'Tis the Season: A Collection of Mimi's Christmas Books

by Mimi Barbour

  His eyes began watering again, and he blinked several times to stop the tears from dripping onto the blanket. Her hand felt tiny in his as he caressed and patted the soft skin. “Please don’t. I look terrible when I cry. My eyes swell and turn red, and my skin gets hideously blotchy.”

  The tears stopped and giggles erupted, as he’d hoped they would. “I’m sorry, Marcus. You’ve been wonderful, and I’m nothing but a pain. While you have to do all the work, I’m just lying there like a fancy lady with nary a worry in the world.”

  “Not by your own choosing, Abbie. I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for you being in this sorry state.”

  “Aye, there, hang on. Sorry state? I might look pallid, but I also look kinda peaceful at the same time. They’ve even managed to control my hair. It’s usually all over the place.”

  He saw that her dark shiny locks were loosely braided and pulled to the side, probably the efforts of some young nurse’s helper. Her generous bangs were caught in her eyelashes and added the only colour to the otherwise pale features surrounded by white bedclothes. Heart-shaped and lovely, her face drew his gaze and he forced back the instinct to caress.

  Shocked at where his mind was travelling, he shut down their pipeline, hoping she hadn’t picked up on his thoughts. He’d registered how soft and smooth her skin looked, touchable, truly beautiful. In fact, everything about her was adorable. But he didn’t want to share those thoughts. Not yet. And not with her.

  Hmm! If I’d known I had this kind of control, I’d have saved myself a lot of grief. A restraining feature; he liked it. Complacency left him feeling great, until a huge tidal wave of emotions rocked him and, with no choice at all, he re-opened their inner doorway.

  “You left me. You scared me.”

  “Hey, you leave me.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know it worked both ways. From now on, will you promise to say good-bye?”

  “If you do, then so will I.”

  “Deal!”

  Marcus checked his watch. Then, as a parting gesture, he stroked the sleeping girl’s cheek, his eyes noticing—not for the first time—the plumpness of her lips. He shot out of the chair. Brusquely, he muttered, “I must fetch Mother, and then pop over to the office.”

  “After we pick up your mother, can we please go to see the vicar? You can’t believe how many chores there are to be looked into, and how little time there is to accomplish everything. Please, Marcus. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t extremely important.” She willed him to agree.

  Cross, he felt her overwhelming resolve and gave in. “If you must, I suppose there’s no getting out of it. I’ll call my secretary and have her deal with my messages. She can get in touch with me if there’s a problem. But don’t think this sets a precedent. I have a lot of work that needs my attention, and it can’t be put off indefinitely.”

  “Thank you, Marcus. You really are a love.” Golden vibes of affection filled his senses and were quickly doused by his own exasperation. “Quit playing me. I’ll put up with it from my mother, but that’s where I draw the line. Do you understand?” Stiff and formal, his inner voice ground out the order.

  “Sorry.” She hesitated and then added, “Time for my nap. Cheerio!”

  While he drove carefully through the snow-filled streets to fetch his mother, Marcus let his thoughts range over the mystifying happenings of the last twenty-four hours. His emotional reaction to Abbie at the hospital still had him reeling, questioning his sanity. Touching her cheek had started yearnings inside that baffled and upset him no end.

  As hard as he tried, how could he forget those wondrous blue eyes that lay behind her closed lids? Right from the beginning, at the vicarage bench, they’d branded themselves into his memory, and over the last hours he had kept seeing them full of pleading mischievousness. He’d give anything to wipe out the image of her beseeching his help with those blasted burlap sacks.

  ****

  “I’d love to see the vicar, Marcus. Please say I may accompany you.” His mother’s charm began to work its magic once again.

  “Don’t you want to get all those parcels home and start in on your decorating?” He knew, from her gushing reply, his dry tone had either escaped her notice or, as usual, was being ignored.

  “Oh, no. They can wait until tonight, when you’re there to help. It’s so much more fun hanging all the garlands and dressing the tree with someone else. Your father used to love helping me, most likely because he knew how much it meant for us to do it together.”

