by Donna Ball
“What is this?” she demanded, dropping the brochure on the table.
He slipped the desk key into his pocket as he turned, smiling that automatic smile of his that had become his signature over the years, the one that never, ever reached his eyes. “Why, my love, it’s just my way of saying Merry Christmas. I thought you might enjoy a little getaway in the mountains this holiday.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Her tone was a cross between exasperation and disgust. “A getaway in the mountains is a weekend at Sun Mountain or Telluride. The last thing I have time for is a trip across country to some backwoods lodge in the Shenandoah Valley. What in the world were you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” he replied evenly, and the smile never wavered, “that we both could do with an escape from the holiday madness. Some time to relax and contemplate.”
She looked at him sharply. “Contemplate what?”
“Maybe,” he replied, still smiling that cold, dead smile of his, “what it was we used to like about each other.”
Angela drew in a sharp breath for a reply, and released it unspoken. They faced each other across the desk, and across a wall of tension so thick it seemed to dim the light in the room. “Why?” she said at last.
Angela and Bryce Phipps lived in a two-story condo in one of the most prestigious buildings in Seattle, complete with views of the water and the Space Needle. The interior was tastefully decorated with collectibles from trips they had taken to Africa, India and China, although they had not actually taken any of those trips together. Their dinner parties were elegant and sophisticated, and invitations to them were highly sought after. In public they were a warm and charming couple, schooled in the art of conversation and in making others feel important. In private, they rarely spoke at all. It wasn’t that there was any particular unresolved animosity between them. It was simply that they had nothing to say.
Bryce actually seemed to consider her question. “I’m not sure, really,” he said in a moment. Then he shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll cancel.”
Angela turned to leave, satisfied, but paused when the photograph on the brochure caught her eye. It was of a rustic-looking lodge in the snow at twilight. Golden light shone from the windows, and along the long front porch was a series of quirky-looking doors, each one painted a different color. While the snow was clearly Photo-Shopped, something about the light in the windows, those peculiar painted doors, reminded her of Christmases from her childhood. Her father had been mad for Christmas, and always found a way to make each one more fun, more exciting and filled with playful adventure, than the last. Looking at the picture of the lodge in the snow, she suddenly missed him intensely.
It has been said that a woman with a good father will marry a good man. Angela Phipps had married a good man, and she had proceeded to destroy him. Would it be such a terrible thing to accept his gesture at face value, just once? After all, it might be the last one he made.
She released a soft breath and spun the brochure around toward him with the tip of one exquisitely manicured finger. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said. “I suppose I can bear one weekend in the woods. Of course, it will mean canceling the theater on the twenty-third, and the hospital dinner on the twenty-second, and I’m not at all sure what kind of message it will send to the Disadvantaged Children’s Fundraising Committee when their chairperson doesn’t show up for their gala event, but if this is what you’re set on doing for the holidays …”
He said, “I am, actually.” He wasn’t smiling any longer. He just looked tired.
“Well then,” she said. “I suppose I’d better start making phone calls. And Bryce.” Suddenly she felt as tired as he looked. Tired of pretending, tired of trying, tired of going on. “No gifts. Whatever you’ve locked in your drawer, take it back. I don’t want it.”
When she was gone, Bryce sat down heavily in his chair and, after a moment, unlocked the desk drawer. He looked at the wrapped box inside, but did not take it out. “Oh, my dear,” he said softly, “I think you do.”
SIX
O Christmas Tree
As it turned out, cutting down one’s own Christmas tree was not nearly as challenging a task as Paul and Derrick had expected, particularly when they discovered they didn’t actually have to handle any sharp implements—or, perhaps more importantly, scuff their suede Mark McNairy boots by trudging all over the mountainside searching out the perfect tree. The Christmas tree farm to which Purline directed them actually had golf carts with a driver assigned to each one. All they had to do was ride in the back while the vehicle cruised up and down the rows of spruce and fir, directing it to stop when they spied a likely candidate. They then got out, examined the prospect from proverbial head to toe, and declared Yay or Nay. If Yay, the driver got out, felled the tree with his trusty chain saw, and tagged it with their purchase number. It was, all in all, a most pleasant way to spend a crisp December afternoon.
