Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  On class trips, Darrell had toured buildings that had been converted from factory and warehouse space. But he had never seen an empty, abandoned building like this one, before it had been gutted and cleaned up.

  Inspector Hepburn flashed his light along the floor and the brick walls, from the bottom up. “I don’t see any cracks in the walls or the floor. Though I do see a few puddles—from holes in the roof, of course. But the cement floor looks solid.”

  He flashed the light higher, skimming the iron girders that ran across the length and width of the high ceiling. “Those beams are solid steel. And so are these supports,” he added, flashing the light to steel girders than ran from floor to roof.

  Darrell flashed his light straight up, to look over the roof. He heard the sound of wings flapping and a few birds swooped around above. One darted through a hole in the wood that covered a window.

  “Well, the roof has a lot of holes,” Darrell said. “But after all this time, that’s to be expected.”

  The inspector checked the roof with his light, too. “Amazing anything is there at all.” He turned to Darrell. “I think it’s safe to walk around a little. Want to see more?”

  “Absolutely.” Darrell pointed his light at the floor to see where he was going. There was a lot of debris lying around, broken wooden crates, long pieces of pipe, and fallen chunks of insulation. Darrell could see spaces where machinery had been pulled out, the pipe fittings, wires, and other connections left hanging. When a big factory like this closed down, it was customary to sell off anything of value. There must have been valuable machinery in here at one time, Darrell realized. He imagined the space fully equipped and humming with activity, bustling employees in the midst of their workday.

  “It’s a great big mess, isn’t it?” the inspector said as they walked toward the big metal doors that Darrell guessed once opened to a loading dock.

  “A beautiful mess to me,” Darrell replied. He had taken out his phone and continued taking pictures of different areas and angles. The flash helped, though he knew the photos would not really have enough light.

  “Seen enough for your project?” the inspector asked.

  “I think so. For now.” Darrell slipped the phone in his jacket pocket. “It would be nice to see it with the boards off the windows. I wish I had a laser distance measure to measure the dimensions.”

  “We have one of those back in the office. I should have brought it for you,” Inspector Hepburn replied. “But, better than that, I found a set of the plans in an old file. You can have a copy if you’d like.”

  “Wow, that would be great.” Darrell felt so lucky hearing that news. He felt as if it was a sign that his vision for renovating the space was meant to be.

  “I’ll have someone make a copy later and leave it at the front desk in Village Hall.” Inspector Hepburn took another quick look around, flashing his light up, down, and into the corners. Then he began to walk back toward the door they had left open.

  Outside, they took off their masks, and the inspector secured the padlock. “This place has the potential to be useful again, in some way. I just can’t say how.”

  Darrell thought he could but wasn’t ready yet to fill in the blank. “I agree,” he said, as they walked to the gate. “I think it has loads of potential. Thanks for letting me see it, sir.”

  “Not a problem.” They walked through the gate and Inspector Hepburn locked it again. “I wanted to be an architect myself, once upon a time. But I stopped with a civil engineering degree and ended up in this job nearly twenty years ago. I don’t mind it,” he added. “I know I’m doing important work, making sure buildings are safe. But I still wonder about the road not traveled. About the houses and buildings I would have designed. You’re lucky to be able to follow that path if it’s what you really want to do with your life.”

  Darrell felt touched by his confession. “It is what I want to do. What I’ve always wanted. And I know that I’m very lucky I can pursue it.”

  Inspector Hepburn smiled and touched Darrell’s shoulder. “Good for you. I’ll leave those plans at the front desk. If I can help you more with the project, just let me know.”

  Darrell thanked him again and they parted. As Darrell drove down the Beach Road, his head was filled with ideas for the cannery. He had already done a little research on the Internet about the steps needed to make a real renovation happen. The first place he needed to go was the county seat. There were piles of applications to fill out, and he had read about some grants that were available for community improvements. More paperwork there, for sure. But if he could win a grant for this project, he would be home free. He knew the odds might not be in his favor, but it was crazy not to try.