  Amazed, he shook his head. Caught again, smack dab in the middle of love’s steel trap and chains of affection. He’d never know how she managed to always get her way. “Fine.” It was all he could utter before he bit the sides of his mouth to stop harsh words from pouring out.

  ****

  “Come in, Marcus.” The vicar’s face lit up. “I’m so glad you’re here. I hope you have a positive update on our Abbie’s condition. When I went by this morning, she still lay in a coma.” Just then Marcus’ mother stepped into view from behind Marcus. “Well, who do we have here? Why, it’s Mrs. Chapman. I haven’t seen you for years. How are you, my dear? Come in, come in.” The older man closed the door after the two as they stepped into the warm, bright room.

  “Hello, Father Witherby. I’m so happy to see you again.” He held her hand in his warm grasp and pumped gently. “I remarried after Marcus’ father passed on, and my name is now Mrs. Chapman-Morris, but please just call me by my first name, Madeline.”

  Bless you, that’s wonderful, Madeline. Is your husband with you on this visit, then?”

  “No. Unfortunately, Jack was killed in a skiing accident a few months back, and so I’ve moved in with Marcus for now. And because I love Bury so much, he’s decided to branch out from London and open yet another office here in the area.”

  “Why, how tragic…er, losing a second husband, that is. And you still so young. You have my deepest condolences.” Warm compassion shone from his eyes as he peered over the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. “Marvellous that you’ve both chosen to come live in Bury, though. Let me welcome you home.”

  He gently guided her to the seating area and motioned her to sit in his favourite chair, easily deduced because of the recent imprint of his body on both the seat and the footstool.

  “May I offer you tea, my dear? Marcus?”

  Since he’d been completely ignored once his mother appeared on the scene, Marcus started when his name came up. “No, thank—”

  “We’d love tea. Can I help you with it?”

  “No. Not at all. Sit here, and I’ll ask Mrs. Dorn if she’ll set up a tray. Knowing that Abbie is in hospital, she’s come in to help out here at the manse. Our Mrs. Dorn normally housekeeps for Dr. Andrews, who’s away for a few days. I’m a very fortunate man to have such a caring flock.”

  He scuttled from the room, and they could hear him calling, “Mrs. Dorn, I’ve company. Can you make us a cuppa? And if you’ve finished baking those biscuits, I’m sure they’d be very welcome.”

  The woman’s reply carried to them, also: “God luv ya, vicar, they’s all cooked and cooling. I’ll be havin’ yer tea ready for you in a jiffy. Go on with ya, and visit with your company.”

  Madeline looked at her son and smiled with pure pleasure. “How lovely! I’m so glad you wanted to stay.”

  Straight-faced, he nodded. Then he smiled. How could he not? Her genuine enjoyment snared one, and he couldn’t shift his gaze.

  Abbie relished the moment also. “I’m glad, too. I’ve missed this place.”

  “You’ve only been gone a day. How can you miss it?”

  “I spend a part of every day here, working with Father Witherby, and I love every minute. He has the biggest, kindest heart of anyone I know. He cares about his congregation and watches over them most diligently. That’s why I’m so worried about the next few days. We had so many plans.”

  Just then the vicar returned, followed by a short, chubby woman, her red-flowe
red frock covered by a full white apron with an embroidered Santa cavorting across the bib. The frizzy curls of her hair lay close to her head and tended to accentuate the rather large wart on the end of her nose. It was her big brown eyes full of cheery welcome that saved her face from being unsightly.

  She carried a huge tray that Marcus lifted out of her hands in order to set it on the table the vicar cleared off. Located strategically in the middle of the seating area, the placement worked well. The three resumed their seats and, after the introductions were made, Mrs. Dorn poured and then turned to Marcus.

  “Mr. Chapman? Vicar ‘ere told me you were with Abbie when she hit her head. Poor wee Angel. I telephoned the hospital earlier, and they said she hadn’t recovered consciousness yet. It’s a flaming pity, that.”

  With all eyes on him, Marcus, now the centre of attention, replied, “The doctors feel that a couple of nights’ rest will do the trick. We’re hoping she’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “Well, you listen here, luv. If there’s no change, you call my Dr. Andrews when he gets home. I’ve no doubt he’ll know what to do. He’s the best doctor hereabouts and has dealt with unconscious victims before.”