They chose a fourteen-foot Douglas fir for the reception parlor, two ten-foot spruces for the dining porch, and a four-foot white pine for each of the seven guest rooms. After some debate, they decided the entrance door could be much improved by a live tree on either side of it, decorated with velvet ribbon and their collection of white candle lights, so they bought two more eight-foot spruces. Ladybug Farm didn’t have anything that grand.
“It’s really quite satisfying, isn’t it?” Derrick said as they stood in line to pay for their purchases. “Going out into the wild to claim and cut your own tree. I never understood before why the whole thing has been so romanticized, but now I see the appeal.”
“It rather puts me in mind of the whole safari concept, which I never understood either,” mused Paul, “despite how Jeff and Doug are always going on and on about man against nature and the majesty of the beast. Although,” he added quickly, “this is a good deal more sustainable.”
“I should certainly say,” agreed Derrick. Before allowing saw blade to touch the first tree, they had demanded assurances from the driver that yes, as the announcement at the welcome station stated, it was the policy of this farm to plant two trees for every one that was cut. “And certainly more fulfilling to play the role of lumberjack than that of great white hunter.”
Paul nodded enthusiastic agreement and warmed his hands inside the pockets of his fur-lined zippered vest. The line moved forward.
“You know,” Derrick said, “the problem really isn’t getting all the decorating done before the first guest arrives. The problem is getting it all done before Sunday brunch. I mean, a late start can be overlooked up to this point, but this will be our last public brunch before Christmas, and we have a dozen reservations already. People will be expecting festivity.”
“Well,” Paul allowed, “it’s our first year. The important thing was to get all of the arrangements in place for Christmas weekend. Next year we’ll start earlier.”
Derrick lifted his eyebrows. “Earlier than August?”
“Not to worry,” Paul replied with a wave of his leather-gloved hand. “It’s not as though neither of us has ever decorated a Christmas tree before.”
“I worked my way through college as an assistant window dresser at Macy’s during the holidays,” Derrick reminded him heartily, just as he had done eight or nine times a year for the past thirty Christmases.
“And at least the wreaths are all done,” Paul said. “All we really have left are the mantelscapes and the trees.”
“And the outdoor decor,” Derrick added, “including lights, which really should be done by a professional. And the tablescapes for the dining room and the tea table, and weren’t we going to put moss topiaries in the powder rooms?”
“All prepared and waiting in the storage room,” Paul assured him. “All we have to do is make the lace roses and hot glue on the peppermint-candy ornaments.”
“It certainly seems like a lot,” Derrick worried.
“For what our guests are paying,” Paul replied,
“they deserve a lot.”
The man in front of them finished paying and moved on, and Paul and Derrick stepped up to the window.
The booth was little more than a plywood shack painted, rather badly, with a row of evergreens on each side. A fresh-faced youth in a red Santa hat greeted them. “Merry Christmas, gentlemen. May I see your ticket please?”
“And a very merry Christmas to you, too, my good man,” Paul replied warmly, handing him the yellow slip with their purchases recorded on it. “I was told our order would be awaiting us at the gate?”
“Yes, sir, it’s on its way.” He started adding up the purchases on an old-fashioned adding machine. “Quite a few trees you got there. You decorating a church?”
Paul smiled and produced a card from his pocket. “The Hummingbird House Bed and Breakfast. Fine accommodations for discerning guests, brunch every Sunday from ten until two. Tell your friends.”
The young man took the card and glanced at it. “Because we give a discount for churches.”
“We’re not a church,” Paul told him.
