There he found Dan and Annie’s wedding portrait, he in a tux and she in a simple white gown, nothing fluffy or extravagant, and he wasn’t surprised by this. Annie had been a simple woman in her tastes, elegant in an understated way, and so for her to shun decadence for love was in keeping with her spirit. Brian realized he was holding on to the frame for too long, his eyes focused on a happy couple, who should have had their whole lives ahead of them, neither knowing at the time how short their time together would be. Neither knew of the blessed young girl who would carry their traditions forward to a new generation, a new world. Neither knew how a stranger named Brian Duncan would figure into this family equation, as unlikely an event as Brian’s first sighting of the windmill along the Linden Corners landscape.
Near the bottom of the box, an object caught Brian’s attention, not because of what he saw but what he couldn’t. It was wrapped in paper, and as he carefully pulled it from its long hidden home, he recognized Christmas paper—faded red backdrop, a Christmas tree pattern designed all over; a simple tag was attached.
“To Janey, a gift to you from beyond the wind. Love, Dad.”
His heart heavy, Brian stifled a tear as he realized this was a gift nearly lost to history, a Christmas memory that had been trapped inside a piece of the past. Had Annie known of its existence, and if so, was she holding it back from Janey because the emotion would have been too much for her, for them? Which left Brian with a tortured dilemma. He was Janey’s legal guardian, and even if he wasn’t he still had her best interests at heart. And so he asked himself: Should he remove the old wrapping and see what Dan had intended to give his daughter, or should he just leave well enough alone and wait until Janey was older, more mature?
But that would mean Brian would be left with a sense of mystery about the gift, not able to get it out of his mind. Not just during the holiday, but every time he ventured into the attic or even just past the door, always he would be thinking, what is this gift . . . how would it impact her life? He had little choice, he had to find out what it was, and so he stripped the paper away to reveal a cardboard shirt box. Sliding a nail beneath the tape that held the box together, Brian finally had it open, drawing back the tissue paper to reveal . . .
His eyes flew open, his heart skipped a beat, a nervous tingle rippled across his back. He dropped the box to the floor, its precious content sliding out of the box. Brian stared down at the faded image of the one and only Santa Claus . . . his face filled with a jolly mirth, as though he were smiling directly at Brian and thanking him for finding him, releasing him.
“Oh my God,” he said.
Even without picking the book up, he could read its musty-looking cover: it stated The Night before Christmas, or A Visit from Saint Nicholas, and what was most unusual about the volume was Santa himself, dressed as he was in a green suit. Brian still couldn’t touch the book, his heart was pounding so furiously, because not only had he discovered a gift for Janey left to her by her deceased father, he had solved the mystery of Thomas Van Diver’s lost book. It had been in the farmhouse all this time, never having seen the light of day . . . never having been read for who knew how long.
Finally, with kid gloves, Brian took hold of the precious book. It was in good condition for such an old volume, and he supposed the paper wrapping and secure location inside the cardboard box had kept dust and air from further drying its pages. He opened the front cover, heard the spine creak as he did so, the binding challenged after so many years of being sealed. A piece of paper slid to the floor, but Brian paid it no mind, not now. Because, there on the first page was an inscription that captured his attention, a strong, handwritten script that was thankfully distinguishable after all these years. “For my son, Thomas, on his birthday, this book is for Christmases Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. With love, Papa.”
Brian set the volume down inside the box, keeping it safe. Then he retrieved the piece of paper that had fallen to the floor and read its contents. “My dearest Janey. For much of my childhood my father read this book to me every Christmas. It was discovered here in the farmhouse’s attic when we moved in, and has remained in the Sullivan family since. Now I give it to you to pass on to a new generation, a gift from another family who could no longer celebrate its future. For us, you and me and your treasured mother, that is all we will embrace, the notion that with tomorrow comes a special thing called hope. All my love, Dad.”
