A Christmas Peril (The Teacup Novellas - Book Five)

by Moody, Diane

  As we finished the dishes, I began to dread the moment he would leave. After a brief chat on our chilly front porch, Gary tucked his cap under his arm and slowly made his way to the top of the porch steps. “I should apologize for stealing your entire evening. One moment I was picking up a textbook on the aisle of the train, and the next thing I know, I’m having trouble finding a way to say goodnight to the beautiful girl who dropped it.”

  Standing at the porch rail, I burrowed my hands into my coat pockets and glanced across the street, suddenly shy. “I’m not sure I thanked you for doing that, so . . . thank you.”

  “No problem.” He stepped closer. “Lucille, I can’t remember when I’ve ever had such a nice evening. I mean that.”

  “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Right up until your mother found us sprawled on the kitchen floor. But otherwise? Yes. It was definitely fun.” He paused, fingering one of the charms on my bracelet. “More than fun.”

  I smiled as my heartbeat pounded in my ears. This was the moment I’d been dreading. Would this be goodbye?

  “I’ve got five more days before I head back overseas. I know you’re probably busy, but I want to see you again.”

  I looked at his face, shadowed by the light from the window. Even so, his eyes glistened so kind and serene. “I’d like that. I really would.”

  He beamed, taking my hand in his. “Good. Tomorrow it is. Shall I just meet you at the train station in Evanston again?”

  “No, silly. I don’t have classes tomorrow. It’s Saturday.”

  “Even better. How does breakfast sound?”

  “Even better.”

  His dimples deepened as he leaned closer. “About eight?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Eight it is. Goodnight, Lucille.” Ever so gently, he pressed a kiss against my cheek.

  “Goodnight, Gary,” I whispered.

  He stepped back, put his cap on his head, and tossed me a wink. Skipping down the steps, he whistled a familiar tune, but I was too mesmerized to recognize it. I touched the spot on my cheek he’d just kissed, wondering if it was all a dream.

  As he turned onto the sidewalk, he gave me a quick salute, stuck his hands in his coat pockets, and kept whistling until he was out of sight.

  Only later, as I lay my head on my pillow did I remember the name of the song he was whistling . . .

  “Let’s Fall in Love.”

  Chapter 6

  A lot of visitors came and went with each passing day. Most of them were Mark’s UPS buddies, who’d stop by after work. I knew many of them from the bowling league. They were a great bunch of guys, and I knew it would mean the world to Mark when he found out how many came and how often they stopped by.

  Mark’s boss came every day on his lunch hour. Every single day. I knew Mark had tremendous respect for Calvin, and now I knew why. Calvin was a hulk of a guy who reminded me of Cuba Gooding, Jr., minus the comic effect. Mark told me Calvin ran a tight ship, but had a big, big heart for his employees. He seemed genuinely concerned for me as well, always asking if there was anything I needed. We’d chat for a few minutes, then he’d stand beside Mark’s bed, place his hand over Mark’s, and close his eyes offering a silent prayer. He’d leave a couple minutes later, his eyes often glistening with tears as he gave me a fatherly hug.

  Gordo came every day too and never empty-handed. He knew Mark’s weakness for Krispy Kreme donuts, so every morning on his way to work, he’d drop by with a dozen glazed donuts, still warm in the box. “Just like Mark likes ‘em,” he’d say. I’d share them with the medical staff, allowing myself only one a day. I had to smile when the staff started routinely asking me if the donut guy had stopped by yet.

  During that first week, Gordo told me he’d learned an important lesson when his mother was laid up in a hospital for several weeks before she died. “The best hospital visitor is the one who’s in and out,” he’d said. “Unless you’re a close friend or family, patients and those staying with them don’t need visitors overstaying their welcome.” He told me of people his mother hardly knew who would show up, spend hours on end talking about anything and everything. “Or worse yet, the ones who want to tell you all about their loved one who died in a hospital. Like that helps?” Gordo shook his head. “Eventually I had the staff post a No Visitors sign on the door. You may need to do that at some point.”