  He had completed the tasks he needed to cover on his father’s jobsites and he could be at the county offices in half an hour, sometime around three p.m. He could do some research and easily make it back to the village by five. There was no reason not to go, Darrell decided as he took the turn off the Beach Road that led to the highway.

  Darrell reached the county offices quickly but lost time finding out where he could pick up the applications he wanted. The county offices were ten times bigger and more bureaucratic than Cape Light Village Hall, and several people he spoke to contradicted each other. His cell phone had used up its charge—all those photos in the warehouse—so the reminder to head home never rang. But he kept his eye on the time, and at precisely four thirty he ended his hunt, knowing he could return another day.

  Outside, the air was frigid. The temperature had dropped and icy bits of snow had begun to fall. He found a scraper in the glove compartment and cleaned off the windshield, with the defroster turned on high. Even with the bad weather, he would have made it home a few minutes after five, but he hadn’t calculated for rush-hour traffic on the highway. It was slow going with the bad weather in the bargain.

  By the time he pulled into the driveway and walked inside, it was nearly half past six. He could smell dinner in the kitchen. His family was probably waiting for him before sitting down to eat.

  He paused in the foyer to hang up his jacket and slip off his wet boots. His father, who was sitting in the living room, spun his wheelchair to face him. “Darrell, where have you been? I must have called and sent a hundred text messages.”

  “Sorry, Dad. My phone died. By the time it got enough charge to see your messages, I was on the road. I sent a quick reply. Didn’t you see it?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. But ‘Got delayed. Be home soon’ doesn’t explain much. I know you weren’t at any of the jobs. I called around to the crew, and no one had seen you since lunchtime.”

  Darrell didn’t realize his father had been looking for him so intensely. And had spies willing to report.

  “I went to the county office. I had to look up some stuff for a school project.”

  “You could have told me that earlier.”

  “Yeah . . . I guess so. But it was sort of a spur-of-the-moment decision. I finished all my work at the sites,” he added.

  “Really? There was one thing you forgot to do.” His father looked angry, and Darrell felt alarmed. What had he forgotten? He couldn’t remember. Before he could reply, his father said, “The thermostat and the faucets at the Marino house. I asked you to turn up the heat there so the pipes don’t freeze tonight.”

  “Oh, man . . . I’m so sorry, Dad. It totally slipped my mind. I’ll run over there right now.” Darrell headed back to the foyer and grabbed his wet jacket off the coat tree. “I’ll be right back. But don’t wait for me to have dinner—”

  “I took care of the situation. When you didn’t answer my messages, I sent Bart.”

  Darrell had already pulled the zipper of his jacket halfway up. “Oh. Want me to go over later and see how the house is doing?”

  “No need. It will be fine. I’d rather you weren’t out driving around in the snow. Wash up and see i
f your mother needs any help in the kitchen. Dinner is ready.”

  Darrell didn’t answer. He took off his jacket again and went into the kitchen, where Lily was setting the table.

  Jessica glanced at him as he walked in. He could tell by her sympathetic look that she had overheard his father’s reprimands.

  “Hungry?” she asked quietly.

  He nodded. “Smells good. What are we having?”

  “Pork chops.” Lily looked unhappy as she placed a fork beside each plate. “I wish we were vegetarians, Mom. It’s so mean to eat animals. They’re, like, our best friends now. Would I cook Amy Cutler with potatoes and vegetables, and eat her for dinner?” she added, mentioning her best friend at school.

  His mother turned from the stove where she was stirring a pot of noodles. Darrell could tell she was trying not to laugh. Lily sounded so serious.

  “That’s a good point, Lily. I think we should discuss it, as a family, and see what everyone else thinks.”

  Darrell thought he wouldn’t mind being a vegetarian. He would at least try it. But he knew what his father’s answer would be. Sam could barely last a week without a steak or a big juicy hamburger, and he didn’t care how friendly the steer who had supplied it was.

