A Christmas Hope

by Joseph Pittman

  BOOKS BY JOSEPH PITTMAN

  A Christmas Hope

  A Christmas Wish

  Tilting at Windmills

  When the World Was Small

  Legend’s End

  California Scheming: A Todd Gleason Crime Novel

  London Frog: A Todd Gleason Crime Novel

  A CHRISTMAS HOPE

  A Linden Corners Novel

  JOSEPH PITTMAN

  Kensington Books

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  BOOKS BY JOSEPH PITTMAN

  Title Page

  Dedication

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE - YESTERDAY

  PART 1 - RETURNING HOME

  CHAPTER 1 - NORA

  CHAPTER 2 - BRIAN

  CHAPTER 3 - T HOMAS

  CHAPTER 4 - NORA

  CHAPTER 5 - BRIAN

  CHAPTER 6 - THOMAS

  CHAPTER 7 - NORA

  CHAPTER 8 - BRIAN

  CHAPTER 9 - NORA

  CHAPTER 10 - THOMAS

  INTERLUDE - TODAY

  PART 2 - RETURNING HOPE

  CHAPTER 11 - NORA

  CHAPTER 12 - BRIAN

  CHAPTER 13 - THOMAS

  CHAPTER 14 - NORA

  CHAPTER 15 - BRIAN

  CHAPTER 16 - THOMAS

  CHAPTER 17 - NORA

  CHAPTER 18 - BRIAN

  CHAPTER 19 - NORA

  CHAPTER 20 - BRIAN

  CHAPTER 21 - THOMAS

  EPILOGUE - TOMORROW

  A Note About Twas the Night before Christmas

  A CHRISTMAS WISH

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Copyright Page

  This one’s for . . .

  The Keene Family

  I will honor Christmas in my heart,

  and try to keep it all the year.

  I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future.

  —Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Welcome home to Linden Corners. I certainly feel that way, even though the village exists only in our minds. Many years ago I created the world of the windmill, populated with characters such as Brian and Janey and Annie and Gerta, as well as an assortment of local residents like Martha, Chuck, Marla and Darla, all of whom have become real over the course of two books.

  Writing again about the magical world of Linden Corners was not without its challenges. First, to tell a third story of the windmill—after Tilting at Windmills and A Christmas Wish—was worrisome to me; I didn’t want readers to suffer from overkill when it came to the village’s landmark . . . yet how I could not write about it when immersed in the world it enveloped? Second, I had already written about how special the Christmas season is to Brian and Janey, so what new traditions were there to discover during the holidays?

  Turns out, plenty. By opening up the story to include some characters new to Linden Corners—at least, the present-day village—the wealth of story and opportunity started to come together. In these pages you’ll meet new friends and get reacquainted with old ones, and rediscover that storytelling is endless, just like the revolutions of the windmill.

  So yes, welcome back; we may just meet again.

  PROLOGUE

  YESTERDAY

  Just as nobody knows the future, nobody need fear the past. So the only choice left was to live in the present, with a guiding light called hope leading you through your days. That’s how I see it, my dear, but of course that’s hardly news, not to you. You who knows me so well.

  Speaking of this elusive thing called hope, let me tell you about the place I’ve found . . . or is that rediscovered? A sense of promise lives here, inside waiting dreams, unwritten tomorrows. Powered by love and family and by the wintery whims of the wind, we called this magical little village Linden Corners. It’s a place that some are born to and never leave, while newcomers accidentally stumble upon its borders, soon charmed by its welcoming brand of community. And others, like me, we return to the land after many years away, looking for something that may no longer exist.

  But that’s getting ahead of myself. To understand now, you need to know about then.

