Home for the Holidays

by Rebecca Kelly

  “It’s only what I deserve for sitting here daydreaming.” Jane came to join her at the sink, but her smile seemed a little dim. “What’s this for? You’re not having the girls bob for apples in this weather, I hope. They’ll need to chip a hole in the ice first.”

  Alice chuckled at the image. “No, we’re hoping to collect some donations after the caroling for our Christmas mission.” As she filled the kettle with water, she gave her sister a sideways glance. “You were a million miles away when I came in here.”

  “Yes, and it was much warmer where I was. I want to go back.”

  Alice was not fooled by her casual explanation. “Something bothering you?”

  “Nope.” Her younger sister squared her shoulders and picked up two potholders in order to move the pans from the cooling racks to the table. “How about I ruin your lunch with one of these? They’re German chocolate brownies with coconut and pecan frosting. Guaranteed to make your taste buds sing a Wagner aria.”

  “Maybe I’ll have one for dessert.” Alice turned off the water and added a squirt of dishwashing liquid to the kettle. In a nonchalant way, she added, “So what did you get Louise for Christmas? You never did tell me.”

  “A complete set of Peter Rybar and Marcelle Daeppen’s classical duets on CD,” she said. “He was a famous Czech violinist, and she was a pianist and his wife. I thought it might remind her of happier times, when she played duets with Eliot.”

  “I’m sure she will love it.” She picked up the scrub pad and went to work on the kettle. “You always find the most unusual gifts for people, and yet they’re so appropriate.”

  “That gorgeous piano shawl you found for Louise made me green with envy,” Jane confessed. “The colors, the silk fringe, everything about it is just so Louise.”

  “I thought so too.” She rinsed the soapy water from the kettle. “Christmas gifts should be special, don’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I think they should be tailored to people’s tastes too. Like the shawl with Louise—you know she’ll love that.”

  “Of course she will. She was admiring one just like it in a catalog a few weeks ago.” Jane stopped cutting the brownies and looked at her. “Uh-oh, I’ve talked myself into a corner, haven’t I?”

  “Just a small one.” Alice smiled. “You have been a bit evasive about what sort of gifts you’d like for yourself, you know.”

  Jane glanced back over her shoulder. On the wall over the kitchen table, Louise had recently hung a photo of Daniel Howard with the three of them when they were girls.

  “Do you remember when that picture was taken?” she asked, nodding toward it.

  Alice studied it. A very young Jane was dressed in a green velvet jumper and had her dark hair in tiny, lopsided pigtails tied with red ribbons.

  “Yes, I think I do. That was at one of the Sunday school Christmas parties. Father had Henry Ley dress up as Santa to take pictures with the children, but you flatly refused to go near him.”

  Jane frowned. “I’m trying to imagine myself being afraid of Santa—or Henry—and I’m failing.”

  “You weren’t afraid. You told Henry straight out that you knew that he wasn’t the real Santa because he didn’t have any reindeer parked on the roof.” She sighed. “The only way we could coax you in front of the camera was to let you sit on Father’s knee instead of Henry’s.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Jane said, her voice a little sad. “It seems like there are so many things I’ve forgotten or I missed.”

  Alice recalled a discussion during dinner with her sisters and Aunt Ethel several days earlier. They had spoken of Christmases Jane had only barely remembered. “Honey, did we make you feel left out when we were reminiscing the other night?”

  “No, I love listening to your stories.” Jane leaned against the counter and scrubbed at a nonexistent spot. “I miss Father. I miss having Christmas with Father, and you and Louise too. You know, I can clearly recall only about eleven of the Christmases I spent at home with the family.”

  “You counted them?” Alice had never done that and was a little disturbed to know that Jane had.

  “When you’re far from home, all you have are your memories.” She shrugged. “It just seems like my childhood raced by in a flash and then it was over. So many Christmases since then have felt hollow and, well, pretty meaningless.”

