by Lea Wait
“Why don’t I go and get you a plate now, Aunt Nettie,” said Maggie, putting her glass down.
The buffet table was as generous as Ruth promised, although not many people were taking advantage of it yet. Maggie had almost filled a plate with bites of shrimp, mussels, sausage, stuffed mushrooms, oysters, pasta salad, deviled eggs topped with caviar, and a few slices of different cheeses when she sensed Will at her shoulder. “Is that for Aunt Nettie?” he asked. “Make sure you add some of the crabmeat. She loves that.”
He was topping his own plate off generously and didn’t seem to be skipping anything. “Then be sure to come back and get enough for yourself.”
“I will,” she promised, keeping an eye on the lavish tray of Damariscotta and Pemaquid oysters. “By the way, do you know who the two women in the corner are? They’re not mixing with anyone else.”
Will glanced in their direction. “The taller one, wearing the patchwork-quilt skirt, is Betty’s daughter, Miranda, and the other one is her spouse, Joan. They’ve been together for years. Live in Portland. They got married as soon as it was legal here.”
“I remember hearing Betty’s daughter lived in Portland. And I think that ‘patchwork-quilt skirt’ is made of hand-embroidered silks and satins. Gorgeous. I’ve been admiring it. They’re the ones I think Ruth said would be staying at an inn instead of here at the house.”
“Portland isn’t far, but I guess because of the holiday they’re staying in town overnight. Aunt Nettie once mentioned that Miranda and Ruth had a falling out about how Betty was being cared for. That could be another reason they’re not staying at the house.”
“Families!” said Maggie. She picked up a napkin and fork and headed back to deliver Aunt Nettie’s plate.
Her second trip to the buffet was for her, and since Aunt Nettie seemed settled with friends, she and Will walked and peeked at the downstairs of the large house as they nibbled.
In the back of the living and dining rooms (the hunting prints turned out to be Henry Alkens, as Maggie had suspected), were a large kitchen and pantry. On the other side of the first floor were a more formal parlor and an area that had been turned into two rooms; one for Betty, and an adjoining one seemingly designed for her caretaker. It included two single beds, a small television, and a shelf of trucks and picture books, perhaps for Billy.
Betty’s room was equipped with a hospital bed, a larger television set, and an adjacent handicapped bathroom. A tall bookcase held shelves of DVDs, and the walls were covered with framed photographs of family and friends. Near Betty’s bed a large chalkboard read TODAY IS DECEMBER 24. CHRISTMAS EVE. WEATHER IS COLD AND SNOWY. An infant-sized baby doll sat in a chair near the bookcase.
Everything in the room—every picture, every wall and light switch—had an attached yellow sticky note identifying it. The names of the people in the pictures. TV. LAMP. BED. CEILING. REMOTE CONTROL.WINDOW. REFRIGERATOR was on a small refrigerator in the corner. Perhaps it held Betty’s medications.
At first neither of them spoke. The reality of dementia was very close in that room.
Maggie shuddered. “Two other beds. It must be hard enough to have a nurse with you at all times. But to have Billy as well… It would drive me crazy to have no privacy.”
“But how much does she still understand? I assume Betty wants to stay at home, and needs someone close at hand. But I don’t think Carrie and Billy are here all the time. Ruth takes care of her most nights, and when Carrie has time off.”
Maggie nodded.
“Taking care of a loved one doesn’t have to be horrible, you know.”
Maggie leaned against Will for a moment. “I know.” That was what he was doing. But somehow here, with Betty in her wheelchair, not sure of where she was or who she was talking to, caretaking seemed much worse than helping Aunt Nettie, who could still do a lot for herself, and knew exactly what was happening.
Back in the living room, Ruth was feeding Betty.
Aunt Nettie had disappeared.
“Will? Maybe I should go and look for Aunt Nettie. Make sure she’s okay, in case she needed to use the bathroom or felt a little weak.” She handed her empty plate to him.
