Engaging Father Christmas: A Novella, Page 2

  “Actually, I do have one more thing to say about seeing Josh.”

  “So, there is more,” Ian said.

  “Not much more. What I wanted to add is that, even though it was strange seeing Josh after all these years, I’m glad I did. It always felt as if that relationship needed the final dots connected.”

  “And are they connected now?”

  I smiled at him and nodded. “Yes.”

  His phone rang a third time. Ian gingerly pulled it from his coat pocket without also extracting “the box” and looked at the screen. “It’s Katharine. I’ll put her to rest and let her know we’re on our way.”

  Katharine, the tall, gentle-spirited woman who married Ian’s father, Andrew, two years ago, had been a kind friend to me on my first visit to Carlton Heath. She and Andrew ran a small place called the Tea Cosy. That’s where I first entered the circle of friends I now called my own.

  “Hello, Katharine. I’m with Miranda now, and we’re on the train.”

  As he listened to her response, Ian pulled away from our relaxed position and sat up straight.

  “Katharine, your voice cut out for a moment. Did you say heart attack?”

  He listened carefully and checked his watch. “My car is at the station, so we’ll go directly to hospital. Tell him we’re on our way.”

  Ian closed his phone and turned to me with a stunned expression.

  “Your dad?”

  He nodded.

  “What did Katharine say?”

  “The doctor is referring to it as an ‘episode.’ They’ve run tests and are waiting for results.”

  Ian rose and said, “Wait here.”

  With determined strides he went to the automatic door that opened between the train cars and headed toward the front of the train. I knew that, if it were at all possible, he would convince the conductor to break a speed record in reaching Carlton Heath.

  I felt my heart pounding as I checked my cell phone and saw that I had two missed calls from Katharine. My phone must have been temporarily out of range when she tried to reach us. She hadn’t left a message, so I didn’t have any further details. My first response was to try calling her back, but when I did, she didn’t pick up.

  I sat with my phone in my lap, blinking and trying to sort out the implications of this unwanted news. Please don’t take him, God. Not now. Not at Christmas. Not this Christmas. We need Andrew in this world.

  I fixed my numbed gaze on a box held protectively in the lap of a woman the next aisle over. The picture on the box was of a nativity scene. All the key players were present: Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, three wise men, two shepherds, a lamb, and a donkey. The fully set stage reminded me of my mother, and instantly thoughts of her bombarded me.

  My mother, who always referred to herself as “Eve Carson the Actress,” was big on curtain calls. She loved it when all the key players were on stage together, ready for their accolades. Her curtain call on life came far too soon, and there definitely was no applause at her passing. I was her only daughter, and she was my gypsy mother.

  I remember exactly where I was sitting the moment one of the stagehands in Salinas came to tell me of her fall at the dress rehearsal for The Merchant of Venice. I was eleven years old, and my favorite place to make myself invisible was backstage in the wardrobe room. I could always find a trunk to use as a couch and an unused coat to fold into a pillow. My companion in that private boudoir was always a book.

  Sometimes I’d fall asleep there. Other times the seamstress would slip me peppermints she had lifted from the supply set aside for the actors to help clear their throats before performances.

  My mother knew where to find me, as did most of the others involved in the various theatrical performances. And I knew well enough to stay out of their way if I wanted to keep coming back to my hideaway.

  On the afternoon of my mother’s accident, my perch wasn’t on a self-made sofa but on a folding director’s chair in the corner by the rack of dresses. Each costume held a pungent fragrance of perfume, lotion, stage makeup, and perspiration. When they were all gathered together on the rack in a colorful assortment, the scent was exotic and strangely intoxicating. I knew that a bit of my mother’s scent was mixed into that wild bouquet. So in my logically illogical preadolescent mind, I was somehow close to her.

  I had settled in the director’s chair reading A Wrinkle in Time and was at the part where the starfish grows back one of its appendages.

