A Stony Point Christmas

by K. D. McCrite

  “My goodness,” she said faintly. “What an ordeal that dream was.”

  “It rather echoes Ebenezer Scrooge, doesn’t it? But my dream was not a story in a book; my dream happened.”

  She leaned forward, smiling at him. “You have made so many people happy, Graham. I look forward to watching you embrace this new life you’ve chosen.”

  His face creased with joy. “Thank you for saying so. Stony Point is only my beginning.”

  “I’m still curious, though,” she said. “Why Stony Point, Maine? Why not some town in, say, Arizona, or Oregon, or Mississippi?”

  He shrugged. “I pulled out an old map of the United States, closed my eyes, and Stony Point is where my finger landed. I flew from New York to Portland, had a cab bring me here and drop me off at the bank. All I had were the clothes on my back, that small suitcase, and some necessary paperwork. John Palmer was more than willing to work with me. And he swore to keep my secret. He, and his lovely wife.”

  “Gwen?” Annie gasped. “She knew all this time?”

  “Yes, she did. She kept my secret marvelously well, don’t you think? In fact, she and John have been instrumental in telling me who needed what. Gwen did the shopping for me.”

  “But wait a minute,” Annie said slowly, “are you saying the Palmers knew you lived in that awful old shack with inadequate heat and not enough—”

  “No one knew where I lived until you snooped around and found me.”

  “I did not snoop!”

  He chuckled. “But you did. And you found me. You—and I suppose Alice—are the only ones who know where I’ve been staying. Annie, do you realize how long it took me to find a place I thought no one would find? I’d been there less than a week when there you came, merrily tripping along the beach on a cold day, looking for lost souls to save while all I wanted to do was have fresh fish for my lunch.”

  “For someone who wanted to change from being an arrogant old so-and-so,” Annie said, narrowing her eyes at him, “you certainly were hostile to me.”

  “Not hostile. At least I did not intend that.” He reflected momentarily. “Perhaps you’re right; I was hostile. It’s the way I’ve lived most of my life. At any rate, I wanted to protect my anonymity, and you were going to ruin it by continuing to show up.”

  She made a little show of locking her lips and throwing away the key.

  “If Gwen Palmer can tick a lock, so can Annie Dawson.”

  She laughed, and then a dreadful thought occurred to her.

  “Noelle’s clothes. Did Gwen buy them? Does she know about Noelle? What did you tell her?”

  “I told her I wanted to make Christmas for a little girl who had nothing. Gwen did not ask me who; she merely bought the gifts, and I picked them up at the Palmers’ house when I had dinner with them the other night. Since they live just down the road from Grey Gables, it was nothing for me to carry them this far.”

  “Do you think they know …?”

  “About Noelle?” Graham shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes! I’m not announcing her presence here just yet. I want to take care of her for a while first. She needs it so desperately. If the person who left her doesn’t return for her in a reasonable amount of time, I’ll have to go to child services. I’ve begun the process of possibly becoming her foster mother. But right now, I’m taking it one day at a time.”

  “Then we each have a trust in guardianship, don’t we?” Graham said.

  “Yes. We do,” Annie replied.

  “I will keep your trust. You can put your mind at rest.”

  “And you too.”

  “Good!” Graham smiled. “And now that I have spilled my proverbial guts to you, tell me about Annie Dawson, this house, and your grandparents.”

  He listened with great interest and had many questions about Annie’s life story, which—compared to his—seemed exceedingly bland and ordinary.

  Noelle came into the living room, sweetly clean in a snug little fleece suit of dark pink with pale green piping. Two green barrettes secured the sides of her hair. The sneakers on her feet seemed impossibly tiny and looked adorable. Gwen Palmer certainly knew how to shop for a little girl.

  “Hello, there, young lady,” Graham said.

  She smiled at him shyly and sidled up to him. Then without warning or invitation, Noelle climbed into Graham’s lap. His look of astonishment was priceless, and Annie laughed aloud.