  “Is that why you’re working yourself into exhaustion every day?” She gestured around the kitchen. “Is this your way of trying to recapture those memories? The fact is we never spent all day in here baking.”

  “I know.” She looked at the brownies. “I think I’m trying too hard.” She met Alice’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  “You have no reason to apologize,” she said in her most comforting tone, “no reason at all.”

  Jane looked uncertain for a moment. “Do you really want to know what I want for Christmas?” When Alice nodded, she said, “It’s something you can’t buy. I want, so badly, to have that same, joyful feeling I had as a girl. I want good memories to outnumber the bad ones. I know it sounds greedy, but Alice, eleven Christmases weren’t enough.”

  “You’re not greedy.” Alice went over and gave her younger sister a hug. “I promise that we’ll make this Christmas Happy Memory Number Twelve.”

  Chapter Five

  Louise accompanied Viola to the kitchen, where she helped her friend prepare two trays with cups of nutmeg-sprinkled eggnog and plates containing small scoops of a dark brown, very moist-looking cake.

  “It was good of you to provide this treat for our visitors, Viola,” Louise said as she placed some folded paper napkins on the tray. “I also appreciate your help with the tour of the house. Even with the tour company’s literature, I could never have told them as much about it and your family’s holiday traditions as you did.”

  “I needed room in the refrigerator and I enjoy showing off for a crowd,” her friend replied as she topped each portion of cake with a drizzle of thin, sugary glaze. “I must say I’m surprised to find you guiding a house tour. What got you involved with this bunch?”

  Louise gave her a brief explanation of what had happened at the Coffee Shop. “I am trying to keep a good Christian attitude about it,” she added, “but sometimes I wish my sisters would …”

  “Control their impulses?”

  Louise laughed.

  “Your patience never ceases to astound me. How do you manage people like that decorator woman?” Viola’s tone went up an octave. “Where was she reared, in a designer barn?”

  “I don’t believe Laura meant to be deliberately rude,” she said as she picked up the tray of eggnog cups. “Although I must wonder at her reasons for coming on a holiday home tour if all she intended to do was shop for her business.”

  “She’s a troll.”

  That startled another laugh out of Louise. “Dear me, I don’t think she is quite that bad.”

  “Not the Lord of the Rings kind of troll. A business troll. It’s what my father used to call estate buyers who’d read the obituaries so they could be the first to make an offer to the heirs for the valuables of the deceased. They make large profits that way, especially if the family needs money fast. Some people call them hearse chasers.”

  Louise grimaced. “That sounds ghastly.”

  “It’s more common than you think. Most people don’t realize the value of their belongings, particularly if they’re inherited. Along comes a troll and …” Viola rolled her eyes. “I imagine our decorator friend makes a good living buying antiques and such in that manner.” She fussed for a moment over the arrangement of the plates on the tray. “Before I forget, you and your sisters are invited to my house for dinner on Boxing Day. One of my customers sent me a fully dressed goose, and Lord knows, I can’t eat it all by myself.”

  Louise suppressed a smile. Viola always made her dinner invitations sound as if they were made only for her personal convenience, when she suspected the exact opposite was true. Despite
her often brusque nature, Viola liked entertaining more than she would ever admit.

  When the two women returned to the parlor, the tour group was discussing what they liked about the house and their own family traditions. All but Max Ziglar, who was standing by the bay window and looking out at the snow-covered garden.

  Louise could not see his face and she hardly knew enough about him to guess what his thoughts were at the moment. In spite of this and his cantankerous personality, she had the strongest sense that the businessman was extremely lonely. In this lovely, warm room, filled with all these friendly, interesting people, no less. What could have made him so determined to keep others at a distance if he doesn’t like being alone?

  As they handed out the refreshments, Viola asked, “Has anyone ever had plum pudding before?” When some indicated that they had not, she added, “Before you try it, let me tell you something about it. This recipe was handed down to me by my mother and dates back three generations before her. English families have enjoyed plum pudding as their traditional Christmas dessert since the seventeenth century. I should also point out that the pudding has never once been made from plums.”

