Christmas at the Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

  In a moment Angela Phipps surprised him by saying, “You’re leaving us then, Mr. Windsor?”

  He glanced at her, and she indicated the leather overnight bag at his feet. He said, trying to make it all sound easy and predetermined, “It was generous of our hosts to ask me to stay the whole weekend, but I really just came to do the reading. I’d like to be home for Christmas.” Home had not existed since Liz died, and the one-bedroom apartment where he now lived held so little appeal that he often found he couldn’t remember what it looked like after he’d been away for a few days.

  She turned and looked out the window herself for a time. Then she said, “My father used to love shopping on Christmas Eve. All the crowds and the lights and the madness. It was kind of a tradition with him.”

  Geoffery pretended a polite interest. “So you’re keeping up the tradition?”

  “No,” she replied flatly. She did not even look away from the window. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  There really wasn’t a reply to that. Still, Geoffery might have said something to break the awkwardness that followed. But just then there was a grinding sound from the engine, a soft bang, and, with cries of alarm from many of its passengers, the van lurched and clattered to a stop.

  “Did you hear Mr. Windsor decided to leave after all?” Derrick said, coming into the parlor where Paul was setting up for tea. He had a basket filled with white Irish linen tablecloths and napkins that were embroidered with tiny roses along the hemline—very Christmassy—as well as fresh candles to replace the ones they had burned yesterday. Paul had already freshened the flowers, laid the fire, and brought the three-tiered pastry servers out of the pantry. The Christmas Eve tea would not be served for another five hours, but the key to effortless hosting was advance preparation.

  “I did,” Paul said. He rolled a tea cart into position, its wheels clattering on the wood floors.

  “A pity.” Derrick snapped open a table cloth and draped it over one of the round occasional tables that were drawn up near the fireplace. “I think he would have enjoyed the concert tomorrow, and of course that completely throws off our seating arrangement for Christmas dinner.” He placed one of the serving tiers in the middle of the table, flanked by two sprigs of holly arranged just so.

  “Ah well, Christmas is for family, I suppose.” Paul gave the tier a half-turn, observed it critically, and adjusted one of the holly sprigs.

  Derrick thrust a handful of napkins at him. “Well, if you ask me …”

  “Did you all see this?” Purline came into the parlor, rustling a newspaper purposefully. “Take a look at it. Just look!”

  She thrust the newspaper at Paul and thumped one of the articles with a thumb and forefinger. “It’s all right there in black and white. Just read it for yourself!” She took a step back and waited with hands on jeaned hips, her expression a mixture of eager anticipation and grim satisfaction. “And don’t be saying I didn’t tell you so, either!”

  Derrick came to read over Paul’s shoulder, and Paul glanced uncertainly at Purline before he read, “Police Seek Man in String of Robberies.” He glanced again at Purline and went on, “‘Evanson police are looking for a man in connection with several burglaries that have occurred there in the past two weeks.’” He stopped and looked at Purline. “Purline, this is in the next county. What …”

  “Go on,” she insisted, nodding her head vigorously.

  With a resigned breath, he turned back to the article. “The suspect is described as six feet three inches tall, two hundred forty pounds, with dark hair and beard. He was last seen wearing a black leather jacket and leather motorcycle boots. The suspect is said to have …” Again he stopped, but did not look up. “To have a Hell’s Angel insignia tattooed on his arm.”

  Derrick snatched the paper from him to read it for himself. “Oh good heavens.”

  “This doesn’t mean anything,” Paul said impatiently. “Our Mick doesn’t even have a beard.”

  Derrick cheered. “That’s right, he doesn’t!”

  “Are you telling me them whiskers he wears down to his neck don’t look like a beard to you?” Purline challenged. “It’s him, I’m telling you.” She thumped the paper again. “You go on and read about it—he stole a computer from one lady’s house while she was sleeping in the room next door! Wiped out another family’s whole Christmas, got everything under the tree! Then went back for the TV set! And you said yourself, a lot of stuff has gone missing around here since he showed up.”

