Anth - Mistletoe & Magic

by Mistletoe

  "Tell me, Mr. Goodman, how long have you been in Woodbridge?" she asked.

  "Six years."

  "All, indeed. And your family? Where are they?"

  "I have cousins in New Hampshire." He looked like he wanted to say more, but was restraining himself. Perhaps he did not think she would find anything he said of interest.

  "And do you come from a family of merchants?"

  "My parents were fanners, not well off," he said, and when she nodded, making eye contact to show her interest, he continued. "It was never a life that appealed to me. One of my earliest memories is of going to the general store, and the wonder I felt looking at all those things, and all that candy. I thought Mr. Johnson, the owner, must be one step down from God to be owning all that. Even getting a peppermint stick into my hand was like a holiday to me. Plowing and sowing and mucking out barns seemed to me a foolish way to spend my time, when working in a store might be an option."

  "What did your parents think of that?"

  He shrugged his shoulders, the bear fur rising up to meet his hat. "Mother died when I was eight, and my father seemed to… fade after that. When I told him I'd gotten an after-school job at the store, he just muttered, and jerked his jaw forward in what I took to be acceptance."

  He glanced at her. She nodded for him to go on.

  "When I finished school, I went to Boston, working at a large store there for a few years. I thought I needed the experience of working in a large city. then Father died, I sold what was left of the farm, and came here and bought a small dry-goods store that was for sale."

  "I remember it. 'Cooper's Dry Goods,' wasn't it?"

  "The very one."

  "It seems you've made a success of your enterprise. Cooper's was not much of a store."

  "I've been fortunate."

  Catherine thought it was likely more than that. the man might have a soft heart, but he plainly had business sense. His merchandise was of good quality and sold at fair prices, and the welcoming atmosphere of the store made it the type of place one wanted to linger and browse, even if there was nothing one needed to buy. She well knew that was a circumstance that had caused many of her own coins to flow through her fingers.

  They turned down a narrow lane, and followed it to a farmhouse. He drew the horses to a halt, and called over his shoulder to the boys, "Garfields'!"

  Joshua stayed in the wagon while the three other boys jumped down, then Joshua stalled passing goods to them, which were carried up to the door in the passageway that connected kitchen to bam. An old woman came out a moment later, and waved to Mr. Goodman. He leaped down and went to talk with her, and after a few words the woman— Mrs. Garfield, she presumed— looked over at Catherine, met her eyes, and nodded in silent greeting. Catherine nodded back.

  Catherine sat and watched the rest of the exchange, and watched the boys running to and fro with their packages and burdens. She began to find herself feeling at a social disadvantage, sitting on the buckboard of a wagon in her fashionable, frivolous clothes, the jaunty, plumed hat atop her coiled hair ridiculously inappropriate to the occasion. Mrs. Garfield was wearing a dark woolen dress, apron, and half-mittens, her hair pulled simply back and covered in an outdated cotton cap. She doubted Mrs. Garfield would walk in the snow in thin leather boots with high heels.

  When they were all back in the wagon and on their way again, Mr. Goodman said, "I should have asked before: Do you mind my making a few deliveries while we're out?"

  "Certainly not, I'm enjoying the ride," she said. He seemed to sense her slight lack of conviction, his eyes on her for long seconds, and she felt a flutter of panic that he might actually turn the wagon around, drive back to town, and drop her at her house if she showed the least sign of wanting to return. She didn't want that, however out of place she might feel in her finery. She might look silly and useless sitting there, but her curiosity about Mr. Goodman was yet to be satisfied, and she would not leave until it was.

  They rode in silence into the woods, the boys behind them having become accustomed enough to her immobile back that they had resumed their talk. She eavesdropped, smiling when one cursed and was abruptly hushed by the others in belated consideration of her presence.

  "I must have come to Woodbridge at about the same time you left for college," Mr. Goodman said. "Robert tells me you went to Mount Holyoke, down in Massachusetts."