  “It smells delicious,” Ted said, “but it doesn’t look like any pudding I’ve ever seen.”

  “The original version was made of thick porridge, to which the cook added chopped meat, liquor, a variety of dried fruits, sugar, spices, butter and eggs. The mixture was boiled, not baked, in a cloth bag or special basin. Every member of the family took turns mixing the batter so that they could make a wish as they stirred.”

  The young man grinned. “Sounds as intriguing as the pudding smells.”

  As Ted lifted a large forkful to his lips, Viola cautioned, “Before you taste, mash it a little with your fork first, young man. The rest of you do the same. You might find a surprise.”

  “I’ve found something.” Max prodded his portion with his fork. “It’s sticking up out of the center.”

  “Ah, then you’re the lucky one, Mr. Ziglar.” Viola went over and used his fork to extract a bright silver dollar. “Another Reed family tradition. We throw coins, buttons, rings and thimbles into the mix.”

  “Edwina, would you like to have mine?” Laura asked after giving the bookshop owner a single, appalled glance. “I’m not really that hungry.”

  “Don’t panic. They were a way to forecast the coming year. Whoever got the portion with a coin in it could look forward to wealth, a ring meant marriage, and those poor souls who found buttons and thimbles were doomed to stay single another year.” Viola handed Max his plate. “I’ve never found a coin or ring yet myself. You’re a fortunate man.”

  “I don’t like things in my—” Max began, only to be interrupted by Edwina.

  “Wasn’t it Prince Albert who made plum pudding a standard during the holidays?” the schoolteacher asked hurriedly. “Or was it Charles Dickens?”

  “Both, I think. Prince Albert contributed his part by being a little homesick,” Viola said. “He grew up in Germany, and when he came to England he missed the traditions of his youth. The Queen pampered him by serving his favorite foods. That included plum pudding, which eventually was added to what had been the standard holiday fare of boar’s head, wassail and mince pie.”

  “Boar’s head?” Laura paled. “The whole head?”

  Viola nodded, obviously enjoying the younger woman’s reaction. “Have you ever had headcheese? Want to know how they make it?”

  “Say no, Laura,” Edwina murmured.

  “Ah, what was done at court inevitably trickled down through society and was mimicked,” Louise said, trying to draw them back onto the subject, “even by the poorest and humblest of families. Dickens, of course, popularized the treat in A Christmas Carol, where Mrs. Cratchit served hers ‘blazing … in ignited brandy.…’”

  As the group finished their refreshments, Viola took a moment to admire the gift from the Howards, especially Louise’s contribution, which was fragrant with the scents of ginger and nutmeg. “Thank you again for this, Louise. I’ll look forward to having some of your nut bread in the morning with my coffee.”

  “You’re welcome. If you find a silver thimble in one of the slices, give me a call.” She chuckled at her friend’s startled expression. “Wendell carried off mine from my sewing basket last week and I haven’t seen it since. Maybe he decided to spice up my bread.”

  Louise preceded the tour van back to town, where the group was scheduled to break for brunch at the Coffee Shop for an hour before continuing on to the Holzmanns’ home. She had to admit that the tour had gone better than she had expected, thanks in large part to Allan and Viola. She was actually looking forward to taking them on to the next house.

  As she parked, Louise sat in the car for a moment and watched the group climb out of the van. “All right, Lord. You were right, I was wrong. Being a Good Samaritan feels very nice.”

  Ted and Allan insisted on Louise’s joining them at the Coffee Shop, and over their light meal of omelets and citrus salad they discussed Viola Reed’s home and how intriguing Queen Anne architecture was in general.

  “I’m fascinated by how surprising such houses are,” Allan said. “Like Miss Reed’s home—it’s not a predictable structure, so when you first walk through you really never know what’s going to be around the next corner.”

