Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  As Jean looked over her sketches, she was distracted by her mother’s paintings—as if the paintings had eyes and were peering over her shoulder. Jean had always been intimidated by Cynthia’s talent. Now she could see that the paintings were good. The bold brush strokes showed both talent and skill, marked by a distinctive, abstract style. But her mother’s paintings were not works of genius.

  Though Jean had always loved art while growing up, her mother never praised her projects. Only her father was encouraging and gave her confidence. Jean always felt she had to hide her light under a barrel, mostly to avoid her mother’s critiques, couched in “helpful” suggestions. By the time her mother was done with a “helpful review,” Jean felt two inches tall. Then Cynthia would get annoyed, saying, “How can you ever improve if you can’t take advice?”

  Perhaps that was what she felt now, with the watercolors taking the place of her mother. Jean considered turning the paintings over so that they faced the wall, then laughed at the notion.

  The bell over the door rang and a customer came in. Jean was so startled, she felt sure there was some mistake. He wore a khaki green, army-issue field jacket, threadbare around the hem and collar, an oilcloth vest with a lot of pockets underneath, and a denim shirt beneath that.

  She couldn’t see his face, just his unshaven jaw and chin, the rest hidden beneath the brim of a beat-up tan fedora that reminded her of Indiana Jones. She had to smile at that and smiled again when he stood just inside the door, shaking off the wet weather like a dog.

  Finally, he pulled off his hat and looked up. He needed a haircut, along with a shave. But he was definitely attractive, in a scruffy way. She wondered if he had been out hunting or maybe even fishing, despite the cold. But something about him didn’t seem the type for either of those pursuits.

  Jean made a neat pile of her work and stepped behind the counter. He smiled and pulled up a stool, then studied the chalkboard menu that was propped on a shelf.

  She had forgotten about that menu. She should have taken it down and wiped the board clean. The lettering was faded and most of the items listed were unavailable.

  “Let’s see . . . I’ll have a cappuccino, please. With extra cinnamon?”

  “I’m sorry, there’s no cappuccino today.”

  He looked disappointed and scanned the list again. “How about an espresso? A double would be good.”

  “Sorry, no espresso either. The machine is broken.” And had been for a few years, Jean recalled, though she didn’t add that information.

  His disappointed expression had turned to a gentle, amused smile. He had hazel eyes and dark brown hair tinged with gray. She guessed his age to be early forties, a few years older than she was.

  “I think I smell some coffee. Is that for sale?”

  Jean nearly laughed. “I just made a fresh pot. Sumatra roast.”

  “Sounds perfect. I’ll have a large cup. And a slice of pumpkin pie, please.”

  Jean poured the coffee then looked around for the milk and sugar she had brought from the house.

  “Just black is fine,” he said, as if reading her mind.

  She sliced the pie, wishing there was a can of whipped cream handy to garnish it, but he didn’t seem to notice and dug in eagerly.

  She would have to buy some supplies for this place the next time she went to the supermarket. She would check around later and make a list.

  He finished the pie quickly then picked up his mug and wandered around the shop. He strolled slowly in front of the long wall of watercolors. “You sell a little bit of everything in here.”

  “That we do,” Jean replied.

  “Who’s the artist, Cynthia Whitman?”

  “That’s my mother. It’s her shop.”

  “And her gallery, too,” he noted. “She’s not bad. I like this one, of the marshes. It really captures the light in the reeds, the quiet, swaying sense of the place. Is it for sale? I’d like to buy it.”

  Jean stared at him a moment, shocked by the question. As far as she knew, no one had bought a painting in years.

  “Yes. Definitely . . . There’s a notebook with prices around here somewhere . . .” She rummaged around behind the counter, pulling out drawers and opening cupboards. She finally spotted the notebook in the back of a drawer that held dish towels, the book’s cover stained and the pages yellowed from the passing years. “I’ll see if that one is listed. Is there a number on the back?”

  Her customer removed the painting from the wall and checked. “Yes, it’s number fifty-three.”

  Jean leafed through the pages and found the painting and the price. A few hundred dollars. Not much for original art, but judging from this man’s appearance, she doubted he would buy it.

  She told him the price but he didn’t seem put off. “I don’t have that much cash with me. Can I come back tomorrow and pick it up?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Jean wondered if his reply was just a graceful way of saving face. Perhaps the painting was out of his price range after all, and he didn’t want to admit it. “If the shop isn’t open, just come next door and knock. We’re usually home.”

  “You live next door. How convenient. Have you lived here very long?”

  “I grew up here. But I was living in Portland, Maine, until recently. I came back last week to take care of my mother. She’s not well.”

  His expression turned thoughtful. “That’s good of you. Most people I know . . . well, they love their parents, but they wouldn’t move back home to care for them.”

  Jean’s feelings toward her mother were complicated. They always had been. She knew in her heart she had not returned out of pure filial love. Or even out of guilt, exactly.

  “There was a merger at the company where I worked, and I was laid off. So it was a convenient time for me to come back,” she admitted.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a graphic artist.”