  “Join us, Henrietta,” said the vicar, a cajoling nuance in his voice.

  “Very kind of ya, I’m sure, but I mustn’t, Father. Dr. Andrews will be calling soon, and I want to be there to answer the phone, so he won’t be sulky about his office being deserted for too long. I’ll be leaving now, but I’ll return in the morning. Ta-ra.” The woman bustled from the room after beaming at each of them.

  “Don’t you just love that woman? She has the biggest heart.” Abbie and Mrs. Dorn had always gotten along well because the older woman could be relied on to help out at every church bazaar and fundraiser they held. “Her whole life revolves around her boss and his family, her sister, and her kitty—in that order. Many’s the hug she’s given me when she sensed I was in need.”

  Just then Mrs. Dorn returned, wearing a bright purple anorak, carrying a tiny handbag, and putting on flashy white woollen mittens to match the scarf now wrapped around the lower part of her face. An overly large white woolly hat covered her head, so that she had to look up and peer out from under the fuzz.

  “Sorry to intrude again, Father, but that rascal Herbert Sykes has left town, and it looks like it’s for good this time. He’s buggered off—excuse me, Father—with his paycheque, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of the miserable sod since. Elsie called, and she’s that worried, what with the nippers not being well and the cold weather using up all her fuel. She has no food, no money to buy any, and the rent’s due. To make matters worse, her usual customers left for the holidays, and she has no washing to take in nor meals to prepare. I’m that worried, Father.” Her hands mimicked a chokehold. “Just let me get my hands on that lazy little worm, and he’d be in a hospital bed. And much more deserving of it than our Abbie. No offence, Father.”

  “None taken, Henrietta. They’re my sentiments exactly.” Father Witherby clasped his cheeks with both hands and shook his head. “Bless my soul! I do wish Abbie were here. Thank you, Mrs. Dorn. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He waved good-bye and then looked over at his guests and motioned them to carry on drinking their tea. “Elsie Sykes is a very proud woman. Abbie knew just how to get around her without hurting that pride.”

  “I don’t wish to intrude, but maybe I can be of assistance.” His mother stared at Marcus as if he’d sprouted another head, and the vicar looked overjoyed. “How very kind of you, Marcus. You know, for a moment you sounded just like Abbie, always willing to offer assistance to anyone in need. I should be thankful to have you see to that family.” The sly old fox bustled off to get his address book. “Here it is.” So saying, he took a pencil from his pocket, licked the end, and proceeded to write carefully.

  Alarmed Abbie spoke. “You’re choking, Marcus. Please breathe. I’m sorry you’re so upset, but I couldn’t stop myself. Elsie won’t take help from just anyone. She hates for her neighbours to gossip about her problems, and when the vicar visits, everyone talks, you see.”

  “Abigail Taylor. This is my body that you’re donating, and my time you’re wasting. How dare you?”

  “Give over, please. You’re making me feel terrible for trying to do good. If you weren’t so hoity-toity, you’d understand not everyone is a rich chap such as yourself. Some have terrible problems, and not because of anything they’ve done. It’s their circumstances—see? They need others to care. Please don’t be angr—”

  He shut her off. And he didn’t say good-bye.

  Resolved to leave before he found himself offering to decorate the hall, bring a pie for the bake sale, or, God forbid, take part in the Christmas concert, he hustled his mother to the door.

  Despite the warm handshake from Father Witherby, and the proud glances from his mother, he felt suckered. Duped by a tenant with no rights, none whatsoever. This has got to stop. I’m being played for a fool, and I don’t like it.

  His mother must have sensed his mood. For once she sat without forcing him into a conversation and instead rode beside him and softly sang and hummed carols along with the radio. Every so often, she’d smile at him and then continue her caterwauling. Made him increasingly nervous, it did.

  They pulled into the lane nearest to the address on the paper. Rundown terraces, dismal and dreary, lined each side of the street. Older boys kicked a football around in a cleared-off area, while younger tots decorated a puny tree with tinsel and torn streamers. Marcus left the vehicle running, nodded to his mother before leaving, and, as he approached the door he’d been searching for, confirmed that his chequebook was in his pocket.

