Christmas at the Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

“I’m sure of it,” agreed Paul.

  Derrick picked up his sherry and took his chair beside the fireplace. Paul settled into the chair opposite and they sat in contented silence, admiring the tree and counting their blessings.

  SEVEN

  The Magnolia Suite

  Outside the elegantly appointed master retreat, Carl Bartlett could hear what he had come to think of as the usual clatter and dissonance of family life: petulant voices raised in anger, the thumping bass notes of rap music played too loud, the crash and slam of objects both breakable and unbreakable. His wife’s voice, sometimes strident, sometimes pleading, sometimes completely out of patience. The retorts of his two teenage daughters: sharp, disrespectful, dismissive. Everyone lived like this. Didn’t they?

  When he was at home, which was not very often, Carl kept the door closed to whatever room he was in, hoping, like a cowardly ostrich with his head in the sand, that if he stayed hidden long enough the storm would pass him by. It would not, of course. He knew that now. The storm, it seemed, was of his own making, and it would follow him for the rest of his life no matter where he went.

  He wasn’t sure how everything had gotten so out of hand. It would have been different if he had been a bad man, a cruel father or an indifferent husband. But he loved his wife. He loved his daughters. Everything he had ever done, or ever would do, was for them. Everything.

  He went to the window, pushed back the ivory satin drape, and stood for a moment looking out at the Christmas lights that twinkled throughout the neighborhood. They lived in a big brick house overlooking the river, in a gated community where the lots were large, the houses set far apart, and the taste level of outdoor Christmas decorations was strictly regulated. The tacky lawn snowmen and high-wattage roof lights of Carl’s childhood had no place here. He missed that.

  The girls were just outside the bedroom door now; they must know he could hear them. Perhaps that was the point.

  “This is the lamest thing ever, Mom!” That was Kelly, the youngest. She had a nose ring. How that had happened Carl hadn’t a clue. “Disney World? Are you kidding me? I’m fourteen, for God’s sake!”

  “Jason’s mom said it was okay if I spent the holidays with them.” That was Pam, his sixteen-year-old. She had a spider tattoo behind her left ear. “All the way to New Year’s! You don’t believe me, just call her up!”

  “Stop it, both of you!” Carl’s wife, Leona, sounded close to the edge, her voice at that register that was just below screaming. “This is the first time your father has had two weeks off in fifteen years, and we’re going on a family vacation, do you hear me? I don’t want another word about it!”

  “But why does he have to ruin Christmas? I have plans!”

  “Two weeks!” Kelly cried. “I’ll die!”

  “Why doesn’t he just go back to work?” Pam added spitefully. “Everybody’s happier when he’s not here anyway.”

  That hurt, Carl would not deny it. But he had discovered over the past several years that when the pain inside you was so big you couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t there, those little pinpricks weren’t quite as noticeable as they once might have been.

  He went to his dresser and opened the top drawer. From beneath a neatly folded stack of sweaters he withdrew a manila envelope and opened it. He pulled out the top sheet of the stack of papers inside, the one addressed to the Attorney General of the State of Virginia.

  Sir, it read, pursuant to our conversation of December 1, I enclose the following documents …

  That was as far as he got before he heard the doorknob turn. It occurred to him that Leona might have deliberately chosen to finish the fight with the girls outside the bedroom door so that he could hear it. Perhaps she expected him to intervene. Perhaps she wanted him to sympathize with what she had to put up with everyday. Perhaps she just wanted to punish him. It didn’t matter. None of it did.

  He slipped the letter back into the envelope. It was only a copy, as were the pages that accompanied it. The originals had been mailed yesterday. It was done. There was no turning back now.

  “Go to your rooms,” Leona said sharply, “and finish packing. We’re going to be on the road by seven in the morning.”

  “I won’t even be awake at seven in the morning!”

  “I’m not going! I’ll run away!”

  With the door open a crack, Carl could hear every word clearly.

  “You’re going, damn it! We’re all going! We’re going and you’re going to pretend to have a good time whether you like it or not! Get used to it!”

