“It’s ridiculous, of course. Not that I wouldn’t love to be such a generous donor of gifts, but I don’t have that kind of money. Why, Grace Hitchens’s hospital bill alone must have been astronomical, and that doesn’t include doctor bills and the cost of her medicines.”
She watched as the logic in her statement settled into Ian’s mind. The speculative look faded from his eyes.
“Of course,” he said quietly, smiling. “It’s just that you’re such a beloved person in town, and you’re Betsy Holden’s granddaughter, and well, people put two and two together and came up with seven.”
“Helping someone in trouble was Gram’s way,” Annie replied. “And I’m flattered that you—and others—thought I could make such a gesture. But, please, Ian, the next time someone suggests me, tell them the truth.”
He reached over, clasped her hand warmly and squeezed it. “I’ll tell them. But it is something you’d do.”
She returned his smile, but before the intimate moment and warm touch could turn into something more, she withdrew her hand from his and glanced at the three DVD cases on the coffee table.
“Which one are we watching tonight?” she said merrily, picking up the stack. “Ah, classics—Casablanca and The Quiet Man—and one new one—The Help.”
“I tell you what, Annie,” he said as he got up. He picked up the popcorn. “I’ll go fix our snacks, and you choose the show.” He gave her wink as if they were in a conspiracy of some sort.
Annie wanted to stand by her declaration not to unravel this mystery, but if people in Stony Point bandied about her name, giving her credit for something she had not done, she had to put a stop to that. Others might expect her to do more, to give what she did not have. A myriad of disastrous scenarios burst in her mind’s eyes. Perhaps it would be best, after all, if she found out the identity of Stony Point’s Santa.
3
On Saturday morning, Annie woke up just before daybreak to the sound of howling wind. By this time, she’d lived in Stony Point long enough to know that wind buffeting her house like that often brought a ton of snow with it. The sound made her shiver, and she snuggled down in her warm nest of blankets. At some point in the night Boots had nosed her way beneath the covers and was now curled up, sound asleep, warm and furry next to Annie’s stomach.
Annie smiled and stroked the cat’s soft coat gently. She felt herself drifting back into the safety net of sleep, away from the sound of that wind and the frigid air. If she were to get out of bed and turn up the thermostat, the house would be warm by the time she was ready to get up for the day. Instead, she cuddled further against the soft pillow beneath her head and the warm cat by her tummy.
Uninvited, a vision edged its way into her mind and consciousness. The old man, his thin coat, his small cap, those ridiculous jersey gloves … she imagined him shivering, hunched over from cold, weak from hunger.
Annie sat straight up. The blankets fell away, Boots woke up, and cool air whooshed around her. She was wide awake now, and she all but jumped out of bed. Rubbing her arms and shivering, she hurried to the thermostat, turning it up several degrees. She grabbed her robe, thrust feet into slippers and went downstairs to make fresh coffee. She did not cast a passing glance out the window because she knew what she’d see out there: early morning darkness made even darker by the dreary winter day.
Why’d I ever leave Texas? she asked herself as she scurried back upstairs to get dressed. Of course she realized early December anywhere north of the Mason-Dixon Line was not exactly balmy. But still … a girl could dream of Texas bluebonnets and warm breezes.
When Annie left the house a bit later, the first signs of gray daylight barely seeped through the clouds. Clutched tightly against her chest was a large thermos of hot coffee. She had bundled herself thickly against the cold. She thought of the movie A Christmas Story and the little boy who, once he fell, could not get up again because of his winter wraps and had lain in the snow like a bug on its back. She hoped she stayed upright.
Her eyes watered so much in the wind she could hardly see. Only the notion of saving someone from freezing to death propelled her forward. She prayed she wasn’t too late, but feared she probably was. Blinking hard, she looked ahead and thought she saw a movement. She wiped her eyes and cupped her hands on either side of her face to block the wind.