  I had one such visitor yesterday. Her name was Winifred Small, and she said God told her to come see Mark after she’d watched an update about him on the news.

  “God has a word for Mark, and the Almighty has told me to share it with him.”

  At first, I didn’t know what to think. I’d always been skeptical of those who claimed God told them to do this or that‌—‌particularly when they’re complete strangers. Too often, such a claim was nothing more than someone’s self-proclaimed excuse for butting into someone else’s business. At least that’s what I’d always thought. But I was exhausted and grasping for any semblance of hope, so I welcomed Winifred against my better judgment.

  She stood beside Mark, studying him from head to toe, whispering to herself. I assumed she was praying. Suddenly, she looked over at me. “You might want to step outside.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sometimes it’s difficult to hear truth in times of crisis. I thought you might like to leave while I‍—‍”

  “No, I’ll stay, thank you.” I stood up, wrapping my sweater around me tighter.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I opened my mouth to respond just as she began speaking her “truth” to Mark.

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  A chill scurried down my back at the tone of her voice as she recited the verse.

  “The Lord is calling you home, Mark Christopher. You must stop resisting His call, stop wallowing in this coma, and allow Him to welcome you into heaven.”

  “No!” I rushed around the bed. “Don’t SAY that! God would never tell you that!”

  “Oh, He most certainly did.”

  I grabbed her by the arm. “Get out.”

  “Not until I’m finished.”

  “I said, GET OUT!”

  “What’s going on?”

  I’d turned at the sound of Shelly’s voice, her face reflecting the tension in the air.

  “Would you kindly tell this young woman to let me go?” Winifred pleaded.

  “I’ll do no such thing.” Shelly dropped her purse and keys on the floor, then grabbed Winifred’s arm and escorted her out the door. She returned a few minutes later, holding me while I explained what had happened against an avalanche of fresh tears.

  “She’s crazy, Lucy. Stuff like this always brings the wackos out of the woodwork. But I’m so sorry. If God has a message for Mark, I assure you He doesn’t need a complete stranger to tell him.”

  From then on, we kept the door closed and allowed in only those we knew to visit.

  The experience left me uneasy. From then on, Shelly made sure either she or Chad was with me throughout the day. When she tried to insist on staying overnight, I wouldn’t have it.

  “I’m okay, Shelly. No one ever visits this late.”

  It took some convincing, but she finally left around ten, promising to be back first thing in the morning. I’ll admit, I was a bit jumpy for an hour or so after she left.

  Until now, I had never spent a lot of time around hospitals, and certainly never kept a bedside vigil like this. I’d already learned that hospitals are the utter anti-thesis of restful recovery. Time still meant nothing to me at this point, but I’m pretty sure an hour never passed without a nurse, doctor, aide, housekeeper, or orderly stopping by. Even in the middle of the night, the constant flow of medical staff continued; most of them flipping the glaring overhead florescent lights on as they entered the room.

  Of course, I was the only one inconvenienced. Mark didn’t seem to mind.

  Around two in the morning following one such in
terruption, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I finally gave up and made a pit stop, the mirror in the small bathroom a ready reminder of the toll this was taking on me. I made a mental note to take better care of my appearance. I wanted to look my best when Mark came around.

  When Mark comes around . . .

  He would, of course. There could be no other option.

  The day before, Chad had tiptoed into a conversation with me about what he called, “the worst case scenario.” I know he was only trying to help. Just in case. Still, I refused to go there. I refused to even consider that possibility. Mark would recover. It might take a long, long time, but in my heart I knew he’d be okay. He had to.

  I took my seat again and huddled under the blanket before reaching for the diary.

  “Okay, the last part we read was the first night, after Uncle Gary followed Aunt Lucille home and stayed for dinner.” I looked over the top of the diary at Mark. “Kind of sweet, wasn’t it? Him doing the dishes, the two of them cutting up, falling on the floor laughing like that? Then the whole goodbye kiss on the cheek? I always thought Uncle Gary was charming, but he must have dazzled Lucille with all his antics.”