  Carl returned the envelope to its hiding place beneath the stack of sweaters just as Leona came into the room, slamming the door behind her. “Sometimes I wish she would run away, the ungrateful little …” She stopped herself with a breath and leaned against the door tiredly. She grimaced as Carl turned away from the dresser, one of the sweaters in his hand. “The very thought of two weeks in a car with those two is making me break out in hives. God give me strength.”

  Carl walked to the bed and put the sweater in the suitcase that was open there. Leona pushed away from the door and added quickly, “Not that I don’t think it’s a wonderful idea, darling, all of us going away for the holidays together, and you were so sweet to think of it, but the girls are a little old for Disney World, and God, a whole week with your mother? And I’ve got to be honest, that lodge in the woods? What on earth is there for them to do there?”

  She walked over to the inlaid walnut dressing table in the sitting alcove and poured herself a measure of bourbon from the decanter atop it. She liked to think if she kept the booze in her bedroom the girls wouldn’t know how much she drank. They did.

  Carl said, turning away from the suitcase, “We had such a good time at Disney World when we took the girls the last time. And Mother’s house is only twenty minutes away. She hasn’t seen the kids in three years.”

  Leona gestured to him in a questioning manner with the decanter. He shook his head and she started to replace the cap, then changed her mind and poured another splash into her glass. “Darling, the last time we took a trip together was ten years ago, and there’s a huge difference between the ages of six and sixteen when it comes to children. And now Jason’s folks have invited Pammie on this ski trip next week, and my life will be absolute hell for the rest of the school year if she doesn’t get to go. Not to mention Kelly, who’s had her dress picked out for Amy Brenton’s party for six months and …” She interrupted herself to take a sturdy drink from her glass, then dropped down to the club chair beside the window and crossed her long legs with a sigh. “Sweetheart, I know you mean well, but honestly, I can’t think what’s gotten into you. You don’t even know these kids.” She said it without accusation or rancor, merely stating a fact. “Why on earth would you want to spend two weeks with them?”

  He turned to look at her. She was as beautiful as the day he had married her, with gleaming dark hair falling in graceful waves over her shoulders, a flawless complexion, perfect smile and a size-four figure that was meant for wearing the latest fashions from Paris or New York. She was, in short, everything his money could buy, and she worked hard at staying that way. If he met her today he would fall in love with her all over again.

  He, by contrast, had aged considerably. There were puffy circles around his eyes and ten extra pounds around his waist from the fifteen-hour days he spent behind a desk. His hair was thinning and his shoulders were stooped, and if she met him for the first time today, she wouldn’t give him a second glance. Did she love him? He thought so. But it didn’t matter. Not now.

  He said, “I just wanted us to have one nice old-fashioned Christmas together. I wanted the kids to be kids and the family to be together. One Christmas. That’s all.”

  She sipped her drink, frowning a little. “Maybe if we gave her the car,” she said.

  “What?”

  She made a vague circling gesture with her glass before taking another sip. “Pammie. She’s been driving me out of my m
ind about a new MINI Cooper since Barb Singleton got one for her birthday. Maybe we should give it to her for Christmas.”

  He said, “Didn’t we give her the Audi when she turned sixteen?”

  “Well, yes, but it was a family car, not her own. Not a new car.”

  “It didn’t even have five thousand miles on it,” he objected.

  She brightened and sipped from her glass. “Yes,” she said. “A new car. That should do the trick. Now what about Kelly? How can we make this up to her?”

  “Make it up to her? I’m giving them Disney World, a grandmother who’ll spoil them silly, and a vacation package with sleigh rides and gourmet meals and spa treatments. What exactly am I supposed to be apologizing for?”

  She looked exasperated. “Oh, Carl, honestly, haven’t you been paying attention at all? What I’m trying to tell you is …” Her cell phone rang, and she dug it out of the pocket of her designer jeans, glancing at it in annoyance. “Damn, that’s Susan Hiller. I promised to call her back three hours ago.” She clicked on the phone and stood up, pasting a huge smile on her face. “Susan! Darling! I’ve been trying and trying to reach you, but your line has been busy. Now listen, I don’t want you to worry one minute about the benefit ball. I have everything all worked out with Nigel, and he promised to e-mail you the list …” She walked out of the room, heels clicking on the hardwood floors, without glancing at Carl again.

