A Merry Little Christmas (Songs of the Season)

by Anita Higman

  “Hmph. Well, I suppose you’ll want to keep her in the main house along with Francine. Perhaps she’ll want to stay in the master bedroom and she’ll need her own personal maid too.” He shook his head. “You young people have such outrageous notions. You’re like the king who lets his peasants tell him how to sit and what to eat and where to sleep.”

  Give me strength, Lord…even if it’s just for dinner. And then, hopefully, he won’t want to spend the night.

  After an abbreviated version of the farm tour, Charlie steered his father toward the house. He was surprised that he didn’t put up an argument, but then perhaps the enticement of dinner sounded good, even if it wasn’t five courses.

  The minute they stepped into the enclosed porch, the aroma of home cooking greeted them.

  “Something smells good,” his father said, sounding a little less gruff.

  “Franny is a wonderful cook.” Good start. He’d find a special way to thank her later for all the peace offerings.

  The second they were in the kitchen, Franny met Charlie’s gaze and smiled. It was her attempt to encourage him, and it succeeded…at least a little. She and Noma were both working, running back and forth from the kitchen counters to the table with heaping plates of food—steak, mashed potatoes, and peas. “I’m glad you’ve come in. Supper’s ready.”

  “Smells wonderful, Franny.” Her face had a smudge of flour on it, and he wanted to brush it off with a kiss, but he also knew it wouldn’t be the best timing for a display of affection. So, he just helped her by toting the basket of biscuits and the bowl of homemade butter to the table.

  “This farmhouse never did have a dining room. I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen,” Franny said to Mr. Landau.

  “This is fine.”

  “Please, go ahead and sit down, all of you,” Franny said, taking off her apron. “I think it’s all on the table now.”

  Mr. Landau pulled out the chair at the head of the table—the only chair that had arms—and sat down with enough regal pomp to impress royalty. “You don’t dress for dinner?”

  “No.” Charlie sat next to his father. “It’s easier to keep my overalls on, since I’ll have to go back out later and do a few more chores.”

  “Oh,” was all his father replied.

  Franny pulled out the chair at the opposite end from Mr. Landau and stood behind it. “Noma, you are also a guest this evening, so this is your spot.”

  Noma glanced around the room and then backed away. “I don’t think—”

  The scowl his father wore appeared to be keeping Noma from sitting down, so Charlie shot him a supplicatory expression. His father smiled, but something ran under the surface of his expression that told Charlie his tolerance for being maneuvered was close to the edge.

  Mr. Landau looked over his glasses at Noma. “Miss Jefferson, the sooner you sit down, the sooner we can taste this fine cooking.”

  When Franny didn’t appear to have any intention of sitting down until her friend was seated properly, Noma took off her apron, placed it on the counter, and slipped onto the seat.

  Franny gave Noma’s shoulders a squeeze and sat down across from Charlie.

  Noma readjusted herself in the chair—and, as Franny might say, Noma looked as comfortable sitting across from Mr. Landau as a worm dangling in front of a catfish.

  “Charlie, do you want to say grace?” Franny smiled at him.

  That was what he needed—grace—a truckload of it. “Sure.” Charlie bowed his head, wondering how the words should come out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  When the meal was almost over, Mr. Landau cleared his throat. “Charlie, as you know, I have something I want to discuss about the farm.”

  Charlie cleared his throat even more loudly than his father. “Yes, I know, but there’s something I need to say first. I know what you’re proposing, and I think under normal circumstances it might be a good business move.”

  “Might be? Please explain.” Mr. Landau ate the last bite of his second helping.

  “Well, first of all, I’ve been listening to the farm-and-market report, and hog prices are so low that this might not be the best time to start a large operation with a commodity that’s doing so poorly in the marketplace.” He felt like a coward, skirting around the main issue, but at least the report wasn’t a lie.

  “Yes, yes, I heard the same report.” His father waved him off. “Old news…but I’ve consulted with an expert in the business, and he says—”

  “What?” Charlie put up his hands. “He says what, Father?”

  Franny swallowed her food, and the sound of it could be heard across the table.

  Noma dabbed at her neck with her napkin.

  “Look, no matter what you do about the hogs, I still think you should utilize that fallow land. It would be to our advantage.” His father locked eyes with him.

  Charlie gripped his utensils until his fingers went stiff. “True, but there is another factor to consider.”

  His father lifted his glass of sweet tea but didn’t drink as he waited for Charlie to continue. Charlie glanced at Franny, who was busy buttering her biscuit—for the second time. He gave her a wink.

  She smiled back at him but absently reached for a third dollop of butter.

  “And what could it be?” his father asked. “This other factor?”

  “Well, we’ll keep running the farm, but I’ve also found a shop in town…one I’m interested in running. The owner is selling, and I’ve already told him I’ll make him an offer.” Charlie set his napkin down. Dinner was over. At least it was for him.

  “Oh, really? And what kind of business is it, son?”

  Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a music store.”

  Mr. Landau ran the tips of his fingers along the edge of the table. “Well, I thought we’d been through this before.”

  “We have, but my side of the story has yet to be heard.” Charlie glanced at his father but then looked away.