  Paul frowned. “Like my crepe pans.”

  “Oh, will you get over your blessed crepe pans? I told you, you packed them in some Christmas box somewhere. I’m talking about valuable stuff!”

  “Like my letter opener,” Derrick said uneasily.

  “And that silver flower vase you said was in the pantry that nobody ever found, not to mention your fancy candlesticks.”

  “We have a lot of candlesticks, Purline,” Paul said, but even he was sounding less than confident now. “It’s entirely possible they were misplaced.”

  “Besides,” Derrick insisted, trying to summon conviction, “it doesn’t even make sense. We have art on the walls worth thousands, valuable antiques and electronics in every room. What kind of thief takes a candlestick and leaves an iPad?”

  “A smart one,” returned Purline. “You can pawn silver anywhere, and it’s a lot easier to sneak out of the house than a computer. You do what you want to, but if it was me, I’d be on the phone to the sheriff’s office right now.”

  Paul looked at Derrick uncomfortably. “It might not be such a terrible idea to ask them to run a background check.”

  “On Christmas Eve?” Derrick objected. “After all Mick’s done for us? I’d be mortified.”

  Purline rolled her eyes. “Well, just don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll be setting out lunch in twenty minutes, then I’ve got to scoot and pick up the kids so’s my husband Bill can get over to the church to help set up the nativity scene for the singing tonight. They’re having a real donkey and everything. Y’all ought to come by if you get a chance. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be back before the hour’s up to clear the tables and get your fondue pots mixed up.”

  Paul murmured absently, “Thank you, Purline.”

  “You’re a treasure,” added Derrick, still looking at the paper.

  She gave them both a meaningful nod. “Sheriff’s telephone number is 911.”

  SIXTEEN

  Christmas Stories

  “No worries, folks,” Mick had said cheerfully just before he got out of the van. “I’ll have her back on her feet in no time.”

  That had been before he lifted the hood and a plume of smoke billowed out, before he returned for the third time to assure them everything was under control, before Lindsay and Cici had hiked half a mile in opposite directions trying to get a cell phone signal, and before what must have been the fifth car zoomed by them on the narrow country road without stopping, slowing down, or even glancing in their direction.

  “I don’t understand why no one stops,” Bridget said, twisting her head to follow the wake of the latest vehicle that had left them behind. “It’s Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sake.”

  Geoffery, sitting behind her, did not want to point out that if he had come across a broken down van attended by a tattooed man in a too-small tuxedo, motorcycle boots and a Frosty-the-Snowman skullcap, he wouldn’t have stopped either. Instead he offered, “I’m sure one of them will report a stranded vehicle. People do, you know, even when they don’t stop.”

  Bridget turned in her seat and smiled hesitantly. “Mr. Windsor, I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I loved your book. It helped me get through a very difficult time. I was hoping to see you yesterday at the cooking class, but I’m glad I got to tell you that.”

  Geoffery hesitated, putting the pieces together. “Oh,” he said. “Ms. Tindale. Right, the cooking class. Sorry I missed it.”

  She said, continuing to smile, “You’re leaving us, the
n? I’m on my way to see my daughter and grandchildren, too. It’ll be the first time in three years! There’s nothing like family at Christmas, is there?”

  He replied, without exactly knowing why, “Actually, my wife is dead. I don’t have a family.”

  He saw the familiar confusion and sympathy cross her face. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “How awful to be alone at Christmas.”

  He sensed, rather than saw, Angela’s gaze turn toward him. And he said, quietly and as kindly as he could, “Actually, sometimes it’s worse to be with people.”

  Bridget’s smile faltered. “Oh,” she said. “Well. Maybe someone will call for help, like you said.” She turned to face forward again.

  Cici slid open the van door in time to hear that and said, “Well, if they do it won’t be for a while.”

  “Still no signal?” said Bridget, dismayed.