  Carl went back to his closet and took out the wrapped presents he had already bought for his wife and the girls. He tucked the gifts into his suitcase and hoped he would be forgiven the fact that none of the small boxes contained a new car.

  He hoped he would be forgiven a lot of things.

  EIGHT

  Sunday Brunch

  Sunday brunch at the Hummingbird House was an event that had become more or less legendary in the community, and even beyond. It wasn’t so much the food (which, thanks to a combination of Paul’s style, Derrick’s obsession with Internet recipes, and Purline’s cooking, was always tasty and beautifully presented) so much as it was the ambience and, in truth, the hosts themselves. Paul greeted each guest with a signature cocktail and a genuine delight in their company; Derrick could always be counted upon for the latest gossip as he wandered from table to table, making sure everyone was comfortable and well fed. Diners arrived early to sip their cocktails and peruse the art gallery that Derrick had created in the reception area, and lingered to while away the afternoon around the big stone fire pit that was set into one of the large patios, or lounge around the indoor fireplace, or wander through the gardens in season. Paul and Derrick didn’t run a restaurant, they gave parties. And their guests came for more than a meal; they came to spend a pleasant Sunday with friends.

  On this last brunch before Christmas, every reservation was filled. Everyone wanted to see how the new owners of the Hummingbird House, who already had gained a reputation for going over the top with every venture, would decorate for the holidays and, thanks to Mick, they were not disappointed. Every bare-branched tree in the garden was glowing with miniature white lights and uplit with pink spotlights, so that, even on a moderately cloudy winter morning like this one, the effect was of a mystical garden at sunset. The day was a bit too bright to get the full effect of the hummingbird light sculpture, but the fountain was filled with silver Christmas balls that danced and twirled with the splash of water. The railings around the porch were draped with evergreen garland that was woven with tiny lights, and curtain lights cascaded from the eaves all around the lodge. Evergreen wreaths woven with silver and gold mesh and the appropriate color velvet ribbon decorated each of the painted exterior doors, and every window was encircled with greenery and twinkling lights. The guest rooms were still a work in progress, but the brunch guests ooh-ahhed over the hummingbird Christmas tree in the parlor, and admired the mantelscape of gold branches and oversized spheres in burgundy, emerald and sapphire satin studded with pearls and lace.

  The seasonal cocktail of the day was an apple-cranberry martini served with complimentary toasted walnut cheese puffs. Two industrious-looking teenage waiters in red velvet vests and festive plaid bow ties served guests their choice of broccoli soup garnished with truffle oil or a winter salad with kale, blue cheese, dates and toasted pecans. For the entree there was a roast loin of pork with a cranberry-mustard reduction and buttermilk potatoes or herb roasted chicken with root vegetables, along with a variety of quiches and a lovely quinoa and lentil dish for the vegans. For dessert there was pumpkin cheesecake or tart cherry crepes with homemade vanilla ice cream.

  Bridget came in with Lindsay and Cici a little before twelve, all of them dressed in their Sunday best and pink-cheeked with cold. The house, sparkling with holiday lights and redolent of good things from the kitchen, was already humming with voices and the tinkle of silver above an orchestral rendition of “Good King Wenceslas.”

  “Darlings, you look gorgeous!” Paul greeted them. He took their coats and kissed each chilly cheek. “Cocktails and nibbles in the parlor, come sit by the fire while I get your table ready.” He glanced around. “Where is everyone else?”

  Lindsay said, “Dominic’s parking the car.” She glanced at Cici, as though expecting her to speak, but she did not.

  Paul prompted, “And the children?”

  Cici made a small face. “They’re at home.”

  “Packing,” Bridget added with a sigh.