It was he. She was sure of it, and she rushed on, fighting the freezing gust that tried to shove her back. The more the wind pushed, the harder she pressed forward. Once again she cupped her eyes and peered ahead. He turned and disappeared into a rocky cove. Had he seen her? She could not be sure, and even if he had retreated from her approach, she did not stop or slow. She rounded the large rocky outcropping and caught sight of him several yards away. In that cove, the wind seemed less aggressive, and she walked on without such struggle.
“Hello, there!” she shouted, hoping he heard her above the sound of the wind and surf. Maybe he did not hear, or maybe he chose not to hear. In either case, she refused to ignore the urge to check on his welfare.
She followed his tracks and found, far back behind the big rocks, a tiny shack nearly hidden in the trees, well-protected from the wind. The smoke from his chimney disappeared as quickly as it rose.
The old man stood on the little stoop in front of his door, glowering at her, arms folded across his chest.
“Good morning!” she called with more friendly cheer than she felt. She wondered if her frozen cheeks would crack from the broad smile she offered him.
He said nothing as she approached, but the expression in his gray eyes blazed with resistance.
“I don’t want callers,” he said when she was close enough to hear him, “especially those who feel the need to come calling on me unawares in early morning hours.” His glare deepened. “I don’t like people of the snoopy sort.”
Had the weather been warmer, Annie’s smile likely would have melted from her face. As it was, it seemed frozen in place, aching against her teeth and cheekbones.
“I apologize for inconveniencing you,” she said, “but not for checking on your well-being—”
“No one asked you to!”
“I know that. But, sir, you aren’t … you aren’t a young man. And the other day when I saw you, your clothing seemed inadequate …” He did not so much as blink. “I wanted to be sure you had food and warmth … you did get my bundle, didn’t you?”
There seemed to be a twitch in his right cheek.
“Yes.”
Annie did not expect a “thank you,” and she didn’t receive one. She held his gaze and thought she saw, beneath his surly demeanor, a wisp of embarrassment. If her offering embarrassed him, she regretted he felt that way. Nevertheless, she had no intention of leaving his presence until she was sure he would survive bad weather.
“Are you a native of this part of the world?” she asked.
“I fail to see why that’s any business of yours,” he said. “Now, kindly leave my property.”
She stayed put.
“The only reason I asked is because Maine winters, especially right here so close to the coastline, can be brutal. I’m from Texas, and it took me a while—”
“I understand cold weather and the pitfalls of living near northern waters. I’m considerably older, and I daresay, much smarter than you.”
Annie folded her arms in an exact replica of his stance.
“Sir, I came to you with good intentions. I have offered you nothing but kindness. I refuse to leave until I’m sure you have sufficient shelter, water, and food.”
He said nothing for a moment and then took a deep breath.
“So be it. I have plenty of everything I need. Good day to you, ma’am.”
With that, he turned and went into the shack. He shut the door firmly, and Annie heard the distinct, finalizing click of a lock. She straightened her shoulders even more, went to the door and shouted into the keyhole, “I’m going to check on you from time to time.”
She waited a short time, but he never res
ponded. She turned on her heel and hurried back to Grey Gables the way she’d come, fighting the wind and squinting against frozen moisture now pelting her face.
Back home, Annie’s cold-stiffened fingers could barely unlock her front door. It seemed to her that her flannel-lined, down-stuffed, sturdy leather gloves should have provided more comfort than they did.
Inside the house, the warmth greeted her with as much love as she greeted it. She was met with silence and glanced around for Boots, who generally showed up to blink at her, either in greeting, entreating, or accusation. Had the cat slipped outside while Annie maneuvered her bulky self through the door earlier? Her heart nearly stopped at the idea.
“Boots?” Her voice came out weak, half-frozen. She cleared her throat, coughed hard, and cleared her throat again. “Boots?” she called somewhat frantically.
She heard, very faintly, a tiny, high sound like “Mmm?”
“Where are you, kitty?” She followed the sound, and found Boots emerging from sleep, half-burrowed into a soft rose-pink afghan in the corner of the sofa. The cat mewed softly again, blinked sleepily, and then yawned.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” Annie said with a laugh.
