The Hope of Christmas Past

by Stephenia H. McGee

  She could imagine. “Sounds like a book.”

  “What is life but a story?” Sandra laughed again and gestured toward the room. “You should take this one since you look so much like our Ella.” She gave a mysterious wink and gestured to a connecting door. “Jody, you can have Westley’s room.”

  Jody followed Sandra through the connecting door while Isla surveyed Ella’s room. What an interesting story. Ella had adopted a child and brought him here. Isla’s mind began to swirl, and she allowed herself to dig up memories long buried. Her mother’s long, fiery hair. Large green eyes. Family features that had been passed through generations of Scottish descendants.

  On the wall next to an old-fashioned fireplace stood a full-length mirror set in an oval wooden frame. Isla positioned herself in front of it and narrowed her eyes. Ella looked like her? Like her mother? Maybe. But so what? Lots of people had those features.

  Still…

  Something tugged at the back of her memory. Something misplaced and begging for attention long denied. Isla closed her eyes and tried to grab the memory before it escaped her. Old stories her mother had told. Stories of a family line from Scotland. Of lands in America and a woman who had changed the family’s fortunes…

  Her mother’s face filled her mind. Her heart clenched suddenly, like the way her calf cramped when she ran too long without a water break. She took slow breaths and let herself focus on the face.

  Momma.

  Breath ripped from her lungs, and she sucked in more air in a worthless attempt to cool the burning in her throat.

  Enough!

  Isla spun away from the mirror. It was crazy to think she could be related to this woman just because they both had red hair. Lots of people had red hair. How desperate was she becoming if she was looking to find family with long-dead strangers?

  She ground her teeth and took several deep breaths to focus. Keep the past locked away where it belonged.

  Bury the past. Stay strong. Survive.

  Her mother’s features faded and the threat of tears receded.

  She wasn’t related to a woman who had taken a baby not her own and risked everything for a lie to protect him. But that would’ve been pretty cool. Isla tugged her hair into a ponytail.

  She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. No TV. She pulled her phone from her jeans’ pocket. Not much signal, either. What was she going to do for a week out in the backside of nowhere?

  “Do you like your room?”

  Isla turned at the sound of the woman’s voice and gave Sandra a nod. The woman kept staring at her as if she were some freak show.

  Isla shifted her feet on the rug. “So…what happened to that family?” She still wanted to know. Just because they weren’t her family didn’t mean they weren’t interesting. “Why aren’t they still here?”

  Sandra looked wistful. “They lived here for several generations, but eventually the children moved away. After a time, none of them could care for this big place. One of them used it as a hunting lodge in the sixties, which helped cover the maintenance. They finally sold it, and Joshua Cain, the current owner, was able to restore it and turn it into this bed and breakfast. We try to find furnishings and items that take it back to the times when the first Remingtons lived here.”

  Shyness melting under curiosity, Isla found herself nodding along. “To honor the family and keep their legacy alive.”

  Sandra brightened. “Exactly!”

  “Do you still have anything from the family?”

  “Not much. Most of it was distributed over the years. We do still have one of Ella’s paintings and a few pieces of furniture.”

  But not the instrument her fingers had itched to touch. To feel the notes pour from. She brushed the strange feeling aside. She hadn’t played in years. Probably wouldn’t ever again. Not without Momma to hear her.

  “Ella painted the tree in the music room.” The words left Isla’s tongue without her permission.

  Sandra lifted her eyebrows. “Yes. That’s the one.” She tilted her head. “How did you know?”

  Because it had called to her. Whispered to her imagination. “Just a guess.”

  Sandra eyed her for a moment. She opened her mouth, but whatever she was about to say stopped when Jody stepped back into the room.

  “Let’s get our bags, and I’ll pull the car around to the parking area.” She glanced between Isla and Sandra. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” Isla shoved her hands in her pockets. How could she explain her weird feelings about an old painting? The violin made sense. The painting did not. Still, something had definitely been off about it. That, or she was going crazy. Totally possible.

  Jody smiled and gestured toward the door, and Isla hurried out of the room and bounded down the stairs, the older women trailing her, talking about the craftsmanship of the intricately detailed ceiling molding. Isla couldn’t keep from glancing at the music room to her right as she opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.

  Magnolia trees filled the yard, so big that, as a child, she would have been able to make castles out of the droops of their branches. Trunks shielded by the sweep of limbs created hiding holes underneath. They’d be so beautiful in the summer, the white flowers in full bloom.

  Isla breathed the cool-but-not-cold damp air, the warm spell not unusual for a Mississippi winter. The afternoon temperature hovered in the mid-sixties, and, if not for the low-hanging clouds, it would be like a transplanted spring day—thrown into the middle of winter to offer a brief oasis. God was good like that. Offering bits of light to dark places and warmth where there was only cold.

  Isla thanked Him and then blinked away her contemplations. She popped open the trunk and grabbed the duffle bag Jody had bought her. It was a lot better than the black trash bag she usually had when her social workers showed up without warning to move her from one house to another.

  Old-fashioned orphanages were probably better. At least those kids always had each other and a consistent environment, even if they didn’t have family. Not really any wonder she didn’t like people.