She paused outside the parlor that had been empty a few minutes before. Aunt Nettie’s voice was coming clearly from inside. Maggie didn’t want to interrupt.
“I’ve known you since you were a child. This isn’t like you. I don’t know what’s wrong, but this isn’t going to help. It’s going to get you into trouble. Tell me what you need. If I can help you, I will,” Aunt Nettie was saying.
“You don’t understand! You’ve always had everything you wanted and needed. You’ve never been in my situation. I don’t have any choice.” That was another woman’s voice.
“We’ve all had times when it didn’t seem as though there were any good choices. But there are always options. If you don’t want to talk to me, have you thought of talking to someone else you trust? A minister? Or doctor? A counselor?”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone. There’s no time for that nonsense. I know what I have to do. Clearly you don’t want to help me. If you did, you’d give me what I asked for.”
“I can’t do that, Carrie. I don’t have it.”
“I don’t believe you. Rich folks think they can get away with anything. But they can’t. Not always. It’s time for payback. You think about it. You think hard.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else —”
“I told you. There’s nothing. So, all of you, stop acting like you know better than me. Because you don’t know nothing. What I know, I know, and I’m not keeping my peace any longer.”
Maggie pretended to be studying a group of hand-colored Bartlett steel engravings of Boston in the hallway.
Carrie Folk hadn’t met her. She hoped she wasn’t even noticed as Carrie left the parlor and walked quickly down the hall and into the dining room.
She’d overheard a strange, but clearly private, conversation.
A minute or so later Aunt Nettie came out of the parlor. “Maggie! What are you doing out here in the hall?”
“Looking at the engravings,” Maggie lied.
“Hmm,” said Aunt Nettie. “Well, why don’t we go back and get another drink from that bar instead of standing around by ourselves? We’re at a party.”
Carrie had taken over the task of feeding Betty by the time they reached the living room. “Is Betty all right?” Maggie asked Aunt Nettie softly. “She didn’t need that much help to eat the other day at your house.”
“Ruth said she’s very tired today. The baby cried most of the night and a lot today, too, and it upset Betty. She wasn’t able to sleep. When she’s tired, she loses muscle control. They thought it would be best if Carrie helped her.”
Maggie looked around for Billy. She found him in a corner of the dining room with a plate of food, pushing it into his mouth with his fingers. “Billy!” she said. “Does your mother let you eat like that?”
“This food is really, really good.”
“Yes, it is,” said Maggie. “Why don’t you take the rest of your plate into the other room where your mother is and eat your food there.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Here,” she said, handing him a napkin and a fork. “Wipe your hands and mouth first. And then take another napkin. You don’t want your mother to see you like that.”
“No. Then maybe Santa Claus wouldn’t come.” Billy wiped his fingers carefully and handed the dirty napkin back to Maggie. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
“I won’t. But I don’t want to see you eating with your fingers again.”
Billy nodded. Then he picked up his plate and left.
“Well done, Maggie,” said Ruth, who’d come into the room in back of her. “Not many people can cope with Billy. You did that just right.”
“I hope I wasn’t interfering. But his mother looked so tired sitting there and feeding Betty, and I was sure she wouldn’t have approved of the way he was eatin
g.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” said Ruth. “It’s hard sometimes to watch Billy. Carrie doesn’t discipline him the way…well, the way I disciplined my children. I know he’s different. But, still. I try not to interfere. Carrie’s so good with Betty, and we’ve known them both for so long. Betty’s comfortable with her. It’s hard to find a competent and caring nurse you can trust in your home.”
“You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you. I’m so glad you could come this afternoon.”
The baby’s screams interrupted them. “There Jonas goes again. I swear, if any of my children had cried like that I wouldn’t have had three.” Ruth smiled. “But here I am, telling you how I’d discipline Carrie’s son, or my grandson. Poor Jonas has colic. I think he just needs to be burped a little more, and perhaps he shouldn’t have been put on the bottle so early. But he’s not my child. Do you have children, Maggie?”
Maggie swallowed. Hard. “Not yet.”