Boots leaped to the floor and strolled toward Annie, tail high, eyes bright. She meowed plaintively, gave Annie’s legs a quick rub of her arched body and then circled, meowing her demand.
“Hungry. I know. Let’s get you fed.”
She picked up the cat, loving the soft, purring warmth against her cold palms and fingers. As soon as she fed Boots and gave her fresh water, Annie took a long shower. The water was so hot that steam filled the room and fogged the shower doors and mirror. It seemed she’d never get warm, but eventually the core of her body felt comfortable again. She dressed in dark gray fleece slacks and heavy wool sweater only a couple of shades lighter than black. Thick gray kneesocks and stylish black leather boots finished that day’s garb.
Annie had just finished blow-drying her hair when she heard someone at the door. She glanced out the window. This was the kind of snow that iced over roadways and sidewalks, and made travel dangerous. Who in the world would come out on day this raw? Had the old man come to her, after all, seeking the secure shelter of Grey Gables?
She hurried downstairs and to the front door.
“Annie!” Alice said as Annie turned the knob. “It’s so c-cold! May I come in?”
“Come in!” Annie said, tugging her friend’s snowy arm. “What on earth are you doing out in this weather? Want some hot coffee?” She shut the door.
“I wanted to visit, and yes, I’ll take hot coffee. Gladly.”
They went to the kitchen together. Annie supposed there would never be a time in her life that she did not feel the welcome of this kitchen every time she entered it. The room seemed to embody the presence of Gram in every corner and cupboard. How many times in this same kitchen had Annie and Alice shared snacks that Gram had prepared in the summers of their youth? Annie’s annual visits while her parents were overseas on their mission work had cemented a friendship that bloomed again after Betsy Holden’s death and Annie’s return to Stony Point.
“I brought cinnamon rolls,” Alice said, pulling a container from beneath her bulky coat, “with orange zest icing and pecans.”
“Lovely!” Annie said. “I’m starved.”
Alice gave her a long hard stare as she unbuttoned her coat and hung it on a hook near the back door.
“You are extremely frazzled for this early in the morning.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s barely 8 a.m., but you look like you’ve already been on a shopping trip to Portland. What’s up?”
Annie gave her a wide-eyed look, wondering how Alice MacFarlane always seemed to read her like a book.
“You aren’t trying to uncover the identity of our Stony Point Santa, are you?” Alice asked before Annie opened her mouth.
“No, I’ve not done that at all.” She paused. “Yet.”
“Ah ha!” Alice smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. You’re a mystery magnet.”
“It’s not that,” Annie said, slightly frowning. She turned and measured water for the coffeemaker.
“But aren’t you curious?”
“Of course I’m curious,” Annie said over her shoulder, scooping fresh coffee grounds into the maker.
“I sense a ‘but’ in there.”
“But …,” Annie said as switched on the coffeemaker, “Ian says some people in town think I am the person who did it.” When Alice did not respond, Annie said, “You don’t think that, do you, Alice?”
“Well, to be honest ….”
“Oh, come on! Where would I get that kind of money?”
Alice shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s something you’d do, Annie.”
“That’s what Ian said Friday night,” Annie replied, sounding somewhat fretful, even to her own ears. “He said Gram would have done it, and I’m a lot like her.”
“True.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake!” She sat down heavily. “That’s why I need to discover who the giver is, so no one credits me for giving Norma a hunk of money and freeing Grace from that enormous hospital bill.”
“And buying Bud Favor a new motorcycle.”
Annie gawked at her. “Buying Bud Favor a new motorcycle?” Bud Favor was a hardworking college student who commuted daily to Portland on an old motorcycle that seemed held together with twine and duct tape.
“It was on his porch last night about nine o’clock. It had a big red bow and a note signed ‘Early Merry Christmas, from Stony Point’s Santa.’”
“That’s wonderful!” Annie said, smiling. “Now his mother can stop worrying so much about him getting to school and back. Though in the winter, travel on a motorcycle can be harsh. Especially in weather like this.”