  “Lori’s dad surprised them with a two-week vacation to Cabo,” Cici explained. “Kind of a combination wedding present and Christmas present.”

  “And who wouldn’t want to go to Cabo this time of year?” Bridget put in, albeit somewhat wanly. “It was a lovely gesture. You know they never really had a honeymoon.”

  “And, with his typical thoughtlessness,” Cici went on, “he sent the tickets yesterday for a flight that leaves in the morning. So the whole house has been in an uproar the past twenty-four hours trying to get them ready to go.”

  “But,” Paul objected, “two weeks? That means they’ll miss Christmas!”

  Cici’s mouth turned down bitterly and Bridget’s eyes clouded. “Right,” Cici said.

  “However,” Lindsay reminded them both, “we’re not going to make them feel bad about it. They’ve both been through a lot this year and they really deserve this.”

  Bridget sighed again. “Right.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s all right!” Paul declared indignantly. “Christmas won’t be the same without Lori. That little scamp, I’ve a good mind to send her Christmas present right back to Neiman’s!” Then he added charitably to Bridget, “But at least your daughter and grandchildren will be here.”

  She smiled. “You’re right, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen them. But the point was to have the whole family together.”

  He patted her shoulder with one hand and Cici’s with the other. “Now, now, my dears, come sit by the fire. I’ll make your drinks extra strong.”

  He turned them toward the parlor where several couples sat sipping drinks, chatting and admiring the glittering Christmas tree. Cici exclaimed, “Oh, my, that’s gorgeous! Where did you get all the hummingbirds?”

  Paul beamed his pleasure. “Well, it was a challenge, I can assure you. But don’t you love it?”

  All three women assured him that they had never seen anything quite so beautiful, and then Lindsay added, sounding a little concerned, “Paul, who is that rough-looking guy we saw up on a ladder behind the garage?”

  Paul’s genial smile might have faltered just a fraction. “Oh, don’t you know?” Then, rushing on, “That’s Mick, the fellow responsible for all the splendor you see around you.” He spread his arms expansively. “An absolute miracle worker, our good right arm, I simply don’t know how we could have gotten through this past week without him. And …” He let the smile drop away as he looked from one to the other of them. “You didn’t send him, did you?”

  The women stared back at him. “Send him?” Cici said. “Why would w
e do that?”

  “I thought,” Paul began uncomfortably, “that is, we thought, when he showed up looking for work just hours after we mentioned we were looking for someone …”

  Bridget’s delicate eyebrows drew together in disapproval. “You hired him off the street?”

  “Well, hardly off the street …”

  “Someone you don’t even know?” Lindsay put in.

  “We can hardly know everyone,” Paul objected.

  “Oh, Paul.” Cici’s consternation was evident. “I really don’t think you should have done that. You have to be so careful these days. I mean, what do you know about him?”

  Paul went to the primitive pine sideboard beneath the window with its extravagant vase of holly, evergreens and red carnations, and brought back two ruby-colored martinis, handing one to Cici and one to Bridget. “We know,” he replied, returning with Lindsay’s glass, “that he can fix anything, paint anything, hang anything, and chop anything. And he’s Australian! He works every single day from dawn to dusk, and every time we try to pay him he just waves it away, saying he won’t take a penny until the job is done. Of course,” Paul added with a small uncertain frown, “we expected the job to be over long before now, but it seems as though every time he gets ready to leave, something else breaks. Why, only this morning …”

  He broke off as Derrick came in, looking harried. “Crisis in the kitchen,” he said. His expression cleared when he saw the ladies. “Look how pretty you all are! Where’s Lori? Kevin?”

  “What crisis?” demanded Paul.

  Derrick turned back to him. “Purline has misplaced the crepe pans,” he said. “She’s threatening to serve cherry puree over sponge cake.”

  “My crepe pans?” demanded Paul. “But I got those in France! It took fifteen years to get them perfectly seasoned! They’re irreplaceable.”

  “I know,” replied Derrick soothingly, “you’ve mentioned that once or twice. I’m sure they’ll turn up, but in the meantime …”