  I remember that time of my life like it was yesterday, the details bright and colorful in my mind even as the photographs from those cherished moments were awash in sepia-faded tones. Nostalgia always seems steeped in the colors of black and white, silent and evocative, like an old film. Of course those memories were now decades old—as, inevitably, was I. So many years have passed, and while the world may have changed, the only constant in life as far I’ve discovered comes from the endless revolutions of the great windmill’s sails, standing proud against blue skies when I was a boy, remaining so in the same location all these years later, a piece of history alive today making fresh memories. I can hardly forget how those latticed sails spun in breezes both gentle and fierce, my young self imagining the turns of the old mill acting as the beating heart of Linden Corners, its blood flowing, inhabiting our souls.

  I was a red-faced newborn when I came home to live inside the warm farmhouse on the outskirts of Linden Corners. It had been in the Van Diver family for at least four generations, dating back more than one hundred fifty years, more time than any of us really chose to count. No one liked to acknowledge the passing of years, we are loathe to admit time’s continuous ticktock, all the while knowing it was never in our favor. All of this I knew, from the passage of the years, from a life mostly behind me.

  Now I have returned to this place I once called home, but somehow it appeared time had come to a complete halt. I am decidedly older, two months shy of my eighty-fifth birthday. It is a cool, late October night and Halloween will fast be upon us, the first of the holidays that will dot the calendar’s final push toward the New Year. The fruitful banquet that is Thanksgiving lurks just weeks later, a difficult time, as it is a celebration of family and I have none. And before long arrives the day folks endlessly prepare for, one so rich with spirit and yes, with hope, with gifts sealed, surprises hidden beneath bright shiny paper to await a child’s wide-eyed discovery. It is the day called Christmas, that special time of year when we acknowledge the birth of Christ. But also a day of joy for me, as it was to this sleepy village of Linden Corners where I was born, on a blustery, snowy, early Christmas morning, my parents receiving the one and only gift they ever truly desired—a child, a son. From the start I was a boisterous, wailing child who, as snowy drifts grew deep and white blankets coated the sidewalks, sent his echoing cry out over the land, down to the spinning sails of the windmill and beyond, into the frigid air, one more voice heard from in a world seeking the hope of tomorrow.

  I had been deemed the future of our tiny family, the firstborn male of a new generation, but as history would come to dictate I would remain the one and only. Here I was, Thomas Van Diver, an infant with a big name and big expectations, draped in swaddling clothes and brought to the farmhouse and its neighboring, spinning windmill. Home to Linden Corners and into the loving arms of two people who lived to share love and laughter. There would be many happy times inside the close comfort of our farmhouse, I do remember those, but there were troubled times and sad ones, too, and it was this lingering sense of sorrow that led to my family’s eventual departure from Linden Corners. Only now have I found my unsteady feet back on its rich soil all these decades later, in an effort to bring my life full circle. An effort to remember my past and embrace today, even as I seek answers to what the mysteries of tomorrow may bring. Life is filled with uncertainty, you can choose to embrace it or run in fear of it, and in the end you can only hope for the best.

  There’s that word again: hope.

 
Once upon a time I knew the meaning of that word.

  Then once upon another time life took it away from me, leaving a hole in my heart.

  My mind suddenly drifts to a simpler time. To my last Christmas in Linden Corners.

  “Thomas,” I heard my mother call to me, “where have you gotten off to?”

  She wasn’t really looking for an answer, as my all-knowing mother knew just where her mischievous son had hidden himself. Our harmless game of hide-and-seek always ended with the same result, me stashed behind cardboard boxes in the musty old attic. As her booming voice enveloped the strong walls of the farmhouse, I was busy climbing the steep wooden steps that led upstairs, where we stored all the memories of our little life. Her voice could stop an elephant, and for a moment I was brought to a stop on the third step, my destination just within my grasp.

  “What did I tell you about going into the attic—not today.”

  “I won’t peek, I promise,” I called back, my voice meek.

  No reply was forthcoming and I assumed I was in the clear to complete the final steps to my desired destination. But as I took that next step, I heard the sound of a throat clearing behind me. I turned, guilt coloring my face as red as Santa Claus’s suit. How had she gotten up here so fast, and without me even sensing her presence? Mothers, I had come to learn, were not unlike superheroes, gifted with their own powers of deduction, their own stealth approach.

