Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  “Of course not. I would never do that.” Jean was sure she hadn’t thrown out any of her mother’s paintings, but she didn’t recall seeing that particular scene.

  Grant was already rifling through a stack of paintings stored in a special holder with wooden partitions. He carefully separated one painting from the pile and held it out to Cynthia. “Is this the one you mean?”

  She nodded and held out her hand. “That’s it. Clip it up on the easel for me, will you?”

  Grant did as she asked, then stood back as Cynthia appraised her work. Jean thought it was a good start. Her mother’s brush strokes had captured the powerful waves and moody, blue-gray clouds just before a storm.

  “That’s a good one. I can see why you want to finish it,” Grant said.

  “It has potential,” Cynthia replied, still a harsh critic of her own work. “I started it so long ago. I haven’t been to that place in years. I’m not sure I can remember it clearly enough to do it justice.”

  Jean heard the regret in her mother’s voice. “We can take a ride out there and you can see it again.”

  “Oh, that won’t help. I can’t get down on that beach anymore. I could hardly see anything from a car parked way on top of the cliff.”

  Jean had forgotten that. There was a high cliff over that stretch of beach, she now recalled. A long flight of stairs led down to the shore. Another insurmountable obstacle for her mother these days.

  “I’ll go there and take photos for you,” Grant offered. “Would that help?”

  Cynthia eyed him skeptically. “Would you really do that?”

  “Sure, I would. Anything to support the arts,” he joked with her.

  Cynthia ignored the joke. “When would you go?”

  He shrugged. “How about . . . today? After I finish the second coat of paint in the shop. I was going to leave a little early anyway, to do some photography. There’s not much more in the shop that I can work on until the paint is dry.”

  “That’s all right by me,” her mother said. “But I’m not going to pay you for your time out there taking pictures,” she quickly added.

  Grant laughed. “The thought never crossed my mind. It’s a favor, Cynthia. Maybe Jean would like to come. She could use an afternoon off, too.”

  He glanced at Jean. Feeling self-conscious, she met his gaze a moment and looked away. “Thanks. But I’d better stay here. My mother might need some help.”

  Her mother glanced at Jean but didn’t comment, though Jean could recall countless times Cynthia had insisted she was fine on her own, without Jean or anyone around.

  “All right. I’ll finish the painting in the shop and go.” Grant met Jean’s gaze a moment, then left the room.

  Jean lingered in the studio. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mom?”

  “I’m fine for now. If I need anything else, I’ll call you.”

  Her mother glanced at her, then dipped a brush into a jar of water and twirled it on her palette. Jean knew that dismissing look. Her mother wanted to be left alone. She also suspected that her mother felt guilty for not saying, “Go ahead, Jean. I’ll be fine for an hour so.”

  It was just as well. For one thing, her mother might actually need her help. For another, spending time alone with Grant at the beach was not a good idea. In the three short days he had been working in the shop, she had grown to like him more and more. And today, the way he’d shown so much patience and concern for her mother, only made it worse.

  While Cynthia worked in the studio, Jean decided to do something easy and rewarding—and started assembling the ingredients for a quick bread. She found dried cranberries and walnuts in one of her mother’s cabinets, and the dry ingredients on another shelf.

  She had just taken the loaf out of the oven when the doorbell rang. She wondered if Grant was back for some reason, and was surprised to find Reverend Ben on the doorstep. He greeted her with a smile, his blue eyes bright behind the gold frames of his glasses. “Hello, Jean,” he said. “Hope I’m not interrupting? I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d see how your mother is doing.”

  “Please, come in, Reverend. My mother’s in her studio, but I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you. Walk back with me. Let’s see what she’s up to.”

  Jean took the minister’s coat and hat, then led him through the house to the studio. Her mother faced the easel and seemed unaware of Jean and the minister standing in the doorway. Jean knocked lightly on the woodwork. “You have a visitor, Mom. Reverend Ben is here.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt your work, Cynthia. I just wanted to say hello,” the reverend explained.

