Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  The project files and blueprints he needed were spread out on the wooden table and he began to work, making a list of tasks that needed to be completed next on each project and inspections that were due. Despite making a million calls in the past few days to contractors and potential foremen, Sam had come up empty. It looked like Darrell had the job. Though he hadn’t told his son that yet.

  Darrell had gotten the jobs up and running and was out again today, visiting the sites and watching over the crews. Sam had thought it would be a problem for the older men to take orders from Darrell, but his employees had been cooperative and respectful. Many of them knew Darrell, having worked with him during the summers since the boy was in middle school. Sam knew that was a big advantage and might not be the case if he hired a foreman from the outside who had never worked with the crew before. There were advantages to Darrell taking over for him. Sam was beginning to see that.

  Sam dialed Village Hall and asked for the building department. The Turner project couldn’t go forward without an inspection of the electrical work, and Sam was geared up to put the pressure on, but as he waited for the building inspector to come on the line, furious barking and a fierce, unholy yowl broke the silence in the house.

  Then the sound of scampering paws and furniture being knocked over. Two sleek tabby cats raced by the office door followed by Daisy, the family’s chocolate Lab, galloping with her head down and a determined look in her eye.

  “Daisy! Stop that. Leave those cats alone.” Sam hung up on the call and rolled to the doorway to see where the racing trio had gone. The dog paid him no mind. She didn’t even slow down, skidding down the hall to the kitchen, barking her head off. Sam rolled back into his office and dialed Jessica. The line kept ringing as the frenzied cats flew down the hallway then careened into his office.

  “Oh, no! Get out! Get out, cats!” Sam shouted. He waved file folders in the air, but they didn’t seem to notice.

  One cat darted around his chair, ran under his desk, scaled the bookcase, and finally perched on top. The other cowered on the carpet then scooted under his wheelchair, hunkering down under the seat.

  The dog galloped in next and came to a screeching halt just seconds before crashing into Sam’s chair. Daisy stepped back and barked even louder, her gaze fixed on the cat beneath him.

  “Sam? Are you all right? What’s going on over there?”

  Sam heard Jessica’s voice and picked up his phone. “You tell me. Daisy and these cats have me surrounded.”

  “I’ll be right there. Don’t move.”

  “As if I have a choice,” Sam shouted back. Luckily, Jessica had already hung up.

  Moments later, she stood in the doorway, surveying the standoff. Daisy had tired herself out and was now lying down, staring intently at her prey. If it wasn’t for Sam, her master, sitting over the quaking feline, he was sure Daisy would have pounced long ago. Rolled in a tight ball, the cat gave off long, low meowing moans.

  “I’m so sorry. They’ve been getting along so well,” Jessica said. “If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have left them loose in the house with you.”

  “Just get them out of here. There’s another cat around here somewhere, too. I’m not sure where he’s hiding.”

  “I’ll deal with Daisy first. She can go in her crate. The cats will leave once she’s gone.”

  Jessica gently tugged the big dog by her collar. “Come on, Daisy. Come with me, honey. I’ll give you a treat.”

  Daisy didn’t want to go. She stared up Sam with mournful eyes, as if to say, “I need to protect you from those bad cats.”

  “Sorry, Daisy. I’ll see you later,” Sam said. “It doesn’t seem fair that the dog has to be in her crate, Jess, while the cats roam free. Daisy was here before any of them.”

  Jessica had tugged the dog into the hallway, and Daisy was finally giving in. “I’ll have Tyler or Lily take her for a long walk later. I don’t know what else to do. At least the piglets didn’t get out.”

  Piglets? “There are piglets in the house?” Sam had not meant to sound surprised, but he couldn’t help it.

  “They just came inside this morning. They’re so cute. I put them in the sunroom.”

  “Why aren’t they in the barn? I thought Darrell made some stalls for you and shelves for the crates and cages.”

  “He did. But it’s really cold out there, and they’re just babies. The space heaters aren’t working well. I need to install a real heating system. I mean, when we can afford it.”

  Sam could see she was worried about the added expense. He felt bad about that. He didn’t want Jessica to feel the least bit anxious or guilty about carrying out her plan. He certainly didn’t want her to go back to an office job. She clearly loved this new career. He could rarely recall seeing her so happy.

  “We’ll figure it out. Maybe I can get a break on the price from one of the plumbing outfits I know. I’ll ask around.”

  She rewarded the suggestion with a huge smile, still holding poor Daisy’s collar. “Thanks, honey. That would be great. It’s only going to get colder, and I don’t know how many more animals we can fit in the house . . . without giving up our own beds.”

  Word had gotten around quickly about Jessica’s shelter. She was getting calls and e-mails every day about animals that needed help, and she was taking in most of them. She kept a clipboard in the kitchen with a list of her adoptees and the care they needed. Tyler and Lily were being very good about helping her, and volunteers came and went all day, too.

  “I draw the line at having piglets in my bed. Just sayin’,” he teased her.

  Jessica laughed. “Want some lunch?”

  Was it that time already? Where did the day go? Sam wondered. But he was hungry. “Sure. That would be great.”