  Okay, not totally true. She found people fascinating. From a distance. People were always better at a distance. Daddy had once told her that—

  She set her teeth and slung the bag over her shoulder. What was wrong with her today?

  Jody offered a smile Isla didn’t return. In typical fashion, Jody didn’t seem bothered. What would it take to rile the woman? Each foster mom had a thing. Something Isla would do that sent them over the edge and sent Isla packing. The trick was figuring out what it could be, because they were all so different.

  Oblivious to Isla’s thoughts, Jody deposited her suitcase on the porch, came back to slam the trunk, and then got in the car and shut the door. The taillights blinked on, and the car pulled around the side of the house. Isla stood in the driveway with her bag over her shoulder, not sure what else to do.

  The middle of nowhere. They were literally in the middle of hundreds, probably thousands, of wide-open acres of farmland without a thing in sight. Good thing she’d brought books. Christian historical fiction from the library. Something different for this trip, and very different from her usual teen fantasy. One was a Civil War book by Jocelyn Green. The other was about a cursed woman named Misty Wayfair. It was part modern, part historical. Looked interesting.

  Isla stepped onto the front porch and leaned against the railing. What would it have been like to live back in the eighteen hundreds? Back when war divided the country and women wore giant skirts? Her imagination swirled. Maybe she’d read the Civil War novel first. Since she was here and that’s the kind of thing this house and its people had been through.

  Jody came back around the side of the house and smiled. “Why didn’t you go on up?”

  She shrugged. “Waiting on you.”

  Jody’s smile widened. “Thank you for coming with me on this trip.”

  As if she’d had a choice. “You’re welcome.”

  “I
’m glad you’re here.”

  Just words, Isla reminded herself to push away the warm feeling that tried to thaw her insides. Words didn’t have meaning. Isla and Jody were stuck together. For now. The clock ticked in her head. Six weeks. Then Jody would be gone like everyone else.

  Isla followed Jody back into the house and up the stairs. She unpacked her bag, which took all of three minutes. She laid the books on the nightstand next to the bed, looking at a woman on one of the covers with dark hair and a sad but determined expression. She’d probably lived in a place like this. Tending wounded soldiers she didn’t want in her house.

  Isla shook her head. What was she thinking? That woman was made up. Never existed. Something about this place was totally messing with her head. She had to get it together.

  The door between hers and Jody’s room stood open. Jody humming Jingle Bells begged for a festive mood Isla simply didn’t feel. Better scurry before Jody tried to talk her into singing carols again.

  Isla headed back down to the first floor. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, she looked around for the two women who ran the house, but found no one. The wide hall had as much furniture as a living room. Who needed so many living areas? With the wide halls and two parlors, a library, and a music room, they sure had a lot of options. No problem finding a place to hide and read. She’d explore a little more. But first, her curiosity drew her to the mysterious painting.

  She passed into the music room and trailed her fingers over an old piano, then gave the violin a glance before standing in front of the painting. It didn’t move. No weird noises or smells.

  Why had she expected anything different?

  Stupid. Isla studied the artistry. It was beautiful. Wide brush strokes gave texture to the trunk and depth to the leaves. She looked closer. The leaves had a strange shape. Almost like little stars. Weird. What kind of tree had leaves like that? Maybe Ella had added her own whimsy.

  Mrs. Davis in ninth grade art had said paintings needed an identifiable light source. Ella must not have had that lesson. The leaves seemed to have light shining on them from all directions rather than from a particular spot.

  The longer Isla stared at the painting, the more the light seemed to brighten. The colors were so vibrant. How had they stayed that way for, what, a hundred years? No, had to be more than that. A hundred fifty?

  Isla lifted her hand. Despite the peculiar shade, the grass around the base of the tree seemed so real. Almost as though she could feel it slipping between her fingers. She reached closer.

  Light sparked. Isla yelped and jumped back, her heart hammering.

  What was that? She glanced around the room, but no one came running at her outburst. She put a hand to her collar bone. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breathing. That hadn’t been her imagination. Had it?

  She took a hesitant step forward. The colors in the painting nearly glowed. Isla slowly raised her hand, waiting for a pulse of light. Maybe someone had rigged it with electric wiring or something to keep it from being stolen.

  No wires above or below. She peered around the sides. Nothing. And this didn’t look like the kind of place to have high-tech security. It wasn’t a museum, and Ella Remington wasn’t Rembrandt. Isla lifted her hand again and reached for the painting. Her fingers rested on the golden frame.

  Nothing happened. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on edge. She eased one finger up to feel the texture of the paint.

  Her hand slipped right through the canvas and grazed soft swaying grass.

  Isla snatched her hand back. Her fingers remained in place, miraculously unharmed. Impossible! She examined her palm, heart hammering.

  What in the world…?

  She backed away from the painting.

  “Isla! There you are.”

  Isla yelped. She spun around, pulse skittering. Jody stood in the music room doorway, her forehead wrinkled and marring the perfect smoothness of her fawn-colored complexion.

  “You okay?”

  Nodding, Isla glanced at the painting. Crazy.

  Jody followed her gaze. “What is it?”

  Isla could only point.

