by Lea Wait
“There is now. You’re forgetting all those years I taught carpentry in high school.” Will half smiled. “Tomorrow you’ll see. I built a wall to separate the dining room from the living room to give her some privacy—and me, too, if I have guests. When he wasn’t on duty Nick helped me build a handicapped bathroom in the corner of her room.”
“Wow!” Maggie said. “You’ve done all that this fall?”
“That’s the only construction, other than the ramp I added to the outside steps in the back. Aunt Nettie didn’t want a ramp out front. Her room is just big enough for a bed, even a hospital bed should she ever need one, and a bureau and closet. I’ll warn you, although I bought a TV for her room, and she rests there a lot, she spends most of her time in the living room, or here in the kitchen, instructing me on how I should cook or clean the house.”
“Oh, Will.”
He shrugged. “It’s really not so bad. Fixing the house has kept me busy, and I do love the lady. And once a week or so Nick comes by and pulls me out to have a beer, which is good. And you’ll remember I have cousins in the vicinity, too.”
“I remember,” said Maggie, choosing a piece of shortbread for herself. Will’s cousins were idiosyncratic Mainers, for sure. But they’d come through in past emergencies.
“None of them makes cookies this good, though,” said Will. “How have you kept talent like this hidden so long?”
“This is the only year we’ve spent Christmas together. My cookie-making skills only emerge in December,” Maggie answered.
“Hmm. Well, if we spent more time together that might have to change. My only problem is deciding which kind I like best—the mincemeat-filled, or these lemon ones. The ones with the sprinkles are pretty good, too. I’ll have to have another, to check it out.” He reached toward the plate, which was now almost empty.
“If we spent more time together”? What did he mean by that? She swirled the cognac in her glass and took another sip. It was too early in her visit to start analyzing. So far she was pleased at the reception her cookies had received (maybe six tins of cookies weren’t going to be enough) but shocked at the amount of care Aunt Nettie needed.
“So what have you done with all your stuff? From your business, and your home in Buffalo?” she asked.
“I’ve moved a few of my things into Aunt Nettie’s old bedroom upstairs, which I’ve turned into my office.”
“Your office?” Maggie interrupted.
“I’m trying a couple of new ways to make money from my antiques. Anyway,” Will continued, clearly allowing no time for questions now, “we’ll have time to talk about that later. My business inventory is divided between a storage unit outside town and the barn here. Which means shoveling out any vehicles I’m using, since there’s no space for them undercover in winter.”
“I noticed Aunt Nettie’s car was the one closest to the road.”
“I’ve been using it. She hasn’t fully accepted that she shouldn’t drive, so she hasn’t gotten rid of her car, and it gets better mileage and is more practical for driving locally than my RV. I’ve about decided to let the RV be snowed in. I won’t be doing any antiques shows this winter. I was tempted by a couple of local ones, but I’m not ready to leave Aunt Nettie for a twelve-hour day, much less two or three. And shoveling out both an RV and a car almost every day is getting to be a hassle.”
Will had his hands full. She hadn’t thought about details like snow.
“One positive change, though,” he added, smiling at her. “The bedroom you used in August is still the guest bedroom, but with Aunt Nettie downstairs…my dear, you have your choice.”
“You mean,” she said, coyly, “you’re offering to give me your bedroom while I’m visiting?”
“In no way,” he said, reaching out, and stroking her hand, now well-warmed from hot chocolate, cognac, and his presence. “I’m offering to share. After all, Maine nights can get wicked cold.”
“So I’ve heard,” Maggie replied, as seriously as she could manage under the circumstances. “That would be the more practical plan, now, wouldn’t it?”
“And you and I have always been two uncommonly practical people,” he said, standing and pulling her up toward him.
3
A Winter Morning—Shovelling Out. Wood engraving by Winslow Homer (1836–1910), major American nineteenth-century artist, for newspaper Every Saturday, January 14, 1871. Three members of family outside their snow-covered home standing in a path perhaps four feet deep. The two men are digging with wooden shovels; the woman is throwing seeds or crumbs to birds on top of the drifted snow. 9 x 11.75 inches. Price: $400.