  “Come in, Reverend. Tell me what you think of this painting.”

  Nothing like putting a friend on the spot, Jean thought with an inner smile, though she was curious to hear Reverend Ben’s answer.

  He stood behind her mother’s chair and gazed down at the watercolor scene for a few moments. “I know that bend on the beach. I was out there this morning, with my rod and reel. You’ve captured it perfectly.”

  Her mother looked pleased by the compliment. “It’s not finished yet.” She looked up at him. “I thought it would be hard to paint again. Maybe that’s why I put it off for so long. But it hasn’t been that hard.” She put her brush down and rubbed her hands. “My fingers are stiff. That’s the problem. I think I’m ready for a cup of tea. Would you like some?”

  “I would. Let me help you with your chair.” Reverend Ben took the handles of the wheelchair and rolled it out of the room.

  “Let’s sit in the living room,” Jean suggested. “I’ll bring the tea in there.”

  As Jean prepared a tray with tea and slices of her cranberry-walnut bread, she could hear her mother and Reverend Ben chatting in the living room. As usual, her mother was putting on a show of health and high energy, and Reverend Ben seemed to be buying it, though Jean was almost certain he knew the truth about her mother’s condition and her prospects for the future.

  “Jean cleaned out my studio this week. I only got in there this morning, but I’ve been working on the ornaments for the Christmas Fair since Monday,” her mother said. “I’ve been using my own materials—decoupage, acrylic paints. I don’t mean to criticize. Goodness knows, I haven’t volunteered to help with the fair in ages. But those kits we were given are fairly . . . well, pathetic.”

  “Pathetic?” He sounded surprised. “Why do you say that, Cynthia?”

  “Just take a look inside one. Styrofoam balls. Pipe cleaners and little fuzzy bits. Glue-on glitter and stickers. Suitable for a kindergarten class, I’d say. But who’s going to pay good money for something like that? I wouldn’t,” Cynthia said adamantly. “My ornaments are distinctive. Made from interesting materials. You’ll get a good price for them, I’m sure. Perhaps the other ladies should take a page from my book.”

  “It sounds like they should,” he agreed heartily. “Are they finished yet? May I see them?”

  “Of course you can. I left them in the studio, boxed up. Jean will get them.”

  Jean was walking into the living room with the tea tray. “She did a wonderful job, Reverend. There’s a nativity scene, an angel, Rudolph the Red—”

  “Don’t spoil it for him,” her mother cut in. “You’re ruining the surprise.”

  “Oh, that bread looks wonderful,” Reverend Ben said. “And it smells as if you just took it out of the oven.”

  “Right before you showed up,” Jean said with a smile. “I’ll go get the ornaments. You’ll see for yourself.”

  Just as she turned to head back to the studio, the doorbell rang again. She wondered who it could be. Vera Plante, maybe? They rarely had visitors, no less two in one day.

  She opened the door, surprised to find Grant. “I got the second coat on the walls and I’m heading out for the beach.”

  She nodded. “Sure. Have a good after
noon.”

  Had he come by just to let them know he was leaving for the day? He had never done that before. Usually, he just finished his work and left. Her mother had already agreed that he could leave early.

  “May I come in a moment? I just want to ask your mother something. About her painting.”

  “She’s in the living room with a visitor, Reverend Ben.”

  “I’ll just be a moment.” He headed for the living room.

  “Grant?” Her mother sounded equally surprised to see him. “I thought you were going to the beach to take those pictures for me. You didn’t leave yet?”

  “I was just heading out, Cynthia. I thought maybe since you had a visitor, Jean wouldn’t mind coming with me, after all.” He glanced at Jean. “I know you didn’t want to leave your mother alone, but it looks like she’s in good company. We won’t be long,” he added. “And it’s such a beautiful day.”

