Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  “Hey, Darrell. Too bad about your father. Sounds like he was hurt bad.” Terry shook his hand then stuffed his big, chapped hands in the pockets of a down vest he wore over a hooded sweatshirt. Red block letters on the shirt said MORGAN CONSTRUCTION & HOME IMPROVEMENT.

  “He’s coming along. He got home from the hospital today,” Darrell replied, trying to put a positive spin on his father’s condition. “He’s definitely getting up to speed.”

  “Bart told us he’s trying to keep the jobs going,” Bobby said. “I hope so. We all need the work. Especially with Christmas coming.” Bobby was older than Terry, but still in good shape for his age. He also wore a down vest over a sweatshirt, but his said Boston Red Sox, matching his cap, which hid his thinning hair.

  “My dad knows that. Believe me, he’s trying every which way to get the work started again. I think he will, too.” He will if I have anything to say or do about it, he wanted to add.

  “So what do you want us to do?” Terry gestured to the mountain of insulation and supplies in the Prentiss driveway. “Load this stuff on your truck? I think we’ll need to make a few trips.”

  “Just hang out here a minute. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Prentiss. Maybe we can store it on the property somewhere.”

  Bobby shrugged. “Sounds good. But try to speed it up. I need to get over to the high school for my son’s basketball game. He’s a starter this year.”

  Darrell wasn’t sure what to say. He knew that his father was paying both men for a full day’s work. He doubted that when his dad was in charge, Bob quit at two in the afternoon and ran off to games at the high school.

  “Let’s see how it goes. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Bobby looked like he might argue about leaving early. Darrell turned and headed for the house before he could. But as he started up the drive, he heard the men continue to talk.

  “I’m leaving at two,” Bobby said. “I don’t have to take orders from Sam’s kid.”

  “He’s trying to help his father. And we’re lucky to get paid the full week. Some guys wouldn’t do that.”

  “Sure, I’m glad to get paid, too. But what happens after that?”

  You’ll be taking orders from Sam’s kid, Darrell wanted to tell him. That’s what’s going to happen.

  Mrs. Prentiss opened the door as Darrell came up the walkway. She ushered him inside. “Thank you for coming by so quickly, Darrell. It’s good to see you. How’s school? What year are you in now?”

  “School’s great, Mrs. Prentiss. I’m a senior. I’m going to graduate in the spring.”

  Mrs. Prentiss looked shocked. “Graduate? Already? You make me feel so old,” she said with a laugh. “Your father told me that you’re studying engineering and architecture. You certainly have the artistic talent for it. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

  “Thanks. I hope so.” Darrell looked around. “This is a lovely home. I love the housing stock in Cape Light. I didn’t really appreciate it growing up.”

  Mrs. Prentiss looked flattered. Just as he’d hoped. “We try to keep it in good repair. That’s the problem with old houses. It’s always something. So can you move those supplies out of the driveway today? That would be a great help.”

  “That’s what we came to do. Is there somewhere on your property we can store this stuff?”

  “Store all that here? No, I don’t think so. Doesn’t your father have a yard or a storage area or something?”

  “Not exactly. I can take it someplace else if that’s what you want us to do,” Darrell replied in a solicitous, calming tone. “But it would be more convenient to keep it here. That way we won’t waste any time packing it up again and bringing it back and then unloading everything . . .” He dragged out his explanation, hoping his excuse was working. “When we start working again, I mean.”

  She had looked doubtful at his question, but her expression brightened at the hint that the renovation might start up again soon.

  “When do you think that will be? I spoke to your father this morning about it, and he couldn’t say.”

  Darrell hesitated. “I don’t want to make any promises. But . . . things are moving in the right direction,” he said finally. He thought that much was true.

  Mrs. Prentiss considered his prediction, her expression stern, an expression he remembered from the times when the class acted out or didn’t clean the art room properly.