  “Thomas, not today,” she said, her voice weary, almost tired.

  That was rare for Lisbeth Van Diver, a woman with an easy smile and a genial nature. Which is what gave me pause today, the lack of such poise. For a five-year-old boy whose world revolved around his parents and his isolated life inside this village, the idea that something was wrong sent a wave of worry over me. My lips began to tremble and I fought hard to keep tears at bay.

  “I’m sorry . . .” I started to say.

  “Shush now, just come down and help me in the kitchen, you can help ice the cookies,” she said. “You know, the ones your father so likes.”

  I quickly agreed to her request, making my way not only down the attic stairs but those that led to the ground floor, my stubby little legs trailing so close after my mother as though I’d been tethered to her. But I did sneak a look back upstairs, wondering about the attic’s secrets. With tomorrow being Christmas Day—and my birthday—it could be anything, a new bike or perhaps a set of model trains that I’d seen in the Sears catalog last month. Papa had let me cut out the colorful picture and it still hung over my bed, the bright red engine blowing its whistle only in my dreams. For a boy who lived a quiet existence, the idea of the unknown discoveries of the world called to me, set my heart beating. Wanderlust, I would later learn it was called, but at five I could barely pronounce such a big word much less understand its meaning.

  So I joined my mother in the kitchen and I spread sweet, sticky red icing on the sugar cookies, topping them off with a chunk of homemade white chocolate. My mother loved to bake, and she could often be heard singing as she worked to feed her family, lately Christmas carols. I loved the sound of her voice, a high soprano that was lilting and soothing, a memory that drew me back to the crib. But today she was quiet, and again I felt fear stab at me while looking up to observe her mood. She just kept working, decidedly focused. I took in the scene around me—Papa’s favorite cookies, Papa’s favorite meal of pot roast and roasted potatoes with gravy and boiling carrots, its scent filling the big kitchen.

  Wait a minute, my young mind protested, isn’t this my birthday, and as such, shouldn’t I be making my choice of cake and ice cream, deciding upon my favorite meal? Suddenly the room felt smaller, like our family had shrunk.

  “Mama, where’s Papa?” I asked hesitantly.

  “He’ll be home soon,” she said. And then, matter-of-factly, she said, “He has news.”

  Her tone told me everything I needed to know, even at that young age.

  News was shorthand for bad news.

  Papa arrived home an hour later, just shy of six o’clock that night. When he walked in, the cold air breezed in with him, and ordinarily Mama would tell him to close the door, we’re not heating all of Linden Corners. But tonight she was silent as that mouse in that old Christmas story as she accepted a tender kiss from him, one that lingered, as though each were savoring it. He tousled my hair, attempting a smile.

  “How’s my boy?” he asked.

  I looked up at him and like always, he seemed like a blond giant. Lars Van Diver was six feet two with a shock of thick hair that some might have called white, and tonight he loomed even larger, as though the distance between us had grown since last I’d seen him, just this morning. His coloring made him blend into the backdrop of the pale wallpaper in the dining room, the notion that he was gradually slipping away crawling inside myself. Instinct is a funny thing, it knows things before your mind does, and by the end of dinner, where I’d barely touched my pot roast, my fears were confirmed. Papa was going away.

  “Your father has been drafted, Thomas,” Mama said. “Do you know what that means?”

  “He has to fight in the war.”

  The year was 1942 and America had been thrust into the Second World War over a year ago, with the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. I was too young to fully understand, but I saw the pictures and bold headlines in the newspaper and heard the president talk on the radio, and if his meaning didn’t exactly sink in, his tone did. Dedicated men from all over the country were leaving behind their families to fight an enemy who seemed to dislike us overnight. Like a friend at school, now just a bully you wanted to avoid.

