Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  But the effort of merely directing wore her mother out, and after lunch she returned to her room. Jean was worried that her mother had overdone it and was glad when Barbara Crosby arrived around four p.m. “Sorry I’m here so late today,” Barbara said as she unwound her wool scarf. “I had two new patients this morning, and it takes a lot of time to do an intake.”

  “It’s perfect timing,” Jean said. “Mom started off the day fine, but she’s been resting since lunch and needed her oxygen. She wanted to help me clean out the sunroom. She was just telling me what to keep or throw out. But I’m afraid that was too much for her.”

  Barbara patted Jean’s arm. “Let’s see what’s going on. I’m sure you couldn’t have stopped her from taking part, even if you wanted to. So don’t look so guilty.”

  Jean smiled. “I do feel guilty. Though, of course, she didn’t lift a finger.”

  “I can see you did all the heavy lifting, no worries. If you want to jump in the shower while I’m here, that’s fine,” Barbara added.

  Jean knew she looked a total wreck, wearing worn jeans and a baggy sweatshirt she had found in her old bedroom. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that had mostly come undone, and dust smeared her hands and even her cheek. “I can wait. I still have to put out all the trash.”

  Barbara opened her bag, taking out the book she used for notes on her patients. “I know you want to help your mom as much as you can, and this place needs cleaning up, no question. But it took years for the house to get into this state. And taking care of her is a big job, too. You can’t fix everything in a week. You’ll just burn yourself out, honey.”

  Jean smiled. She was sure she looked like a madwoman today, which must be part of the reason Barbara felt obliged to offer advice. “I’m starting to see that. I’ll try to slow down.”

  “Good. And you need some time of your own. Some distractions and entertainment,” Barbara advised.

  Jean knew that was true, too. But she wasn’t sure how she would manage time away from the house . . . or where she would find any “distractions and entertainment.”

  Meeting Grant Keating the other day had been both. He had promised to come back for the painting on Wednesday, but here it was, approaching five on Thursday, and he had not even called. She’d taken a little extra care with her appearance yesterday but didn’t bother today. Her mother had not asked about him. Jean was glad of that. She was secretly disappointed he hadn’t come back, or even called, but not entirely surprised.

  Barbara went into Cynthia’s room and Jean pulled on a down vest and gloves, then began lugging out the bags of trash. She had just dragged two to the curb when a beat-up truck pulled up. She saw Grant in the driver’s seat and waited as he shut off the engine and jumped out.

  “Hi, Jean. I’ve come for the painting. Sorry I couldn’t make it here yesterday.”

  Of course you’d come today, when I look like a dog’s breakfast, she wanted to reply.

  “No one bought it out from under me, I hope.”

  Jean was sure he was teasing, though he looked perfectly serious. “No one has topped your offer yet.” Her reply was sarcastic, she realized, even though it was true. She began walking back to the house and he followed.

  Yesterday morning Cynthia had woken up with a renewed interest in the piece. She had asked Jean to bring it in from the shop then propped it up on the dresser in her bedroom. Jean wondered if she was willing to part with it, after all.

  Barbara was in the foyer, putting on her jacket as they came in.

  “Your mother is fine. All her vitals were good. She just needs to rest this afternoon.”

  “Thanks. I feel relieved,” Jean admitted. Then realized it was rude not to introduce them. “Grant, this is Barbara, my mother’s nurse. Grant is going to buy one of my mom’s paintings.”

  “So I heard. Cynthia told me.” Barbara slung the strap from her bag over her shoulder. “It’s a good choice.”

  “I thought so,” Grant replied with a smile.

  “See you on Saturday,” Barbara called, and slipped out the door.

  “She seems nice. Very upbeat,” Grant observed.

  “She’s a good nurse . . . and almost too upbeat, according to my mother,” Jean replied, making them both laugh.

  As if on cue, her mother called from the bedroom. “Jean? Who’s there? Is that Reverend Ben?”

  “It’s Grant Keating. He’s come to pick up the painting,” Jean called back. She wondered if her mother would remember Grant’s name.

  “Oh . . . finally. I thought he was going to come yesterday.”

  Jean noticed Grant duck his head. At least he had the good grace to look a bit embarrassed. “Sorry about that. I should have called.”

  “No big deal,” Jean said, though it had seemed a big deal to her at the time.

  “Come and help me, Jean. I want to meet him,” Cynthia called.

  Jean looked at Grant. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. I’d be happy to meet your mother.”

  He seemed sincere but Jean wondered if he was just being polite. He had probably expected to grab the painting and go. The issue of fixing the roof still dangled, she recalled. Perhaps that made it worth his while to stay a little longer.

  Jean went back to Cynthia’s bedroom to find her mother’s hair combed, her sweater and skirt smoothed out, and a bit of lipstick applied. She was up on her walker, heading for the door. “Get the painting, please. Be careful with it.”

  Jean grabbed the painting off the dresser and followed. “Mrs. Whitman, it’s an honor to meet you,” Grant greeted her.

  Cynthia was wheezing a bit but didn’t ask for her oxygen. She landed the walker in front of her armchair and sat down. “An honor, huh? I don’t know that I’d go that far. But you have good taste. That little painting is one of my favorites. I’d forgotten how much I like it.”