  “I guess it can go in the basement,” she said at last. “I’ll show you the spot. Your men can take it through the garage and downstairs. Just leave a path to the Christmas decorations.”

  “Thank you. We’re happy to do whatever’s convenient for you.”

  Mrs. Prentiss quickly showed him the way. The basement was clean and dry. Not completely finished but it had Sheetrock walls and a linoleum floor. The supplies would be fine down here temporarily, he decided.

  Just to be on the safe side, he took a picture of the space and texted his Dad with the plan. Then he gave instructions to Terry and Bobby and worked alongside them. With the three of them working, it didn’t take as long as Darrell had expected to empty the driveway. Though at the end of the task he felt more tired than he expected and had a few muscle aches, too.

  Outside again, he said good-bye to the two men and thanked them for coming on such short notice. Bobby was already in his car and waved as he drove off. Two o’clock had come and gone but he had not asked to leave for the basketball game. Maybe he had been afraid that Darrell would complain about him to his father. Or maybe he realized he should work for a few hours, until the task was done, when he was getting paid for a full day.

  Terry lingered on the sidewalk before getting in his truck. He slapped Darrell on the back. “Good to see you, kid. Tell your father I was asking about him. Maybe we’ll see you around? Maybe you’ll be stepping into the old man’s work boots for a while?”

  Darrell laughed. “I hope so,” he said honestly.

  Back in the truck, Darrell found a text from his father. There was no one at the Hendersons’, so he couldn’t check that job today.

  Okay. Heading home, Darrell replied.

  He drove around the block, intending to retrace the path he had followed into the neighborhood, but soon realized he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. He found himself driving on a deserted road with only a cottage or two to be seen behind marsh grass and overgrown shrubs.

  A high, chain-link fence came into view, and behind that, a huge, old brick building. Most of the long, mitered windows were boarded up. The rest were broken, providing a convenient portal for the birds that flew in and out. Darrell parked the truck on the road’s sandy shoulder. He got out and walked closer, stepping over beer cans and other litter. He saw more trash on the other side of the fence and figured that there must be a hole somewhere. He walked around the building, to the side that was not visible from the road, and soon found an opening in the fence, large enough to squeeze through.

  He walked carefully; the concrete around the building was fractured, with weeds growing through. He saw a double door that must have been the main entrance. It was secured with a padlock, but he was able to peer through the window and look inside.

  Late-day sun filtered through the holes in the roof, just enough for Darrell to discern that the building must have been a factory of some kind. Most of the walls had crumbled, but the iron beams that framed the structure still looked solid. Around another corner, he noticed the double rails of train or trolley tracks overgrown with weeds, but still leading to a loading dock.

  From the construction—what he could see of it—he guessed the place was built around 1900, maybe even earlier. Despite its ruin, there were many fine decorative touches in the brickwork and stone trim. Darrell pulled out his phone and took pictures, wandering around the entire perimeter until he came to the hole in the fence again.

  Something about this place excited him. He ha
d a million questions about it. Mainly, why had it been left to rot like this? Practically every old warehouse on the Boston waterfront had been renovated and turned into living space. Pricey living space. Hadn’t anyone spotted the potential here?

  He jumped back in the truck and checked a map on his phone to figure out his location, now glad that he had lost his way.

  Not all who wander are lost. He recalled hearing that phrase somewhere. He had not exactly been wandering, but veering off course had definitely resulted in the bright spot of his day. He glanced at the map on his phone again. He wanted to know more about this place, that was for sure.

  He was just about to start off when a text came in from his mother. She wanted him to stop in town and pick up a prescription at the pharmacy. Don’t forget to drop off that donation can at the bakery, she added.

  I didn’t forget, he replied, though the task had slipped his mind. His mother, aided by his brother and sister, had made containers out of coffee cans to collect donations for the Grateful Paws Rescue Center. Tyler had taken close-up photos of the cutest animals, and printed them out with a caption requesting donations. Their aunt Molly—their dad’s sister—had happily agreed to keep one on the counter in her bakery, and Darrell had tossed it in the back of the truck cab that morning. He glanced back. It was still there, safe and sound. A close-up of Pinky, a tiny orphaned piglet, stared back at him.