Maggie woke to the smells of Will’s aftershave on the pillow beside her and coffee brewing downstairs. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Eight-thirty.
She hadn’t asked when he and Aunt Nettie usually got up in the morning. She stretched and smiled. Somehow, the subject hadn’t come up.
But he hadn’t been kidding about cool temperatures. Her toes were warm under several blankets and a quilt, but her nose was definitely frosty. She sat up and pulled the quilt around her. Good; her duffel was by the door. Will must have brought it upstairs this morning. She didn’t remember them thinking of it last night. Reluctantly she put her feet on the chilly pine-plank floor. Time to get going.
Downstairs, she found Aunt Nettie happily dunking a sugar cookie in a mug of coffee and nibbling the edges. “Good morning, Maggie. If all your cookies are as good as the ones I’ve tasted this morning, I’ll have to ask for your recipes.”
“More hot chocolate this morning, or your usual Diet Pepsi?” Will asked after a quick hug.
“Hot chocolate is tempting…but with all the calories in holiday cooking, I think I’d better start out with Diet Pepsi,” said Maggie, moving toward a heating vent on the floor. “It is chilly this morning, though.” Despite her turtleneck, wool sweater, and jeans she was shivering.
“You’ll get used to it,” Will assured her. “I’ll turn the heat up a bit until you do. We keep it at sixty during the day.”
“Sixty?” she managed to choke out. “Fahrenheit?”
“At night I turn it down a few degrees,” he added, obliviously. “You wouldn’t believe what it costs to heat this place.”
“What’s the temperature outside?”
“Last time I looked it was almost zero,” Will said. “Early weather report said it hit nine below in Portland last night. So it’ll be a good day to cut our tree. Supposed to get up to twenty or so, and not much wind. It’s the wind that’ll get you.” He looked over at Maggie. “You did say you’d brought boots?”
“They’re in the van. With my hat and scarf and gloves. I knew I was coming to Maine.” I just didn’t know I’d need all that gear inside the house, she thought, pulling the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands.
“Then you’re set. Cheddar-and-parsley omelet okay? After that, while I’m getting out the saw and the sled, you can unpack. We’ll head over to the Straits’ and look at trees in the middle of the morning, when it’s a little warmer.”
Maggie nodded. “An omelet sounds good. You have our day all planned.”
“I have lots of plans for your visit,” Will continued as he reached for the eggs and cheese. “We’ll be home in time to get lunch, and then we can put the tree up while Aunt Nettie rests, and decorate it later tonight, or tomorrow. After the branches thaw. But first—three omelets coming up.”
“You haven’t eaten?”
“We didn’t want our guest to eat alone,” added Aunt Nettie, who was munching on another cookie.
Maggie looked from the half-empty pot of coffee on the stove to the cookie crumbs on the plate. “When do you usually get up?”
“Depends,” said Aunt Nettie. “I wake up about five, but I wait for Will to come and help me get out of bed. He’s a late sleeper. Some days he doesn’t come downstairs until six-thirty or so, do you, Will?”
“You’ve got me pretty well trained now,” Will repli
ed, raising his eyebrows behind her back. “Once in a while I sleep a bit later. If I do, Aunt Nettie rings her cowbell to wake me up, don’t you?”
They both laughed. Maggie managed a smile. They’d been up for hours, waiting for her. This was not going to be a lazy Christmas vacation lying in bed.
Aunt Nettie picked up the last cookie from the plate in the center of the table. “We mustn’t gobble all of Maggie‘s cookies. They’ll be wonderful refreshments for my party.”
“Your party?” Will turned around from the bowl he was stirring. “What party?”
“You just finish those eggs, Will, and I’ll tell you both. I wasn’t sure about it, but with the two of you here to help, well, I think it’ll be fine. And, after all, it’s my turn. I can’t very well not have it this year, can I?”
The kitchen was silent for a moment.
“What can I do, Will?” Maggie asked.
“Why don’t you put plates on the table,” he said. “I already have bread warming in the oven. You remember Borealis, the bakery you liked when you were here last summer? I got a loaf of their onion rye yesterday, so it’s still fresh. You could get that out and slice it.”