  “Sir?” A small girl, maybe four years old, tugged on his hand and caught his attention. “Are you the landlord? Me mum wants you to stay away. She’s got no money for nuthin’.” Wisps of red-gold curls framed her chafed cheeks, and her coat—so threadbare that it gave no defence against the cold wind—had been tied closed with a long, ragged-looking scarf.

  Marcus hunkered down so he could look the child in the eye. “I’m not the landlord, I’m a—a friend. Is your mother inside?”

  “It’s okay, then. Friends can come in.” She reached for his hand.

  What an adorable little minx. The thought wasn’t originally his, since Miss Nosy Parker put it there, but he found himself in agreement.

  A tall lanky lad shot up to them and, without apology, intruded. “Who’re you, then? Whatcha want here? Me Da’s at work.”

  “It’s your mother I’ve come to see.” Marcus stood and watched the young lad swallow, shove back his thin shoulders, and move protectively in front of the door.

  “She’s done nuthin’ wrong. Whatcha want with her?”

  Marcus had never given thought as to how noticeable an Adam’s apple could be until he watched his adversary swallow over and over, trying to lower his voice.

  Trying to sound like a man.

  Trying to protect his home.

  He stared the boy down. “That is between myself and your mother. Will you let her know she has a caller? You can give her this.” So saying, he pulled a business card from his pocket and passed it to the boy’s waiting hand.

  Deferentially the boy replied, “Yes, sir.” The tone Marcus used had worked its magic once again. It had been that way most of his life, until lately, that is, when his personal space had been invaded by two sassy witches. One calling herself Mother, and the other Abbie.

  The door re-opened and a frazzled woman popped her head out, looked both ways at the watchful neighbours, and then waved him inside. “Please come in, sir. I don’t know what me man’s done, but ‘e’s gone. I tell ya, I haven’t seen his bleedin’ arse for over a week, and all I ‘ave to say is good riddance.”

  “I’m not here to see your husband, Mrs. Sykes. I’m here to offer you a job. I understand from the vicar that you have good credentials; in fact, he’s personally guaranteed your honesty. I’m in need of a cleaning woman for my new office b
uilding—here, at this address.” He pointed to the business card she still held, clenched in her shaking hand. “The work won’t be too onerous, but I’ll need you to clean each business day after hours. When does your lad get home from school?”

  Fighting tears, the woman whispered, “He’s here by teatime, sir, near to three-thirty as makes no nevermind.”

  “Then I’ll require your services from four-thirty until nine or so. If you present yourself to my office manager on the first day of the New Year, I’ll inform her of our arrangement, and she’ll set you up with the paperwork that will need to be filled in. I’m also prepared to pay an advance from your salary, ten pounds to be subtracted from each paycheque until such time as you’ve repaid me. Would this be to your satisfaction, Mrs. Sykes?”

  “Oh, sir! I’d be ever so obliged. I’ve two young’uns, and…”

  His focussed stare had her back straightening, while she peeked at the card. “Yes, Mr. Chapman. That should be just fine.”

  His chequebook appeared. Once he’d finished writing, he passed her the paper and watched the joyous gratitude fill her face.

  “I’ll be there on time, sir, and I’ll work ever so hard for you. You shan’t be sorry you hired me, I promise you that.”

  He held out his hand. She looked down for a minute and then gingerly placed hers on top. Their eyes caught and held, hers full of stars and tears, his full of gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Sykes.”

  ****

  His barriers were firmly in place, and Abbie couldn’t push her way past to share her admiration for the way he’d handled the tricky situation or to tell him how proud he’d made her. But since he had to wipe the effect it had on her out of his eyes before approaching the waiting vehicle, she figured he’d understood the message.

  She made up her mind the topic wouldn’t be forgotten; he’d have to accept her gratitude. Considering she had a bone to pick with him about not saying good-bye before he left her earlier, it was a bit galling to have to be nice. But having been a pushover all her life, she metaphorically shrugged and swallowed her annoyance. Besides, she knew what he’d done more than made up for his earlier rudeness.