Her mind drifted to the old man again. Was he warm and dry? Did he need fuel?
“Oh, my. What’s that?” Alice said.
Annie glanced around, a little alarmed. “What’s what? Where? Is something wrong?”
“That look on your face. It’s the same frazzled look you had when you opened the front door.”
Annie leaned back. “Oh.”
“Oh.”
She met Alice’s eyes. “There’s this man—”
“A man?” Alice echoed with excitement. She leaned forward, eyes bright. “Who is it? Do I know him? Does he live here? Where’d you meet him? Why haven’t you told me about him before now? What about Ian?”
In spite of herself and the situation, Annie laughed. She answered Alice’s questions in the order they were asked.
“I don’t know his name. I don’t know him. He lives in a shack. I met him on the beach. And I didn’t want to tell anyone about him because he’s … well, he guards his privacy. And what about Ian?” She got up to pour their coffee. “You want to put the rolls in the microwave to warm them? They smell heavenly, by the way.”
“Annie Dawson!” Alice said after a moment of gawking at her friend. She made no move to unwrap her rolls and heat them. “Have you lost your mind? That guy sounds like a wacko. He guards his privacy? What does that mean? Is he an escaped convict or something?”
“I don’t know who he is,” Annie said again, “but I doubt there is anything to be afraid of. He’s quite old.”
“Well, yeah, so is Charles Manson. Did this guy have wild eyes like Charles Manson?”
“Oh, Alice!” Annie all but shrieked. “That poor old man is not Charles Manson. He’s just an old derelict living in a terrible old shack down the beach a ways, back in a cove.”
Alice heaved out a huge breath.
“How in the world did you unearth someone living in a shack on the beach in December in Maine?”
“You make it sound like I dug him up out of a grave or something. I didn’t ‘unearth’ him.”
Alice just shrugged and kept the waiting, skeptical expression on her face.
“I saw him the other day,” Annie continued. “He was
hunched over a campfire and dressed in clothes that really were unsuitable for the weather.”
Alice propped her elbows on the table and cupped her chin as Annie related the details of both of her encounters with the old man.
“I’m just so worried about him, Alice,” she concluded. “What if he starves or freezes?”
“Annie, you’ve taken him clothes, food, and blankets. What more can you do? I wonder who he is?”
Annie shook her head. “I wish I knew. If I knew his name, maybe I could find his family and see if they’d come and get him. He ought to be in a warm house, not that old shack. You know it must be cold in there all the time, Alice, so close to the water.”
“Did he seem like his mind was clear? Maybe he has dementia or something.”
“No, I’m sure he’s in complete control of his faculties,” Annie said. “I mean, he seemed eccentric, yes, but not out of his mind. His eyes were clear—angry, but clear.”
Alice frowned as she got up and began unwrapping the rolls.
“Honestly, Annie, who do you know that’s in full control of their faculties that would live in a shack on the beach up here in the winter?”
“You have a point.” Annie sighed. “On the other hand, maybe he doesn’t care that it’s cold and he’s miserable. Maybe he isn’t cold and miserable. Maybe he’s lived as a transient all his life, and he’s used to hardship and can take it.”
Alice arranged the thick, soft cinnamon rolls on a plate and put them in the microwave. She set the timer and pushed the button.
“You think he’s a transient?” she asked, licking a drop of icing from her fingertip.
Annie shrugged.
“If so,” Alice continued, “you’re right in saying he’s used to hardship and making do. Maybe he prefers it.”
“From his anger and resistance to my help, I’d say he definitely prefers it.”
The microwave timer dinged. Alice opened the door and the aroma of hot cinnamon and tangy orange filled the kitchen.
“Annie, my friend,” she said as she carefully removed the plate, “your heart is as soft and gooey as the center of these rolls, and your personality is as sweet as this icing, but this time I think you are probably wasting your good intentions. The man has survived this long without your help; I have no doubt he wants it to stay that way.”
A Stony Point Christmas Page 3