As she threw open the door of her room, Richie was hobbling out, still on crutches. But the cast was missing and what passed for a smile for him was plastered on his face.
“Did I catch you taking an afternoon nap?” he asked.
“I spilled coffee on my shirt; I went back for another one,” she said.
The fact that she had to turn the lock on the office door spoke otherwise. Richie said nothing and just made his way beyond the office and to his apartment, dropping onto the sofa. He let out a heavy sigh. While he was doing that, Trina thanked Mark for taking him.
“How was he?”
“He was Richie,” Mark responded.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m used to him,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“Stick around long enough, Trina; he’ll get under your skin.”
“You mean like a rash?”
“I heard that, missy!”
Mark laughed and told her good luck; he was off for a quiet, unexpected night off.
“Brian said he’d take the shift since he started it,” he said. “Which means I’m free.”
“Sara’s not working?”
“Sara’s about to pop,” he said proudly. “Martha sent her home on Monday and said don’t come back till the only thing in the oven is her Christmas turkey. I’m off from the resort, Brian took the bar tonight . . . I can’t remember the last night my wife and I got to spend together.”
“Enjoy it, because once that baby arrives . . .”
“Right, our little Christmas bundle of joy.”
“The gift that keeps giving.”
“And taking,” Mark said, “for eighteen years. I can’t wait.”
Mark departed back into the rain, leaving Trina no choice but to return to the apartment. Richie sat with his eyes closed, but he could hear her for sure, because when she sat down he asked, “Any business?”
“One gentleman. I gave him room ten.”
“Better than nothing,” he said. “Business has been slower than normal this season.”
“Like you said, Richie, it’s a transient life.”
“One you seem to be enjoying,” he said.
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that and really didn’t want to get into anything with him. Yet she couldn’t avoid all topics of conversation, and in an effort to deflect any talk of her growing involvement with the Linden Corners community, she said, “Richie, can we talk about Christmas?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
Trina looked over at a bare corner in the apartment. “We don’t even have a tree.”
“I don’t do trees,” he said. “They’re a fire hazard.”
“Right, just like you don’t do Secret Santa?”
“Trina Ravens, don’t start with me,” he said.
“It’s Winter,” she said, her words more hurtful than she intended.
“If that’s the case, I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said.
“Richie ...”
“Right. I’m Richie, not Dad, and you’re not a Ravens,” he said. “We’re nothing to each other, Trina.”
She felt on the verge of tears and wondered how life could hand her such a high as what she’d experienced this afternoon, only to turn the tables on her and sink her down to the lowest depths. She fought through them; she wouldn’t cry in front of the man who’d given the little girl in her plenty of nights when tears lulled her to sleep. When her stepbrothers would wish their father a good night and Trina tried to enact the same reverential tone, usually failing and scuffling off to her room, she was reminded of just how much of a stranger she felt inside her own house. She felt that way now, and worse, since her room was the definition of temporary. She’d been living in a motel for weeks now, and only once had she felt alive inside it, only a couple of hours ago.
She didn’t know what was bothering Richie, but she wasn’t about to ask. It was like poking a wounded bear. In her mind she saw herself easily picking up right now. Pack her bags, get in her car, and go. Good-bye, Linden Corners; good-bye, Richie Ravens.
Running away was so the Richie Ravens way to do it. Failed? Don’t fix, move on.
Which was why she remained right where she was, a tear in her eye.
Richie looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Trina, that was wrong of me. I’m just . . . frustrated. I can’t imagine eight weeks of physical therapy . . . three times a week. I just want my life back.”
“Time heals, Richie,” she said, “or at least, it’s supposed to.”
“That doesn’t excuse my lashing out at you. You’ve been here for me, always.”
“Not always,” she admitted. “Some nights I sneak out, like I’m some teenage girl.”
He actually allowed himself a smile. “I know, you go to George’s.”
“Why, Richie Ravens, are you spying on me?”
“I told you, I know people in this town. People in this town talk.”
“People in this town should mind their business.”
“Just be careful, Trina. If you don’t live here on your own terms, this town will suffocate you.”
She was beginning to think she and Brian had much more in common than ever, not least among them parents with eyes in the backs of their heads. She decided to let it go, all of it, her anger at him and her frustration over her stagnant life. Wasn’t Christmas Day right around the corner, and wasn’t that what she’d really come for? Why couldn’t she just enjoy it for what it was, a special time of year to be celebrated with friends and family? And the last time she checked, in Linden Corners she had both, and more.
“What do you want for dinner?” she finally said.
“How about the Five-O?”
“Fine, and now that you’ve got your cast off, we’re going out to dinner.”
“Trina Winter, don’t try and change your old man.”
“Why not?” she asked. “Isn’t this the season for miracles?”
CHAPTER 17
BRIAN
After the all-day soaker from midweek had washed away the snowy remnants of the previous storm, Linden Corners was looking decidedly un-Christmas-like with two days remaining until the eve of the holiday. The soggy field beyond the farmhouse was a checkerboard of melting snowcaps and grime-encrusted ice, leaving the striking windmill the lone piece of beauty on its landscape. That would change. Local weather forecasters were promising a white Christmas, as a big storm that had already left upward of two feet of snow across Canada and the Great Lakes was sweeping its way across New York State, just in time to imbue the annual tavern Christmas party with a touch of sky-fallen magic.
