A Merry Little Christmas (Songs of the Season)

by Anita Higman

  It took a second for the misfortune to register. Oh my. What have I done? Broken a family heirloom? A rare antique. A priceless relic! The horror of what she’d done struck her, and she nearly doubled over with pain. How would she ever tell Charlie? Since she couldn’t replace the treasure, Mr. Landau would surely order her out of the house. The incident made her feel as though she didn’t belong in such an elegant world—Charlie’s world.

  On the other hand, how could the clock have broken so easily? Well, no matter the consequences, sometime during the evening she would have to find the right time to tell Charlie what she’d done.

  Franny gently placed the broken clock on a shelf and closed the closet door, reprimanding herself for her inquisitiveness and wishing she had a bobby pin for a good chew. What had Momma always told her about her habit of nosing around in other people’s things? That it would get her into trouble one day. Guess that day arrived.

  She looked at a clock on one of the end tables, not even daring to touch it, and read the time. In five more minutes she would meet Charlie in the dining room.

  The remaining minutes gave her time to study the room from a safe distance with her hands folded safely in her lap. The bedroom was no less than a masterpiece of beauty and elegance. The furnishings would make even the most levelheaded woman drool over all the loveliness.

  Was she falling for the opulence and the romantic living that would come from great wealth, where anything seemed possible? The thought struck her as superficial but honest. It reminded her of a passage from a Jane Austen novel she’d once read—Pride and Prejudice. When the heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, first admitted to falling in love with Mr. Darcy, it seemed to be connected to the moment she saw the beautiful grounds at Pemberley. Was that admission a flaw in Lizzy’s character, and if so, was Franny succumbing to the same weakness?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The various courses of dinner went well and were only fraught with minor hiccups. Mr. Landau had insisted that Charlie be seated across from Franny throughout the dinner instead of next to her. Even though Charlie didn’t seem too happy about the request, he recovered and was jovial in general, especially when he looked her way.

  Charlie looked like a prince, adorned in his double-breasted jacket, but she hoped the formalwear wasn’t too appealing on him since Sylvie was seated right next to Charlie.

  The supper itself came off spectacularly, like a fantastical dream, one Franny knew she would never forget. She’d done her best not to embarrass Charlie in front of his father, and hopefully, she’d accomplished her goal. All that remained of the evening was to consume the dessert—individual red-velvet cakes, each adorned with a chocolate swan.

  The way the guests escorted her into the conversation with such cordiality astonished Franny, and the fact that Charlie’s father didn’t seem to mind his son having affection for a woman with such humble beginnings was also a welcome surprise.

  On a more realistic level, it felt too good to be true, like fleecy clouds concealing a cyclone. Franny took the last sip of her coffee and let her shoulders relax. Of course, she still had to figure out a way to tell Charlie about the broken clock. That thought took some of the sweetness out of the cake.

  “I have one last question for you, Francine. About the farm.” Mr. Landau dabbed at his mouth with his linen napkin. “Charlie mentioned a large orchard and garden on the farm. Do you take advantage of this commercially?”

  “No.” Franny set down her fork. “I’ve never sold the produce.”

  “And why is that? You can’t eat it all by yourself.” Mr. Landau chuckled but seemed to focus all of his attention on her reply.

  Perhaps he wanted to top off the evening with his toughest questions. “I’ve continued my father’s tradition of giving away the surplus fruits and vegetables to the needy in town.”

  Sylvie raised her cup in Franny’s direction, making her dangling snowflake earrings shimmer. “Well, I think it’s commendable, Francine. Here, here. I would do the exact same thing…that is, if I had a charitable heart.”

  Chuckles trickled through the room.

  Mr. Landau stroked his beard, ignoring Sylvie’s lighthearted comment. “It’s generous of you, Miss Martin, but if you do this service for the locals year after year after year, won’t you hurt them more by keeping them in ignorance? How will they ever learn to take care of themselves? It will no longer be charitable but an impediment to their education.”

  Franny took a sip of coffee to swallow the cake that had lodged a complaint in her throat. “I see your point. And it is a good one.”

  “Thank you. Now don’t disappoint me. I know you have a rebuttal.” Mr. Landau’s voice seemed buoyant enough, but something in his eyes appeared foreboding. Was it her imagination?

  Charlie offered her an encouraging smile.

  “It’s just that the people I’ve helped over the years, well, many of them work hard. I’m not giving the nod to slovenly behavior or taking away their desire to work; I’m just trying to have some compassion for people who aren’t given a reasonable wage. It’s the employers who are in need of an education on ways not to be so scrooge-like.” Franny set the cup down, since her hand was about ready to shake the coffee right out of the dainty cup.

  “Bravo.” Mr. Landau patted his hands together in silent applause. “Your reasoning is faulty, of course, since even Jesus said the poor will always be with us, but you have such sagacity and conviction it’s hard not to applaud.”

  Franny’s jaw twitched in indignation, but she kept a civil tone. “It’s rude to argue with one’s host, but I think you’re taking the Lord’s words out of context.” In her flustered state, she dropped her napkin on the floor.

