An Island Christmas

by Nancy Thayer

  She also had to hurry over to Marine Home Center and buy a new pan to replace the one she’d ruined burning the broccoli.

  What else? One thing eluded her … it was on the edge of her mind … she often wished someone would invent a kind of white board that attached to the shower wall so she could make a list while she showered, when her thoughts came more easily.

  Yes! Photographer. Porter had an excellent camera with an infinite number of lenses and dials. He had volunteered to take photographs. So. Everything was under control.

  Reassured by her thoughts and the peaceful moments in the shower, Jilly dressed in her favorite red corduroy dress that she took out especially for the Christmas season. She added a touch of cherry lipstick and inserted her adorable blinking light earrings.

  George remained sprawled on the bed like a giant sea turtle, watching her with a pitiful expression on his face.

  Proud of your glorious wipeout, are you? Jilly wanted to ask, but sympathy won. “How do you feel today, darling?”

  George rubbed his left arm. “Terrible. I ache all over. I can scarcely move. I don’t think I can even crawl out of bed.”

  “Maybe you’ll feel better once you shower and dress,” she suggested cheerfully.

  “Maybe. I certainly won’t be able to do it without some help.”

  “I’ll find Porter.”

  “Can’t you do it? I hate having a stranger see me in such a pathetic state.” George cocked his head to the side and gave her his best puppy-with-a-wounded-paw look.

  Downstairs one of the children screamed, a normal playing scream. Somewhere in the house a door slammed. Wind battered the bedroom window with splats of snow. Voices scattered through the downstairs.

  Jilly sat down on the bed. “George, it is the day before Christmas and the day before Felicia’s wedding. I have many things to do and my milk of human kindness has run dry. You have one perfectly good arm and leg, and your bruises may hurt, but you are not incapacitated by them. If you want to stay in bed all day, that’s your choice. If you want me to ask Porter to help you, it’s your choice. But I’ve got things to do.”

  “Well, merry Christmas to you, too,” George muttered.

  “Hello, everyone!” said Pat, breezing into the Gordons’ bedroom. Today she wore a violet-and-blue-striped turtleneck with her green tartan golf slacks. Perhaps she was color-blind. “Sorry to disturb you like this, but Lauren told me to come on up.” Pat’s arms were full of packages. “George, I brought you some things.”

  In a twinkling, George morphed from a pitiful old patient to a strong ex-soldier, maybe even a Navy Seal, as he pushed himself up against the headboard, yanked the covers up to his chest, and ran his hands over his disheveled hair.

  Jilly looked on, astonished, as Pat arranged her bony athletic rear end on the bed next to George. “Now. Jilly, you might want to take notes.” She lifted several bottles out of the paper bag. “First, Epsom salt. Of course you know about it. Soak your body in a warm—not hot, warm—bath with two cups of the salt for fifteen minutes. Next, Burt’s Bees Muscle Mend. Rub it on wherever you’re sore. Next, I’m sure you’re taking aspirin regularly for the pain and as an anti-inflammatory, right?”

  “Right.” George nodded. His eyes were bright and to Jilly’s eyes it seemed he’d grown younger right before her eyes.

  “Okay, trust me on this. Google it if you want. These are Boiron Arnica montana 30c pellets. It’s a homeopathic medicine, made from mountain daisies. It helps your muscles mend, and so does this—blackstrap molasses. Pour a big helping of it into your coffee. You’ll heal faster.”

  Jilly watched Pat with her face frozen in a look of—she hoped—interested gratitude, but what she felt was guilt.

  What kind of wife was she to have so completely neglected thinking of how to make her husband, her darling husband of thirty-five years, feel better?

  George was questioning Pat about each medicine. He and Pat went into such detail they sounded like they were prepping him for an Olympic event.

  To her surprise, Pat stood up, straightened her shoulders, and announced, “Now. Jilly. How can I help you?”

  Jilly was speechless.

  “Do you have dinner organized for tonight? Because if you’re going to the grocery store, I could go with you. I’d like to buy some stuff and make dinner for everyone. I’m an excellent cook if I say so myself, and I do.”