  A panicked stagehand, dressed all in black, burst into the wardrobe and motioned for me to come with him. He said only three words: “It’s your mother.”

  I read the truth in his face. I could see it all right there between the deeply creased lines radiating from his pinched eyes. She who had been to me all I knew of my past, present, and future was about to be severed from my life. I remember thinking in that micromoment that I would never be able to grow another Eve Carson the Actress to replace her.

  As the train chugged on toward Carlton Heath, my tears came like quiet rain, remembering my mother and staring at the nativity scene on the box. Christmas was about birth, new life, and celebrating Christ. Last year all of that had been true. This year . . . I blew my nose and prayed that today would not be the day Ian would experience the severing of Andrew MacGregor from his life.

  Chapter Four

  I an returned to his seat on the train carrying two insulated cups of hot tea. I knew he had been as far as he could get to the engine room, but I let him think I believed he had only been as far as the snack car.

  “Twelve minutes,” he said. “Twelve minutes before we arrive in Carlton Heath. My car is parked on the west end of the lot. We might have to put the top down to fit everything in. Is that your warmest coat?”

  I nodded. It was the only coat I’d brought with me.

  “The hospital is about ten kilometers from the station. Do you think you’ll be warm enough?”

  “I’ll be fine. I have a scarf.”

  “Good.” He sipped his tea. I could tell by his expression that it was too hot. Holding onto my cup, I waited for it to cool. A faintly cheering sense of familiarity came into view as I looked out the window and watched the red brick row houses with their slanted roofs and smoking chimney pots. I had looked forward to this day for so long. Never did I expect the ominous news that would run to meet us before we entered the village of Carlton Heath.

  We didn’t talk the rest of the way, but we did make good use of our nonverbal communication skills. Being in a long distance relationship for the past year, Ian and I had learned a variety of ways to communicate our affection, even though we were thousands of miles apart. On the train it felt like a luxury to squeeze his arm and offer him a comforting look. I knew he was taking in all my unspoken messages.

  I’m not so sure he was able to read my unspoken messages once we arrived at the train station though. Ian smashed my small suitcase into the nearly nonexistent trunk of his Austin-Healy sports car, and I drew in a sharp breath through my closed teeth. He was in his “make it happen” mode for good reason. I was in the “save the presents” mode for equally good reason. I chose not to use that moment to communicate anything either verbally or nonverbally.

  Drawing in the crisp winter air, I looked up at the clear sky and watched my breath form airy snowballs that instantly evaporated. This, I remembered. This moist, chilled air. This feeble covering of the ancient trees. This shade of pale blue above with hints of green and earthy brown below. The beauty of this small corner of England at this time of year was the beauty of lacy frost on the windows at first light and of long, willowy shadows at dusk.

  Even in the midst of everything that was happening, I felt privileged to be here.

  Crawling into the sports car on what still felt like it should be the driver’s side, I buckled up before we took off for the hospital. I’d been with Ian before when he opened up on the country roads of Kent. We had gone for a picnic in the country last August when I was in England visiting him. I knew his
“baby” could hum, and hum she did, all the way to the hospital. My ears froze, and my nose dripped from the cold, but my feet, tucked up under the heating vent, were nice and toasty.

  Ian parked, pulled out my large suitcase, and quickly put the car’s top in place. He took off for the hospital entrance with my suitcase bumping along over the uneven pavement of the parking lot.

  As I trotted to keep up, a beautiful thought broke through my concern for Andrew and my growing exasperation with Ian. If I were the one lying in the hospital bed, Ian would race to my side just as he was racing to his father’s side. Not since the loss of my mother did I have anyone in my life who would care and come for me in that way.

  We found Andrew’s room, and tall, graceful Katharine met us with hugs.

  “How is he?” Ian marched past Katharine and went to his father’s bedside.

  “He’s sedated,” Katharine said in a soft voice. “The doctor should be around in a moment to talk with us about the test results.” She reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here, Miranda.”