  I waited, half-expecting Mark to engage in the conversation. Talk had always come so easy for us. Sometimes we spent hours just talking. I loved that about him. He never got bored or distracted, even when I chased rabbits on plot lines or story ideas. Some of my most colorful characters evolved from those gabfests.

  I felt the familiar ache in the pit of my stomach, missing my big guy who was still stretched out in that hospital bed. I shook off the grief in my soul and tried to push myself out of its grip. I focused on opening the diary and finding my place.

  “The next entry is four days later.” I flipped the pages back and forth. “That’s odd. Lucille wrote a play-by-play account of that first day, then skipped four entire days? Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m anxious to find out what happened next.” I peeked back at Mark, then started reading aloud.

  Dear Diary,

  The past few days have been the most wonderful days of my life. I’m head over heels in love with Gary, and I want to shout it from the mountaintops! We’ve spent almost every waking moment together, which explains why I haven’t written here. It’s almost midnight, but I’m determined to catch up on paper before I forget the bliss of every single moment‌—‌no matter how long it takes.

  After our serendipitous meeting on Friday, the next morning we had breakfast together at Mason’s Diner. Somewhere between the second and third cup of coffee, Gary convinced me to spend the entire day with him. It didn’t take much arm-twisting, of course. I tried desperately to be cautious, to guard my heart and be reasonable, knowing I might never see him again once he headed back overseas. I failed miserably.

  With each passing moment, I fell more in love with my handsome lieutenant. Leaving the diner, he tucked my gloved hand in the crook of his arm and escorted me through the most perfect winter day. The air was bitterly cold, but the sky was blue, and I half expected to hear birds singing on such a glorious day.

  We rode the El downtown to the Loop, where we strolled along the sidewalks at Marshall Field’s and admired the festive window displays. The famous golden trumpets lined above each window seemed to proclaim the news that the holiday season was in full swing.

  “Christmas just isn’t Christmas without Marshall Field’s,” I said. “When I was just a girl, we always came here the first week of December. It was a tradition. We’d join all the others, moving in clusters from window to window, and I thought it was the most magical place on earth. Then we’d go up to the Walnut Room where we’d have hot cocoa and Christmas cookies under that enormous Christmas tree that stands several stories high.”

  “I’m sure we came when I was a kid, but I don’t remember much about it.”

  “Not even the displays with shiny red bicycles and train sets?”

  “Okay, I do remember those. And I remember that big tree. I used to pretend all those wrapped presents under the tree had my name on them.”

  “They were just empty boxes, you know. So you didn’t miss out much.”

  As we stood beneath the famous green clock, the breeze picked up and I shivered.

  “It is a bit chilly out here,” Gary said, turning to face me. “How about we go inside for a while?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  We took our time wandering the aisles, taking in the fanciful décor and gazing up at the famous Tiffany mosaic glass dome.

  “Did you know there are more than one and a half million pieces of glass in that ceiling?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t.” He twisted his head back and forth to study it. “Makes me a little nervous to think what would happen if they all came crashing down.” He looked back at me. “I’m getting hungry. Want to head up to the Walnut Room for a late lunch?”

  As we rode the elevator up to the seventh floor, I caught the uniformed elevator operator staring at Gary as she announced the floors on our way up. A tinge of jealousy coursed through me until I looked over and found Gary staring at me, oblivious of the operator. I couldn’t help smiling.

  After the hostess led us to a small round table beneath the elegantly decorated tree, Gary seated me then sat across from me, his gaze inching all the way up the forty-five foot distance to the top of the tree. “I’ve lived in Chicago all my life, but would you believe this is my first time to eat here?”