  Jean felt ambushed. And embarrassed. Why hadn’t he just asked her again at the door? She didn’t need her mother’s permission, for goodness’ sake. But he knew she would find some new reason not to go with him. This was just a scheme to get around her excuses.

  “It is a beautiful day,” Jean said. “But I can’t impose on Reverend Ben. He just stopped in to say hello. I’m sure he has a lot to do this afternoon.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Reverend Ben cut in. “And I have no pressing plans this afternoon. Please, go out to the beach, Jean. It will be a nice break for you.”

  Jean was swayed. Grant’s hopeful look was hard to resist. And so was his persistence. “Do you mind, Mom? We won’t be long.”

  Her mother shrugged, then took a sip of her tea. “I’ve told you before, I’m used to being on my own. I can manage just fine.”

  “But you won’t be on your own, Cynthia,” Reverend Ben said gently. “I’m happy to stay until Jean returns.” He looked up at Jean and met her gaze. “Take a nice walk on the beach. Take your time.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Ben. My mom’s oxygen tank is on the chair, if she needs it. Just call me if there’s any problem. I’ll come right back. We won’t be far at all.” Jean wrote her cell phone number on a pad for the reverend.

  “We’ll be fine,” the reverend assured her.

  Jean turned and headed to the front door. Grant stood in the foyer and politely held out her jacket while she put it on. She was a bit miffed at him for cornering her the way he had. But he looked so pleased to have gotten his way, and was being so solicitous as they left the house, that she decided not to complain.

  As his truck pulled away from the curb, Jean looked back at the house through the passenger-side window.

  Grant’s quiet voice broke into her thoughts. “No need to feel guilty. I’m sure Reverend Ben will take good care of your mother.”

  “I know he will. And I don’t feel guilty. Exactly. I leave her alone all the time, or with Barbara Crosby, to go shopping and do errands.”

  “But not to have fun or socialize,” he guessed. He sounded amused and she felt self-conscious. He was making it sound as if she had sneaked out of the house for a date with him.

  “Who said anything about fun? I thought it was a walk on the beach to take photos and get some fresh air.”

  “Yes, all very therapeutic. And with the blessings of a minister, too. Can’t we have fun at the same time? You have a bit of a stubborn streak, Jean. I mean, for a sweet, easygoing person.”

  Jean had to laugh at herself. It was true. She could definitely be stubborn at times. So he thought she was sweet and easygoing? Was that good? She glanced at him. “All right. You win. I’ll let you know later.”

  He looked confused. “Let me know what?”

  “If I have fun with you.” She pinned him with a bold stare, and he laughed again.

  “You’ve raised the bar now. I’ll have to make sure you do, or I really won’t be able to pry you loose from that house again.” He matched her teasing tone, and Jean felt her cheeks flush.

  Was she really blushing? She was a grown woman, for goodness’ sake. Wasn’t there a statute of limitations for that silly reaction? She was glad to see his gaze was fixed on the road and he hadn’t noticed. At least she hoped he hadn’t.

  “It’s nice of you to take the photos my mother needs,” she said. “But you must have taken plenty of the beach by now. I bet you had something else planned for today.”

  He shrugged. “I rarely plan, and this stretch of beach is as good a place as any. Better than most. I never get tired of shooting the ocean and shoreline. That’s the amazing thing about photography. You can visit the same exact spot every day, and it will never look the same twice. That’s the challenge, too. To capture the essence of a particular moment in time. The light, the tide. The mood of the place.” He hesitated, then said, “May I ask you a personal question?”

  Jean had been watching out the window. She turned and met his gaze. “Sure. Though I might not answer it.”

  “How are those drawings I saw coming along? The ones I wasn’t supposed to see. For a picture book, I think you said?”

  She let out a breath. She thought he was going to ask something a lot more personal than that. Not that her project wasn’t personal. She hadn’t shared it with anyone yet, had not even talked about it. But for some reason, she felt safe talking about it with him.