  “Bambo,” she said, patting his face. Then she tucked her thumb between her lips, and snuggled up to the old man’s chest and sat there, perfectly content.

  “Bambo?” he and Annie repeated together.

  “It must be her way of saying Graham,” Annie said.

  “Really?”

  She shrugged. “Unless maybe she thinks you’re a cross between BamBam and Rambo.”

  Graham laughed. “I don’t mind being Bambo. In fact, I rather like it.”

  ****

  Annie missed the next Hook and Needle Club meeting to stay with Noelle. After the meeting, Alice burst into the house via the front door, smiling and bringing cold air and a box of treats with her.

  “All the ladies said to tell you ‘hi’ and that they missed you being there. I told them you were busy with some personal matters. And next week, I plan to have a sore throat, or maybe a sprained ankle so you can go to the meeting, and I’ll stay with Noelle.”

  Annie looked up from where she crocheted on the sofa and nodded, smiling. She’d love nothing more than to show off Noelle to the ladies of the group.

  “Thank you, Alice.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” Alice said to Noelle where the child sat in the old rocker, sucking her thumb sleepily. “I figured you’d be down for a nap by this time of day.”

  Annie paused her crocheting long enough to gaze at the sleepy girl.

  “She’s fighting it today for some reason. Bambo is using the treadmill in the spare room. I think she’s actually fighting sleep, waiting for him to come downstairs.”

  “My goodness,” Alice said, “by looking at the way Graham stays active, you’d never know he was eighty-five!”

  “And you’d never know he has arthritis, either. He says if he keeps himself moving, he doesn’t get so stiff and achy. I hope I’m that resilient when I’m his age.”

  “Then you should start now,” he said as he joined the women. “Let me help you off with your coat, Alice. The treadmill is all yours.”

  “Thank you, sir! But I think you have more important matters at hand than hanging up my coat.” She pointed to Noelle who had scooted off the chair and was running to him.

  “Bambo!” she said, trying to climb up his leg. He reached down to lift her as easily as if she weighed less than a feather. “Hungry!” she shouted, laughing.

  “Eh, you’re not always so quiet, are you? And you’re always hungry,” he said, jostling her gently with his shoulder.

  “Would you like some coffee or a cup of tea?” Annie asked the adults.

  “Absolutely, some coffee would be excellent with these cookies,” Alice said, holding up the box she’d brought in with her. “You’ll never guess who made them, Annie.”

  Annie had walked toward the kitchen to start coffee, but she paused and turned.

  “Not you?”

  Alice shook her head. “Guess!”

  “Umm, Stella?”

  “Nope.”

  “Kate?”

  Alice shook her head.

  “Mary Beth?”

  “No,” Alice said. “OK, I’ll tell you. Sara baked them! Jeff gave her permission to come before the diner opened this morning and bake them. She made scads of cookies, enough for us all to have a stash to bring home. Try one.” She pried off the plastic lid and held out the box for the others to get a cookie.

  “These melt in your mouth,” Graham said, reaching for another.

  Noelle stuffed one her mouth, grinning while she munched.

  “Oh, yum!” Annie said, as she bit into the treat. “Delicious. They
are crunchy and melty; they’re buttery, but not too sweet or salty. Alice, you might have a competitor.”

  “I know! That woman can do almost anything, I believe. She made every one of those bookmarks that you took orders for, and Aaron Webster took her to Portland to deliver them. That quiet little woman was absolutely over the top because she’d made some money. And you should have seen her, Annie, wearing an outfit from all those clothes she got from Stony Point’s Santa.”

  “What’s that? I don’t recall any Sara who received a gift from me,” Graham said, frowning. He had cookie crumbs on his chin. Alice reached up and brushed them off.

  “There is more than one Santa in this burg,” she said with a merry laugh.

  “There is?”

  “Yes!” Annie said. “When your anonymous gifts started showing up, others began to jump on board. Someone cleaned the snow from my driveway for free—”

  “And mine!” Alice chimed in. She still had no idea Annie was her Santa for that.