  Barkley reached down and picked it up with some formality and handed it to her with a wink. She had no idea what that was all about.

  Charlie made a wad of his napkin and set it next to his untouched dessert. “Father, we’ve all grilled Franny enough for one evening, don’t you think?”

  Perhaps Franny had missed Charlie’s rising emotions. Apparently she had, since he looked like he was about to blow.

  “Now, Charles, the banter was all done in the spirit of fun.”

  “Well, perhaps Franny could do with a little less of the Landau brand of entertainment.”

  Mr. Landau ignored his son’s comment and said, “As the guests in this room know, I don’t enjoy the company of a great number of people, so you are an anomaly, Miss Martin.”

  Barkley raised his glass. “Well, here’s to this evening’s lovely anomaly.”

  Everyone chuckled, including the other two guests, Horace and Harriet—the pensive ones. They raised their glasses like dutiful guests. Franny suddenly felt more naive than brave. An anomaly meant irregular, after all. She looked at the tiny swan on her plate. Franny had been saving the best for last, but seeing the hapless expression on the bird’s chocolate face, she couldn’t devour it after all.

  Mr. Landau scooted his chair back. “Charles, it’s getting too late to travel back, so you’ll both need to spend the night. Separate wings, of course. I think you said you have someone watching over the farm until tomorrow. If that’s the case, then you both may have breakfast here and get an early start in the morning.”

  “Fine.” Charlie scooted his chair back.

  “Glad you all could come this evening.” Mr. Landau rose from the table and everyone did the same, as if the final curtain had now come down and the theater was closing.

  Mr. Landau’s audience of six said their pleasantries and good-nights, and then Charlie took Franny by the arm and whisked her down a long corridor.

  “Charlie, what is it?” Franny held on for dear life as he propelled her down the hallway without saying a word.

  Charlie opened the doors to what looked like a large family library.

  Franny strolled inside and glanced around at the sumptuous room, which was complete with its own flocked Christmas tree. How lovely. She walked over to it and touched one of t
he snowy boughs. Hundreds of multicolored bubble lights illuminated the tree. It was enthralling to watch the bubbles dance as they moved up the little tubes. She’d seen such newfangled decorations in the stores but had never been able to afford any of it. Seeing the tree, though, brought back sweet memories of holidays on the farm—the laughter around the kitchen table as they made handmade ornaments, the snow melting on her cheeks as she and her father chose that one special tree, the candlelight service on Christmas Eve, and her mother’s never-ending flow of wassail. She sighed, missing it all.

  Franny sat on the sofa, which was situated cozily in front of a great stone fireplace. A low fire popped and crackled pleasantly, creating a festive mood…not to mention a romantic air.

  “I thought the dinner would never end.” Charlie unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. “I don’t think I could have endured my father badgering you for another minute.”

  “It was all right.” Franny rested back on the cushy divan. “I was beginning to get used to it.”

  “That is the last thing I want, for you to have to get used to my father’s bullying.” Charlie paced the floor a few times.

  Franny patted the seat next to her, and he melted into a smile.

  Charlie sat down. “I’m just so glad to have you by myself for a moment to talk. Barkley and Horace were so busy falling in love with you, I didn’t get a chance.”

  “To talk or fall in love?” Franny grinned.

  “Neither.”

  Oh, how Charlie could make a girl smile.

  Charlie went over to the hearth, threw a few more logs on the sputtering flames, and poked at them until the logs blazed.

  “Where did the fire come from?” Franny got up from the sofa and sat down on the floor near the fireplace.

  “I told one of the housekeepers we’d need one after dinner.”

  Just like that. “This is such a different way of life than the farm.”

  “I know, but I don’t mind the work out there. It’s freeing.” Charlie sat down next to her on the rug and touched her gloved hand. “And I don’t mind building my own fires.”

  Franny chuckled. It was obvious he was trying to be amorous, but her mirth from the apparent joke could not be squelched. “Well, you do have a way with fires.”

  Charlie appeared puzzled, and then he chuckled. “I dug a hole for myself on that one, didn’t I? The barn. The fire. Right. I am very good at building my own fires.”

  Franny wilted inside. How could she be so cruel? She needed a harness on her tongue. “That was an unmerciful thing to say. I’m sorry I brought it up, especially—”

  Charlie tugged on the sleeve of her taffeta dress. “It’s all right. It really is.” He removed his jacket and laid it on a chair. “By the way, right before dinner I told my father what happened…about the fire.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not a word, but I could see his look of disapproval.”

  “I’m sorry about your father. And I’m sorry I laughed just now.” Franny reached out and gave his arm a solid squeeze. “I’m way too outspoken. Will you forgive me?”

  Charlie looked at her. “There is nothing to forgive, my dear.”

  My dear? Oh my. That sweet talk went down like cream on freshly picked mulberries. No one except her parents had ever called her by such an endearing name. A quiet settled between them—the good kind. Franny could almost imagine a lifetime of Charlie’s nearness. It was getting easier to envision all the time. But she needed to ask him a question—one that had been fermenting like pickle juice all evening, and one that had the potential to be more uncomfortable than the loss of a dilapidated old barn. And much more uncomfortable than the porcelain clock she’d broken. “Charlie, there is another kind of fire we should talk about.”