  Sam went back to his pile of papers and lists, and Jessica soon returned with a grilled cheese sandwich and a green salad.

  “I doubt there will be any more animal uprisings today. But if you hear something starting up, call right away. Before it gets too crazy?”

  Sam was just about to reply when a yellow canary flew into the room, swooped down to his dish, and stole a piece of salad.

  He looked up at her. “I’m not going to say anything.”

  Jessica seemed about to laugh but managed to hold back. “Don’t worry. I’ll catch that bird before I go.”

  “Either you will, or the cats will be feasting on free-range canary for lunch.”

  “You’re eating canaries for lunch?” Darrell walked into Sam’s office, wearing a quizzical expression. “That looks like grilled cheese to me.”

  “Dad was talking about the cats,” Jessica said. “If you want lunch, there’s plenty in the fridge to make a sandwich. I need to get back to the barn.”

  Jessica left and Darrell sat down at the table across from Sam.

  “How did it go this morning?” Sam asked.

  “No big problems. A few of the windows ordered for the Prentiss house had to be returned. Wrong sizes. And we never got an inspection on the electrical work at the Turners’.”

  Sam took a bite of his sandwich and set it aside. “I called about that this morning, but I got interrupted.”

  “I went by Village Hall on my way home and spoke to someone in the building department. He said the inspector would take care of it this afternoon,” Darrell said. “I’ll check and make sure that he comes.”

  “Good work, Darrell. It’s always better to nag in person instead of on the phone. Did they teach you all this stuff in architect school?”

  Darrell laughed. “You taught me, Dad. I learned from hanging out and watching you.”

  Sam was surprised by the answer, and pleased. All the years of spending time with Darrell were yielding a harvest. “We hung out a lot together, but I didn’t think you were listening that closely,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe not finding
anyone to take over my work is a good thing. I should be grateful for a son like you, willing to put his own life aside to help his dad out of a jam. To help his family. I’m going to stop looking for outside help, pal.”

  “Gee, Dad. Of course I want to help you. Wouldn’t anyone?”

  Sam thought about the question a moment. “No, Darrell, not every son would step up like you have. I’m grateful and blessed to have you here and willing to help me.”

  “I’m here as long as you need me. I love this work. It’s what I want to do with my life—build things. You know that.”

  Sam nodded, knowing how much Darrell took after him, even though he was not Darrell’s biological father. “Yes, I do. And you’re darn good at it, too.”

  Darrell shrugged. “Working for you like this, it feels right.”

  He looked happy and confident, as if he were stepping into a role he was born for, Sam thought. Seeing his son so content made Sam feel good, too. He’d made the right decision, he told himself. At least for now.

  Chapter Seven

  Do you think I can get into the studio today? You said Monday night that it would be ready soon,” Jean’s mother reminded her. “That was two days ago, Jean.”

  Jean couldn’t argue with that. It was definitely Wednesday morning, and she hadn’t finished her first cup of coffee. She was not fully awake, and not looking forward to another day of cleaning, sorting, and throwing out.

  “I’ll do my best but there’s still more cleaning to do in there, Mom. I don’t want you to have a coughing fit from all the dust.”

  Her mother was reading the newspaper at the breakfast table and shrugged as she turned a page. “I don’t know why it would take so long. I always kept it well organized.”

  Jean’s eyes rolled back in her head but her mother didn’t see. “Except for the boxes of newspapers and magazines, and shopping bags full of all sorts of things.” Including seashells, rocks, feathers, bits of fabric, dried flowers, and faded autumn leaves. Jean could not begin to catalogue the varied, dusty, crumbling contents.

  Her mother finally looked up. “I need those materials for my work. They inspire me. Something catches my eye, I save it and refer to it later. You didn’t throw it all out, did you?”

  “No, not all of it,” Jean said carefully. She had started to toss with fervor but could see now that she needed to be more selective. “Why don’t I sift through and save the best items? Some of it’s so old, Mom, it’s already crumbled to dust.”

  “All right. Sort it out however you like. As long as I can get in there soon.” Cynthia looked back at the newspaper and turned another page. “The way things stand, all those bits and pieces aren’t much use to me now. Funny how you save things for someday, and then the time just runs out.”

  It made Jean sad to hear her mother talk that way. She had been on such a good track since their outing to church. Working in her studio might lift her spirits again, which was all the more reason to fix it up for her quickly. Jean rose and brought their breakfast dishes to the sink. “I’ll try to finish this morning. Maybe you can work in there this afternoon.”

  Her mother was reading an article and didn’t look up. “I hope so.”

  Good to her word, Jean started working in the studio first thing. It was barely nine o’clock. The weather had turned unseasonably mild, and as she opened the windows to air out the small room, she saw Grant’s truck pull up. He parked in front of the shop and took painting supplies out of the truck’s cargo space.

  This was his third day of working for them. He had been arriving on time and leaving at around five o’clock but had not come into the house much. When he did, they barely exchanged a few words. He mostly spoke with her mother about his next repair assignments.

  Jean had expected to have more contact with him but told herself it was better this way. Though part of her wasn’t buying it.