  "I thought it was a huge adventure at the time," she said, and at his prompting told him of what it had been like, and talked as well of her travels with Aunt Frances. She paused when he halted the wagon and gave the boys instructions on what greenery to fetch, but then he prompted her to continue, staying with her in the wagon, as the snowy ground was too uneven and wet for her to walk upon dressed as she was.

  It wasn't until the boys were coming back with their loaded gunnysacks and, surprisingly, a tree, that she realized she had been talking for at least three quarters of an hour. Mr. Goodman exclaimed over the unexpected spruce and climbed down, and she listened with half an ear to the boys' improvised explanations of how badly he needed a tree in his store. Her mind, however, was busy berating herself for talking on and on about herself and her travels.

  He must think her a pretentious, self-absorbed braggart. He had coaxed her to talk, nodding and murmuring in the right places, making eye contact and giving her the sense that he listened, in a way that few men ever did, but any woman should know better than to take that at face value. Hadn't she herself gone through those very motions countless times with men these past few years, feigning interest in some stultifying tale, all the while wondering when the windbag would run out of air?

  She half-turned and watched with a distracted smile on her lips as they maneuvered the spruce into the wagon, the top of it hanging well over the back end. Why was she so concerned about what he might think of her, anyway?

  Because you admire him, a voice inside answered. Maybe she did. He was self-made, and yet maintained a kind and generous heart.

  He was free of pretension, and there was something honest and solid to him that she had found in very few men besides her father. He also looked, she thought, to be a happy man.

  He caught her watching him, and smiled while cocking his head at the boys, as if to say, See how they manipulate me? She wondered how much extra the boys were demanding to be paid, for bagging such a large piece of greenery as a spruce.

  Had Mr. Goodman ever married, ever been in love? It was not the type of question she could ask him on short acquaintance. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have him courting her, and failed. He was too far from the likes of Mr. Rose and the other men who had peopled her circle of late. Would he bring a small bouquet of flowers, that unruly lock of hair on his forehead ridiculously slicked back and subdued by pomade? Would he sit in the parlor with a cup of tea trembling on his knee, and try to make conversation?

  He climbed back up beside her, the boys scrambling in behind. "Are you warm enough?" he asked. "There are more blankets in back."

  "I'm quite comfortable," she half-lied, and felt a twinge of guilt for her thoughts on how he might court a woman. Whomever he chose to marry, she would be smart to count herself a fortunate girl.

  Chapter Five

  Catherine shoved the needle through a cranberry, then carefully pulled the dark red berry along the string until it nestled up against its twin. She reached into the bowl for another, shoving aside those that had black soft spots or were half white. Papa was hunched on a stool next to the fire, shaking the long handle of the popcorn popper, the seeds rattling across the bottom of the black mesh container. Amy sat with her on the floor, sewing small lace pouches that would hold candies for the tree.

  "How late will Mama be?" Catherine asked her father.

  "I'm to fetch her at nine, and none too soon, I'm sure. That drama club causes her more grief than joy."

  "I think she enjoys complaining about them," Catherine said.

  "It's worse this year. You know she and Maggie Walsch h
ave written their own adaptation of Dickens's A Christmas Carol for the stage, don't you?"

  "Dear me, no. Mama did not mention that part of it."

  "Well. You can imagine the state she gets in when our local thespians question their lines."

  Catherine pursed her lips and raised her brows, imagining the scene very well indeed. Mama was a lamb in the general course of things, but on the occasions that a creative project was put into her direct control, she became a field marshal who brooked no opposition. Those who questioned orders or threatened desertion were put to the firing squad. "Is Mr. Goodman in the play?"

  "Mr. Goodman?" her father asked, eyes on the kernels that had just begun to pop. "Of course. He's Scrooge."

  "Scrooge?" Catherine cried. "You cannot be serious."

  Papa looked over his shoulder at her. "Who better than a shopkeeper? they're notorious for being tightfisted."

  "But Mr. Goodman! Or does Mama see it as a joke?"