  Out on the Beach Road, he headed for the village. The pharmacy was on Main Street. He found a parking spot quickly and picked up the prescription. Then he headed to Willoughby’s Fine Foods and Catering. He was definitely ready for a snack and was sure Aunt Molly would feed him well. Even if he didn’t need to drop off the donation can, she would never forgive him if she caught him eating anywhere else. She did serve the best food in town. No question about that.

  The bakery was just around the corner on a street that faced the harbor and a park. It was about half past two, and the park was filled with kids burning off energy after being cooped up in school all day. Darrell watched them play, remembering when he was one of them.

  On the nearby village green he saw the old stone church, Reverend Ben’s church, and the town’s Christmas tree, decorated with lights. His family had come down for the annual tree lighting, as usual. It wasn’t the same since his aunt Emily wasn’t mayor anymore, but it was still fun to watch his little sister, Lily, who was almost eight. She claimed that she didn’t believe in Santa anymore but still grew wide-eyed when the big, red-suited guy arrived on the back of a fire truck.

  Darrell knew that he hadn’t really appreciated the town, all the years growing up here. Now that he was studying housing and how neighborhoods evolved, he understood what made Cape Light such a special place. It didn’t matter if you were rich or poor or somewhere in between. The village of Cape Light had much to offer all—with its schools and churches, and its many shops and restaurants that made a trip to the mall, or even larger towns, unnecessary. Decorated now for Christmas, it was even prettier than usual.

  Willoughby’s wasn’t as crowded as usual. A girl behind the counter quickly asked for his order, but before he could answer, he heard his aunt’s unmistakable greeting.

  “Darrell, are you still around? I thought you went back to school.” Aunt Molly had been checking a display case full of amazing-looking cakes but turned to give him a huge hug. “How’s it going? I heard your dad was sprung from the hospital today. Driving all the nurses crazy, right?”

  Darrell grinned. “No comment. He’s doing well, all things considered.”

  “Poor guy. This is a tough break for him, no pun intended. It’s been years since he’s had to deal with anything more than a bad cold.” His aunt’s tone was sympathetic. “My heart goes out to your family, too. I know how your father gets when he’s stuck in the house. Like a restless tiger in the zoo.”

  Darrell laughed at his aunt’s accurate description. “It’ll be fine. We’ll just throw a little steak in his room a few times a day and slam the door shut. Which reminds me, speaking of wild animals, my mom said to give you this.” He handed her the donation can.

  Molly took the container and looked it over. “Grateful Paws? Great name, and the photo is adorable. Tell your mom I’m putting this front and center, and giving customers dirty looks if they don’t drop some change in.”

  “I’ll relay the message,” Darrell said with a laugh.

  His aunt’s expression changed, suddenly all business. “What can I get you? A sandwich? Some muffins or cake? All of the above? At your age, I bet you can eat six meals a day. Good metabolism is wasted on the young, that’s for sure.”

  Darrell eyed the selection. Everything looked good. “A brownie?”

  “Coming right up. How about two?” His aunt bustled behind the counter and set two brownies on a plate. “Some milk with that?”

  “That would be excellent,” Darrell said. He thought he should order something more adult, like espresso, or even regular coffee. But he really did like cold milk with a brownie.

  “I could use a break, too. Let’s sit down and chat.” Molly carried his dessert and a cup of tea for herself to a table by the window. Darrell followed and took a seat across from her.

  “When I saw your dad in the hospital, he was all hot and bothered about you getting back to school. Did you stay to help your mom get him home today?”

  “We had to get the house ready. We rented a hospital bed and an electric wheelchair. I built a ramp at the side door so he could get in and out easily.”