  “We traditionally have clam chowder for dinner on Christmas Eve,” Jilly replied weakly.

  “I can make clam chowder,” Pat said. “Or you can make it and I’ll be your sous-chef. For sure I can help you carry groceries in from the car. That’s always such a pain.”

  “Pat, that’s so nice of you.”

  Pat grinned and flexed a muscle. “I’m small, but I’m mighty.”

  Jilly’s spirits lifted. “But I don’t want you to catch cold. I have tons of sweaters. Tell me your favorite color and I’ll loan you one. Wool?”

  “Wool’s not my favorite. Makes me sneeze. Got any fleece?” Over Jilly’s shoulder Pat spotted an orange fleece jacket. “There’s one. Perfect.”

  Perfect, Jilly thought, looking at Pat in green, violet, and orange. “As long as you’re warm.” Looking at George, she said, “Are you ready for us to help you up and into the bathroom?”

  George flushed bright red, obviously embarrassed to appear feeble in front of such a vigorous woman. “No, no,” he said brusquely. “You two go on. I’ll be there in a minute.” As they went down the stairs, Pat said, “Your customary Christmas Eve dinner is clam chowder, you said. What if I took over and made a Cajun seafood gumbo? It’s like clam chowder, but with spices and stuff in it.”

  But this is New England, Jilly thought, appalled. This is our family tradition! “Well …” she began.

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Lawrence and Portia barreled past them, knocking the mail off the hall table, screeching, “Where’s that cat? Where’s that cat?”

  Lauren followed, looking exasperated. “Lawrence! Portia!” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  On the other hand, Jilly remembered, the children didn’t like clam chowder.

  Through the door into the living room, Jilly saw the Christmas tree, so oddly and rather revoltingly decorated after yesterday’s accident. It was a bizarre spectacle now, but it was certainly one unlike any other, and it was one she would always remember. She and George had caused it, in a way, by bringing Rex into the household. The cat had ripped the stuffing right out of her vision of a perfect Christmas, and for a moment Jilly flashed back to the days when her daughters were young, younger than Portia and Lawrence were now. When wrapping paper and ribbons littered the floor and the children couldn’t sit still for a holiday dinner but wriggled and dropped gravy on the tablecloth and George gave her a new vacuum cleaner when she longed for a romantic piece of jewelry. Jilly smiled. Those days glowed in her thoughts. Family life was messy, Jilly realized, and no matter what Jilly had fantasized for her daughter, Felicia loved Archie. That made no-nonsense muscular Pat almost family. And frankly, it was pretty nice to have some help.

  “I’d be delighted if you made your Cajun seafood gumbo,” Jilly told Pat. “We’ll pick up the ingredients when we go to the store.”

  20

  It was almost ten o’clock before the family in the house on Chestnut Street sat down to breakfast.

  George had managed to bathe and dress himself, but Jilly had to change his bandage and Porter had to help George maneuver his bad ankle and his crutches down the stairs.

  Portia and Lawrence, who’d eaten cereal earlier that morning when they woke, begged not to have to eat Lauren’s gourmet cheesy egg casserole; Lawrence said it looked like a snot pie. Desperate to have some adult time with her family and a nice hot cup of coffee, Lauren once again settled her children in front of the television set where they watched a movie appropriately named Frozen.

  Surprisingly, Rex had developed an appetite for the children’s game of Chase the Ca
t, probably because they never could catch him. This morning he trailed the children from room to room, always keeping at a distance. He settled on an armchair in the family room facing Lawrence and Portia as they faced the television. For a long time he watched them, prepared for any sudden movement on their part. Soon his golden eyes closed and he fell asleep.

  Lauren and Porter, Felicia and Archie, Pat and Jilly and George sat around the kitchen table eating breakfast and planning their day.

  “Archie and I have a brief meeting with Father Sloan at eleven at St. Paul’s,” Felicia told everyone.