  “I’m glad too.” I squeezed her hand back.

  “Dad, how are you feeling? Miranda and I are here now.”

  The sleeping giant only gave a twitch of his mouth in response, causing his snowy white beard to move slightly.

  I slipped my hand into Andrew’s where it rested on his great, barreled chest. I couldn’t imagine the world without this man.

  You must heal, Andrew MacGregor. Do you hear me? Heal and mend. Get strong. You are so deeply loved by many. You can’t leave us now. You can’t. You have to stay with us.

  “Are you comfortable, Dad? I can bring you another pillow if you like.”

  Andrew’s only response was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

  The doctor entered before Ian managed to extract a response from his father, which was probably a small kindness for the sedated man.

  “What can you tell us?” Ian asked the doctor.

  The doctor dove into an overview of what had happened to Andrew, what procedures had been followed, and how the test results had come back indicating no need for further concern.

  “I have every reason to believe your father is going to pull through this. What he needs is lots of rest and some recommended adjustments to his diet and exercise. You’ll receive the information when we release him.”

  “Does that mean he’s able to go home now?” Ian asked.

  “No, I’d like to keep him here for observation overnight to see how he responds to the medication I’ve started him on. If he has no adverse reactions, I’ll provide you with that prescription. He’s a strong man, and I anticipate a full recovery.”

  “What a relief,” I said softly.

  “Have you any further questions for me?” the doctor asked.

  Ian glanced at Katharine and me and then back at the doctor. “No. This is better news than we had hoped for. Keep on giving him your best care. That’s all I ask.”

  “That is the plan, Mr. MacGregor,” he said.

  I knew Ian would like his answer. Ian liked having a plan.

  The doctor left, and Ian pressed his chin against the top of my head, kissing me on the crown. “This is good news,” he said. “Very good news. If you need to go for a bit, Katharine, I’ll look after things here.”

  “Well,” Katharine lowered herself into the chair next to the bed and said, “I was planning to stay. But since you’re here, I should check in at the Tea Cosy. I left Ellie in charge of serving the expected holiday guests, and it is close to teatime.”

  “What about the Christmas play tonight?” I asked.

  For the past forty years the Carlton Heath Theatre Guild had carried on a tradition of performing Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol at Grey Hall. I knew this was the first year the Guild had an all-children cast — except for Andrew. He was playing the showstopper role of Father Christmas.

  I remembered going to the production last Christmas Eve and watching Andrew take on the role of Christmas Present. Before Andrew created his own adaptation of the Father Christmas character in the Christmas Present scene, the part had belonged to my father.

  Ellie, my half brother’s wife, had told me many stories of how Sir James Whitcombe took to the stage each year and embodied the role. He was Father Christmas to all the children in the village of Carlton Heath. He visited their homes and schools with gifts and good cheer, and when he passed away, the town mourned the loss longer than any of his devoted fans with their blogs and Web sites.

  In some ways the town still was mourning. This year was only their third Christmas without Sir James. Andrew had given the role a worthy run, but now he was unable to don the hooded Father Christmas costume and bring hope and cheer to the stage and to the people of Carlton Heath.

  “I’m waiting to hear from the Guild director,” Katharine said. “He is considering postponing tonight’s performance in light of Andrew’s situation. If they do postpone, we’ll have a performance on Christmas Eve. We hadn’t planned on that since we felt the children should be home on the night before Christmas.”

  “Do you think Andrew will be well enough to resume his role by tomorrow night?” I asked optimistically.

  A low rumble sounded from Andrew’s chest. “I’m not dead yet. Or had none of you noticed that?”

  “There he is!” Ian leaned over his father. “Ready to give out orders again, are you?”

  Ian looked at me and smiled. The room seemed to have suddenly become more spacious.

  “What have they done to me, son?” Andrew’s eyelids fluttered open and then closed again.