  Cici shook her head as she climbed inside. “And the houses are so far apart here I’d rather not try to walk to one.”

  “This is so lame,” said one of the girls in the first row. “How can this be so lame?”

  Her sister replied, “In the lamest place ever? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Lindsay opened the other sliding door and climbed inside. “No luck,” she reported, and the heads that had turned hopefully toward her looked away again. “And,” she added in a slightly lower tone, “not that I’m one to judge, but I don’t think our driver knows anything at all about car engines.”

  Cici muffled a groan. “Great. My flight leaves in an hour and a half. Even if we got on the road right now I’d barely make it.”

  Lindsay said, “I’m sure none of the flights will leave on time today.” But she sounded worried too.

  Geoffery glanced at his seat companion, who was resting her head against the windowpane with an expression of complete disinterest on her face. He said, “Maybe I’d better see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  He did not know any more about cars than anyone else in the vehicle, but spirits were starting to sink inside the van and he could use the fresh air. Besides, there was still something about his last conversation with that man Mick that made him uneasy, and he would feel better keeping an eye on him.

  He walked to the front of the van, where Mick had spread a drop cloth over the engine and lined up what appeared to be the contents of the vehicle’s emergency repair kit on top. Mick himself was bent intently over the engine with a wrench in hand, and he looked up with a grin when Geoffery walked up.

  “How’s it going?”

  “No worries,” he replied cheerfully, “right on schedule.”

  Geoffery glanced at his watch. “The other passengers are getting a little concerned they’re going to miss their flights. And no one can get a cell phone signal.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me a bit.” Mick turned back to his work.

  “We’ve been here over an hour.”

  “Everyone has somewhere important to be for Christmas.” And then he glanced up at Geoffery with a smile. “Except yourself, of course. You just need to be wherever you’re not.”

  Geoffery was silent for a moment. Then he said evenly, “You don’t have the first idea what you’re doing with that engine, do you?”

  Mick just winked and starting banging around with the wrench again.

  The van door opened and the two teenagers climbed out, sniping at each other about something Geoffery didn’t hear and didn’t want to. They stalked away into the weeds on the side of the road, one of them holding her phone up to the sky as though expecting the gods of technology to strike it with life-giving lightning. In a moment, Angela Phipps climbed out of the van and walked around to the front.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I know you’re doing the best you can, but I wonder if you could give me an idea how much longer it will be? I’m flying standby and the last flight tonight leaves at six.”

  Geoffery looked at her in surprise.

  Mick replied pleasantly, “Don’t you worry, ma’am. I’ll get you where you need to be.”

  The door opened again and the other three women climbed out. Angela turned to them with a helpless shrug and walked a few feet away to stand in the sun, hands in the pockets of her coat.

  Cici said worriedly, “Maybe we should start walking.”

  Bridget looked in dismay at her high-heeled boots. “In these?”

  “Anyway,” Lindsay said, “who knows how far we’d have to go before we got a signal, or found a house where someone was home? Let’s wait a while longer.”

  “We don’t want to wait too long,” Cici said. “It starts getting dark early this time of year.”

  They all glanced at one another uneasily. The possibility of being stranded overnight had not previously occurred to them.

  Lindsay said, “Remember that Christmas we waited all day for Noah? I was sick with worry.”

  “He walked four hours to get home,” Bridget said with an affectionate shake of her head. “Crazy kid.”

  Lindsay smiled with remembrance and explained to Geoffery and Angela, “Noah’s my son.”

  “We all claim him,” Cici put in.

  “He’s in the military now,” Bridget added. “We thought he might be able to come home for Christmas, but his leave was canceled at the last minute.”

  Angela made a sympathetic sound, but it was clear she wasn’t interested in conversation. They all stood together awkwardly beside the van for a while, listening, with slowly diminishing hope, to the clanging sounds coming from the front.

  The teenagers returned, stomping and kicking through the dead grass like young colts with a grudge. The oldest one, Pamela, went up to Mick and demanded, “So how long do the stores in this place stay open, anyway?”