  “Surely you’re kidding?” I spread the linen napkin across my lap. “Mother and I must have eaten here hundreds of times over the years. I can’t imagine shopping at Marshall Field’s and not stopping by for lunch or a cup of tea.”

  “Well, there you go. I guess it’s more of a gal’s thing.”

  “Then you’ve missed out.” I accepted the menu from the waitress. “And you simply haven’t lived until you’ve had Mrs. Hering’s Chicken Pot Pie.”

  Gary handed his menu back to her. “Might as well make it simple and do as the lady says,” he teased. “I’ll have the chicken pot pie.”

  Since we’d eaten such a heavy breakfast, I opted for the Walnut Room Salad with lettuce, mandarin oranges, walnuts, and their famous toasted sesame dressing.

  A few minutes later, the waitress returned with a teapot and two cups and saucers. “I’ve always loved this Christmas pattern.”

  “Is there anything you don’t love?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye as he poured our tea.

  “Rude people, mosquitoes, and sauerkraut. You?”

  “You mean, besides dishpan hands?”

  I laughed. “Yes, Gary, what don’t you love, besides dishpan hands?”

  He narrowed his eyes in deep thought. “Well, let’s see. I’m not too fond of broccoli. I hate the smell of rotten eggs. And . . .” He settled his eyes on mine again. “And a war that takes me away from the most amazing girl I’ve ever met.”

  I glanced down into my cup of tea when my eyes begin to sting. “Yes. The war. But let’s promise not to talk about it until you have to leave. I don’t want it to spoil our perfect day.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Agreed. No talk of war.” He took a deep breath and asked, “Who is Mrs. Hering?”

  I shifted my thoughts, grateful for the diversion. “I was hoping you’d ask. It’s such an interesting story.”

  “Then you must tell me.” He planted his elbow on the table then rested his chin on his fist. His dimples deepened with his warm smile, and I had to rein in my butterflies just to put a sentence together.

  “I’m sure you know the history of the store, dating back before the Civil War.”

  “I do, but I’d love to hear you tell it.”

  “It wasn’t called Marshall Field’s back then, of course. But did you know that Mr. Field was only twenty-one years old in 1856 when he started working for the original dry goods store he would one day own? That’s only a year older than I me.”

  “But I’m sure he wasn’t half as pretty.”

  I could feel t
he heat in my face. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But by 1868, the store was moved to its location here at State and Washington. Of course, the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 leveled it, but not before many of the employees worked valiantly through the night to save the most expensive merchandise and much of the files and records.”

  “I remember hearing the stories of that when I was a kid. I think someone in my dad’s family worked there at the time.”

  “Here I am prattling on when you probably know more about it than I do.”

  He took my hand in his and twisted the opal ring on my finger. “I doubt it. Besides, I happen to like listening to you prattle. So please‌—‌prattle on.”

  I couldn’t help laughing again. “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “About the tea room. Back in those days, it wasn’t proper for a woman to eat in a restaurant unless she was accompanied by a gentleman. But if a woman was shopping and wanted something to eat, it was an absurd inconvenience for her to go all the way home for lunch then have to return to finish her shopping. Then one day an employee in the millinery department named Mrs. Hering noticed that one of her customers was tired and hungry, so she offered to share her lunch with her client‌—‌a homemade chicken pot pie. Soon Mrs. Hering started bringing lots of her pot pies for her customers. Eventually the store opened a tea room to accommodate all their customers, and Mrs. Hering’s Chicken Pot Pies have been on the menu from the very beginning. Isn’t that a great story?”

  As if on cue, the waitress returned with our food. While I enjoyed my salad, Gary devoured his steaming pot pie, groaning with pleasure with each bite.

  He wiped his lips with his napkin. “I suppose it would be bad form to pick up the plate and lick it?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  He raised a brow, taunting me, and for a moment I thought he might just do it. Thankfully, he pushed the plate aside and sighed with satisfaction. “That, my dear Lucille, might just be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Really? Didn’t you say the same thing about your pancakes just a few hours ago?”