  “Yes?” Charlie scooted closer to her. “I’d love to hear more about this topic.”

  Franny covered his hand with hers. “I think Sylvie is still in love with you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Oh, that.” The last thing Charlie wanted to talk about was an old flame. He’d been working steadily to get Franny alone all evening, so chitchat about Sylvie was more than superfluous; it was irksome.

  However, the idea that Franny seemed concerned about his earlier dating life was a favorable sign. “Sylvie only thinks she’s in love with me. Her daddy’s trust fund gave her too much freedom, so she’s had more money than purpose. For the last few years she’s been like a mighty ship at sea—a great force of power with very little rudder. But you gave her an idea tonight. Something she could think about, something she could write about. A real purpose.”

  “I didn’t do it to distract her from you. It was just an idea.”

  Charlie pulled back at the thought of it. “Of course not. You’re not a manipulating kind of woman. And I would know. I’ve seen plenty of them in action over the years, believe me.” He gazed into her smiling eyes. “Besides, I don’t love Sylvie. I never did.”

  Franny made little circles on the rug with her finger. “But I hope her heart isn’t still hurting.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think she loves whatever man is in the room at the time. Did you notice how she also doted on Barkley at dinner? As well as Harriet’s date?”

  “Perhaps Sylvie was trying to make you jealous. I’m not completely ignorant of the wiles of women, you know.” Franny raised her chin, but the gesture only made her look all the more innocent.

  Charlie wrapped his arms around his knees. “What you don’t know is that, months ago, Sylvie was the one who dropped me. Not the other way around. Of course it came at the right time, and so I was grateful to her.”

  “You don’t think she’s changed her mind?”

  “No. She just loves drama in every form. And for her to cling to the notion that there’s still something lingering between us is perfect theater for the heart. She’s a writer, after all. She lives for witty dialogue and intriguing interludes, real or imagined.”

  Franny grinned. “I know it’s silly for me to bring it up. It’s just, there we were, kissing and all, and then there she was, watching us in the doorway as if she wanted to be the woman on the bench kissing you instead of me.”

  “I promise, Sylvie will be fine. It’s very thoughtful of you to worry about her, though.”

  “But it’s more than that. I’m glad she’ll be all right, but I was asking for selfish reasons too.”

  “Selfishness in Franny. I can’t believe it.” Charlie pretended mock horror.

  Franny looked at her gloved hands, which were folded on her lap. “At supper I’m sure it was easy to make a comparison between Sylvie and me. She’s so glamorous, and I’m so…well, not nearly as stylish or dazzling. At the table tonight, Sylvie must have looked like a peacock sitting across from a chicken.”

  Charlie tipped his head back, laughing.

  “Hey, it wasn’t that funny.”

  “I’m sorry, but…” Charlie had to catch his breath from the laughter. Franny had no idea how pretty she was, and that made her even more attractive. “May I say, you are no chicken, not in mind, body, or spirit. And even though you are beautiful, you are no peacock. I have no use for them anymore. They know how to strut around, but that’s about it. All their flouncing gets tiresome. And besides, Sylvie has a mustache.”

  “She does not.” Franny laughed and gave him a little shove.

  “Can we talk about something besides Sylvie now? Please?”

  “Well, what do you want to talk about?” Franny’s eyes seemed to drift just behind him to an end table. He looked where she was staring and noticed the crystal bowl of truffles. “Would you like one?”

  Franny nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “You have quite the sweet tooth, don’t you?”

  She grinned. “You noticed.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen anyone dig into a slice of red-velvet cake the way you did this evening.”

  “Sorry, that wasn’t very ladylike.”

>   “Times are changing. Who’s to say what is ladylike? Some people would say that farming isn’t ladylike, but then they’d have to argue with me.” Charlie handed her the bowl and Franny took one of the wrapped truffles. She set the candy in her lap and fiddled with the buttons on her gloves. “I don’t want to get chocolate on these lovely gloves. Although I hate to take them off.”

  “Why?”

  “They hide my awful hands. In case you haven’t noticed I have farm hands. My fingernails aren’t manicured, and they don’t have pretty red polish like I saw on the other women tonight. They’re—”

  “Here, allow me.” Charlie turned Franny’s hand over, unbuttoned the three tiny buttons at her wrist, and then with excruciating slowness eased the black lace glove off her hand. Charlie gave the same attention to her other hand, all the while leaning closer to her, so by the time the other glove slid off, Franny seemed to have forgotten all about her lack of polish and the chocolate truffle.

  “You might find it interesting to know that some women never allow their hands to be seen uncovered. They even wear sleeping gloves made of silk,” Charlie whispered into her ear. “And I want you to know, it’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  Franny giggled. “But I wonder…”

  “Yes?” He brushed her cheek with his lips.

  Her mouth parted, but her usual resolve to verbalize her opinion faltered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX