“Not exactly,” Dr. Bering responded with a chortle. “And even if it were so, Ruth, someone still has to know which button to push!”
Christal’s mind began to wander away from the subject of hospitals and charity cases. How could she concentrate on something like that when Isaac was so near that she could feel him breathing, the rise and fall of each inhalation and exhalation?
Usually the only time she was this close to a man who was not related to her was at church—and then only at the Christmas and Easter services, when the sanctuary was packed with visitors and with those who made the trek to worship on the holidays. Then the pews were filled to capacity with a suddenly large congregation.
That wasn’t the same. This, no, this was different.
The sound of the others’ voices was a background to her thoughts, and to the rhythm of Isaac’s breathing.
She couldn’t focus on anything except him.
Oh, this wasn’t good. Not good at all.
Was this what God meant for her? Was she supposed to fall in love with Isaac Bering?
He seemed to be fond of her, if indeed her recollection of the time in the kitchen after the great hair catastrophe had occurred, and he had truly nuzzled her hair as he held her. The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that her memory was correct.
He laughed, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. What had someone said that was funny? She had totally lost the conversation.
“Wouldn’t you agree?” her father asked her.
She had no idea what to say. What on earth were they talking about? Everyone was watching her, including Isaac, who had turned his head and was looking at her curiously.
“Well,” she said slowly, hoping that if she were vague enough, no one would know she’d been woolgathering, “you know me.”
“I believe we do,” Aunt Ruth said sharply, “and I also believe that you were not paying attention, Christal.”
She nodded guiltily. Please don’t let her ask me why I was off in dreamland, or what I was thinking about, she prayed quickly. Her aunt was a wonderful woman, but sometimes she could ask the most embarrassing questions at the most inopportune times.
“To catch you up with the rest of us,” Papa said quickly, as if to forestall anything Aunt Ruth might say, “we were discussing the newest plans for the Winter Carnival.”
“Really?” She leaned forward eagerly, completely intent on the topic at hand.
Dr. Bering chuckled. “I thought that would bring you back to us. Yes, we’re talking about the latest developments. The plans for the ice palace are being finalized.”
“When is it going to be built?” Mother asked. “I’m surprised they haven’t started yet.”
The doctor shrugged. “My understanding is that they will assemble it shortly before the carnival itself. I suppose the very nature of the bricks dictates that. What if we had a thaw and it melted?”
“That’s an excellent point,” Papa said.
“But there is something that I do know,” Dr. Bering continued. “Christal, I was just telling your family and Isaac that the committee is planning a series of parades, including a nighttime one.”
“A parade!” She clasped her hands together delightedly. “Oh, I do love parades!”
“They’re going to be quite an assortment, too, so that there’ll be something for everyone.”
“What will there be? Will the king and queen be there?”
“I suppose they will be. Right now the fellows are working on getting sports teams lined up.” Dr. Bering reached for his teacup, which was dwarfed by his huge hands.
“Sports?” Isaac shook his head. “Like baseball? In winter?”
“Not baseball. They’re thinking winter sports, like tobogganing or curling.”
“Winter sports,” Isaac repeated.
Christal grinned. She could tell he was unconvinced about the concept of winter games. “You don’t sound as if you quite accept the notion of tobogganing or curling as a sport.”
He tilted his head to the side, as if considering her words. “I don’t know if it’s so much that as it is that the term winter sports seems to be impossible.”
“Oh, pshaw!” Aunt Ruth tapped her cane on the floor. “People can have an enjoyable time, with good clean fun, any time of the year. So it’s snowing. Or not. What does it matter?”
“Now, Ruth,” Dr. Bering admonished gently, “Isaac is new to St. Paul. He hasn’t had the chance to learn everything about being up here, such as how people who live in cold climates manage to have sporting events year round.”
“I certainly hope I’m not giving you all the impression that I’m opposed to anything having to do with cold or snow or winter,” Isaac said. “Trust me, I am not. I’m going to be attempting to enjoy it all, even though it may be quite alien to a southern soul like myself. I’m afraid that I’m coming across as being cranky, and I’m not.”
“We understand,” Papa said. “This is quite a change for you in many ways, and climate is a major one. But I suspect you’ll be fine. Say, Isaac, have you ever been to a curling tournament?”
Curling was one sport that Christal had never been able to appreciate, although her father enjoyed it. Still, it was fascinating to watch, even if she couldn’t appreciate the subtleties of it.
“No,” he said, “I’ve never seen it, but I know what it is. It’s a Scottish sport, I understand, in which the players slide a handled stone down a sheet of ice, and they do all kinds of things to keep it going where it needs to go.”
“That’s an excellent description,” Dr. Bering said.
“That’s all I know,” Isaac confessed. “Last Sunday some fellows at church commandeered me to try to get me interested, but they failed.”
“Curling’s very popular here,” Papa said, “so at some point you’ll undoubtedly find yourself at a bonspiel, which is what they call their competitions.”
“As a spectator, not a participant,” Isaac responded, his eyes twinkling golden in the lamplight.