  Grant smiled. “Then I’m glad I was able to remind you. Still sure you want to sell it?”

  Her mother considered his question a moment. “I was nearly going to tell you that it isn’t for sale anymore. But then I decided that artwork is meant to be sent out into the world, for other people to enjoy. Not hoarded and hidden away.”

  “Very true. I tend to be a hider and hoarder myself,” he admitted with a laugh. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Jean told me you’re a photographer and you’re doing a photo study of this place.”

  “That’s right. There’s a lot to document. A lot of beauty. I’m afraid with all the development going on, a lot of these sights will soon be lost. That’s one reason I wanted to do this.”

  “The area has changed a great deal over the years,” Cynthia agreed. “Some of the scenes in my paintings no longer exist. But the marsh is one place that stays the same. It’s always been too difficult and costly to build on. Someday, I fear, they’ll solve that problem, too.”

  “I hope not,” Grant replied. “I took a thousand shots of the beach grass and wasn’t really happy with any of them. But you captured it perfectly.”

  He held the painting at arm’s length, and they both gazed it a moment. “The light was perfect that day,” her mother recalled.

  “Most people are interested in the big attractions around here—the lighthouse or the cliffs at Angel Island. I painted my share of those sights, no denying it. But I always got more satisfaction painting a fresher, more uncommon subject. Like the marsh grass or even a bug settling on a leaf.”

  “It’s hard to find that fresh perspective. I want to show you something. Tell me what you think . . .” Grant reached into one of the many pockets of his field jacket and pulled out two prints, then handed them to Cynthia.

  She had already slipped on her glasses, which hung from a cord around her neck. “These are good. You bring something new to the party,” she said quietly, looking from one print t
o the other. “Years ago, I started to paint that same view of the lighthouse. Maybe I’ll use this photo to finish it . . . if I can borrow it awhile?”

  “I’d be honored,” Grant replied. He sounded as if he really meant it, too. Her mother certainly looked pleased as she placed the photos on a side table.

  Jean guessed that her mother had not painted anything in years. At least that’s the way it seemed from the look of her studio. But she would never raise that point and embarrass her. Cynthia was clearly enjoying herself, talking shop with Grant. It was the most alert and convivial she’d been since Jean had come home.

  “I asked Vera Plante about you,” Jean’s mother said suddenly. “She gave a good report about your repair work.”

  Grant grinned, caught by surprise. “That’s good to know.”

  “Jean said you’d be willing to take a crack at the leaky roof in the shop.”

  “Ready, willing, and able.”

  “Well, I’m willing to hire you. For a fair price,” she added. “There are plenty of other leaks, creaks, and holes that need patching around here, too. Let’s see how it goes with the roof, and maybe you can tackle the rest in due course.”

  “Fair enough,” Grant agreed. “I can start on Monday.”

  “Monday will be fine,” her mother replied.

  Grant glanced at Jean, waiting for her reply. “Monday is fine with me,” she said. She did wonder if he would actually show up. Or come on Wednesday with no call or apology. She wasn’t sure how, but Grant had definitely wrapped her mother around his little finger, which was no small feat.

  Grant took an envelope from his pocket and paid her mother for the painting. Her mother, who had been holding it in her lap, finally handed it to him. “Hang on to that one. It might go up in value when I’m gone.”

  Grant smiled kindly. “It might. But I hope that’s a very long time from now.”

  Cynthia glanced at Jean. “Give him a bag or something. To protect it from the weather.”

  “Good idea. I’ll get something from the kitchen.”

  She hadn’t meant for Grant to follow her but he did, watching as she wrapped the small painting in paper towels then slipped it into a shopping bag.

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to go so much trouble.”

  “It wasn’t any trouble,” she said, handing him the bag.

  He looked down a moment then back up at her. “I did intend to come back yesterday, like I promised. But I went out with some fishermen, to take shots of them at work, and it turned out they didn’t plan on coming back until late last night. They kept finding more fish on their radar. Before I knew it, we were practically in Nova Scotia.”

  “Nova Scotia?” Jean asked, her voice skeptical.

  He smiled and laughed at his exaggeration. “Well . . . practically. It’s hard to tell in the middle of the ocean. We were far from Cape Light, that’s all I know.”

  “Get any good photographs?”

  “Plenty. I’ll show you sometime.”

  Her mother called out, interrupting them. “Jean? Have you started dinner yet? I’m hungry. I hardly ate a bite of lunch.”

  “It will be ready soon, Mom,” Jean called back.

  “I’d better go.” Grant sniffed the air, his expression appreciative. “Smells good. Roast chicken?”

  Jean nodded. Was he angling for a dinner invitation? It sure looked that way. She nearly gave in, then decided not to be such an easy mark. “Sorry to rush you. My mother likes to eat early.”

  “I understand.” He said good night to her mother, and Jean showed him to the door.

  “He’s an interesting man,” her mother said, which was high praise for her. “More interesting than I expected from Vera’s description.”

  “Yes, he is. I’m glad you liked talking to him. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” she added, changing the subject.