“Although we go to church,” Derrick hastened to add. Then, looking uncomfortable, “As often as we can, anyway. What I mean is, with the brunch on Sundays it’s rather difficult …”
“He’s not interested, Derrick,” murmured Paul, and took out his wallet. “The total?”
“We offer a discount for clergy,” Derrick said, perhaps a little too adamantly.
Paul lifted an eyebrow at him and Derrick insisted, “We do.”
The clerk waited to make sure he was finished, then turned to Paul. “That’ll be two hundred forty dollars. Is that Visa or MasterCard?”
“What a bargain,” Derrick murmured as Paul handed over his MasterCard. “We spent more than that on our foyer tree at home.”
“But,” Paul reminded him, “it came fully decorated.”
“True,” agreed Derrick.
The clerk returned Paul’s card just as a big tractor hauling a wagon filled with evergreens chugged into view. “That must be your order now, sir,” said the young man, smiling. “Just pull your vehicle up to the gate and I’ll call a couple of men to help you load. Did you bring a truck or a trailer?”
Paul looked at Derrick, who stared back at him. They both stared at the clerk. “Wait,” Paul said. “Do you mean you don’t deliver?”
After only an hour or so of panic, Harmony was able to pull off one last Christmas miracle before she left for the mysteries of the Far East. One of her event vendors had a truck he used to deliver rental furniture and a driver available. Both arrived bright and early the following morning, and before noon their Christmas trees were unloaded into the drive of the Hummingbird House. It cost them a hundred dollars, plus gas, mileage and tip for the driver, but neither of them complained.
“Harmony, you are a lifesaver!” Derrick declared as they watched the delivery truck drive away. “Whatever are we going to do without you?”
They stood on the front porch gazing out with relief over the mountain of evergreen trees in their driveway, Harmony in an outrageous floor-length faux leopard fur coat, and the men in their country-casual heavy wool sweaters. Harmony’s luggage was piled around her—quite a bit more than one might necessarily imagine needing at a minimalist ashram retreat—as she waited for her driver to arrive to take her to the airport. She beamed her thanks and patted Derrick’s cheek with a gloved hand. “Darling, I’ll be back before you know it.”
“And don’t forget you’ve still got to get all them trees in the house,” Purline pointed out sourly, rubbing her arms against the cold. She, too, had come out onto the porch to watch the unloading, but did not appear to be nearly as thrilled about it as the other three were. “And don’t take all day about doing it, either, because I’ve got to go behind you and sweep up the pine needles. And what’re you expectin’ to do about stands?”
Alarm flashed across the two men’s eyes, but Harmony gave a light dismissing laugh. “They arrived yesterday with the poinsettias and greenery. Just look in the box marked ‘tree stands.’ They’re completely adjustable, you’ll have no trouble at all.”
Purline muttered, “Sez you.” She went back inside, letting the screen door slam firmly as she did.
Paul turned to Harmony. “My dear,” he said sincerely, “I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but you have truly risen to the occasion this time.”
“Only one of many,” Derrick pointed out quickly.
“Agreed,” Paul admitted. “And even though you are leaving us in somewhat of a lurch …”
“Although I’m sure the two massage therapists you’ve arranged will be fabulous,” Derrick put in, only a little anxiously. “They’re arriving Wednesday, right?”
Paul went on, “I can’t think of a better time than this moment to present you with this tiny holiday token of our good regards.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a small flat box wrapped in silver foil and elegantly tied with a fuchsia ribbon. “Merry Christmas, Harmony.”
“They’re earrings,” Derrick blurted excitedly. “Hand-hammered by a Navajo princess from silver artisanally mined in Arizona and infused with the spirit of the wolf.” And at Paul’s small eye-roll, he added defensively, “That’s what it said on the card.”
“Oh, boys.” Harmony’s overly made-up face lit up with the gentle light of a church luminary as she took the box from Paul. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Feel free to add feathers and beads,” said Paul, who made no secret of his dismay over Harmony’s taste in jewelry. But he smiled when he said it, and Harmony threw her arms around his neck and hugged him hard, then did the same to Derrick.