At just after eight o’clock on this Saturday morning, with the lights doused and the wind silent, there was not yet any hint of the storm that was brewing. He’d been out back in the barn since before seven, digging out his party supplies and the extra folding tables that were required to accommodate the large crowd that turned out for the feast. He’d let his parents and Janey sleep, content to work alone. Knowing he would leave people happy, full, and filled with the holiday spirit was enough to keep him going. Of all the many yearly celebrations they shared in Linden Corners, Brian considered this Christmas tradition his favorite, not only allowing him to continue one of George’s time-honored parties, but also seeing everyone gathered together was what he’d come to love about his adopted home.
And it made Gerta so happy; that was the icing on the . . . well, in her case, the pie.
After packing the back of the truck with various supplies—preparing for the first of several trips he’d need to make this morning—he snuck back inside a farmhouse awash with sleep, fetched a bag filled with presents he’d purchased yesterday afternoon. He hadn’t had a chance last night to hide them inside the closet in the windmill, not after Janey had come bounding off the school bus just as he’d arrived home, thrilled that it had been her last day of school until the New Year. Now, as she savored her slumber before the anticipation of the upco
ming holiday won out, he made his way across the soggy field, his boots splattered with mud by the time he reached the door to the windmill. Once inside, he ventured up the winding staircase and proceeded to open the locked closet.
“Oh, of course . . .”
He’d almost forgotten about the four gifts stored inside. He looked at them, all the same size, different only in the color of the wrapping: blue and green, gold and red, and for a moment he thought there was something familiar about how they looked together. Only the silver ribbon was the same, and of course, the message written on the Santa-adorned cards. He could have easily opened them right now . . . maybe just one? But he had waited this long. Why deprive his Secret Santa of his or her satisfaction? Besides, now that he was involved in the same game—this time as the gift giver—he could understand the anticipation of waiting until the gift was opened and the identity revealed. Avoiding any further temptation, he placed the plastic bag inside and locked it up fast, sliding the key into his pocket.
He left moments later, but not before taking a look back at the closet.
Whoever was playing this game with him, he was certain he knew them, and no doubt the person wore an excellent poker face. In the month since their dance had begun, not one person had tipped his or her hand, not a single clue had revealed itself to him. One gift had arrived, and then another, placed innocently on the porch of the tavern or the farmhouse, until there were four presents in all, all delivered with stealthy precision. With two days still till Christmas, he wondered if a fifth and final would be forthcoming. Speculation would have to wait until the day of revelation; for now, he had a party to finalize.
Fifteen minutes later he was on Route 23, headed toward downtown Linden Corners, the first to arrive at the tavern. Heck, it had been only a few hours since he’d closed up after a busy night, and while here he was again, this time pulling into an empty lot instead of out, he noticed someone else had beaten him. No surprise as he recognized Gerta’s car. He saw the kindly old lady stepping off the porch. She waved to him in her genial way, which brought a smile to his lips.
“And I thought I’d be getting the worm,” he said, getting out of the truck.
“Eaten and digested,” she said.
“One of Martha’s specialties?”
“Oh, you and your jokes, Brian Duncan. Good thing Martha didn’t hear you.”
He welcomed her warm embrace, more so than normal as he felt a decidedly cold wind sweep past him. Even Gerta shivered, wrapping her arms around her woolen jacket. The weather had already begun to shift. He walked to her car and retrieved a series of boxes that contained decorations like plastic ivy and silver bells and a sprig of mistletoe he would hang from the front entrance, as well as burners for the trays of food that would be on offer all day. Gerta had been cooking up roasts and other specialties all week, always trying to outdo herself.
“You look good, Brian. Everything okay with you?”
“Considering the stress at the farmhouse, yeah, I guess,” he said. “I feel like I’ve barely seen you in weeks.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been around. Plus, you’ve been busy with your parents.”
Brian frowned. “Adopt me, Gerta Connors.”
She laughed, and as they carried the boxes inside the bar she told him it couldn’t be all bad, and that launched him into several tirades about his mother’s actions and remarks, from her insistence on referring to Janey as Jane, to her raised eyebrows whenever she heard mention of the name Trina, and “oh, and then what she said to Cynthia the other night . . .”
“Yes, I know all about that one . . . Goodness, Cynthia told me and I thought she was going to pop a blood vessel. Brian, the thing you have to remember is this: parents are always looking out for their children, no matter how grown-up they are. Your choices aren’t necessarily what they would choose for you, so if your mother is . . . acting out, or verbal with her opinions, isn’t it better than saying nothing at all? Just let her speak her mind, and that gives you the right to respond with your opinion. And then be nothing more than your wonderful self.”
“See, that’s what I’ve missed. Down-home advice.”
“Sure, you’ll listen to me,” she said. “Nora on the other hand has her own thoughts about advice from her mother.”
