Authors: George D. Shuman
Sherry sat in her sunroom overlooking the Delaware, Christmas music playing softly on the speakers. The house smelled of pine from two live trees and countless wreaths.
She’d hired a local florist to decorate.
She wondered how many years it had been since the old house hosted a Christmas celebration. She knew nothing of the former owners, but it had been more than a decade that she’d been here. More than a decade since a red ribbon or anything remotely like it had festooned the front door.
Why, she couldn’t say, but it had never felt right to her before. She couldn’t say she had memories about Christmas; from before the age of five she remembered only flashes of her mother and the beach in New Jersey.
This year was different, however. This was a year of new hope and new promise.
Brigham poured himself another glass of port. Sherry, holding a dark bottle of beer, had decided to spend the holidays with lagers.
Brigham seemed to have a new vigor about him, a playfulness that she hadn’t witnessed in a long time. Perhaps, she thought, the holiday cheer was contagious.
“Carol Bishop called this morning.”
“Really.” Brigham rested his glass on a knee.
“She says Hettie is going to night school. She wants to get her GED someday.”
“Bravo,” said Brigham.
“And Yousy is starting seventh grade.”
“What about Carol?” he said kindly.
“She loves having them. She credits Yousy for finding her daughter’s killers.”
“So she should. They need anything?”
“Hunh-uh. They’re living in their apartment over the garage, she said it’s twice the size of their home in Tiburon.”
“We should send them something. A ham, a turkey.”
“Will you handle that, Mr. Brigham?”
He smiled. “My pleasure.”
The doorbell rang.
Sherry looked at Brigham. “You expecting anyone?”
“Not me.” Brigham put his glass on an end table. “Are you here?”
“As long as it’s not the press.”
“Lord, I know that much, Sherry.”
She smiled.
Brigham left her there, feeling the warmth of the winter sun through the plate glass wall that faced the Delaware. He’d said it was snowing earlier, would snow again before midnight. By the weekend there was supposed to be a foot of white stuff on the ground. She didn’t even mind.
“Sherry, guess who’s here?” Brigham said.
“Miss Moore,” Metcalf said politely.
She swiveled her chair toward the door. “Captain?” Sherry smiled, thinking she hadn’t smiled this much in years.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, knowing that for once she wasn’t doing a great job of hiding her emotions.
“I hope it’s not a bad time.”
“Heavens, no,” she said. “Mr. Brigham, would you please get our guest a beer, or something stronger, Captain Metcalf?”
“A beer is fine, but please call me Brian.”
Sherry nodded, beaming. “I didn’t know how to reach you, to thank you again, Brian. Mr. Brigham said you were out of the country.”
“Briefly,” Metcalf said.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
“You knew about this?” Sherry turned to Brigham. “That the captain, that Brian was coming today?”
Brigham said nothing.
“You never cease to amaze me, never.”
“So I was told that you’re ready to go downhill skiing, Miss Moore.”
Sherry looked at Metcalf, perplexed.
“My friend the ski instructor, he has been working with the blind for several years at a resort in western Pennsylvania. It’s not Vail or Vermont, but I told the admiral it’s a great place to learn.”
Sherry looked straight at him, nodding her head slowly, question mark on her face. “Uh-huh,” she said slowly. “Is there more?”
“Uh, actually yes,” Metcalf said, eyebrows raised like question marks at Brigham. “I have some, well, I managed these days coming up, you know, some time off.”
“To go skiing.” Sherry grinned.
“Yeah, well, I mean, it takes two skiers to get you down, one on either side of you. I could be the second, if that was all right with you,” Metcalf said shyly. He looked at Brigham and shrugged.
“And when exactly are my lessons to be?”
“Uh, the day after tomorrow?” Metcalf said tentatively. “You don’t know about any of this, do you, Miss Moore?”
Metcalf’s face began to redden.
Sherry shook her head. “You’ve made reservations?”
“Two rooms at a bed-and-breakfast near Fort Ligonier, four-day lift passes for Seven Springs Resort. The admiral didn’t tell you?”
Brigham rose and picked up his bottle. “Well, you kids work out your plans, it’s time for my nap and I’m sure you can entertain yourselves.”
“Nap?” Sherry made a face. “It’s dinnertime, Mr. Brigham.”
“Nap,” Brigham said firmly.
He chuckled and was gone.
My dearest Eva,
I cannot begin to tell you the wonderful things that have happened since arriving in Burgas. Who could have known what lay beyond that endless sea of grapes in Romania? I thought we knew all there was to know about life. I imagined I was the luckiest girl in all of Cotnari.
Do you know how little money I left home with last month, my “wedding” savings, and yet in three short weeks I have doubled it. There is more to life than marrying a Lepushin and farming dawn to dark.
Grigori, my new friend, has been paying me to model. And no, it’s not what you think. I wear clothes and lots of them. He photographs for a fashion designer based out of Italy. Oh, Eva, you would love him. I told him how beautiful you are and he said I should send for you immediately.
I know it was you that was always accused of having a wild streak, and me that everyone thought so levelheaded. Well, let me tell you from a level head, pack your bags and get here as fast as you can. Grigori has booked passage for me to Italy in eight days. He says if you are as beautiful as I described he’ll throw in passage for you as well and
you
will get to meet the designers personally. He says we will be rich within a year.
Eva, I am staying at the Mirage on Slaveikov Street, Room 1221. Be there by Wednesday, my friend.
Destiny awaits us.
My agent, Paul Fedorko; my editor, Colin Fox; and all the talented people at Simon & Schuster who make my work look good.
Cindy Collins, the none-too-subtle voice over my shoulder. Barb, for that very first read.
George D. Shuman grew up on a cattle farm in the Allegheny Mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania. He worked in a steel mill before moving to Washington, D.C., where he joined the Metropolitan Police Department, from which he retired a lieutenant after twenty years of service. For the next decade Shuman held executive positions in the luxury resort industry, in both Montauk, New York, and Nantucket, Massachusetts, and was a member of the prestigious International Association of Professional Security Consultants.
He has since returned to the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, where he resides and writes full-time.
He has two grown children, Melissa and Daniel.