  His mother gave him another concerned look. “How was your day?”

  “It was good,” Darrell said, his mind returning to visions of the warehouse. “Today was really good.”

  Chapter Nine

  It’s piling up out there. Those weather forecasters didn’t expect this much snow.” Jean’s mother gave the front yard one last assessing glance then snapped the living room curtain closed. “Now they say it will snow all day tomorrow. Maybe even through tomorrow night.”

  It was Thursday night. They had just finished dinner, and Jean was drying the pots and pans. “That’s a real blizzard, Mom. I didn’t hear it would be that bad.”

  “Turn on the TV. See for yourself. The highway is full of fender benders.”

  “That’s too bad. I hope no one was seriously hurt.” Jean fit the last of the pot covers into a cupboard next to the stove and began to wipe down the counter.

  Jean could not recall her mother paying much attention to weather reports when she was younger. Cynthia had barely seemed aware of what was going on outdoors, emerging from her studio to be surprised by a spring storm, the heat of a July day, or the piles of snow that had fallen during a long February night. Now she was an avid fan of the Weather Channel, relishing the daily barometric dramas. Jean knew it was a cliché, but old people did love to fret about the weather, and her mother had slowly but surely joined their ranks.

  “I guess we’ll be stuck in the house awhile,” Cynthia said. “Good thing you went to the supermarket today. I hope you got some ice melt. I’d better call Grant Keating and tell him not to come until Monday.”

  Jean had only been half listening to her mother’s chatter, but she turned from the sink at the sound of Grant’s name. “Monday? That’s three days from now. I doubt it will snow that long, Mom. No matter what the Weather Channel says.”

  Her mother sighed. “Don’t be such a wise apple. What if he drives over in the storm and has an accident? I’d be responsible.”

  “Not really.” Jean turned back to the pots to hide her true reaction to her mother’s decision. She didn’t like the idea of not seeing Grant for three days. It seemed like a long time. “I agree he can’t come tomorrow. Sounds like everyone should stay off the roads. But what about Saturday? You’ve given him a long list of projects. I bet he doesn’t want to fall behind.”

  Her mother shrugged. “A day or two won’t make any difference. He’s capable, but I doubt he has many clients clamoring for his time.”

  The phone was on the table and her mother picked it up. She had pinned a scrap of paper with Grant’s number on it to the bulletin board near the cellar door. Jean watched her squint at the board to make out the numbers.

  Jean wiped off more counters and turned on the dishwasher while her mother talked to Grant.

  “Monday. Yes, that’s right.” A pause while her mother listened. “Oh, don’t worry about that. Jean is very handy with a shovel. Don’t trouble yourself. We’ll be fine.”

  Grant had offered to come over and shovel them out. That was considerate of him, Jean thought. She wouldn’t mind the chance to see him, even if it was just to shovel snow together.

  Too bad her mother had fended off the idea.

  “Thank you. You stay safe, too.” Cynthia said good-bye and put the phone aside. “He wanted to come and shovel snow. He’s missing a day’s work. He must need the money.”

  Jean felt her temper rise. “Maybe he offered to be helpful. To do us a favor. Did he ask to be paid?”

  “No, he didn’t ask. But I bet he expected to be.” The local newspaper, the Cape Light Messenger, was on the table. Her mother opened it and scanned the pages. “Honestly, Jean, you’re so naive sometimes. It’s hard to believe, for a woman of your age.”

  “I try to think the best of people. If that seems naive to you . . . well, I can’t help it.” She folded a dish towel and hung it over a rack to dry. “Grant went out of his way to take those photographs for you. He did it as a favor and didn’t expect a penny in return. I noticed you barely thanked him.”

  Grant had brought prints of the beach photos over in the morning, just as he promised. He looked very excited to deliver them, too. Her mother took the envelope, thanked him briefly, and set the package aside. She didn’t even open it to look at his work.