  Mr. Landau folded his napkin, and with ominous formality, he set it next to his plate.

  They were at an impasse in the road with no sign of a detour.

  Everyone stopped eating. Except for a hum from the refrigerator, all else went quiet.

  “Pumpkin pie anyone?” Franny rose. “Noma was good enough to go into town for some ice milk to go on top.”

  “No, thank you,” his father said. “Charles, we should discuss this in private.”

  “I think this is a good place to talk,” Charlie said.

  Noma rose. “I should go now, since—”

  “You’re welcome to stay, Noma.” Charlie motioned to her chair. “Please.”

  Noma clasped her fingers around her throat and slowly sat back down.

  “Well, now, Charles, you’ve got your allies around you, so I guess we may proceed.” He made an exasperated gesture with his hands and turned to Franny. “Miss Martin, I can’t imagine—”

  “You’re welcome to call me Franny.” She took her seat.

  “Miss Martin, surely you don’t approve of this scheme that Charles has cooked up. The farm has always been your life. You did, of course, seek a wayward life of music recently, but you insisted that you’d made a blunder—that you’d learned a valuable lesson in the process. Wasn’t this the impassioned little sermonette you gave at my house?”

  “Not my exact words, but yes.” Franny fingered her uneaten biscuit. “But the experience…my blunder…didn’t lessen my love for music. It’s difficult to reject a God-given dream outright. It keeps rising up until we follow through with it. And your son and I do have a plan.” She gave Charlie a beseeching “please-give-me-a-hand” look.

  “We do have a strategy, sir,” Charlie said. “If we continue to lease out the wheat land and cut back on our herds, we would have time to manage the store. And too, Noma has agreed to work with us. With her help, there should be no problem with being able to get all the work done.” No matter how rational the idea had sounded earlier—now
when he placed it before his father like an innocent sacrifice—it looked weak and blemished.

  “Time has nothing to do with it,” his father said, impatience seeping into his tone. “It has to do with our ultimate objective, and that is for you to work at Landau Enterprises. This has been our understanding since you were thirteen.”

  Charlie stacked his dishes. “The owner, Mr. Finnegan, let the music store languish some, but with some advertisement and a little more merchandise I think it could succeed. It’s the only music store in this whole area, so I think…”

  “You didn’t hear me at all.” His father glanced around the table with a look of incredulity. “Not a word.”

  That is how I’ve felt all my life.

  His father stood up from the table, allowing his chair to scrub across the floor, which made a wrathful sound. “I am appalled at this turn of events.” He turned to face Franny. “And you, young lady—I thought you’d come to your senses about this great offense done to your parents, trading in your heritage as if it were a used automobile. You sold off your inheritance, what your parents sacrificed to give you. You walked away from it, selling it all to my son with no debate or any thought. Just like Esau, who didn’t bother to fight for his birthright. Where was your grateful spirit for this legacy? Where was your understanding of the lifeblood—”

  “Father.” Charlie ground his fingernails into his palms. “I don’t think you—”

  Franny put up her hand. “It’s all right, Charlie. I don’t mind answering your father’s questions. They’re valid.” She closed her eyes for a second and then said, “I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Landau, and you have a good point. I’ve had all these same thoughts, and I have grieved about it.” She licked her lips. “But I have to live with my mistakes, and they were mine to make. I believe my parents would have respected that. They enjoyed having me by their side, working on the farm, but they also raised me to be independent in my reasoning and free to follow my heart.”

  “Hmph.” His father smoothed his tie and took a step back from the table. “I hear a lot of ‘feels right’ and ‘free’ in your rebuttal and a copious amount of ‘me.’ It’s the way of youth today, and such foolhardy behavior will not to be tolerated in my house.”

  Franny sat quietly, but Charlie knew his father’s words must have struck her like an iron rod.

  Charlie glared at his father. “Sir, you owe Franny an apology. I think—”

  “You’re mistaken. I owe nothing to anyone. It is you who owes me.” He turned back to Franny. “Thank you for the meal. I will be driving back to the city now.” And then, without even acknowledging Noma, he snatched up his leather folder on the kitchen counter and strode out the back door.

  Charlie looked at Noma and then at Franny. “I’m sorry. I never meant for—”

  “It’s all right.” Franny reached across the table and placed her hand over his.

  Noma gathered up the dishes. “Your father seems to be a man with more purpose than peace. I’m sorry he’s causing you so much pain.”

  “Thank you for that, Noma.” Charlie rose from the table. “Excuse me. I’ll walk him out to the car to say good-bye.”

  Franny nodded.

  Once outside, Charlie ran to catch up with his father, who was already sliding into his car. “Isn’t there some way we can work this—”

  “Now you listen to me.” His father slapped the leather folder against his hand. “There will be no more talk of this music store. And there will be no more talk of marrying Miss Martin. You will do as I say, and that is all.”

