Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  Jean drove over to Vera’s and parked in the driveway, wondering what would be the best way to get her mother into the house. Grant came out and offered to help. He had obviously been watching for them. Together, they managed to get her mother inside. “You look lovely tonight, Cynthia,” Grant said as he helped her with her jacket.

  Her mother shrugged, though Jean could tell she was pleased by the compliment. “I’ve had this dress for years.”

  “I can see why. Red suits you.”

  Her mother glanced up at him. She didn’t have any more tart comebacks and even smiled. Jean could tell she had noticed Grant’s transformed appearance, too. Jean was hoping her mother wouldn’t say anything, one way or the other. She feared that whatever her mother came out with would be rude.

  Jean thought he looked very handsome. Not that she didn’t think he was handsome ordinarily. But he had made some effort, with a smooth shave and maybe even a haircut. She had never seen him wear anything but jeans and his khaki utility jacket. Tonight he was dressed in a brown tweed sports coat, a tailored shirt, and brown dress pants.

  A few of the guests had arrived, and they greeted her mother cheerfully. They were already enjoying drinks and appetizers, and some had started to crochet.

  “You sit right here, Cynthia. I’m so glad you could come. I saved this seat just for you.” Vera helped her mother to a large armchair in the middle of the living room.

  Once she got Jean’s mother settled, she stood up and smiled at Jean and Grant. “Don’t worry about a thing. You two have a nice time.”

  “Thanks, Vera. Enjoy the party,” Jean said.

  “I’m enjoying it already,” Vera replied.

  • • •

  A short time later, they arrived at the Spoon Harbor Inn and were seated at a table with a view of the small harbor. The dining room had a classic, old-fashioned look, with a low beamed ceiling, brass fixtures, and tables covered with white linen and topped with small candles.

  “Vera recommended this place. I hope it’s all right with you?” Grant said after ordering two glasses of white wine for them.

  “My family used to celebrate special occasions here,” she told him, “but I haven’t been back in a long time. The food was always tasty. I do love the atmosphere.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased. Let’s see if it’s still as good as you remember.” They studied the menus as a waiter brought their drinks to the table. “Once upon a time,” he went on, “I used to eat out a lot. At the trendiest places I could find.” He closed the menu and looked over at her. “It feels like all that happened in a past life. The Clam Box is about my speed these days.”

  His comment made her curious. “What past life was that? Or is that question too personal?”

  He sat back and took a sip of wine. “I used to own an advertising agency. A very successful one, too, in Boston. I was living the good life, lunch and dinners with clients at five-star restaurants. Flying all over to conferences and presentations. You’ve been in that business. You know how it can be.”

  “I was just a worker ant in the art department, but the executives treated themselves very well.”

  Grant smiled. “That was me. I treated myself well . . . too well at times. Maybe you’d say I was spoiled. I felt I’d worked hard and deserved my rewards. My family was never poor, but my parents struggled financially. I felt that being a success meant having more than they ever did and being able to take care of them, too. Which I did. But I also placed a great deal of importance on material possessions, the signs of my success—custom-made shirts and shoes, fancy cars, luxury vacations. You get the idea.”

  “I do. But you don’t seem at all that way now. Why did you change?”

  The waiter returned to the table, and they ordered salads and main courses. Grant waited until the waiter was gone before answering her question. “The other day, I mentioned that I was married back then. We were trying to start a family, and my wife had some routine tests. The doctors found a rare blood disease—a type of cancer that is fatal ninety-nine percent of the time. She died soon after the discovery, and I was crushed. Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d achieved and acquired, suddenly seemed without meaning or worth.

  “I was very angry at first. Shocked and angry. I could barely put one foot in front of the other and carry on my life. I finally pulled myself together and sold the company. Then I set off with just my cameras and the bare essentials in a backpack. I traveled around the world, all the places my wife and I had planned to go someday. Maybe taking pictures saved me. Photography was my first love. In college, I studied with some great teachers and had hoped to be a professional photographer. But I got distracted by the advertising world and the money-making game once I left school. I always told myself I would go back to shooting photos someday. When I’d made enough money and could retire early. After my wife died, that was the only thing I wanted to do. The only motivation for getting up in the morning. And by living simply and immersing myself in different cultures and foreign places, taking photos every minute of the day, I managed to recover.”

  “That sounds like an amazing journey and a lot of photographs,” Jean said.

  He laughed. “It was. I haven’t printed half of them. But I do look back at the files from time to time.”

  “That was very brave,” Jean added. “Few people would have the courage to do what you did. To change their life so radically.”

  He looked pleased and a little embarrassed by her compliment. “I’m not sure courage was part of the equation. I was trying to save my life. And I did have a good cushion of savings from the sale of the business and our house in Boston. It’s been invested well. Keeping my needs simple, I don’t need to worry about an income from a nine-to-five job. I know few people can say that, and it’s a real blessing.”

  “It’s quite a story,” Jean said. “You told me the other day that your whole life changed when you lost your wife, but I had no idea.”