  There was no avoiding this, the war.

  “When do you have to leave?” I asked, my eyes reflecting the sadness present in my parents’ expressions. I was feeling selfish now, having been jealous of all of Papa’s favorite things, food and desserts, being served. Even my attempt to sneak into the attic had me feeling like I’d betrayed a trust. Was his leaving somehow my fault?

  “Tomorrow,” Papa said, “but not till the night. So I can report first thing on the morning of the twenty-sixth. Oh-six-hundred.”

  Mama explained that was military talk for six o’clock in the morning, but it didn’t sink in, my little self trying to process the sooner concept of “tomorrow.” Christmas Day, my birthday, perhaps the one day on the calendar set aside for family unity, a time for us to celebrate all we’d been blessed with. And now it came tinged with deeper meaning.

  “Thomas, why don’t you go play, let your father and I talk.”

  I agreed with a fair amount of reluctance and left the table, my dinner half-eaten. Even the sugary goodness of the cookies had lost their appeal. As I climbed upstairs to my room, I heard murmurs emanating from the dining room, Papa and Mama having a serious discussion. Finding my way to my bedroom, I closed the door and fell to the bed. I didn’t cry, I didn’t pout. I just lay there, thinking like I’d never done before, maturing as the minutes ticked away toward midnight, when Christmas would arrive, Santa bringing gifts, but taking Papa from me.

  Just then I clambered out of bed, running to the window. I stared up at the star-glistened sky, looking for Santa’s magical sleigh, led by its eight reindeer, listening for the familiar jingle of bells. But I heard nothing, just the wind. Across our expansive lawn, I looked down at the windmill as its sails turned. I thought I could hear them creak in the wind, so old and forgotten was the once-heralded windmill, an icon to a different time. We no longer farmed on the land, and as a result the windmill had lost its purpose, standing there against the landscape as though waiting to be rediscovered by someone else, a new family.

  That awful fear hit me again. With Papa going off to war, would Mama and I continue to live here, just she and I against the world? If we had to leave, would we travel by train, thus ensuring I’d be granted my wish of wanderlust? I thought about where Papa was going, very far away, to the other side of the world. I’d have to look at it on the globe we kept in the attic . . . and
so that’s what my mind quickly decided to do—against all common sense and previous warnings from Mama. I snuck out of my room and climbed the steps to the attic, just as I’d attempted only hours ago.

  How time can change your life.

  Earlier this afternoon I was blindly happy in my own innocence, the idea of brightly wrapped gifts dominating my thoughts as my birthday neared. Now, as the cold evening fell and darkness enveloped the farmhouse, life felt blacker, as though I’d just discovered that you don’t always get what you want, a hard lesson to learn at age five. Because in that attic I discovered not a new bicycle or that desired model train set. What I found was a thinly wrapped package. I picked it up, shook it. It made no sound, and why should it. I knew what it was: a book.

  “So, you found it anyway,” I heard.

  I looked up and there was Papa, on the top step.

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “I was just coming up for it,” he said.

  “Is this for me?”

  “It’s for all of us, the three of us,” he said, “it’s for our family.”

  For a time that night, the Van Diver family was one, the troubles of tomorrow forgotten for one special moment. Fluffy white snowflakes fell outside, coating the frozen land, and the cold wind impotently blew past our farmhouse, the three of us impervious to the elements as we sat around a crackling orange-tinged fire. Papa had made warm cider with cinnamon, and we drank from ceramic mugs and we ate Papa’s favorite sugar cookies, that last chunk of white chocolate the final morsel we would pop into our mouths. That’s how Papa preferred to eat them, and so of course that’s how I ate them. Our fresh Christmas tree smelled of pine and sparkled with lights and tinsel, giving the room a warm glow, a festive feeling. I knew it was just make-believe, like a stage set. But sitting in Papa’s lap, Mama close at our side, I felt the loving embrace of my parents and for one night I was assured all would be right.