“Yum!” Maggie complied, easily remembering where everything was in the kitchen. She had butter and a board of warm sliced bread on the table before Will served the omelets.
“Delicious, Will,” said Aunt Nettie. “Maggie should come to visit more often. Our breakfasts aren’t this elegant every day.”
“That’s because every morning you ask for oatmeal with blueberries,” said Will, a bit tartly. “If you’d like eggs some days, I’d be happy to cook eggs.”
Aunt Nettie only ate a little of her omelet, Maggie noted, but she did eat a slice of bread and butter. Wonderful fresh bread, as she’d remembered. She had two pieces, and found it hard to resist taking a third. So she didn’t.
As soon as they’d cleared the plates and refilled the coffee mugs (for Will and his aunt) and the cola glass (for Maggie), Will sat back down.
“Now, Aunt Nettie. What’s this about a party?”
“Every year the girls and I have a little Christmas gathering, just ourselves, before any family gatherings any of us might have. We take turns being hostess. And this is my year.” Aunt Nettie turned to Maggie. “It’s not a fancy shindig. And it’s gotten smaller every year, sadly. This year, of course, we’ll be missing Susan.”
Last summer Susan Newall’s death had set off a chain of events that had led to a murder, and to Aunt Nettie’s stroke. But the death of her friend had been the hardest part for Aunt Nettie.
“Our Christmas party’s a tradition with us, and I wouldn’t like it to end when it’s my time to pour the wine and put out nice things to eat.” She looked from Maggie to Will and then back to Maggie again. “Friends are so important, and old friends are the most important of all, especially when you don’t know how much time you’ll have with them.”
“Who are ‘the girls’?” asked Maggie.
Will answered. “Aunt Nettie, you mean the friends you used to go out to dinner with sometimes, or to the movies? The ones you grew up with here in Waymouth.”
“We did a great deal more than that together over the years,” Aunt Nettie said. “We shared our lives in ways you wouldn’t understand. But only four of us are left now. Ruth Weston and Betty Hoskins—they’re sisters, Maggie, and they live together. Betty’s doing poorly, but I’d hope Ruth could still bring her. And Doreen Strait. You’ve met her son, Nicky, who’s a state trooper. Doreen’s mother, Mary, used to be one of our group, but she was sickly, and Doreen took care of her for years, and brought her to our gatherings, so when Mary died we kept including Doreen. She’s the youngest of us.” Aunt Nettie counted on her fingers. “So it would be three people coming, to share a little wine or tea and maybe a few of these nice cookies. Perhaps we could get a box of that fancy ribbon candy or make plates of little tea sandwiches. The kind with the crusts cut off that are so elegant? I love those. And they’re easy to eat when you’ve got dentures, too.”
Will pushed his chair back a little.
Maggie avoided looking at him. “We’d be happy to help you host your party, Aunt Nettie. It sounds like fun. And the tree will be up soon, and the house decorated so everything looks very Christmassy. When did you have in mind?”
Aunt Nettie hesitated. “We can’t wait too long. Ruth and Betty often have family coming to visit over the holidays and we’d want the party before then. What about two days from now, at about four in the afternoon? Will that give you two enough time to get the tree ready and do the shopping?”
Will nodded. “Two days it is. Call your friends and invite them and write up a menu. We’ll take care of the food and drinks. You don’t have to worry about anything, Aunt Nettie.”
“Thank you. So much.” Aunt Nettie looked from Will to Maggie and back again. “It’s going to be the best Christmas this old house has had in years. I just feel it.”
4
Gathering Christmas Greens. 1870 black-and-white wood engraving for Harper’s Weekly by Felix Octavius Carr Darley (1822–1888). Darley was a well-known nineteenth-century illustrator and artist. He was the first illustrator of Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” illustrated James Fenimore Cooper’s works, and worked for Edgar Allan Poe’s journal, The Stylus. This illustration shows several men pulling a cut Christmas tree toward a horse-cart already loaded with trees and greens. 9 x 12 inches. Price: $70.
An hour after breakfast they were headed north along a lightly traveled road, a two-person saw, ropes, and a sled in the trunk of Aunt Nettie’s small blue car.