  It was tedious to sift through her mother’s collection of scraps and inspiring tidbits, but Jean tried to be patient, carefully selecting a few pieces from each bag or box.

  Just before noon, Barbara Crosby arrived. While the nurse examined her mother, Jean hauled black trash bags out the side door, then down to the sidewalk. As she carried the first load, she noticed that the doors of the shop were open. She could smell the wet paint and caught a glimpse of Grant through the window, paint roller in hand.

  She was carrying out a second load when she heard him call her name. She turned as he walked up to meet her. “Jean, let me help you with that stuff.”

  “I can do it. You don’t have to interrupt your work.”

  “Perfect timing. I’m letting the first coat dry.” He grabbed two bags and Jean did the same, which left only one more. “Many hands make light work,” he added.

  “These trash bags aren’t anyone’s idea of light, but thanks all the same.”

  They reached the sidewalk and piled the bags with the others. “I’ve been cleaning up my mother’s studio. She wants to work in there. Making those ornaments for the church fair got her in the mood to paint again.”

  “Good for her. How long has it been?” With his head tilted to one side, he looked sincerely interested. Jean had to like him for that.

  “I’m not sure. She’d say it was only a few months, but it’s probably been years. She’s what you might call an unreliable narrator,” Jean added with a smile.

  Grant smiled, too. “Aren’t we all, at times? I hope she enjoys it and doesn’t feel frustrated.”

  “I didn’t even think of that,” Jean confessed. “I’ve pretty much promised her she can get in there this afternoon. It’s almost ready. I just need to put the easel together, if I can figure out how. She took it apart for some reason.”

  “I can do that. No offense, but it will probably take me half the time.”

  “Or less,” she admitted, grateful for the offer. She wasn’t entirely clueless about fixing things. But she was sure Grant could do it better and faster. “That would be a big help. Thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary. I’ll grab my toolbox and meet you at the house.”

  Jean went back inside and found Barbara ready to leave. “Another good report for your mother. Making tree ornaments seems to agree with her.”

  “Seems so. She wants to try painting again, too.”

  “Really? She’s come a long way in a short time. Since you began living here, I mean.” Barbara smiled as she zipped up her coat.

  “Oh, I don’t think my presence has anything to do with it,” Jean said quickly.

  “Of course it does. You give her such good care and so much attention. And everyone needs companionship, Jean. Even if they insist that they don’t.”

  Is Barbara talking about my mother or about me? Jean wondered.

  “See you on Friday.” Barbara pulled open the door, and they saw Grant coming up the porch steps. Barbara glanced at Jean over her shoulder, a teasing light in her eyes. “Someone’s here to see you. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  While Grant was in the studio putting the easel back together, Jean served her mother lunch. He came into the kitchen just as they were finishing.

  “That wasn’t too bad. A few screws were missing. I had to make do with what I had on hand, but it’s stable. That’s the most important thing,” he said. “I set it up near the window, so you can get the light. I’ll move it if you want.”

  Her mother looked pleased and excited. She pushed herself up from the table and got to her walker without any help. “Let’s go see. Jean, I’ll need you to take out my paints and brushes.”

  Jean was already following them. When they reached the studio, her mother took one step through the doorway and looked around. She turned to Jean. “It looks different. I think you cleaned too much.”

  Before Jean could answer, Grant said, “Don’t worry, you’ll put your imprint on it again soon enough.”

 
; He shared a quick glance with Jean, and she silently thanked him for coming to her rescue.

  Cynthia had maneuvered the walker to the easel, which stood near a window that faced north. Pale winter sunlight filtered in over her shoulder. “I suppose this will do. For now. Let me try it and see how it goes. You’ll need to adjust the height for me.”

  Grant stood nearby. “I can’t see how you’ll manage standing in that walker. You’ll get tired too quickly. You should sit in your chair, and I’ll fix it for that height.”

  “I like to paint standing. I never sit,” her mother insisted.

  Grant tilted his head to one side, looking amused. “At this stage of the game, you might need to try things a little differently.”

  Her mother frowned. She picked up a brush from a jar that Jean had left on the windowsill and held it toward the easel, her other hand gripping the walker. Jean could see it was an effort for her to hold herself upright, much less maintain the balance and stability she needed to paint.

  She turned back to her audience, holding the brush out like a conductor about to signal an orchestra. “All right. I’ll try it in the chair. I suppose this old dog can learn a few new tricks. If absolutely necessary.”

  Jean found the wheelchair in the living room. The studio doorway was a tight fit, but with Grant’s help they managed to bring the chair in and then get her mother comfortably seated. Grant began taking out painting supplies, and her mother was soon set up and ready to work, a stack of blank watercolor paper and a few jars of water within easy reach.

  “Do you have everything you need, Mom?” Jean asked.

  “I suppose so. I need to get my touch back. That’s the most important thing. It’s been a while. Can you find a painting I left in here, on top of that cabinet? A view of the beach and the lighthouse. It wasn’t finished yet. I hope you didn’t throw it out,” she added with an accusatory stare.