  His aunt looked impressed. “You built that for him? I bet he was pleased. At least the restless tiger can get some fresh air once in a while.”

  “That was the basic idea.” Darrell took a big bite of his first brownie, glad his aunt had given him a second. “Great brownie, Aunt Molly. Even better than I remember.”

  “Thanks, honey. Enjoy.” She leaned closer and practically whispered. “I changed the recipe a few weeks ago. I’m adding some coffee to give the chocolate a little backbone.”

  “It’s just right,” he said, finishing off the first.

  “When are you going back to school? I’m sure your mom can use more help with him than just today.”

  “Agreed. And Dad’s in a panic about his business. His projects are at a standstill, and he’s not sure how to get them up and running again. I finally talked him into letting me visit clients today and sort out a few emergencies.”

  “Good for you.” His aunt poured an extra dollop of honey in her tea from a jar on the table. “Too bad you can’t stick around and help until he gets better.”

  “That’s the thing. I can. I talked to my professors, and they all said it was fine if I finish the semester online, as long as I hand in my papers and projects in a few weeks.”

  “That’s great. Problem solved.”

  “I wish. I had to twist Dad’s arm—his good arm—just to get him to agree to let me go out today. He’s still looking for contractors to take over his work. Or maybe a temporary foreman.”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Morgans are a hardheaded clan. Probably the reason why your dad’s head is still in one piece after that fall. He’s lucky you’re willing and able to help him like this. Sooner or later, he’ll figure that out.”

  “He needs to have that revelation in the next few hours. He expects me to leave tomorrow.”

  His aunt leaned over and patted his hand. “You never know, honey. Stranger things have happened.”

  Darrell had started the second brownie, which was going down a bit slower than the first, though he doubted he’d leave a crumb behind. His aunt had finished her tea and cleared away her empty cup. “Back to work for me. Can I get you anything else?”

  Darrell shook his head emphatically. She smiled, looking pleased. Molly Willoughby was never happier than when she watched someone enjoy the food she cooked. “I’ll make a care package for your father. It
will cheer him up.”

  One of Aunt Molly’s care packages could cheer anyone up, Darrell knew. “Thanks, that would be great.”

  He walked back to the counter and watched as she filled a big white box with a selection of cookies, pastries, and muffins. “I was out near your neighborhood today, Aunt Molly, and I noticed an old warehouse, just off the Beach Road. It’s all boarded up with a fence around it. Do you know anything about that place?”

  “I think it was a paper mill, or maybe a cannery? It’s been shut down for ages.” She placed the box on the counter and taped down the flaps. “The town has talked about knocking it down a few times. But nothing ever happens. I wish they would. It’s a bit of an eyesore.”

  “It is a wreck right now. But it has lots of possibilities. I wonder who owns it.”

  His aunt put the box in a shopping bag then filled another bag with loaves of fresh bread—sunflower, cinnamon raisin, and his dad’s favorite, pumpernickel. “Ask around at Village Hall. Someone should be able to tell you. Why do you want to know?”

  “If Dad lets me stay to work for him, I need to do an extra project for one of my classes. Figuring out a way to reclaim and renovate an old building would be a great topic.”

  “Good idea. I bet professors love stuff like that.”

  “Yeah, they do.” Darrell grinned then picked up the shopping bag. He thanked his aunt for the bounty of baked goods and headed back to the truck. He was eager to get home and look over the pictures he’d taken of the warehouse. Maybe even show them to his father.

  Chapter Five

  Cynthia had started the day with a surprising amount of energy, supervising as Jean tackled the piles of junk that filled the sunroom. They began the project soon after breakfast, and while Jean was pleased to see her mother finally enlivened and interested in some activity, Jean knew the job would have gone twice as fast without her mother’s oversight. Still, these were her mother’s belongings, her memories. In her place I might be just as fussy, Jean reminded herself when she lost patience.