Brian couldn’t believe this unexpected discovery, not after all he’d heard about the book, from Thomas and from Nora, and all this time . . . it was here, inside the attic. He blinked away a tear as he realized this gift that Dan Sullivan had intended for Janey was not going to end up in her hands after all, because it belonged to Thomas, and it had been discovered just in time for Christmas Eve . . . no, correct that, it had been found on Christmas Eve, like a gift from Saint Nick himself.
A sudden sense of darkness fell over the attic, and Brian looked up to see if the bulb above him had blown. But no, he was still bathed in that yellow light, realizing the fresh coat of darkness was coming from outside. He moved over to the window, which faced west, and he looked out over a land that was encased in blackness. Not even the moon was visible from here, just a blank, black landscape. He couldn’t even see the windmill . . .
“Oh no . . .” he said.
He went running down the stairs and out through the back door, not even stopping to grab his coat. Into the cold of the early morning, his legs swept him across the land almost without touching, and when he reached the crest of the hill what he saw was that the windmill had been silenced, its white glow vanished. The wind had picked up, a strong force gale nearly blowing him over in his vulnerable state. Flakes of snow had begun to fall.
Christmas Eve had arrived, and with it had come a winter storm.
As though the wind had swept in one miracle, and taken with it another.
“You completely blew out the circuits.”
“Yeah, I could figure that part out myself.”
“So why’d you call me?”
“Because I need you to fix it, and fast.”
“Hmm, not sure I can.”
There was a reason Brian had never taken a liking to this guy, and he was trying his hardest right now not to strangle him, seeing as how it was Christmas Eve, time for goodwill toward men and all that other holiday gibberish. Brian was frustrated, to be sure, but Chuck . . . all of his comments were negative and carried a notion of cannot rather than can. While that was Chuck Ackroyd’s usual nature, it wasn’t what Brian wanted to hear on such an important day.
“Too many lights on the windmill, I told you that last year,” Chuck said. “Looks like you added a few more strings this year, so it’s no wonder the circuits failed. Even these little lights require power, despite their low wattage.”
“I get that,” Brian said. “But we’ve got a wedding here at four o’clock, sundown.”
“Gonna be hard to see everything,” Chuck said.
“No, it’s not. Because you’re going to repair it and get the windmill glowing again.”
“Doubt I have the parts. I can order them, but given the time of year probably won’t see them till after the New Year. So, Duncan, what’s your Plan B? Got any other ideas on how to light up your precious windmill?”
Plan B? Brian hadn’t even considered the possibility. He just stared at the darkened structure, denied even the bright glare of morning sunlight. Not with all the gray clouds hovering overheard, not with the snow falling. Brian’s mind was spinning, wondering what he was going to do. What was he thinking, helping to plan a wedding? He didn’t even know how to plan his own life, hadn’t that been his problem all these past months, wondering just what he was going to do after the new year? Helping to plan today’s holiday festival, capped by the wedding of Mark Ravens and Sara Joyner, had worked its wonder, kept him from digging too much into his own mind. But now, even this had failed. At this point, Mark and Sara would be saying their “I do’s” with candle
light.
With a determined clap on the man’s shoulders, Brian said, “Just do your best, Chuck. Get those lights burning so bright they cast Linden Corners in its own glow.”
Leaving him openmouthed around the silent windmill, Brian started off toward the farmhouse, his feet crunching through the snow.
Chuck called out, “Hey, wait, where are you going?”
“Like you said, I need to implement Plan B.”
What that plan was, he still had no idea. As he crested the hill, he could suddenly hear the telephone ringing from inside the house. He picked up his pace, tracking melting snow into the warm comfort, picking up the cordless hoping to still catch his caller.
“Hello?” he asked.
“Brian, hello, it’s your mother.”
“And your father.”
The latter voice hollered from the distance, though considering they were overseas Brian could say the same about his mother. He shouldn’t have been surprised to hear from them, for the Duncan family Christmas had always held its own special meaning, wrapped up as it was in the story of the ornaments adorned with their names. Still, to hear her voice, and on Christmas Eve, meant the world.