  “Would you like me to go with you?” asked Jilly.

  Felicia pretended surprise. “Oh, like there’s something you’ve forgotten to mention to him about the ceremony?” Her mother gave her a reproachful look. Felicia continued, “It’s going to be short and sweet. Basically it will satisfy the legal stipulations of marriage and I hope it will satisfy your wish that we get married in an Episcopal church.”

  Jilly bridled. “You’re making it sound as if I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want to do.”

  Felicia glanced at Archie and then at her sister. Now that she’d met Pat, she would bet that Archie’s mother would have come to a ceremony on the top of a mountain with an interfaith minister saying a few words. But Jilly was a traditionalist. She had been a magnificent mother and Felicia wanted to please her. Besides, Felicia and Archie were sort of omni-religious, they were Buddhist and interfaith with a touch of Episcopalian.

  “I’m sorry, Mom, I don’t mean to rag on you. Archie and I wanted to have our ceremony in this church on this island with you and Dad and Pat and our family in attendance. We’re really grateful for all you’ve done to make it a beautiful day. I hope we haven’t overwhelmed you.”

  Jilly beamed. “Thank you, darling. I think I would feel a bit snowed under”—she laughed at her words—“except Pat has asked if she can ride along with me today to fetch the flowers and the groceries and the cake. Also, she’s going to make a Cajun seafood gumbo tonight.”

  “I was planning to pick up the champagne—” George suddenly remembered. For the first time he looked down at his sprained ankle with disappointment.

  “Don’t worry,” said Porter. “I’ll pick it up for you.”

  “I’m going to iron our dresses for the wedding tomorrow,” said Lauren. “I’ll clean up the kitchen, too, while the children are quiet.”

  Porter leaned forward across the table and whispered to his wife, “Remember, we still have to put together the S-A-N-T-A gifts.” To everyone at the table, he whispered, “They’re more complicated than we foresaw, especially the miniature kitchen.”

  “We’ll do that this afternoon,” Lauren told him.

  “Do you need a car to go to the church?” asked Jilly.

  “Of course not,” Felicia told her mother. “It’s a nice winter day for a walk.” She pushed back her chair. “In fact, we should hurry along.”

  This Christmas Eve day was colder than usual. Often in December, a few brave roses still bloomed in protected spots on Nantucket, but today all trellises, flowerpots, and window boxes were filled with geometric snow sculptures, perky accompaniments to the evergreen wreaths on the doors. Felicia and Archie wore their warmest snow gear; still they were glad to step into the warmth of St. Paul’s church.

  Father Sloan was waiting for them by the altar. A tall, distinguished-looking man with a head of silver hair and piercing blue eyes, he hailed them in his deep baritone voice.

  “Good to see you, good to see you. Don’t you have perfect weather for a Christmas wedding?”

  Felicia had known Father Sloan since his hair was blond. She admired him and considered him part of her life, and really, it was very cool to have him meet her big strong handsome fiancé.

  “Yes, Father, we do. Father, this is Archie Galloway.”

  Archie stepped forward to shake hands.

  “Wonderful to meet you, wonderful to see you. Felicia, you’re looking marvelous. Now, I’m sorry to say this, but I’ve got a meeting in a few moments. Always another meeting, always another meeting. Let’s quickly go over the basics of the ceremony. I have your email about which passages from the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer you want to use. I think we should have a quick walk-through. No need for a full-scale rehearsal.”

  Felicia returned to the entrance of the church and waited as Father Sloan and Archie took their places in front of the altar. All at once as she stood by herself, she experienced a rush of excitement and even anxiety about what was to happen tomorrow. She knew she wanted to marry Archie, but she hadn’t imagined the ceremony. As she walked slowly down the aisle toward the men, she had a silly moment of feeling as if she were in a Miss America contest clad in only her bathing suit. When it came to leading a group of novices on a hike or instructing them in how to use a raft on a river, Felicia was perfectly at ease. But the thought of walking along this red carpet beneath the high wooden rafters with twenty people watching her was daunting. Thank heavens her father would walk her down the aisle. And thank heavens he would be on crutches, because if anyone laughed she could assume they were laughing at him.