  “You had a mild heart attack, Dad.”

  “Feels more like a Saxon attack.”

  The three of us smiled.

  “What day is it?” Andrew asked, still not opening his eyes.

  “It’s December twenty-third.” I slipped my hand into Andrew’s large paw.

  “And whose soft hand is this?”

  “It’s Miranda’s, Dad. We’re all here for you.”

  “Where’s my Katharine?”

  “I’m right here.” Katharine rose and kissed his forehead. “You’re on the mend, Andrew. The doctor said we’re not to worry. You need to rest now.”

  “How can a man be expected to sleep when he’s flanked by his son and two beautiful women?” Andrew’s closed eyelids fluttered as if they were just too heavy to open. A smooth expression came over his rugged face. The three of us watched as his mouth drooped, and his breathing returned to the steady rhythm of sleep.

  “Go on, then,” Ian whispered to Katharine. “I’ll stay with him. I’m sure he’s going to be sleeping for the next while.”

  Katharine nodded, as if she finally agreed leaving might be the best choice. Turning to me she said, “Is there a chance you might want to come with me?”

  “Sure. Do you need some help?”

  “I wouldn’t mind some. I left everything in such shambles.”

  “Of course. I can go to the Tea Cosy with you now, if that would help.”

  “Yes, that would be best. Ian, are you all right with that plan?”

  “Yes. I can manage here. Miranda, don’t make any commitments for dinner though. Particularly with men in ski caps.” He gave me a wink. “I’ll meet you at the Cosy at seven o’clock sharp.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I said.

  “And I’ll be ready too,” Andrew mumbled without opening his eyes.

  “No, you’ll be sleeping, Dad, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Being with all of you, that’s what’s good for me. That and maybe a kiss or two.”

  Andrew rumbled right into a slurred and paraphrased version of a poem I’d heard him quote a number of times. The name of the kiss-giver seemed to change according to whom he was trying to coerce at the moment. This afternoon it was me.

  “Say I’m weary, say I’m sad;

  “Say that health and wealth have missed me;

  “Say I’m growing old, but
add —

  “Miranda kissed me!”

  In response, I planted a nice, warm kiss on his whiskered cheek and whispered my own paraphrased version of one of my favorite quotes from Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. I had many lines memorized from my mother’s performances, which I heard over and over. “Serve God, love well, and mend.”

  Chapter Five

  Are you sure you’re not too tired to do this?” Katharine asked once we were in her car and on our way back into town.

  She had a good point. Usually this was when my jet lag kicked in. “No, I’m wide awake. I think the scare with Andrew had something to do with that. All that adrenaline.”

  “Che-che-che,” Katharine responded in soothing agreement. The funny sound she made reminded me of the indistinct call a person made to attract a squirrel or a flock of birds. During the past year her “che-che-che” had come to mean many things to me, including the sense of comfort she was bestowing on both of us now.

  That’s how it was with Katharine. Her husband had just suffered a heart attack, and yet she was asking about me, making sure I wasn’t too tired. I loved Katharine. I loved Andrew, and without a doubt I loved Ian. I was more than ready for our everyday lives to intersect the way they were now. But a few items needed to be resolved to pull all the pieces together. My hopes for this trip included settling those issues.

  Just as my thoughts went to one of those unresolved concerns, Katharine inadvertently brought up the topic. “I thought you should know that Margaret plans to come to the Tea Cosy this afternoon.”

  Katharine turned off the main road and took the shortcut to Bexley Lane where her tea shop was located.

  “Oh good,” I said. But I could tell my enthusiasm level wasn’t convincing by the look on Katharine’s face as she glanced at me.

  Unlike my mother, I couldn’t act well. I could pretend, however. And ever since I had entered the scene with the Whitcombe family here in Carlton Heath, I had pretended that Margaret would one day accept me. She didn’t have to like me, but I imagined all sorts of ways she could receive me into the clan.