  “The project is going well, I think.” She smoothed the gloves that were folded together in her lap. “I’ve made steady progress since moving here. I usually work at night, after my mother’s gone to bed.”

  He nodded. “It’s good to have a set routine. Slow and steady does the trick for me, too.” He glanced at her a moment then looked back at the road. “Has your mother seen it?”

  Jean shook her head. “She doesn’t even know about it. Why do you ask?”

  He looked surprised. “Just curious.”

  “I haven’t shown it to anyone yet. I’m not sure I ever will. It’s really just practice.”

  “From the little I saw, I think that would be a shame, Jean. You’re not the only artist I’ve met who’s too hard on themselves. Being your own worst critic might feel like protection. But honestly, it’s not. It doesn’t help you at all in the long run.”

  Jean didn’t know what to say. Was that true? She felt she just wasn’t ready yet. Her work wasn’t polished enough. But maybe he was right. Maybe it would never be. She did fear taking that risk and putting her work out there for all to see—and judge.

  “I’m not far enough along yet to take in a lot of comments. I don’t want to get confused. I’ll know when I’m ready,” she replied, sounding more sure of that than she felt.

  “I hope so. And I hope when you are ready, you’ll show it to me. I promise I won’t confuse you.”

  He was already confusing her, in more ways than she could list. Not confusing her exactly, but making her thoughts and feelings a jumble and making her feel things she had not felt for a long time.

  She didn’t want to think about that too closely either. Just try to enjoy this, she told herself. A walk along the beach on a fair day in December. It doesn’t have to mean any more than that.

  They drove a short distance in silence. Jean saw the lighthouse come into view. Years ago, her mother had said that she thought of the lighthouse as being the very heart of the village.

  “I think we’re near the spot in your mother’s painting,” Grant said.

  “Yes, this is it. The steps down to the beach are just up the road a little way.” Jean had not been to this stretch of beach in years. The sight brought back a flood of memories.

  “Oh right. I see them.” Grant parked the truck on the shoulder of the road, near the stairway.

  She got out of the truck and took out her cell phone. She didn’t think there would be any messages from her mother, but she couldn’t help checking. Grant was leaning into the back seat,
pulling out cameras and a canvas knapsack. The sun was so bright. She felt the sunlight warm her cheeks and a light breeze tug at the loose strands that had escaped her hair tie. “A perfect day,” she said. “I don’t even need to zip my jacket.”

  “Not up here. Let’s see what happens down on the beach.” He waved his arm in a gallant gesture, indicating she should go first down the long flight of steps.

  “My family came to this beach all the time when I was growing up. I always hated going down these stairs,” she confessed. “I was afraid I was going to fall over the rail and land in the sand. Sometimes I’d just freeze in the middle and hold up everyone behind me.”

  “Are you afraid of heights?”

  Jean shrugged. “Not really. I wasn’t afraid anyplace else. Just these steps. My father would walk ahead of me and practically walk down backward, holding my hand to make sure I was all right.”

  “That’s very sweet—a nice memory.”

  “It was sweet. That’s just the way he was. It helped me get over it,” she added. “Or maybe just getting older did.”

  It was breezier on the beach, as Grant had predicted, but still incredibly mild. Grant started off toward the lighthouse, and she quickened her step to catch up.

  “Let’s walk this way,” he said. “The lighthouse is in the foreground of her painting. I want to find a spot with the right perspective.”

  He marched along through the sand, a serious expression on his handsome face. Jean walked beside him, her hands in her pockets. He was being very exacting about the photos, Jean noticed, taking her mother’s request seriously. That was good of him. She hoped her mother would appreciate it.

  Jean paused as they passed another familiar sight, one that brought back more memories—a long jetty where whitecaps crashed into a barrier of gray stones, where seaweed and tiny mollusks clung, somehow withstanding the pounding waves.

  “It must be past the jetty. That’s not in the picture,” Jean said.

  “Yes, you’re right, it must be farther on. But that jetty is amazing. Maybe I’ll get some shots there later.”