“As all of us in this room are,” Mother agreed.
“Excuse me,” Dr. Bering said, hooking his thumbs under his suspenders. “I will have you all know that I was once on a curling team.”
Aunt Ruth jabbed him with her cane. “You must not lie, Alfred.”
“I’m not lying. It’s the truth. A patient of mine was with one of the local clubs, and he invited me to give it a try. So I did.”
“How did you like it?” Christal asked.
“I think I slid down the ice better than the stone did. It’s amazing how quickly an overweight man can zip across a sheet of ice.”
“Well, then, maybe you have a talent for it,” she said.
“I don’t think so. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to cross the ice on my stomach, and you know, it’s odd, but they never invited me back.”
They all laughed, and Dr. Bering said, “I have so enjoyed my time here tonight, but my nephew and I must return to our own home and to sleep. Another day of keeping St. Paulites in good health awaits us both tomorrow.”
At the door, Isaac hung back near Christal. “How’s the cooking going?” he whispered.
“I’ve graduated from burning my hair to cutting my finger.” She held up her bandaged forefinger.
“Ah,” he said, and before she could react, he lifted the injured finger to his lips and kissed it. “The best medicine in the world.”
With that, he turned and left.
And Christal knew she was in love.
❧
The morning air was icy, and Isaac tiptoed to his slippers, trying to avoid too much skin contact with the cold floorboards.
He’d stayed up much too late reading. His uncle had started him on the habit of reading for leisure in the evening, and Christal had shown him the delights of the St. Paul Library, where he’d found a collection of short stories by Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorne that had turned out to be riveting.
He shivered as he got ready for the day ahead.
In one of his early classes he’d been taught that heat rises. If that was true, why on earth was his bedroom so incredibly chilly? He hurried into his clothes, anxious to get downstairs where the fireplace would already be stoked back into life and the rooms filled with heat.
He could smell breakfast. His uncle was a firm believer in the necessity of a big breakfast. Already, Isaac thought, as he had to yank on his trouser button at his waist, he was starting to fill out a bit too much with all this food.
Bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and coffee—he could identify them all as he loped down the stairs.
“You know,” he said to his uncle as he entered the kitchen and sat at the table, “I think a man could have breakfast for every meal and be quite happy.”
Uncle Alfred poured him a cup of coffee and handed him the pitcher of cream. “I believe you’re right. I suppose we start the day with the best so we can face what’s ahead in good spirits.”
He sat across from Isaac and said his usual, “Shall we?”
It was his signal that the time had come to say grace.
When Isaac was growing up, the grace had been a simple rhyme, said with habit and yet supported by belief. He’d never much thought about the words they’d used—Bless the food for our good. Guide our day in Your way—but subtly they had touched him.
His uncle, however, never used the same prayer twice. Each day it was different.
They both bowed their heads, and Uncle Alfred said the grace. “Today, dearest Lord, we will meet the sick who need Your healing touch. We will meet those in need who crave Your blessings. We will meet our friends in whom we see You. Keep us always mindful of You. May we be Your hands, Your feet, Your heart. Sanctify this food we are about to eat so that it may serve us as we serve You. We ask it in Your name. Amen.”
Isaac raised his head and, as he reached for the platter of bacon, asked his uncle, “Did you ever consider the ministry? You are a powerful prayer, as they say.”
Uncle Alfred took a bite of sausage, chewed, and swallowed, and then answered. “I guess you could say that my doctoring is my ministry. We teach by what we live, you know. I’m known as a devout Christian, and perhaps my example has given strength to those who have needed it the most.”
“Like John Lawrence?”
“Ah, John.” His uncle spread jam across a piece of toast. “John is a good man. His faith teaches me. It’s pure and strong.”
“He’s a widower, isn’t he? Did you know him then?”
Uncle Alfred nodded. “I did. I was just starting out in my practice, and I knew the woman he married actually better than I knew him at the time. We had been in school together. You know, there was quite an age difference between him and his wife. She was so young, which made it all that much sadder—if one can even measure one death sadder than another.”
“I suppose his faith held him up then.”
“No.”
Isaac nearly dropped his fork. “No?”
“He was a mess when she died. He blamed God. He said that if God had been fair and just, He would have taken some criminal rather than her. Someone who didn’t deserve to live. That either God had made a mistake or God was cruel.”
“That seems rather. . .harsh.”
“It seems rather honest, I’d say.”
Isaac stared at his uncle. “What? How can you say that? That’s terrible!” He knew he was sputtering, but he couldn’t stop himself.
His uncle’s large hands reached across the table and gripped Isaac’s forearms. “Listen to me. This may be the most important thing you learn for a long time. Grief has its own voice. It’s loud and practically shouts in your ear. It demands to be heard, and it must have its say.”
“But to utter those things—” Isaac couldn’t imagine it.
“Again, it’s the voice of grief. God knows all about it.”
“But now John is a stalwart Christian, isn’t he?”
“He is.”
“How did he work his way through it? How did he answer those questions?”