  “So you’re an artist, like your mother.” He’d been looking at the watercolors on the wall again but turned to Jean when he spoke.

  “Not really. What I do isn’t real art. It’s advertising layouts and brochures. That sort of thing.”

  They were standing in the back of the shop. “What about these sketches, aren’t they art?” Before she could stop him, he picked up a sketch from the pile she had been working on. “This is lovely. His face has so much character. Not overly sweet either.”

  She leaned over and quickly snatched it away. “Please don’t touch my drawings. You should ask before you do something like that.”

  She slipped the drawing in the leather portfolio, along with a few others that had been left on the table.

  “I’m sorry . . . You’re right. That was very rude.”

  Jean let out a breath and shrugged. “Apology accepted. I didn’t mean to snap at you. But I haven’t shown that work to anyone yet. It’s not ready.”

  “I understand. Totally. I would scream bloody murder if someone did that to me—just grabbed one of my photographs without asking.”

  “Are you a photographer?” Jean had guessed by the way he spoke about the painting that he was an artist. When he nodded, she said, “What sort of work do you do?”

  “I work for myself,” he said simply. “Right now, I’m doing a photo essay on the village and the open spaces around here. I came through a few months ago and promised myself I’d return and take pictures.”

  “It is beautiful. I’m not sure I appreciated how lovely this place is when I was growing up here,” Jean said. “There’s more to see than people realize. Most just think of the beaches. The marshes are very beautiful, and the farms and orchards. Not to mention the harbor, especially when the fishermen are there.”

  He met her gaze with a look of agreement. “Exactly. It’s hard to capture all that. But I’m trying. My name’s Grant, by the way . . . Well, m
y last name isn’t ‘by the way.’ It’s Keating. Grant Keating.”

  Jean smiled at his small joke. “Nice to meet you, Grant. I’m Jean Whitman. So, what will you do with the photos when you’re done? Sell them to a magazine?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. I might make a book out of them. Or send them to a gallery and see if I can have a show. I’m not sure when I’ll be done.”

  Jean found his attitude a refreshing change from the profit-driven advertising world, though she wondered how he supported himself.

  “I’ve been renting a room in town, a big old house. The landlady’s name is Vera Plante. She’s been very helpful.”

  Jean was sure of that. Vera knew everyone in town and most of their business, too. But she wasn’t really a gossip. “I know Vera. She and my mother have been friends for years.”

  Jean had set her own coffee mug on a table and now heard a splashing sound. She turned to see a thick drop of water fall from the ceiling onto the table and into the cup, and a moment later, another.

  “Oh dear. What a mess.” Jean grabbed a roll of paper towels from behind the counter, along with the plastic bucket she had used for cleaning up.

  “I didn’t think that coffee cup could handle the leak. But I didn’t want to say something and seem too nosey again.”

  Jean looked up at him, wondering if he was serious or not. He was looking up at the leak, which dropped steadily from a brown ring on the ceiling. When their gazes met, she could tell from the light in his eyes that he had been teasing her.

  “That spot on the roof has been leaking forever. No one ever seems to fix it for good.”

  Grant took another look and turned to her again. “I can fix it. At least, I can try.”

  “Are you a handyman, too?”

  “I do the odd job here and there to earn extra money. I’ve already done some work at Vera’s house and a few places around town, if you want references.”

  “I’ll talk to my mother about it. I’ll let you know when you come back for the painting,” she added. If you come back. With a possible job dangling like a carrot, maybe he would return, Jean thought.

  The property had become very run-down over the last few years. Jean could easily make a long list of needed repairs. She wondered if her mother had even noticed, or cared. Perhaps she had reached a point in life where such matters didn’t seem very important.

  “Jean . . . are you there? I just woke up. I need some help.”

  Jean heard her mother’s voice on the monitor and stepped behind the counter to answer her. “I’ll be there in a minute, Mom. Let me just close up here. Don’t get up. Wait for me to help you.”

  Grant had followed her and stood close by. He pulled on his jacket and fitted his hat on his head. Then he extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Jean. I’ll be back for the painting tomorrow. Any special time?”

  Jean was distracted by his touch. His grip on her hand was warm and firm. “I’ll be around all day. Either in here or at the house.”

  “Then I’ll find you.” He tipped his hat and walked out the door.

  Jean watched his departing figure, feeling as if she had imagined him and his promise. The same way she conjured up the characters in her book. She doubted she could trust half of what he said. But she couldn’t help liking him anyway. Would he show up tomorrow? She certainly hoped so.

  Jean crossed the muddy ground to the house, then shrugged out of her wet jacket. “What took you so long?” her mother called from the living room. “I’ve been waiting here for half an hour.”

  “It’s only been a few minutes, Mom. I couldn’t leave right away. A man came into the shop. He had some coffee and pie.”

  And we talked a lot, she nearly added.

  “I’m sure there will be plenty of customers if you go out there in the afternoons.” Jean did not share her mother’s confidence, but didn’t argue. “Help me up. Is there any mail?”