  “Very well. I’ll watch some news.” Her mother picked up the remote and turned on the TV. She also picked up the envelope Grant had left and checked the contents, looking pleased at the bills she found there.

  Jean went into the kitchen to finish cooking. Yes, Grant Keating was an interesting and attractive man. Jean had been impressed by the way he engaged her mother in conversation, his kindness and respect for her mother’s intellect. But Jean could already see he was not the type of man to get involved with. That road would surely lead to disappointment. Even as a “distraction” from her caregiver duties.

  Other women might manage it, but Jean knew she gave her heart too easily. Grant was clearly the type who could make a woman incredibly happy one minute, only to disappear the next. Not her type at all.

  • • •

  Sam had been napping when Darrell got home. When he woke up, it was time for dinner—a chaotic one, even for their house, with several lop-eared rabbits hopping around the kitchen while Lily and Tyler did laps around the table, trying to catch them.

  Darrell must have noticed that the rabbit wrangling was getting on Sam’s nerves. “Ready to talk about the jobsites, Dad? I can bring my notes into your office.”

  “Good idea. I’m eager to hear what went on today.” Feeling thankful for his motorized wheelchair, Sam finished off his last bite of beef stew, wiped his mouth, and spun the chair in the direction of his office.

  Jessica stood up and began clearing off the table. “Your sister sent a ton of cake and cookies. I’ll bring some back to the Sam Cave for you.”

  Jessica’s nickname for his office had irked him at first, but he now found it amusing. He not only worked there, but slept, watched TV, and often ate meals there, too. The office really was his lair, and he had started to think of himself as a bear, in hibernation for the winter. The accident had shrunken his world considerably, and he wouldn’t really emerge in one piece until it was almost spring. Sam tried not to think about that too much—or he was liable to get depressed.

  “Thanks, honey. Just one or two. It’s not like I can work off the calories at the gym tomorrow.”

  The thought of dieting had never crossed Sam’s mind, not once in his entire life. He always ate as much as he wanted, of whatever he wanted, even into his forties. All the hard work he did and an enviable metabolism kept him in great shape. But he worried now about packing on the pounds while he recuperated. It was hard to resist Jessica’s cooking and all the sweet treats in the house that the kids liked to eat. Meanwhile, his only exercise was pressing the buttons on his wheelchair. He couldn’t even start physical therapy until he got his heavy cast off, and that would take weeks.

  Sam steered the chair into his office, and Darrell soon appeared in the doorway, carrying a legal pad and his cell phone.

  “Have a seat, pal,” Sam said, positioning his chair closer to the wooden table. He smiled up at his son. Darrell looked so serious. Sam hoped the site visits had gone well. Darrell hadn’t reported any problems in his text messages during the afternoon. But maybe he was waiting to deliver some bad news?

  “Did everything go all right?” Sam tried his best, but a note of anxiety crept into his voice.

  “I think it went well. But that’s for you to say,” Darrell replied. “Here are my notes on each of the projects.”

  Darrell showed him the long legal pad, filled with crisp handwriting. On the first page, Sam saw the name of a client, a project description, and a progress report, with any problem or impending complication summarized at the bottom.

  He leafed through the top few sheets of the pad and saw the same type of report for each client. He skimmed the information quickly, knowing he would look back later with a closer eye. Darrell was leaning forward in his chair, waiting for Sam’s response.

  “Very thorough, Darrell. Very professional. You did a great job today,” Sam said sincerely.

  “I took photos, too. I have them on my phone.” Darrell handed Sam his cell phone. The screen held a
shot of the Prentiss garage, with bales of insulation packed to the ceiling. In the next shot, Sam saw a close-up of the inside of a wall, with framing all set for a new window insert.

  “What’s this about?” he asked, turning the photo toward Darrell.

  “That’s the Turners’ bathroom renovation. Mrs. Turner decided that she wants an arched window over the new bathtub, instead of the one you ordered. I checked the plans and found one that will fit. But there’s a load-bearing beam a little too close to the frame. All we need to do is fit a joist in there. That should fix it,” Darrell explained. He took the pad and flipped to the next page. “I made a note about that in the remarks, at the bottom of the page.”

  Sam noticed how Darrell said “all we need to do” instead of “all you need to do,” but he didn’t comment. His son gave the pad back, and Sam read the section.

  “Good catch. She keeps changing her mind as we go along, but we . . . I mean, I . . . need to keep the customer happy.”

  “She was happy to hear we could do the arched window. I think it will add a lot to the room design.”

  “Yeah, nice touch,” Sam agreed. From the way Darrell was talking, Sam was fairly certain his son had charmed his clients. “Sounds like you got along with Mrs. Turner?”

  “Sure. I think I got along with all the clients.”

  “Good. It’s important to make them all feel special. A contractor goes from job to job, and the details of each can start to seem routine. But every client feels that their project is totally unique. The only arched window over a bathtub ever,” he explained, making Darrell chuckle. “Seriously, the smallest detail is very important. And it should be. A builder leaves in a few weeks. It’s on to the next house. But the home owner lives with that window and bathtub forever.”