“We just wanted to call and wish you a merry Christmas,” Didi Duncan said.
“Thanks, to you, too,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Rome, some beautiful apartment right near the Colosseum, it’s really quite lovely.”
“I’m glad.”
“We’re going to try and make our way toward Vatican City, though I think half the world has that idea, too,” he heard his father announce. “You know, when in Rome and all that, as they say. The entire city is awash with white lights, gives Paris a run for its money, though I suppose it’s only this way for the holidays.”
“It reminds me of our old house back in Philly, doesn’t it, Kevin?” Didi asked. “The way the neighborhood was left so bright from the luminaries we would set out on Christmas Eve.”
“It’s one thing I miss,” he said. “Traditions are important.”
Great, now they were having a conversation with themselves, with him as a long-distance listener. Still, his silence gave his mind a chance to think, and what it saw were the flash memories of Christmas past his parents were talking about. An idea began to flow.
“Brian, dear, are you there?”
“Yes, sorry, just daydreaming,” he said.
“Well, daydream on someone else’s dime,” his father said, though with a laugh.
“Good-bye, Brian, and again, merry Christmas,” she said.
“Think of Phillip,” he said, and received back a studied silence before he heard the word, “Always.”
When he set down the phone, he found he needed to wipe a tear from his eye. Of course on this wondrous day he was thinking about his long-gone brother, Phillip, who instilled within the Duncans a holiday tradition that embraced family. Making his way to the living room, he turned on the bright bulbs of the Christmas tree he and Janey had decorated, sought out his name ornament, the green glass glistening against the tinsel. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but when he turned around he found himself faced by a small group of people. Janey, Bradley, and Cynthia with little Jake wrapped in her arms.
“Oh good, glad you’re all here,” Brian said.
“Why, what’s going on?” Cynthia asked.
“Why is the windmill turned off?” Janey asked.
“And why is Chuck down there?”
“We’ve had a slight setback,” Brian said. “So I need everyone’s help.”
“With what?”
“With pulling off a Christmas miracle.”
CHAPTER 19
NORA
Add a weekend day, plus a holiday, toss in a winter storm, it all equaled time off from work, and so Nora Connors was quite content on that Saturday Christmas Eve to relax under the toasty cover of her blankets, the minutes of morning ticking away without a tad of worry to spoil the peace. She was all set for Christmas morning—gifts were bought and wrapped, the decorations were up inside her mother’s house, the tree beautiful, the lights around the perimeter of the house glowing, the smell of pies and cookies already wafting up the stairs. There was nothing left to do but lounge around and enjoy this one-two punch of rest and relaxation, where she could sit quietly with a cup of tea and watch as the snow piled up.
The ringing of the doorbell downstairs announced that the world had other plans for her.
“Who could that be?” she asked, sitting up in bed, looking at the clock on the bureau. It was eight forty-four . . . five. As though that just-passed minute was a signal to her that a shift had occurred, peace had become chaos, a second, persistent ringing of the bell confirmation. She tossed back the covers, listened from atop the stairs as she heard a commotion in the foyer, a happy chorus of voices that told Nora it was more than a visitor . . . it was visitors. Certainly not carolers at such an early hour.
“Nora, Travis, are you awake? Come down, please,” she heard her mother call out. “Put on your robes, we have company.”
Just then Travis emerged from his room, wiping sleep from his eyes.
“What’s going on?”
“I suppose there’s only one way to find out,” Nora said.