  “Rather like the owner, I imagine,” Ted put in as he removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a paper napkin. “But at the same time I have the funny feeling that once you get to know her, you always know where you stand with that lady. Would you agree, Louise?”

  Louise tried to think of a discreet way to describe her friend’s penchant for blunt honesty. “Viola never minces her words.”

  “I picked that up right away,” Laura said, apparently oblivious to her own lack of tact.

  Allan stroked a tanned finger across his white mustache in a thoughtful manner. “It’s a shame that every year more homes like Miss Reed’s are demolished instead of renovated and restored. Although some can’t be saved, I’ve always felt as if I were watching history evaporate into thin air.”

  “History is for books,” Max Ziglar said. “Houses should be efficient, practical and suited for life in modern times.”

  Louise was not surprised by his attitude. The businessman struck her as a thoroughly modern man. That immediately raised another question in her mind: If he felt that way, what was he doing on a tour of historical homes?

  “History gives us a sense of place and purpose, by telling us from where we came,” Allan said, taking exception to Max’s statement. “It inspires us to create our own history for future generations. It’s really no different than what we do as parents to set a good example for our children and grandchildren.”

  Max’s gaze grew distant. “Then they grow up and do what they want.”

  “You can combine them, you know,” Laura said. “Spread some bits of history around a modern house. That’s what I do. People like both.” Her cell phone rang, and she answered it with “L. A. Lattimer” before she rose and walked away from the table.

  Louise privately wondered if anything really mattered to the interior decorator outside of making money. “What is your opinion on homes of historical importance, Edwina?” Louise asked.

  The schoolteacher brushed a wave of her salt-and-pepper hair back from her round cheek. “I’m like Allan. I think history should be passed along to the next generation. Houses like Miss Reed’s make excellent classrooms. I would love to have brought some of my students along with me.” Edwina told them a little about the inner-city school at which she taught and added, “Most of the children live in apartment houses in the city and don’t even have a yard where they can play.”

  “My father died when I was young and my mother could only afford an apartment after that,” Ted mentioned. “Once you get used to the lousy maintenance, noisy neighbors and terrible views, they’re not so bad.”

  Louise suspected otherwise and her heart went out to hi
m. “Do you still live in an apartment, Ted?”

  “For the time being. My wife and I fell in love with an old Colonial-style farmhouse that we discovered outside the city.” He took out his wallet and removed a photo of the house and showed it around the table. “As you can see, it needs some renovation, but it stands on fifteen wooded acres. It’s really the sort of place you dream about owning.”

  “Have you put a down payment on it yet?” Edwina asked.

  “Our present incomes keep us from qualifying for the home loan we would need, but”—he shrugged again—“we’ll keep saving our pennies to buy it or something like it.”

  Jane helped Alice load her car with the gifts for her ANGELs and with a box of caroling booklets. Before Alice drove off, Jane promised to meet her sister in town as soon as she finished a few last-minute chores at home. “I am not going to be late, I promise. I really want to hear the ANGELs sing.”

  Alice studied her face for a long moment. “All right, but remember, I’m counting on you.”

  As soon as she heard the car drive off, however, Jane left the kitchen and went into Daniel Howard’s study.

  Whenever she felt troubled as a child, she had come to this room. Her father had always kept his door open, even during the afternoons when he worked on his sermons, and he had always made time to listen to her. When her father was not at home, Jane would still visit his study and sit in his favorite armchair, and feel instantly better.

  She needed that kind of comfort now.

  Jane had not been entirely honest with Alice earlier when they had talked about Christmas. She did miss the happy holidays of her childhood, but that was not the whole problem. Jane was not even sure what was driving her to such hectic activity. She only knew that she felt better if she kept busy from dawn until dusk.

  I’m trying too hard, she thought.

  She should have thought, I’m running away from this vacation.

  Jane moved around the room, running her hands over the backs of chairs, looking at the different photos Daniel had displayed of his wife and daughters. Although her father was gone and the room had been redecorated, she still felt his presence whenever she came into the study.