“You two are just so … surprising!” she declared as she stepped away, beaming. Her rather bulbous nose was red and she wiped a tiny speck of moisture from her eyes. Derrick surreptitiously did the same.
“Of course,” she added cheerfully, “I don’t participate in the pagan ritual of holiday gift exchange, which has really become a hopeless pawn of corporate America, but as it happens I’ve arranged a little surprise for you boys, too. Oh! There’s my car. Help me with these bags, will you, darlings?”
They loaded her small mountain of luggage into the Town Car, and in a flurry of blown kisses and leopard fur, Harmony was gone. Paul and Derrick stood on the steps, looking bemused and more than a little uneasy. “A surprise from Harmony,” murmured Paul. “Why do I think that can’t be a good thing?”
“Oh, it could be quite good,” Derrick assured him. “It could be a thirty-foot yacht or a resort hotel in Sri Lanka. But,” he admitted, “it probably isn’t.”
“Right,” agreed Paul.
Gazing once again over the pile of Christmas greenery in their driveway, the two heaved a collective sigh. “How much,” inquired Derrick dolefully, “do you suspect it weighs?”
“In total?” Paul’s expression was speculative. “Well over a ton, I would guess.”
Derrick spread out his fingers. “These hands,” he said, “were never meant for manual labor.”
Paul shot him an indignant look. “Like mine were?”
“And I haven’t wanted to mention it, but my back has been bothering me lately.”
“Oh, please.”
Derrick gathered his resolve. “Of course, I really should have clearance from my cardiologist before undertaking any strenuous physical activity.”
Paul glared at him. “Seriously? You’re playing the heart card?”
“It would appear,” replied Derrick evenly, “that’s the only card I have left.”
For a moment they were at a standoff, and then Paul decided grumpily, “Well, they sat outside all night, I don’t suppose it will hurt them to stay in the yard a little while longer. Besides, we have to assemble the stands first. We’ll make an action plan after lunch.”
“Assembling stands,” declared Derrick happily, “now that sounds like a task worthy of my talents. Fashioning lace roses, making bows for the garland, designing table decor �
�� those are the kinds of things I’m suited for. The importance of doing the work you’re meant to do simply cannot be overstated.”
“Now all we have to do is find someone who was meant to do manual labor.”
“I’ll get the stands,” Derrick said.
Paul said, “I’ll get the toolbox.”
To which Derrick replied, “We have a toolbox?”
Paul ignored him and went around the porch toward the toolshed while Derrick went into the house. He cut through the kitchen, which was filled with the delectable aromas of soup simmering on the stove and something sweet and fruity baking in the oven. He stopped to lift the lid from what appeared to be a vegetable soup with wild rice and mushrooms, inhaling the fragrance appreciatively, and then he pushed through the swinging door of the butler’s pantry on his way to the storage room that lay beyond. There he stopped.
Every piece of silver they owned was scattered across the trestle worktable, platters, urns, bowls, serving pieces, dinnerware, vases. And in the center of it all was a dark-haired, doe-eyed, nut-brown girl in a red calico dress, one of the silver candlesticks Derrick had gotten in Prague clutched in each of her fists. She let out a startled squeal when she saw him and Derrick let out a gasp. He backed out the swinging door and into the kitchen, crying, “Purline!” Just as Paul burst in from the outside, calling, “Purline!” and looking as distracted as Derrick was.
Derrick pointed helplessly to the pantry. “There’s an urchin in there with all our silver!”
“There are children in the toolshed!” Paul cried just as Purline raced into the kitchen, a dustcloth in one hand and a can of spray polish in the other.
“What?” she demanded, breathing hard. “Who screamed? What’s wrong?”
With his arm still lifted toward the pantry, Derrick began, “Purline, there’s a …”
Paul interrupted, “Purline, did you know there were two …”