  “Someone donated land for a community garden and others plan to donate plants and seeds, time, and labor,” Annie continued. “Someone else gave Mary Beth a few items of furniture for her break room at A Stitch in Time.”

  The old man seemed stunned into speechlessness; then he laughed and said, “Well, let’s celebrate the Christmas spirit with more cookies and some hot coffee. Or in a certain case, some milk.”

  “Let’s do that,” Alice said, “and while we’re in the kitchen I have a favor I want to ask of you, Graham.”

  21

  Annie put fresh water and grounds in the coffeemaker. While the coffee was brewing, she arranged Sara’s cookies on a plate. She studied one, noting its pale toasty color, chunks of pecans, and something else that she could not identify. She took a bite and chewed slowly, thoughtfully, trying to assess the mysterious ingredient. Graham noticed her studious expression.

  “Don’t analyze. Enjoy,” he said, plucking a cookie from the plate.

  “Oh, I’m enjoying it immensely,” Annie said, laughing, “but I love a good mystery and like to get to the bottom things.”

  “And she usually does,” Alice said as she came into the kitchen with her purple tote bag. “Potato chips,” she added, as she pulled several thick novels from the bag.

  “I think there are some in the cabinet,” Annie said. “You want a sandwich to go with them? I have some—”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant, potato chips are the ingredient you don’t recognize in the cookies. Crushed potato chips. And Sara said if you put the cookies in the freezer and eat them frozen, they are ever so good.”

  Annie studied the cookie with an educated eye.

  “That’s what gives them that extra crunch and flavor, isn’t it?” she said. She enjoyed every morsel of the treat, and then she poured a small glass of milk and put one cookie on a napkin in front of Noelle. “You may have another after your nap,” she promised.

  Graham got three cups from the cabinet and filled them. Steam rose from each cup, lending warmth and the fragrance of coffee to the room.

  “I see you’ve brought in some of my later novels,” he said to Alice as he handed her a cup and took his usual place at the table.

  “These are mine,” she said, smiling. “I’d love for you to sign them for me.” With a flourish, she handed him a pen. “Please?”

  “It would be my honor and my delight, ma’am,” he said, smiling at her. He looked at the pen with interest. “This is the first fountain pen I’ve seen in many years. I was unaware they still made them.”

  “That is the one that Charlie and Betsy gave to me as my high school graduation gift. I still use it, but only for special occasions.”

  “Ah. Then this is more than an honor and delight. It’s a privilege.”

  The two women watched as he signed the flyleaf of every book, each time writing a special note to Alice.

  Noelle drained the last of her milk and swallowed every cookie crumb in front of her. She rubbed her eyes, and Annie recognized the signs. If the child wasn’t put down for a nap soon, she’d grow cranky and fretful.

  “I’ll take her for her nap,” Annie said, scooping Noelle into her arms. When she returned, Graham was scowling darkly at Alice in a way Annie hadn’t seen in the two weeks since he’d arrived.

  “What goes on?” Annie asked cautiously. In fact, she was pretty sure she preferred not to know.

  “I was telling Graham I thought it would be grand to have an autograph party. We could advertise it in The Point, announce it on the radio—”

  “Absolutely not! I refuse to be made a laughing-stock, pointed out as a pathetic has-been writer who is irrelevant.”

  “But this might re-launch your career—”

  “No!” he all but roared. “That’s it, Alice. No!”

  The two women exchanged glances. Annie silently signaled for her friend to drop the subject.

  “I understand how you feel, Graham,” Annie said, “and certainly you don’t have to do such a thing. But I’ve been thinking about what you said, about critics saying you were irrelevant.”

  Something glittered in his eyes and before he grew more upset, she rushed to continue.

  “They did not say you were irrelevant. They said your last book was. And you know why? Because it was about the Cold War.”

  “But that’s my area of expertise! That’s the subject I built my career on.”

  “But, Graham, maybe you’ve said all that needs to be said about that time. Maybe readers don’t want to read about it because they know how it ends. Whatever the critics say, it’s not you or your writing—it’s the subject. You just need to find a new topic.”