  “Well done, well done,” said Father Sloan. “I’m not going to read through the ceremony with you. You have all the passages marked on the email. Your mother has already talked with the musicians about where to put their portable piano. You wanted an informal, low-key wedding, so I think it’s going to work out just right. Any questions?” He looked at his watch and was halfway out the door as he spoke.

  After the minister had rushed off, Archie whispered, “That went well, that went well.”

  “Shh. Let’s sit down a moment before we return to the Arctic. Do we have everything under control?”

  “I’m pretty sure your mother does. My question is: do you still want to go through with this? Are you ready to be a married woman who will love, honor, and obey?”

  “You know we got rid of that obey word.”

  Archie reached out and took her hand. “Okay, I was being facetious. But are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  A surge of anxiety slammed inside Felicia’s heart. “Of course I am, Archie. Aren’t you?”

  “I love you, Felicia, and I want to be with you all my life. But being here in the center of our families makes me realize there’s more to marriage than discounts on tour tickets.”

  Felicia waited, trying not to be terrified. “Go on.”

  “I know there are all kinds of families.” Archie cleared his throat. “And most families involve children.”

  Felicia almost moaned. Had her rambunctious nephew and niece put Archie off the idea of marriage? “Archie—”

  “Hello? Merry Christmas! Happy holidays!” An apple-cheeked woman in a Santa Claus sweater appeared in the sanctuary with two large pitchers in her hands. “Don’t mind me. I only need to top up the flowers with water. Go right ahead with what you were doing.”

  Felicia stood up. “We were just leaving. We’ve got a lot of shopping to do before tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I know! There’s always something at the last minute, isn’t there?”

  Felicia and Archie zipped up their parkas, pulled on their mittens, and went out into the frigid day. It was so cold and windy they had to walk with their heads down to protect their faces. This was no way to continue their serious talk. They hurried down the street, around the corner, and into Murray’s Toggery.

  “Merry Christmas!” The salespeople were all dressed in red or green, with Santa hats dangling bells to their shoulders.

  “I brought my list,” Felicia said, thinking as she pulled her paper out of her pocket that she was more like her mother than she’d realized. “We have presents for everyone already. What else did you want to do?”

  “I thought I’d better buy a down jacket for my mother.”

  “Good idea. I’ll get her some gloves, a hat, and a scarf.”

  “Merry Christmas!” Last-minute shoppers rushed in out of the
cold, talking to themselves about what they’d forgotten to purchase for Grandmother or Uncle Ed or their unmarried daughter’s dog.

  Will we be like that? Felicia wondered as she wandered into a different part of the store from Archie. Will we be buying our mothers sweatshirts that say: “My grandchild is a dog”? In spite of the cheerful Christmas music playing in the air, her heart for some odd reason went leaden.

  21

  “I think we did exceptionally well this morning,” said Pat as Jilly pulled into the driveway. Sitting in the passenger seat, Pat was a comical sight in one of Jilly’s coats, several sizes too large for her. It made Pat’s head look too small.

  Jilly’s mouth twitched as she held back a laugh. “I agree. As soon as we lug all our booty into the house, we deserve a nice cup of coffee and one of the pastries the bakery gave us.”

  “How nice they were to give you those chocolate croissants for free,” Pat said.

  “It’s one of the perks of living in a small town.” Arching an eyebrow, Jilly added, “But don’t forget, I did pay a fortune for the cake.”

  “I should pay for something,” Pat murmured thoughtfully. “Aren’t the groom’s parents supposed to pay for the rehearsal dinner?”

  “You’re cooking it tonight. That’s good enough for me. Okeydokey, here we are.” Jilly switched off the engine, stepped out of the car, and opened the trunk. Leaning in, she lifted out a very large cardboard box. “Thank heavens Archie shoveled the driveway so thoroughly! The last thing I want to do is fall while carrying this masterpiece.”