Two minutes later, with robes wrapped around their bodies, she and Travis entered the living room to find Brian, Janey, and the Knights all sipping hot beverages, Gerta arriving from the kitchen with fresh toast and jam. Was this an impromptu breakfast, or had Nora not gotten the memo about another crazy Linden Corners holiday tradition? The Forty-Eighth Christmas Eve Toastacular, or something charmingly inane like that. She was about to ask what was going on when the doorbell rang again, and without waiting for it to be answered the door opened and in walked Martha Martinson and Elsie Masters. Now Nora knew this wasn’t any ordinary social call, from the looks on everyone’s faces it appeared to be a call to action.
“Good, you’re all here,” Brian announced, taking center stage in the room. “First, let me thank Gerta for making her house available as the staging area, we couldn’t meet at either the diner or the tavern, not with Mark and Sara potentially at either location. Seeing us all together like this, might sound some alarm that something’s wrong, that’s the last thing a bride and groom need on their wedding day.”
“Brian, what’s going on?” Nora asked.
“One second, Nora,” he said, turning his attention to Elsie. “Has Thomas left yet for the train station? He’s expecting you to drive him today, yes?”
“No and yes, so I can’t stay long, I need to get back. Fool weather be damned, I cannot let him down.”
“Don’t worry about it, you’ll stay here. I’m going to drive Thomas.”
“Oh well, this sounds intriguing. What can I do?”
“It’s what you can all do,” Brian said, explaining to the group how the lights on the windmill had blown last night and how doubtful Chuck was that he could repair it in time for the Christmas Festival, “and so, we need to come up with an alternate plan, and it’s going to take all of Linden Corners to come together and get it ready in time. Nora, in lawyer-speak, we need a change of venue, as romantic as the windmill would have been.”
“Got any bright ideas?”
“Yes,” Brian said. “See, that’s the key—bright. That’s what Sara wanted, a day of lights to brighten her wedding day. We’re going to host the festival at Memorial Park, and Father Burton will perform the ceremony there—inside the gazebo.”
“That’s a perfect choice,” Martha said, “if all this falling snow doesn’t bury it first.”
“So, Brian, tell us what we can do to help,” Gerta said.
“We need to turn our village square into a Christmas wonderland,” he said, and then, with a check of his watch, added, “and we’ve got less than seven hours in which to do it. So, Bradley, I need you to take charge of the decorations—Travis, how would you like to help him?”
“And me, too!” Janey piped up.
<
br /> “Fine by me,” he said. “Be good to have such sturdy troops.”
“And hey, I’ve got a great idea,” Travis said.
“What’s that, honey?”
“All of Mrs. Wilkinson’s ornaments . . . wouldn’t they look good on the trees in the park?”
The idea sparked a fresh discussion, and soon all of the assembled parties were talking and planning, Bradley jotting down notes and Martha interjecting with some comments of her own. As they made plans, Nora followed Brian into the kitchen.
“You got a job for me, too, Windmill Man?”
His grimace displayed his disappointment. “I’m hardly that, not today,” he said. “Of all the luck.”
“The universe is telling you something, Brian, sometimes you can’t pull off perfect,” she said. “Even in Linden Corners.”
“Now what kind of talk is that? Especially when I show you what I’ve found.”
It was the way his brown eyes danced in the glare of the overhead light that grabbed Nora’s attention. Setting down her coffee cup, she steeled herself for what further surprise awaited her on this unexpected morning. But when she saw it, when Brian opened up the box he’d put on the counter and placed the objects into her hands, she felt an electric spark pass through her. Like a piece of the past had shot forward into the present, leaving a heated trail between that world and this. She stared down at the book, and even as she read the title and realized what it was, her mind still refused to process it.
“But . . . where . . . how?”
“Believe it or not, it was in the farmhouse, packed away nicely in Dan Sullivan’s things,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything, but right now you need to get dressed because we need to get over to The Edge and gave Thomas his Christmas present—and we need to do it before he catches his train. In fact, I need to convince him not to leave, and I can only do it with your help. We need him for the Christmas Festival—and now that we have the book, I think we’ll be able to convince him.”
“Brian, this is just remarkable, I can’t believe this.”
A Christmas Hope Page 24