  “Bah!” he said, moving restlessly in his chair.

  “I have a point, if you’ll just be patient with me,” Annie said. “You talked about how you’ve changed—and why. You described that dream you had, and I found myself so caught up in it all. I felt what you felt, way down deep inside myself. And I know I’m not the only one who would feel that way. Graham, that’s a story that is relevant. I think that’s the story you should write.”

  “And bare that part of my soul to the world? Never!”

  “But isn’t that what writing ultimately is? Baring a part of your soul to the world? By doing so you may be able to erase or alleviate someone else’s painful search. You could help them by sharing how your single-minded search for wealth and fame took you outside the human experience and left you feeling alone and irrelevant?”

  “Yes!” Alice said. “Although I missed the story of all that you went through, Graham, if you were to record the differences you’ve made in the lives of others by your anonymous gifts, you’d bring so much joy to others.”

  “And by sharing how,” Annie added, “at the advanced age of eighty-five, you were able to put aside a lifetime of misguided thinking, you can give so much hope.” She saw his resistance begin to weaken.

  “Don’t you want to write again?” she asked quietly.

  “I love the art and the craft of writing fiction,” he admitted slowly.

  “Will you think about it?” Alice asked.

  He hesitated a moment longer, and then a spark flickered in his sea-gray eyes.

  “I will,” he promised, “but only as a novel, not as a glorified autobiography.”

  22

  The fire roared in the fireplace, and the Christmas tree shimmered in reflection of the flames. From the kitchen wafted the scent of cinnamon, pumpkin, sage, ham … almost every delectable Christmas food that American tradition could call for.

  Carols played softly on the CD player tucked unobtrusively behind the tree. On the rococo table, Annie had placed some fresh, fragrant cedar branches around one of Gram’s favorite nativity scenes, with tiny porcelain figures as delicate as spiderwebs. Noelle had been firmly instructed that this one display must never be touched by little hands. For the entire week that it had been on display, she had stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her pale eyes gazing with w
onder at the scene depicting the first Christmas night.

  In the weeks since Noelle’s arrival, she had filled out. Thin cheeks were beginning to take on a childish roundness. Her arms and legs looked less and less like fragile thin sticks and more like a toddler’s sturdy limbs. The clothes Annie and Graham had bought now fit without being pinned. Noelle wore a red velvet dress with a full skirt and lace-trimmed collar and puffed sleeves. The black velvet sash around her waist was tied in a huge bow in the back. Lacy white anklets and shiny black patent-leather Mary Janes completed the child’s outfit and contrasted sweetly with her silvery-blond hair and sparkly red barrettes. She was hunkered in front of the Christmas tree, staring at her many reflections in the multicolored glass balls. From time to time, a tentative fingertip reached out to touch the ball, and she jumped in place a little, giggling. She ignored the gifts. No doubt presents had been few and far between in her life, if she had received any at all. Her pale eyes now shone with an inner light, and fear seemed a distant memory for the little girl.

  Four doting adults watched her and chatted as they sipped mulled cider and munched the plethora of Christmas treats Annie and Alice had prepared.

  “Ladies, the fragrance from that dinner is wending its way into my heart not to mention my olfactory passages,” Ian said from his place next to Annie on the sofa. He wore a dark red-and-green long-sleeve tartan shirt and black slacks. Annie’s deep green sweater sported a feathery faux-fur collar and looked lovely with her black velvet slacks. In her hair, she had fastened a sparkling angel hairpin that had belonged to Betsy. Sitting next to Ian, she had to admit they complemented each other quite well, right down to their polished leather shoes. Maybe they were an item.

  “It’s almost ready,” Alice said. “The rolls are baking, and once I take them from the oven, it will be time to feast.” She looked lovely in her black turtleneck and red vest. She had embroidered glossy, dark green holly leaves and gold berries along the neckline. Her red slacks matched the color of the vest exactly. With her furnace repaired—she said she hoped it was repaired for good this time—Alice had moved back to the carriage house.