  “I left it in the kitchen.” Jean set up the walker and helped her mother stand. Then she watched as Cynthia took tentative steps, pausing at the window to pull back the curtain and look outside. “Not even five o’clock and dark out already.” Her mother let the curtain drop. “Such a dull day.”

  “Maybe not,” Jean countered. “The customer who came into the shop wants to buy one of your paintings. He’s coming back tomorrow to pick it up.”

  Her mother turned quickly and stared at her. “Really? Which one?”

  “A scene of the marshes. It was hanging above the bookcase.”

  “I know the one. Not a bad little landscape.” Her mother didn’t seem as happy as Jean expected, but her spirits seemed brighter. “How much did you ask for it?”

  Jean named the figure. Her mother’s expression soured. “That’s all? It’s worth much more than that.”

  “I looked up the price in your notebook. That’s what was listed.”

  “Those prices are outdated by now. You should have asked me first.”

  “I should have,” Jean agreed. “Do you want me to give a higher price when he comes to get it? He told me that he’s staying at Vera’s house. I can call him there and let him know.”

  “No, no . . .” Her mother waved her hand as if batting away an insect. “Don’t do that. You’ve given him a price. That’s that. Just make sure he pays in cash. No checks.”

  Jean smiled at the stipulation. “Very wise. But I believe he already plans to pay with cash. Why don’t you come into the kitchen. You can look at the mail and we can talk while I make dinner.”

  Cynthia was soon settled at the kitchen table, carefully reading each piece of mail, though most of it was junk mail—requests for donations, flyers marketing insurance discounts or cable TV service.

  Jean stood by the sink, peeling potatoes. Mashed tonight, her mother’s favorite. But not from a box.

  “The man who’s buying the painting also does home repairs. You know that leak in the back of the shop? The rain started coming through the ceiling again today. He said he could fix it.”

  “Many have tried. And failed.” Her mother had moved on to the catalogues. She pushed a medical supply catalogue aside and opened one called Home & Hearth.

  “If we’re going to reopen the shop, I think we should try again,” Jean said. “Water has been coming in through that hole, Mother. It’s worn a spot on the floor and gives the whole place a musty smell.”

  Cynthia turned a page without looking up. “I suppose we can hire someone. But we don’t know this guy from Adam.”

  “He’s done work for Vera and other people in town. He said he’d give some references.”

  “I’ll ask Vera about him. She’s a good judge of character. Then again, that leak has been there for ages. And it only leaks when it rains,” her mother added.

  The observation struck Jean as funny, though she didn’t dare laugh out loud. “That’s the way leaks are, I guess,” she noted. “There are a lot of things around here that need repair. It’s an old house and it needs some attention. It’s starting to look a bit run-down.”

  Her mother turned another page of the catalogue. “Some fixing up so it will sell quickly when I die—is that what you mean? Or maybe you and your brother plan to put me in a nursing home.”

  Jean was cutting up the potatoes and nearly sliced into her finger, she felt so taken aback by the accusation. “I’ve come back home so that won’t happen, Mom. I thought you knew that.”

  “That’s what you say. For now anyway,” her mother mumbled.

  “No one plans on selling the house,” Jean assured her. “But there are basic repairs that need to be done. Other leaks in the roof of the shop and the house. Loose floorboards. Anyone could fall. And a few windows in the sunroom are broken. Those can be fixed easily, and it will cut down on the heating bill,” she added. “Besides, the cardboard that’s covering them now makes the house look a shambles.�
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  “You seem very concerned,” her mother noted. “Though you know Kevin will get the house. I hope you didn’t come back planning to change my mind about that, Jean.”

  Did she really suspect such a devious scheme? Jean turned to look at her mother but was unable to read her expression.

  She scooped the potato pieces into a pot, added water, and set it on the stove to boil. “We both know your wishes, Mom. But you don’t want to leave him a falling-down heap.”

  Jean noticed her mother’s slight reaction, pursing her lips and knitting her brow. Though she did not concede the point aloud.

  “I’d like to clear out the piles of newspapers and things that have collected around here. I know it must have been hard for you to keep on top of the housekeeping the last few months,” she added. “But it has to be bad for your breathing, all the dust on that stuff.” Not to mention that the assorted piles made Jean crazy, and she had barely been home a week.

  Her mother finally closed the catalogue and looked up. “It is important to keep the property value up. I suppose this fellow can take a look at the repairs.”

  “Let’s make a list after dinner. We can ask him for an estimate when he comes to pick up the painting.”

  “All right. If he charges too much, we’ll find someone else.”

  Jean hoped that was not the case. For reasons she didn’t want to examine too closely, she hoped Grant Keating’s fees seemed reasonable. Even to her mother’s penny-pinching pocketbook.

  Chapter Four

  Here you are, honey. Home sweet home. I bet you feel better already.” Jessica walked a few steps ahead of the wheelchair while Darrell pushed from behind. The path from the driveway to the side door was clear and flat, but Sam had no idea how his wife and son would get the chair up the steps, even though there were only three.

  “Maybe we should call Dan to help get me in the house,” Sam suggested. “And Bart is probably around. He’ll help. I don’t think you two can do it alone.”