  “Father, I’m a grown—”

  “Upp! No more. This is your final warning. If you buy this music store and marry that woman, I have the power to—”

  “Yes, I know. You have the power to disinherit me. I’m willing to accept it if you—”

  “No. I knew cutting you out of my will wouldn’t be enough to deter you from your nonsense, so I’m ready with another plan, one which will enable you to see more readily the error of your ways.” He punched the back of his hand into his palm. “If you follow through with your plans I will be placing your brother in a mental institution, only it won’t be for a weekend. It will be for years. The director and I are friends. He owes me a great deal. And once I say that your brother is a danger to himself and to others, they will lock him away. And my attorney, Jerald Winslow, will make certain it sticks. Do you understand me now?” His voice dissolved into a hiss.

  “You can’t mean that. I know you’ve never really loved us, and you’ve been harsh at times. But I never thought you were capable—”

  “You are wrong on all accounts. All of this I do for love, not with any malicious motive. Someday when you’re no longer full of reckless behavior and this weak-mindedness, you will thank me. Someday you’ll know what I’ve done. What I’ve forfeited for you.” He leaned toward Charlie. “Sometimes we have to do what is radical for the ultimate good of the beloved.”

  “But, Willie…he would die in there in that awful place.” Charlie struggled to absorb what his father was proposing. His father’s words seemed jumbled and his logic perverse.

  “No, he would not. He would probably gain some muchneeded clarity!” His father touched the birthmark on his cheek. It had gone blood-red.

  “You can’t mean this. It’s Christmastime. Don’t you have any mercy?”

  “Of course your brother won’t be going to the institution, because I know you’ll do as I say. However, if you think for one minute that I don’t mean what I’ve promised this evening, just try to become engaged to that woman or buy that music shop. It will all come to pass just as I have said, but if there is any guilt to be suffered, it will be yours and yours alone. Now please remove your hands from the car door.”

  Charlie hadn’t realized he’d been grasping the door or that his hands had gone numb. He eased his fingers away and said no more. He’d learned from past experience that when his father got into one of his certainties, there was no talking him out of it, especially when he got his personal attorney involved. The attorney was, of course, the best in the city and a force to be reckoned with.

  The engine purred to life and his father drove away into the night, leaving Charlie immersed in grief.

  Had his father lost his mind? This went far beyond his usual manipulations. How could any lucid person say what had just come out of his mouth? How could anyone confuse evil with love?

  God, why is this happening? In Your grand scheme of things, couldn’t there have been a better way? If one parent had to die, why couldn’t it have been his father? Charlie hated himself for the thought. It felt natural to think that way but also heartless—just like his father.

  Charlie felt trapped with the ultimatum. How would he face Franny? He’d just declared his love to her. In his heart, he’d already proposed, and he knew she could sense his commitment simply by looking into his eyes. From every angle, the situation appeared to be hopeless.

  He couldn’t go back to the house. Not yet. Not until he’d figured things out. He needed a long walk in the fresh air. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and strolled around the farmyard aimlessly.

  Charlie meandered here and there, doing the chores and punting dirt clods across the yard as he shouted questions toward the heavens. When he finished those activities, he found an old golf club in the trunk of his car and whacked at cow pies in the full light of the moon until his arm ached. His roving and trouncing landed him in front of the windmill. He stared up at the tower, the blades, and the all-important wind vane, which kept the whole contraption facing the very thing that powered it. Franny said it was “for when the rains wouldn’t come.” Hmph. Good way to describe the Landau family legacy.

  A gust of air made the windmill groan as it turned into the wind. The sudden wailing conjured up a scene from his youth—the time his brother was seventeen and had just come back from his first stay at the mental institution. Willie had been terrified. The peculiar reason Willie was a
dmitted in the first place came from a bout of what his father called waywardness. Charlie released an anger-laced chuckle. His father had asked Willie once again to give up his art to accept a career at Landau Enterprises. Willie refused, so he was harassed and manipulated until he agreed with his father that he was depressed enough to check himself into the institution. No one could ever get away from their father’s assaults. One became a fugitive with no place to hide.

  On an impulse, Charlie grabbed hold of the windmill’s ladder and climbed the metal rungs to the top. He got a little shaky on the last step, but the view was amazing, as from an eagle’s nest. He could see more clearly up there, breathe more easily, even though his legs quivered. There on top, looking out over the farm world and beyond, Charlie made a pledge to his brother—that he would work harder to protect him from their father. And he knew no career dream or hope for love would ever make him break this familial vow.

  But could God provide a way out of such a moral dilemma? Was there a way to sidestep such a tragic plan? What if he hired his own attorney to fight his father? What about giving the news to a hungry journalist who might want to make the most of it? The story was sensationalistic to say the least. Once everyone knew about the threats, his brother would surely be free.

  But if it exploded into an epic family battle and was accompanied with scandalous publicity, what kind of toll would that take on Willie? Would it be even more painful in the long run than the alternative? He had no idea, and the not knowing was maddening.

  There, under the bright stars and the heavens he’d just railed against, Charlie wept—not for his loss, but for the sadness Franny would feel when nothing changed. When he didn’t follow through with the purchase of the music store, and when his promise of love never progressed into marriage. She would wonder what had happened to change his mind. How could he tell her the truth?

  Sickened with heartache and cold to the bone, Charlie slowly made his way back toward the house.