forward and said with a triumphant flash, “
My Fair Lady,
originally entitled
Pygmalion.”

A collective “of course” sigh rippled across the room.

“Miranda, were you in a performance
of My Fair Lady
at one time?” Ellie asked.

“No, I’ve never been in a play.”

“Really? Neither have I. I like you better by the moment. Here I thought I was the only one in this group who was inexperienced
on the stage.”

I didn’t respond to her comment because I couldn’t say I was inexperienced on the stage. I just had never officially been
in a performance. My mother had played the role of Eliza Doolittle on a stage somewhere when I was around six. She taught
me how to read with that script.

Edward was in the circle now. He paused, thinking, glancing around the room. He looked at Ellie, as if seeking some bolstering
of his courage. She glittered and glowed and blew her dashing husband a kiss. The charming moment led me to believe that Edward
was much more humble than his circumstances would have suggested. I felt a fondness for both of them, which surprised me because
I barely knew them.

Edward kept looking at Ellie, and then his sweeping gaze turned to me. In that moment, he seemed to have found his line.
I told myself I could be imagining the connection, but when I heard his line, I knew I had inadvertently inspired him. It
was my name. He delivered Miranda’s final line in
The Tempest:

“’O wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world that has such people in’t!’“

No one in the room responded. They looked at each other with shrugs and mumbles.

"Where did he come up with that one?” Ellie shook her head at her husband and showered my arm with her fairy dust.

“It’s from
The Tempest,”
I said, being sure to keep my voice low.

“The Tempest?”
she asked. “Shakespeare, right? How do you know all these lines?”

I shrugged, hoping to appear naive. I hadn’t seen a production of
The Tempest.
I knew the line because I had read the script many times. During my years with the television-less Doralee, I read. I didn’t
go to plays, but I read dozens of them, many times over.

Edward repeated his line with an eyebrow partly raised in anticipation of victory at the parlor game. “Anyone? Anyone at all?
Even a guess?”

I felt fairly certain it wasn’t polite to one-up a host. Ellie didn’t seem to think the same way.

“She knows it,” Ellie said, pointing at me. “Go ahead, Miranda.”

All eyes turned toward me.

I froze and then realized the best way to get all eyes off me was to say the answer. “
The Tempest.”

Edward looked impressed, or maybe the better way to
describe his reaction was “intrigued.” He bowed and made a sweep of his hand to show that the floor was mine. I had forgotten
about that part of the game. It was my turn to stump the experts. I didn’t want to be in the center of this group.

“That’s okay.” I raised my hand and stepped back, closer to the fireplace. “You can go again. I don’t have any ideas. Just,
please, go again.”

“But it’s your turn,” Ellie said.

“Really, I can’t… I don’t have… ”

My expression must have reflected my discomfort because Ellie, the perfect pink hostess, stepped forward. “Miranda gave her
turn to me. And I have a good one. Are you ready?”

I appreciated Ellie more in that moment than she could ever know.

To avoid further embarrassment, I backed up a few feet from the rest of the group and stood beside the leather chairs by the
hearth.

Ellie dove in with a line I didn’t recognize. Another woman knew the play, shouted the answer, and gleefully took the spotlight.

I noticed Katharine across the room and remembered why I had been invited to this party in the first place. Glancing around
for a clock to see what time it was, I wondered when I needed to leave for the train station. I spotted an antique clock tucked
in among the decorations on the mantel. Taking two steps closer to the fire to see the correct time on the small face, my
eye caught a lineup of family photos in an assortment of frames. In the first photo, a little girl stood beside an elaborately
decorated Christmas tree. She wore a frilly dress with a wide
sash around the middle and shiny black Mary Janes with white, cuffed ankle socks. She stood up straight, sporting a great
big cheesy smile. Her arms were so closely pressed to her sides that her very full skirt was flat on either side while swooping
out in the front and back like a canoe with a ruffly petticoat.

Next to that sweet picture was a larger photo. This one was of a little boy wearing pajamas and a pair of brown felt reindeer
antlers. His expression was pure eight-year-old glee as he peered inside the partially unwrapped Christmas gift on his lap.

Moving on to the most ornate frame next to the clock, I drew closer, and my breath caught in the back of my throat.

It was the picture.
The
photograph. Father Christmas and the wailing boy. The exact photo I was carrying in my purse, only the picture on the mantel
was larger and less faded. And in an ornate frame, just as Katharine had said she remembered. The picture was here. In this
home.

I sank into the leather chair beside the fire and felt the room fold in on me.

How can this he? Who are these people?

The truth I had been seeking all these years was so close I could touch it. Only I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe.

M
y thoughts scurried around, trying to form some sort of order.

Who is the man in the photo? Who is the boy? What is the photo doing in this house? Why did my mother have a copy of that
picture? Was Josh right? Did my mother know one of the people in the photo? Is one of them possibly
…
my father?

The game was beginning to wind down. Ellie floated through the circle of guests, urging them to have more food. I leaned forward,
hoping to catch her eye. My unspoken request worked, and she came toward me.

“Would you like something to drink, Miranda?”

“No, I… ”

“Have you tried the sugarplum punch yet? It’s not spiked. At least I don’t think it is. Trouble is, I haven’t managed to keep
my eye on Andrew all evening so I can’t guarantee he hasn’t instigated his usual shenanigans.

Would you like something else to eat?”

“No, I…

” I glanced at the mantel, feeling my heart pressing against my chest with firm thumps. “I… I wondered… is that… ”

Ellie looked at the clock on the mantel. “Are you looking for
the correct time? Because if you are, that clock is notoriously slow. You need to leave here in time to catch the train back
to London, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, but… ” I instinctively glanced at my watch. Regardless of the actual time, the hands had moved another minute. They
were now pointed straight up. Midnight. My journey through Christmas past and Christmas present had brought me here, to this
“midnight moment.” The photo in my purse matched the photo on the mantel; the past, present, and future had intersected.

“You would have no trouble catching the 10:42 to London, if you left here in about ten minutes,” Ellie said. “Or fifteen,
if you like. I would be happy to give you a ride to the station. How does that sound to you?”

I couldn’t leave yet. Not until I knew…

“Ellie, I… I… The photo on the mantel. Who are those people?”