  He glanced up with a smile. “Sorry, young lady, I’m not from around here. Afraid I couldn’t guess.”

  Cici volunteered, “I’m sure quite a few will be open late on Christmas Eve.”

  Lindsay added, “It depends on what kind of store you’re looking for, I imagine. There are a lot of cute shops in Staunton, but it’s usually the boutiques that close early.”

  Kelly, the youngest one, said, “What about toy stores?”

  Bridget looked amused, and so, briefly, did the other women. “Aren’t you girls a little old for toys?”

  Pamela scowled. “It’s not for us,” she muttered. She stalked away and sat down hard on a patch of dead grass beside the van, drawing her knees up to her chin.

  Kelly looked at Mick boldly. “We did what you said,” she said. “We asked her about the earthquake.”

  Mick glanced up from his work with lifted eyebrow. “Did you, now?”

  “Of course we didn’t believe her,” Kelly said. “What kind of lame-brain believes everything an old woman says? So we looked it up on my iPad. It was true, every word. Turns out she really does know Bono, too. There were pictures.”

  “Good for you,” Geoffery murmured, and looked away.

  Lindsay said curiously, “What earthquake?”

  Kelly turned to her, straightening her shoulders with her own sense of importance. “The one in Haiti. I guess it was a pretty big deal. A lot of people died and stuff. She was there, the old woman—Mrs. Hildebrand, I mean—supervising a photo shoot for her magazine. She was really old then too, I guess, but she went anyway. Anyway, the earthquake happened, and she tried to take cover in the doorway of this building, only it fell down. The whole building.”

  Geoffery turned to her, listening, and so did everyone else. Mick stopped banging the wrench, and Angela straightened up to look at the girl.

  Kelly went on, “There were a lot of kids inside. Turns out it was an orphanage. They were all hurt and scared, and Mrs. Hildebrand, she was trapped under this big steel beam …”

  “Post,” corrected Pamela without looking around. “It was a post that held up a wall, and it was concrete not steel.”

  Kelly shrugged. “Anyway, she was trapped so she couldn’t help the kids. They were there for a
long time …”

  “Three days,” said Pamela, and everyone looked at her. “They were there for three days.”

  “Oh my God,” Bridget said softly.

  “And it was hot and dark, and the kids were hungry and thirsty and thinking probably no one would ever find them, but you know what she did? Mrs. Hildebrand, that is. She told them stories to keep their spirits up. For three days she told them stories.”

  “Like Scheherazade,” put in Pamela.

  “We looked that up, too,” Kelly said. “So anyway, eventually the firemen or whatever found them, but they had to cut off Mrs. Hildebrand’s leg to get her out. Now she has an artificial leg.”

  “Lots of them,” corrected Pamela. “One for each pair of shoes.”

  The attention of the adults was riveted on the two girls. Angela whispered, “How awful.”

  Geoffery murmured, “I never knew that.”

  Pam pushed herself to her feet. “There were fifteen of them,” she said. “Fifteen that got out alive, at least. Mrs. Hildebrand helped rebuild the orphanage, and most of those same kids are still there. She goes to see them a couple of times a year. She said she was going down there next month and …” She added with a defiant lift of her chin, “They’re not too old for toys.”

  “We know she’s rich and all,” Kelly added, “and probably gives them everything they need. But we thought it would be kind of cool if they got Christmas presents from some American kids. Even though they won’t get there for Christmas.”

  The silence that followed while the gathered adults simply smiled in wonder and tenderness at the two girls seemed to embarrass both of them. Pamela broke it abruptly by turning to Mick. “And it’s not going to happen at all, is it,” she demanded belligerently, “if you don’t get this van started.”

  Mick ducked his head to hide his smile, and picked up the wrench again.

  “I really can’t imagine what’s keeping the others,” Derrick said, fussing anxiously with the tea service. “I’m sure they’ll be here at any minute. Mick is very reliable about keeping a schedule.”