  Papa frowned at her. "I don't quite see what you're getting at, Catherine. He's an astute businessman, and living alone like he does in that new house of his, I think he fits the part rather well. It's easier to imagine him in the role than, say, Mr. Tobias, who has a wife and six children and is on the library board."

  "Do people think him a miser, then?"

  "I doubt that they think of him much at all. He's a bit of a cipher, our Mr. Goodman, and keeps himself to himself," her father said approvingly.

  "Papa!" Amy cried, pointing at the fire.

  "What? Oh, damn me," Papa said, turning back to his task and finding the popper full of flaming popcorn. He used the long handle to open the lid, and dumped the lot into the fire. "That's the third batch."

  Catherine and Amy both giggled. Papa gave them a glare.

  "Why are you asking so many questions about Mr. Goodman?" Amy asked her, as Papa refilled the popper.

  "Who says I am asking 'so many'? I was curious, is all," she said primly.

  Oh yes, she was curious, curious because at the second farmhouse where Mr. Goodman made a delivery he came back to the wagon with a pierced tin foot warmer full of hot coals, knowing despite her denials that she was chilled. Curious, because when he had again prompted her to talk about herself, she had looked into his eyes and known that he truly was interested, and not merely feigning it out of politeness.

  "Is he courting you?"

  "Amy! What a ridiculous question. Of course not."

  "I don't see what's so ridiculous about it. I like him, and think he would make an excellent brother-in-law."

  "Oh, really," Catherine said, rolling her eyes, feeling a touch of embarrassment on her cheeks. Married to Mr. Goodman? She, the wife of the man in that enormous bearskin coat? How Mr. Rose would laugh!

  "Did you ever ask Papa about Mr. Rose?" Amy asked.

  "Hi, what?" Papa said, settling back onto his stool, casting another look over his shoulder at them.

  "I wanted to know if Catherine had asked you your opinion of Mr. Rose," Amy said.

  "No. Why? Did you want it?" he asked Catherine.

  She busied herself with a cranberry, then glanced at him from under her brows. "If you were willing to give it."

  "Things that serious, are they?"

  "I wouldn't say that. Papa, but I trust your judgment and Mama's."

  He gave the popper a shake. "He'd be able to provide for you, there looks to be no question of that. He's personable, and cuts a fine figure. He seems to have taken quite a fancy to you." He chewed the inside of his lower lip, eyes focused on the distance.

  Catherine waited. "And?" she prompted.

  "Hmm?" he said, pulled from his reverie.

  "And what else?" she asked.

  "And nothing else. He appears an eligible enough young man."

  "But— What of his character? What type of husband would he make?" Catherine complained, unsatisfied. "Is he a good man? Would he be a good father?"

  ,"I don't have a crystal ball, Catherine, and I barely know the man. You are the one who has spent time with him. You know the answers better than I would."

  She gave a little grunt of frustration. Why was it a parent never had an opinion when you most wanted one, but was free enough with advice when you were in no mood to hear it?

  'Damn me!" Papa cried again, and Amy shrieked in laughter as another batch of popcorn went up in flames.

  "You have no idea how jealous I am of you right now," Melinda whispered into Catherine's ear. "I think he's the most handsome man I've ever seen." They were standing in the doorway to Melinda's house, Mr. Rose a few steps away on the short bricked path through the yard.

  Catherine smiled at her friend, and at the baby she held bundled in her arms. "Nor have you any idea how jealous I am of you." Her childhood friend was married and a mother twice over. Her house was small and untidy, and she could only afford one maid-of-all-work, but she looked content.

  "Hurry up and go now, or some Woodbridge spinster will lose her senses and kidnap him right before our eyes," Melinda said.

  "I'll call on you again soon."

  "Do. I can never seem to get out of the house when I have a baby underfoot."

  Catherine pressed a kiss onto the downy forehead of the child, said her final farewells, and joined Mr. Rose where he waited, leaning his right hand atop his ebony-and-gold cane.

  "Your friend is quite charming," he said as she took his ann and they began to walk.