“Well, once you do, you’ll know. You want to raise your children your way, even if you know you’re not doing a perfect job. It hurts when anyone gives you advice. So I try not to. With Brian and Jenny, I keep reminding myself I’m just the grandmother. Last night I think his mother was crying more than little Jonas was. And when she’s tense and upset, Jonas senses that and cries more. Brian left and went out walking in the middle of the night. If I hadn’t had to look after Betty I would’ve been tempted to join him, even in the snow and at my age.”
“How long are they staying?” Maggie asked.
“Until New Year’s,” Ruth answered. She lowered her voice. “I love my family dearly, but I really hope that baby stops crying. For all our sakes.”
At about 6:30 people began to leave the party, many saying they were going to the community sing.
“It’s not far,” said Will to Maggie. “Would you like to go?”
“What about Aunt Nettie?” Maggie said, quietly.
“Aunt Nettie is going to stay right here if you young folks want to go along,” Aunt Nettie put in. “Ruth’s invited me to stay and chat while she has a little to eat and starts to clean up. Go ahead, you two. Brian and Jenny are taking the baby to the carol sing, and Carrie’s going to put Betty to bed. I’ll be fine here.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Just don’t have such a good time you forget to come back for me.”
“I haven’t been to one of these in years,” Will admitted, as they pulled their coats on. “But why not? It’s part of small-town Christmas.”
“Oh good! It’s snowing, too,” Maggie said as they joined others walking down the street toward the center of town. A few people carried candles or flashlights, but most houses had turned their outside lights on, so the whole town seemed bright in the snow.
Maggie and Will held hands as they walked through the night toward the Green. “It’s perfect.”
Will squeezed her hand. “It is.”
The high school band had assembled in front of the Congregational church and choirs from several churches in town were gathering, their long robes flapping over their heavy sweaters and boots. Townspeople as young as baby Jonas were there, bundled up warmly. One wizened man wrapped in blankets in a wheelchair on one of the shoveled walkways around the Green was smiling and chatting, ignoring the cold and snow.
“Can we get a little closer?” asked Maggie. “I’m curious. Which of the girls in the choir is Zelda?”
Will guided her around the center crowd until they found a place where they could see the sopranos assembling, checking music and looking around for friends and family.
He peered through the snow, which had begun to fall more heavily again. “See the second girl from the end? She’s wearing a red turtleneck under her robe. I think that’s Zelda.”
Maggie stood on her toes. “You mean the girl talking to the blonde with really short hair? The one who just waved to the tall, skinny young man over near the pine tree.”
“That’s the one. And the boy she waved at is Jon Snow, the one Nick doesn’t want her to see.”
“Clearly she isn’t paying too much attention to that rule,” said Maggie.
“Obviously. And she has a lot of makeup on for a choir girl. No wonder Nick gets upset with her,” added Will.
“Will, are you sure that’s Zelda?” As they’d moved closer to the singer, Maggie could see more clearly. “Because I don’t think that’s all makeup. That girl has a black eye.”
11
Filled All the Stockings. Red-and-black lithograph by Arthur Rackham (1867–1939) of elf-like Santa with a stocking, surrounded by toys—dolls, trains, animals—some of which are strange and possibly scary, especially with their black shadows behind them. One of four color illustrations Rackham did for a 1931 edition of Clement Moore’s The Night Before Christmas. The verse this illustration accompanies is, “He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk.” In Rackham’s vision, not all children could count on receiving happy gifts at Christmas. 4 x 5 inch picture on 8 x 5.5 inch page. Price: $65.
Christmas morning dawned sunny, bright—and frigid. Maggie heard Will in the kitchen below and hid her head under the quilt for a few last, luxurious moments before opening her eyes. It wasn’t quite seven, but the bedroom was filled with light despite the frosted patterns on the windows, and the smell of coffee perking had reached the second floor.
Next Christmas I’ll be the first one up, she thought. I’ll have the tree lit, the stockings filled, and presents from Santa will be waiting to be unwrapped. It will be our first Christmas together.