“Trouble with Nicholas is what I hear.”
“My daughter wouldn’t know what’s good for her if it asked her to dance.”
“Nora is very stubborn,” Brian said, adding, “She’d probably get along great with Didi.”
“You can’t choose your family,” Gerta said.
“If that were true, Linden Corners would be a very different place.”
Their smiles lingered until a sweeping wind forced them back to work, and inside.
For the next several hours, it was work that consumed them. As they set up tables and additional folding chairs in the large, open room, then set up serving tables and the wire tins for the food, time moved quickly. After a couple of trips back and forth to the farmhouse and to the Connors home, the noon hour arrived with most of the preparations in order, so that Brian and Gerta, with a helpful assist from the sturdy teen Travis—he doing the heavy lifting—all finally took a breather. Brian served up tall glasses of soda, and they sat down at a table and took in their handiwork. Christmas adorned the walls and the edge of the bar, and that sprig of mistletoe hung right over the main entrance.
“I do think we’re ready,” Gerta said.
“All we need now is the people,” Brian added.
“And the food,” Travis reminded them.
“Ah, speaking of, I promised you lunch, didn’t I?” Gerta said to her grandson. “Shall we have a quick snack over at the Five-O before the festivities begin? Brian, would you like to join us?”
“I’ve got one more errand to run,” he said. “I’ll see you back here at three o’clock.”
Brian watched as grandmother and grandson walked hand in hand across the main route that cut through Linden Corners, pulled inside the diner by the enticing smells of Martha’s cooking. As for Brian, he drove back toward the farmhouse, his mind conjuring similar images of Janey and his mother, trying to ascertain whether it was anywhere near close to reality. When he arrived back, he found the farmhouse was empty. He knew Janey was over at the Knights’, leaving his parents unaccounted for. No note had been left. They were grown-ups and could do as they pleased, but no matter, Brian was glad he had this one last moment of the day to himself.
Once more he journeyed down to the windmill, feeling that fresh wave of cold air rip through his body. The weather was fast turning bad, which he thought could affect the turnout for the day’s party. But Linden Corners was full of hearty folk, and it would take a beast of a storm to keep them from a tradition such as this. In the end, he realized he had no control over any of it, and so he ventured back inside the windmill and forged his way to the circuit breaker. He flipped the switch and saw a bright glow shower the gray covering of the day. Retreating outside, he looked at the results of his hard work, the flickering shadows of the turning sails already beginning to take shape on the field.
One Christmas he had forgotten to light the windmill, while another the power had failed.
This year he was determined there would be no such incident, no surprises, nothing but cheer and the joy brought by the season, goodwill toward man. And as if to grant his wishes, that’s when the snow began to fall.
The tavern was filled with the hungry, thirsty residents of Linden Corners, who were all laughing, talking, and embracing in the true spirit of the holiday, playing a guessing game about who got whom for Secret Santa. Amidst all the frivolity, only Brian Duncan remained unsatisfied, continually watching the front door for the arrival of the obvious ones who were missing. By the time the first hour passed, chief among them were Kevin and Didi Duncan, not to mention a woman by the name of Trina Winter. Sure, Chuck Ackroyd was here, and Chet too, and a bunch of other regulars. Martha from the Five-O was enjoy
ing one of her rare nights off, and the twins Marla and Darla had taken up residence at the corner of the bar, indulging in their annual tradition of too many tequila shots. The older folks from Edgestone Retirement Center had ventured out from the comforts and routine of prepared meals and the annual holiday concert from the high school band for the wondrous smells of Gerta’s holiday roasts and a jukebox filled with Christmas songs. Elsie Masters and Thomas Van Diver and their usual breakfast gang had taken over one of the tables near the jukebox, lording over the song choices. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” was playing now, perhaps its fifth go-round in the last hour. No one had complained about their hogging the machine.
Most of the kids had taken to the backyard, where the snow that had been falling all day had already left enough for snowball fights and angel making, though clearly by evidence of the thin snowman positioned by the side of the road, a few more hours were needed for him to come to life. One of the exceptions to the kids was Janey, who was hanging out with Sara, so pregnant it was easier for her to stay in one place, at the far end of the bar. The two of them nursed Cokes while they shared possession of Jake, who was nibbling at a bowl of Goldfish crackers. They were close enough to the door leading upstairs to Sara and Mark’s apartment that if Jake grew tired or restless—or Sara did—they could easily slip out.
At another table were a rather subdued Cynthia and Bradley and Nora and Nicholas, and while they seemed to be chatting amiably enough, even from a distance Brian could tell not everyone there was at their happiest. It reminded him that he wasn’t having the best time either, as he continued to keep a steady eye on the front door, waiting for the moment either his parents arrived or Trina did, but as the clock turned closer to five, they remained missing in action. He thought about calling his father to ask where they were, fear stabbing at him when he questioned whether their absence was health related. Had his father had another heart attack? Would they even tell him when they did show up, or wait until after the holidays, or maybe never, leaving Linden Corners behind without clueing him in to all that was going on?
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