  Seeming concerned, Jody stepped past Isla and up to the canvas. After staring at it a moment, she shrugged. “I don’t get it. I just see a painting.”

  “It moved,” Isla whispered.

  “What? Moved?” Jody frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

  Isla stared at her foster mom. How could she explain? No one would ever believe her. She didn’t really believe herself. Yet she’d felt that grass between her fingers.

  Jody blinked a few times, then offered a placating smile. “Camille made snacks. Why don’t you come get some with me?”

  “Okay.” But her feet seemed stuck to the rug.

  Jody paused another moment, then sighed and stepped out of the room.

  Isla clenched her hands. It was just a stupid painting. And she was a lot of things, but crazy had never been one of them. She stared at it, ignoring her racing pulse. Fear wouldn’t get the best of her, either. She lifted her hand and thrust it into the middle of the tree.

  Her whole body fell through.

  Isla screamed. She landed on her back in a bed of shimmering grass. Light sparked around her so brightly that she flung her arm across her face.

  Not happening. Totally not happening.

  She squeezed her eyes tight. The grass tickled her skin and smelled of purity and hope. Had to be a dream. A weird, vibrant, impossible dream.

  Music drifted on the air, sounding of peace and perfect harmony. Despite her bizarre circumstances, peace blanketed her.

  Isla breathed deeply. The air smelled sweet. Like a blend of Momma’s snickerdoodle cookies and Daddy’s favorite apple turnovers. The ache of missing her parents pressed down on her heart like a boulder of regret, and a tear escaped and slid across her cheek.

  No. No time for that. She blinked it away and opened her eyes. A tree bent over her, spreading its long arms like a protective shield and draping her with the fringes of sparkling foliage. Star-shaped, the leaves glimmered as though covered in thousands of tiny diamonds.

  No way. She sat up.

  How in the world had she gotten inside Ella’s painting? Or was she even in this world? And what would make something like that possible? Isla rubbed her eyes and blinked.

  Nope. Not possible at all. She rose and lifted her hands to brush off any grass from her jeans.

  What…?

  No jeans. No worn-out-but-still-loved sweater. Isla stood under the tree dressed in a long white gown. The fabric shimmered in the bright light, and she spun around to watch it glisten.

  Great. What next? She swallowed hard and took a cautious step forward. Alice had found both beauty and horror in Wonderland, after all.

  A field extended past the tree in a sea of swaying grass. Same thing in the other direction. Nothing but the single star-leaved tree and grass as far as she could see.

  Panic tightened her throat. How was she going to get out of here? Isla pressed her hand against the tree, then drew it back in surprise. Rather than rough bark, the sturdy trunk felt as soft as velvet. The massive tree towered over her, wider than the span of her arms. She trailed her fingers along the trunk as she stepped around it.

  Her heart skipped. On the other side, a golden frame hung suspended in the air. Isla eased further around the tree. No walls, no wires, no giant hooks held it in place. It floated like a balloon almost out of helium. Light enough to hover, not enough helium to drift away.

  Isla focused on the art inside the frame. Wait. She recognized that room! The music room at Belmont! She hurried toward it. If she’d fallen into the tree painting and gotten here, then this other painting had to be the way back. She reached forward. Then hesitated.

  This place wasn’t bad. Peaceful. And full of…something. Something that felt familiar yet nearly forgotten. The sense of home. Belonging. Hope.

  Family.

  The voice inside her—the one that whispered w
arnings to keep her heart guarded and stay safe—told her to get out of this place as fast as she could. Still, she lingered. What would it hurt to stay a little longer? Isla remained suspended in indecision, her hair drifting around her face with the kiss of a silent breeze. Maybe she could come back. Who would have to know? She could get her book and come back to lie under the tree. She could read in peace and solitude.

  The light draping over her soaked into every pore, seeping into shadowed recesses of her bruised heart. Maybe—just for a little while—she could rest. Let down her guard.

  What would it hurt?

  Isla reached for the suspended painting again. But…what if she went back to the house and then couldn’t come back into the painting?

  You better worry more about being stuck here.

  The thought made her stomach clench. She reached forward, and her fingers slipped through as though it were nothing more than an open window. Relieved, she put both arms in.

  Nothing happened.

  Isla pulled her arms back and rested her hands on the frame. Slowly, she leaned her head into the music room at Belmont. Weird. Why didn’t she fall through? Isla thrust both arms inside. And again, nothing.

  Seriously? Looked like she would have to climb through this time. In a dress.

  Heaving a sigh, Isla hiked the shimmering white gown up to her knees and tried to swing her leg over. Good thing it was a big painting. Still, she couldn’t reach. It hung too high in the air.

  She dropped the skirt. Should she call to someone in the house? No. That would be too hard to explain. Excuse me, I’m stuck in the painting. Anyone want to help me out?

  Isla rolled her eyes at her own sarcasm and braced her palms on the frame. She pushed down and tested her weight. If she broke Ella’s painting, she’d be in trouble for sure. It didn’t budge. The frame remained suspended unnaturally in the air even as she heaved and lifted herself up until her hips rested on the edge. There. Now she just had to get a leg over and—