Whoever “we” would be.
She stretched her toes under the covers once more and smiled to herself. She could hardly wait.
Except…Will wouldn’t be there. She’d visualized a scene at her home in New Jersey. He’d be here in Waymouth, fixing coffee for Aunt Nettie.
They hadn’t had “that” talk yet. In fact, she had the feeling Will was avoiding it. But clearly he was settling into Maine life. Her life was in New Jersey. They were both moving on. Separately.
Life wasn’t a fairy tale.
She allowed herself a fleeting thought about Nick’s daughter, Zelda. How was she this Christmas morning? At first she’d thought Nick was being overprotective, and Doreen had implied that, too. But if Zelda’s boyfriend—Jon, his name was Jon Snow—had given her a black eye, maybe Nick was doing what a father should do. Protecting his daughter. Will had certainly thought so when she’d pointed Zelda’s injury out to him.
But maybe Zelda slipped on the ice or had another minor accident embarrassing to anyone, but especially to a teenaged girl. There might be nothing to worry about but her bruised ego.
Maggie allowed herself one or two more thoughts about what she’d do if Zelda were her daughter. Then she scrambled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. It was Christmas morning. Much better to be here than alone in New Jersey.
Will met her at the bottom of the stairs with a hug, a gentle kiss, and a glass of champagne.
“Really?” she asked, accepting it.
“Really. Longtime Brewer family Christmas morning tradition,” he assured her. “Did I forget to tell you?”
She raised her glass. “Then—Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Maggie!” called Aunt Nettie, who was sitting in the kitchen with a similar flute of champagne alongside her coffee. “After the party last night I decided I needed a caffeine jump start, too.”
“Would you like hot chocolate or Diet Pepsi with your champagne?” asked Will.
Maggie frowned in pretend contemplation. “I think I’ll stick with champagne.”
“Good choice,” he nodded. “I’m going with champagne, too. And not to worry. I have three bottles chilled.”
“One for each of us!” Aunt Nettie almost crowed. “Merry Christmas!”
Maggie wondered how long she and Will had been up, and how much Aunt Nettie’d had to drink already. B
esides her coffee.
“The next Brewer tradition is a special Christmas breakfast,” Will explained. “Sit down, relax, drink up. I’m in charge. Blueberry muffins are already in the oven.”
“I thought I smelled something good.” Maggie sniffed. “You didn’t make blueberry muffins this morning, did you?”
“He certainly didn’t,” said Aunt Nettie. “They’re muffins I made last summer and froze. But we decided they’d make a good holiday bread for today.”
“Excellent decision,” Maggie agreed.
“The plan, you see, is that we have a big breakfast and keep sipping champagne. Then we’ll open our gifts, and take the rest of the day off. Or,” Will raised his eyebrows and leered at Maggie behind Aunt Nettie’s back, “take naps.”
“I see,” said Maggie, trying not to burst into laughter. “And this is a years-long tradition?”
“Absolutely,” said Will. “My parents celebrated Christmas morning this way, and my father said his parents had inherited the tradition. Right, Aunt Nettie?”
“In some variation. When I was a girl the meat was moose steak and the bread was apple pie. And my father liked his cider—not the kind you buy at the grocery today. But the idea was basically the same.”
“So, instead of moose steak, what are we having with our blueberry muffins, Chef Will?”
“Filet mignon, covered with sautéed mushrooms and onions in a brandy sauce.”
Maggie swallowed. “Okay. You got me. I am totally flabbergasted.”
Will bowed. “Happy to hear that, my dear.”
“And totally starving. So, demonstration time. Please!”
While Will pulled out ingredients and pans he’d managed to keep in places Maggie hadn’t noticed, Aunt Nettie leaned across the table. “Don’t worry, dear. He’s been practicing.”
She had no need to worry. Will did a fantastic job.
“Are you sure you want to open an antiques mall, and not a restaurant?” Maggie half groaned, as she ate the last few pieces of her filet. “This was spectacular. Really spectacular.”