  “I’m sure everyone in that situation feels immense loss. But I guess I had a radical reaction. Her death made me question everything. I’ve come to think of this new chapter in my life as my wife’s final gift. I’m far happier now than I was on the fast track,” he said. “Life goes on for the living, Jean. You can’t put off the things you want to do and love to do. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for anyone. That’s another lesson I learned.”

  “Good advice,” Jean agreed as the waiter brought their salads.

  “So, I told you my story,” Grant said. “Let’s hear yours. Have you ever been married?”

  Jean was surprised by the question, though she knew she shouldn’t have been. “I was married in my twenties. It didn’t work out, which was for the best,” she replied. “I’ve had some serious relationships since, but none that led to marriage.”

  “Really? I’m surprised. I’m guessing that must have been your choice.”

  Jean wasn’t sure what he meant. Was he saying that many men must have wanted to marry her, but she was too particular? Or that she had avoided marriage in some way?

  “You left Portland a few weeks ago and came back to Cape Light, where you grew up. You seem to be at turning point in your life, too,” he pointed out. “What do you love to do? What gives you the most happiness, Jean?”

  Jean had never seen her recent choices in that light. But once he framed it that way, she had to admit there was some truth to it.

  “I love to do my own artwork. Especially the illustrations for the children’s book I’ve been working on. I’ve made a lot of progress since I moved here.”

  He looked delighted by her reply. “Can I see them sometime? An authorized viewing this time,” he added, reminding her of how he had picked up the sketches in the shop without asking the day they met.

  “I guess so,” she replied. “No one has seen the illustrations yet. They’re not done.”

  “W
henever you’re ready,” he said kindly. “I’m sure the project is wonderful.”

  Jean thought he was being very sweet. He had only seen a page or two. How could he tell if it was wonderful or not?

  The waiter returned with their main courses. Jean had ordered flounder and Grant was served swordfish. She thought everything looked and tasted delicious but wondered what Grant—with his sophisticated past and palate—would think.

  She watched him take a bite of his fish. “This is good. Not fancy, but amazingly fresh. Just as it should be. How is yours?”

  “Just right,” she said honestly. “Save room for dessert. I remember that course to be the high point.”

  He smiled at her. “Thanks for the tip.” They ate for a while in silence. “Has there been any progress persuading your brother to visit for Christmas?”

  “None at all. I did reply to his e-mail. All I could say was that our mother wasn’t doing well and I still thought he should reconsider. I’m certain this Christmas will be my mother’s last,” Jean admitted. “But I couldn’t come right out and say it so starkly in my note. Maybe I should have.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “Jean, I’m sure he realizes that by now. Or he’s just in denial. You can’t blame yourself for his decision.”

  “I know. But I still wish he would change his mind,” she said. “My mother can be difficult, but she’s been amazingly stoic, facing her illness with acceptance and courage. She has a lot of faith,” Jean added. “I think it’s meant a lot to her to go to church the last few weeks, and I know she wants to be there for Christmas this year. I’m glad I can at least give her that.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you’ve given your mother a lot more than that since you’ve been here. You’ve made it possible for her to join the world again, to socialize and return to her painting.”

  Jean felt pleased by his words but couldn’t give herself that much credit. “We still bicker at times. I always feel bad afterward. I’m sure it’s not good for her health. She’s still quite sick, but getting out of the house lifts her spirits. She didn’t attend church much when I was young,” Jean recalled. “My father would take me and my brother. I think now that she’s older and reaching the end, church is more important to her.”

  “I’ve been to cathedrals, temples, and mosques all around the world. Searching for some answers, I guess. I haven’t tried Reverend Ben’s sermons yet, but maybe I will soon. I think Christmas draws everyone to church, even wandering souls, like me.”

  “All who wander are not lost,” Jean countered.

  Grant smiled. “I hope so.”

  The waiter had cleared their dinner dishes and took their order for dessert. Grant ordered an apple cobbler with ice cream and Jean asked for the chocolate cake.

  “I’ve been wondering,” he said, once the waiter had left. “What will you do when your mother is gone? Will you leave or stay in Cape Light?”

  “I’ll probably leave. I expect Kevin will want to sell the property right away. He has no interest in coming back here. I’m sure he’ll give me time to find someplace to live. But I see no need to prolong the situation.” She looked up at Grant, trying to gauge his reaction.

  They were talking about a time in the future when they wouldn’t see each other anymore. She didn’t like thinking about it and wondered how he felt. Did it matter to him at all?

  “I’ll probably look for a job in Boston, something in graphic art. Back to the real world again,” she said, trying to inject a lighter note.

  “I see. Nothing to keep you here?”

  “Not really,” Jean replied, curious about his question. He already knew the answer, she thought. Though, if he were to stay in town, she would figure out a way to stay. And Boston wasn’t that far. They could still see each other. If he wanted to.

  The waiter returned with dessert and set the dishes before them. Grant had coffee but Jean declined. She took a bite of her chocolate cake, the restaurant’s specialty. It was still decadently rich and totally delicious.

  “That looks good,” he said, watching her.