  "I am glad you think so. She was taken with you, as well."

  "Such a sweet, simple girl. I can see how you would like her."

  I've known her since we were two, and she is not entirely as simple as she may seem," Catherine said, a faint touch of annoyance spoiling her mood. Was that a patronizing tone she had heard in his voice?

  Mr. Rose laughed. "I've offended you! My dear," he said and, tucking his cane under his ann, he reached over to pat her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. "I meant 'simple' in the best of all possible ways. She is unspoiled, and possessed of those 'simple' virtues that any man would wish for in a wife."

  "Then I apologize," she said, and wondered what was wrong with her. If Melinda was to be believed, she was the envy of every unwed young woman in Woodbridge— and not a few of the married ones as well— and yet she was not entirely pleased to be walking beside Mr. Rose at this moment. He had returned from Boston the night before, and today when he came to the house had expressed his profound happiness to be once more in her company. He had made her mother laugh with stories about his Boston relatives, and then had readily agreed to accompany Catherine on her visit to Melinda. So why was it that she found herself ever so slightly irritated by his presence? Why, when he was so perfect a choice for a husband, did she find herself wishing he would go away?

  "Your apology is most graciously accepted," he said playfully, and they turned a comer and began walking along the side of the village green. They had gone some distance in silence when he spoke again, somewhat puzzled. "Catherine, I do believe that man is waving to you," he said.

  Catherine squinted into the distance, trying to make out of whom he spoke. She was not wearing her spectacles, and everything except the sidewalk a few feet in front of her was a blur. Her irritation rose a notch, for if Mr. Rose were not with her she would be wearing them, and seeing for herself who waved, thank you very much.

  She knew it was her own vanity at fault, and not Mr. Rose, but that realization did nothing to improve her humor. "1 cannot make him out," she admitted.

  "He's stopped now. He's going into a store."

  "Is he?" she asked, her grip tightening on Mr. Rose's aim. "Which one?"

  "I cannot tell, the tree branches block the sign. Does it matter?"

  "I thought it might have been a friend of the family, Mr. Goodman. He owns a general store at the comer of Elm Street," she explained.

  "Did I meet him at your welcome-home party? Perhaps it was he. Shall we go say hello? I wouldn't like him to mink you had cut him."

  "No, that wo
uldn't do…" she said, her voice trailing off. Mr. Rose seemed not to notice, leading her briskly toward the store. She did not like the idea of seeing him in Mr. Goodman's store, the men speaking to each other and shaking hands. There was something to it that made the nerves in the back of her neck shrink in discomfort.

  Mr. Rose opened the store door to the jingling of sleighbells, and stopped short when they had taken but a few steps inside. "Here now, this is quaint." the spruce from the woods was standing near one of the front windows, partially decorated with popcorn strings and papa- figures. On a low table in front of it sat pots of paste, scissors, colored paper, popcorn, thread, and other materials for making decorations. Two small children, too young for school, were diligently snipping and pasting together a haphazard paper chain, as well as snacking surreptitiously from the popcorn bowl. "No one would believe this at home," Mr. Rose said. "Cookies and cider! And a rocking chair!" Someone's grandfather was sitting in the rocker, head on his chest as he snoozed near the warmth of the woodstove.

  Catherine wondered what mocking stories Mr. Rose would tell his friends in New York about "quaint" Woodbridge when he returned. Would she have to sit and listen while he imitated Mr. Goodman and his quiet ways to the guests at the dinner table?

  A figure approached, and even before he was clear to her eyes, she knew it was Mr. Goodman. "Miss Linwood, Mr. Rose. It's a pleasure to see you," he said, and as he came within her field of vision she saw that he was wearing a grocer's apron over his vest and shirt. His hair flopped down over his forehead as he shook hands with Mr. Rose, and Catherine could not help but think— and feel traitorous and small for the thinking— that Mr. Goodman suffered for standing next to Mr. Rose, tall and elegant in his well-tailored clothes, his wavy hair as black as midnight.