Uncle Alfred shrugged. “He came to his own peace with it. He struggled his way from the depths, and he climbed to the heights. I don’t know what the resolution was, just that there was one. The rest is between the man and his God.”
It made sense. “You’re telling me to respect that, aren’t you?”
His uncle smiled. “I am. The relationship between you and God is not the same as mine is with Him. We need to accept that and keep it front and center as we treat those who come to see us. Remember they’re not just patients. They’re people who are patients. People who are children of God.”
“I see.”
“And speaking of children of God, our first patient is Mrs. Bonds, who is about to present us with one of those children. I’m recommending to Matthew Everett that the church select her and her husband as their Christmas family—I refuse to call them a project—since they could use a little boost right now.”
“What will this mean to her?” Isaac asked, finishing up the last strip of bacon.
“There will be food, of course, and clothing and bedding for the baby. I’m going to request that the church also take up an offering for them to help with whatever else they might need,” his uncle said as he stood and began to clear the table.
“Don’t they get any presents?”
His uncle stopped suddenly. “You’re right! Presents! Isaac, you’re brilliant!”
“I am?”
“Yes, you are. We’ve been thinking about what they need in terms of things, day-to-day things, and we should have been thinking about the things that make life brighter and better. I like that. I’ll make sure that happens. Like a necklace for Mrs. Bonds, and for Mr. Bonds, what?”
Isaac shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”
“Give it some consideration, and let me know what you come up with.”
They washed up the breakfast dishes, each deep in his own thoughts, and when at last they’d dried the last cup and hung the towels, they looked at each other with anticipation.
“Got anything?” Isaac asked.
Uncle Alfred swung his head back and forth. “Nope.”
“We’ll keep thinking on it then.”
“We will,” his uncle said as they left the kitchen. Then he stopped and slapped his hand on his forehead. “Well, of course! I’ve got the perfect solution! We’ll ask Ruth. She’ll know exactly what to do.”
“Humph,” Isaac said with a grin. “She’ll buy them both jackets.”
Seven
Christmas flew in on the snowflakes—snowflakes that melted as fast as they fell. After a dive into temperatures that were well below zero, the thermometer rose just as rapidly as it had fallen, and the holiday was unseasonably warm.
“Isaac must truly think we are crazy to live here,” Christal said to her mother as they prepared the Christmas dinner. “A seventy degree temperature hike in a matter of days!”
“He’s bound to be happy now,” Mother agreed. “Say, look at these pies. See how the crust is a nice golden color? You want to watch them closely and take them out just as they turn this shade. Any longer in the oven and the crust will be dry and tough.”
Christal beamed at the pies. Her contribution had been to roll out the crusts under her mother’s watchful eye. What had seemed so simple had ended up taking nearly an hour. First, the dough stuck alternately to the rolling pin and the board. Then it was too long and narrow to fit the pan, so she had to start all over. And twice it broke apart as it was being moved to the pan.
This wasn’t the first time she’d tried to make pies, but today she’d persevered and hadn’t abandoned the project and given it over to her mother to finish. That alone made her immeasurably pleased.
They were beautiful pies, even if the undercrust was patched together with a watered forefinger. The pumpkin pie’s crust was crimped almost evenly. Christal had misjudged the circumference and the size of her thumb a little bit, so where the end met
the beginning there was a bit of a clump. The apple pie’s elegant A, carved on the top crust by her mother’s artful hand, hid a great crack that appeared as Christal carefully laid the dough atop the filling.
“Pies are awfully hard to make at first,” her mother told her, “but you’ve been marvelously patient, and I commend you.”
The turkey was roasting itself, as Mother explained it. “The less you peek at it, the better. Let the steam build up in the oven to keep it tender and juicy. Every time you open the door, you release some of that moisture, so avoid it if you can.”
Christal was surprised at how easily she was able to do more in the kitchen. She accomplished more and more of the tasks and had become comfortable with her mother’s recipes that had challenged her—and defeated her—before.
Aunt Ruth had, for this meal’s preparations, sat in the parlor with Papa, knitting and listening as he read aloud.
Christal beamed with pride as she called them in to dinner. The table was spread with a linen tablecloth, and they were using the best china.
In the middle of the table was the turkey, gloriously golden.
They sat together and held hands in a circle, and Papa said grace. “Bless us on this holy day, the day in which a new life began so long ago, and which begins in us anew. Today, and every day, may we know the spirit of Christmas in our hearts, the joyous excitement of life ahead. In Your holy name, we pray.”
The dinner was wonderful, every single crumb and flake and slice of it.
The only improvement could have been the addition of the two bachelors next door, but as usual, Dr. Bering had insisted that he—and now Isaac—celebrate the holiday privately.
Afterward, they gathered in the parlor, where usually each person selected their favorite occupation. Christal read, her aunt knitted, her mother embroidered, and her father slept.
This time, when she had finished cleaning the kitchen and joined the others in the parlor, she sensed something was different. The knitting was laid aside, as was the embroidery, and her father was wide-awake.
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