  “Oh, it is,” she replied. “Would you like a bite?”

  He reached over with his fork and took a small bite from her plate. “Wow, pure chocolate.”

  “That’s why I like it. I can’t live without chocolate. Even if I wanted to simplify and give up material pleasures.”

  He laughed. “No worries, chocolate is allowed. I’ll write you a note.”

  His reply made her smile. Then she realized that she sounded as if she were projecting some future with him. She hadn’t really meant it that way, had she?

  She quickly tried to change the subject. “How about you, Grant? You said you’ve almost finished your photo essay. Will you stay and work on a new subject?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure where the new year will take me. Up north somewhere, maybe? I’ve heard Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia are beautiful.”

  “Then that’s one place I’ve been but you haven’t,” she said, making him laugh again.

  “It’s settled. You should be my guide.”

  Jean was sure he was just teasing. If only, she thought. She would run off with him in a heartbeat, that was for sure.

  “We were there on vacation when I was very young. All I remember is a cottage by a beach and a lot of wild strawberries. Maybe some poison ivy?”

  “Sounds perfect to me. Except for the poison ivy, of course.” His expression made her laugh. “Poison ivy is not required.”

  The hours had passed quickly. When Jean finally noticed the time, she realized the party at Vera’s was probably winding down. Grant took care of the bill and they headed back to the village.

  • • •

  Grant parked in front of Vera’s house. All the lights were still on, but Jean noticed fewer cars parked along the street. She guessed that her mother must be eager by now to go home, but she couldn’t help lingering a few moments more, alone with Grant.

  He seemed to feel the same way and turned to her with a wistful look.

  “Thank you for having dinner with me, Jean. That was the nicest evening I’ve had in a long time.”

  Jean felt the words catch in her throat. “Me, too,” was all she could manage.

  His gaze sought hers and he moved closer. Then he put his arms around her and kissed her. She felt his hands in her hair and clung to his strong shoulders. “You’re so lovely, Jean,” he whispered. “And the evening passed much too quickly. It’s hard to let you go.”

  Jean sighed and leaned back. “I know,” she said quietly. “But I’d better get inside. It’s getting late.”

  Jean left the truck and Grant followed her up the path to the porch. Vera lived in a stately Victorian that was furnished with antiques throughout and maintained in perfect condition. After Vera had lost her husband, it was hard for her to remain in such a large house. She managed by renting furnished rooms short-term to people who came through town. Jean knew the residence was technically a boarding house, but she doubted there was ever one as elegant.

  Jean rang the bell and Vera came to the door. “Oh, Jean. Didn’t your mother call you? She felt tired and Emily Warwick drove her home.”

  Jean was surprised and then felt embarrassed. “She didn’t call. Unless I missed it.” She pulled out her phone and checked. No call from her mother showed up on the screen. No call at all.

  “I’m sure she’s all right. Don’t worry, dear,” Vera said quickly. “I think she wanted to turn in early, so she would get enough rest to come to the fair tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Vera. I’ll say good night then.”

  “Good night, Jean.” Vera glanced at Grant. “I’ll leave the door unlatched for you, Grant,” she added, and then left them alone.

  Grant looked down at her. “I’m sorry I kept you out so long . . . again.”

>   “If that’s the only thing you ever have to apologize to me for, you’re definitely ahead of the game,” Jean said. “I should have guessed the party would wear her out quickly. I’m sure she’s fine. But I’d better go.”

  “I’ll walk you down to your car.”

  “No need. I’m fine.” Jean touched his arm. “Thanks again. I had a wonderful time.”

  “I did, too. And I don’t need to keep fixing things in that cottage in order to see you, do I?”

  Jean had already begun walking down the path to the street. She turned and laughed at him. “Nope. Though I did consider causing some minor damage so you’d have to come back.”

  She heard him laugh as she climbed into her car and headed home. She felt as if she had been on another planet all night—a wonderful planet where she felt attractive and interesting, even desired—and was suddenly coming back to Earth. She wondered if her mother had somehow gotten herself into bed, but doubted it. She hoped her mother would be too tired to talk—and too tired to carry on about needing a lift from Emily Warwick.

  The house was dark when Jean unlocked the front door. She found her mother asleep in the living room, in her recliner. Jean gently touched her shoulder. “I’m home, Mom. Let me help you to bed.”

  “Jean. Where have you been? What time is it?”

  “Not that late,” Jean said. “I went to Vera’s first. I didn’t know that Emily gave you a ride home.”

  “Well, she had to. I couldn’t get in touch with you.”

  “Did you try to call? I didn’t hear the phone ring. Or find a message from you.”

  Jean could see her mother was in a very sour mood and arguing with her would do no good. But she couldn’t help asserting the simple facts. “You look too tired for the walker. I’ll bring the wheelchair.”

  “Never mind. Help me up. I don’t want the chair,” her mother insisted. Jean brought the walker, and with some struggle, got her mother standing and pointed in the right direction.

  She followed close behind as her mother made her way slowly to the bedroom. “How was the party? Did you have fun?”