“How far is Nick’s house from town?” asked Maggie. They’d briefly discussed taking Maggie’s van, until Will had seen that the back was still packed with the tables, racks, table covers, and portable wire walls she’d used at her last antiques show.
“It seemed such a pain to unpack all that stuff,” Maggie admitted. “And I knew I was heading into snow country. They say it’s good to weigh down your rear end so you don’t skid.”
Will glanced at her rear end admiringly. “I’d say there’s just the right amount there,” he commented with a straight face, giving her a swat on the mentioned area before she reached over and lightly punched his arm. “Nick lives a couple of miles north of here.”
“We weren’t going to get a twenty-foot tree anyway, were we?” Maggie asked, pretending to ignore him. “The living room isn’t that big.”
“No. Especially if we’re going to leave room for company. And presents. Santa might visit, you know, so we should leave space under the tree.”
“So. How much land does Nick have?”
“I’m not sure. He’s lived in the same place his whole life. They don’t farm it themselves anymore, the way his grandparents did, but they lease a couple of fields out to a neighbor for haying.”
“‘They’? I didn’t know Nick was married,” said Maggie.
“He’s not,” said Will. “Hasn’t been in years. He lives with his mother, Aunt Nettie’s friend Doreen, and his daughter, Zelda.” He shot a sideways look at her. “He’s a single parent. His wife left Zelda with him after they’d only been married a few months.”
“I never knew that,” said Maggie. She’d met Nick several times, and knew he was Will’s closest friend in Maine. No one ever mentioned he had a daughter.
“Guess it never came up. Every time you’ve met Nick he’s been investigating a murder. Not exactly on-the-job conversation.”
“So his mother helps him take care of Zelda.”
“Yup. Always has. She was a nurse, like her mother before her, but gave it up to stay home with Zelda so Nick could go to college and become a state trooper.”
“And he never married again? I’m surprised. He’s a good-looking guy.”
“I never noticed. Besides, marriage takes more than good looks.”
“Usually divorced guys with young children remarry pretty fast.”
“I don’t
know about that. But come to think of it, I don’t remember Nick’s ever dating anyone after Emily.” He reached over and patted Maggie’s leg. “Never found the right girl, I guess. Or maybe he’s been too busy between his job and his family to look very hard. He and his mom are pretty close. And from what I hear, Zelda’s been a bit of a handful recently. He can use all the help he can get.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen, eighteen. Senior in high school. Old enough to give Nick headaches.”
What kind of headaches? Typical teenage-angst headaches? Drug or alcohol or boyfriend problems? Maggie wanted to ask. But single parents with problems? Probably on the “too sensitive to discuss” list now. Before she could figure out a way to bring the subject up delicately, Will turned into a narrow side road that hadn’t been well plowed.
“Nick’s probably working today, and Zelda’ll be at school. His mom might be in the house, but Nick told her we’d be by. We’ll park by the barn and take off for the woods. He said to take any tree we wanted.” Will parked the car in a wide plowed area along the ell, the series of small connected rooms between the barn and the small farmhouse. “Here we are.”
He tied the saw onto the sled and picked up the sled’s rope.
“Where’s the path?”
He grinned. “You’re in Maine, m’dear. We’ll make our own path. Not to worry. We don’t have to go far.” He pointed past the barn at trees that edged an expanse of white. “The snow in the field may be over the top of your boots, but once we get into the woods it won’t be as deep.”
Maggie turned her coat’s collar up and tied her scarf tighter. “It’s cold.”
“The trees’ll block most of the gusts in the woods. Let’s go, city girl!” He smiled down at her. “I’ll go first with the sled to break a trail.”
Maggie’d imagined a romantic walk along paths lined with snow-covered pine trees. Instead, she followed Will, slogging through knee-to-thigh-high snow drifts, getting colder and wetter at every step.
She was no wimp, she kept telling herself. But the snow was deeper than the top of the boots she’d thought perfectly adequate for a walk in the country. Plus, although she was following in Will’s larger footsteps, she was beginning to breathe heavily. Crossing an uneven field in knee-high snow wasn’t easy.