  “I was perfectly polite. I just didn’t fawn all over him and feed his ego. Like some people around here might do.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” Jean didn’t intend to raise her voice but couldn’t help it.

  “Whatever you think it means. I’ve seen the way you look at him. And I’ve noticed the way you defend him. Don’t deny it,” she added, before Jean could reply. “I’ve known a lot of men like Grant Keating. Artistic types. They’re clever and charming and thrive on attention and compliments. But the starry-eyed looks of one woman are just as good as the next. They get bored easily. Very easily. Believe me.”

  She nodded, looking satisfied at having had her say and undermining any hopes Jean might have about Grant.

  Jean waited a long moment before she answered. “He is clever and charming. And talented. And he’s been very respectful and patient with you, though perhaps you never noticed.”

  Her mother looked down at the newspaper. Jean thought she felt a twinge of conscience but, of course, would never admit it.

  “I don’t mind defending him,” Jean continued. “I think he’s a good person, and I enjoy his company. But I’m not nearly as naive you think. Or starry-eyed. If he leaves here tomorrow, I won’t be surprised.”

  It wasn’t a lie or even tough talk. Jean knew she would be unhappy if Grant left Cape Light. But deep inside, she half expected it. Cynthia’s mouth was pursed in a frown. “All right, if you say so. But I’ll bet dollars to donuts he will up and leave without a minute’s warning to anyone. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Her mother let out a long breath. Jean suddenly worried that their argument had been a strain and felt instantly sorry for giving in to the goading. “Do you need your oxygen, Mom?”

  “I’m fine. Why do you keep asking me that?” Cynthia pushed the newspaper aside and pulled her walker next to her chair. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. God willing.”

  Jean took a few steps toward her. “Let me help you.”

  Her mother shook her head but would not meet her eye. Jean could tell she was short on breath and trying not to show it. “You stay put.” Cynthia struggled out of the chair but managed to grab the walker and turn herself in the right direction. “I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it a long time.”

  Jean’s instinct was to help. But she f
orced herself to remain still. “Good night, Mom. Call if you need anything.”

  Her mother ambled slowly from the kitchen, her back turned to Jean. She didn’t reply.

  Left alone in the kitchen, Jean stared out at the backyard, covered with snow, thick clumps coating the bushes and trees. The blank white space reminded her of the three long days that stretched between the quiet night and the next time she would see Grant.

  • • •

  Tyler and Lily had cheered Thursday night when they saw the school-closing notice on TV. Sam was secretly happy, too. He felt lonely at times, on his own all day with little to do.

  Friday morning, he woke up and checked the snow piled outside and still falling, as predicted. He cleaned up and rolled himself into the kitchen, following the scent of fresh coffee and looking forward to a hearty family breakfast.

  He did find the coffeepot full and poured himself a mug, but Jessica was not at the stove, fixing eggs or pancakes, as she usually did on such a day. The house was eerily quiet.

  Daisy padded over to his chair and he patted her head. “Where is everyone, pal?” he asked the dog.

  Then he heard voices out in the yard. He wheeled his chair to the sliding door in the dining room, coffee mug in hand. The doors to the small barn were open and he spotted Lily, red-cheeked, striped scarf flying, chasing a goat around a corralled space. She was knee-deep in snow, and the goat sometimes disappeared into a drift and popped up again, like a crazy game at a fun fair.

  Darrell emerged from the barn and strode over to help his sister. He secured the goat with the tether around its slim neck and led it back to the barn. At the same time, Jessica and Tyler emerged, carrying big wire cages. Sam spotted Buster, the cable-eating bunny. “Oh no, not that guy. He is not coming inside again. I just got the TV up and running,” he murmured to Daisy.

  But Jessica and her crew of helpers were soon coming in the side door, carrying the crates of rabbits, baby ducks, and an assorted menagerie of other small animals.