Cynthia laughed and hugged Jane back, then hugged Alice and went to sit next to Louise. “Merry Christmas, Mother. Did I give you your gray hair? It makes you look so sophisticated and regal, I'm glad I could contribute.”
“Silly girl.” Louise kissed her daughter's cheek.
“I suppose I caused you concern too, Alice,” Jane said. “Although you are always so composed in an emergency. You're a perfect nurse.”
“I got plenty of practice on you,” Alice said, her eyes sparkling with humor. “You did outgrow your hijinks, though not your lively spirits, thank the Lord. I believe you keep us all young.”
“Well, that's a good thing. Right?”
“You also proved Florence wrong,” Louise said. “You grew up just fine. Better than fine. And that craft party at her house might have been the beginning of your artistic endeavors. The ornament you made for me is one of my favorites. It's hanging right up there near the top of the tree.” She pointed to the sparkly silver cone, still intact. “I couldn't believe you made it when you were only twelve.”
“Clarissa helped me with that and many other projects as I grew up. And you gave me my first real art set.”
“You're a fabulous artist, Aunt Jane.”
“Thank you, dear. We've each been blessed with a special talent.”
“Yoo-hoo!” Aunt Ethel came sailing in from the kitchen. She was carrying two shiny bags with large bows of curly ribbon in each hand. With her bright red Christmas sweater, adorned with beaded poinsettias, her titian-red hair artfully coiffed, and her cheeks rosy red from the cold morning, she was the perfect picture of Christmas cheer. “Here you are. Merry Christmas, my dear nieces. I hope I'm not late for breakfast.” She set the bags under the tree.
“You're just in time, Auntie. I need to take the strata out of the oven and I'll be ready to serve.” Jane gave her aunt a hug, then left the room.
“I'll help Jane serve. You all can go to the dining room,” Alice said. She followed Jane out.
“You were telling stories when I came down,” Cynthia said. “I hope I didn't miss anything.”
“You were so tired last night, we decided to let you sleep in,” Louise said. “We read the Christmas story out of the Bible and that set off some reminiscing.”
“I wish I'd been down to hear it. I always love hearing the real Christmas story. It just makes the day more meaningful.”
“I'm sorry I missed it too. I remember Daniel reading it every year. I do miss him so,” Ethel said. She was Rev. Howard's half-sister, born when he was in his late teens. Ethel and her husband Bob had lived on a farm outside of town. After Jane was born and the girls' mother died, she had helped Daniel with the girls—especially Jane.
“Come on, Auntie. Let's not miss breakfast.” Cynthia put her arm around her great-aunt and ushered her to the dining room.
Louise sighed with contentment. As she rose, she looked at the stockings hung from the mantel. Each stocking was homemade. Their mother had sewed each one with loving detail for her daughters. Even Jane's had been made in anticipation of her birth. Since Madeleine had died soon after giving birth, Aunt Ethel had added Jane's name to her stocking. They still looked lovely, except for Cynthia's. It looked a little wonky. It was old and made from inexpensive quilted fabric and the pattern had faded over the years. The C and the Y in her name were crooked. Louise tried to straighten the letters. The hand stitching looked like a child had done it, and the rickrack around the top was coming unglued.
“Louise!” Jane called. “Come eat!”
“I'm coming.” She left the living room and hurried to the dining room, where everyone was seated, waiting for her.
The table was laden with foods that evoked strong memories. Jane had discovered their mother's cookbook and had revived favorite recipes from when Louise was a child. Jane added her own touches to the Christmas Strata, giving it endless variety. She hadn't changed the Monkey Bread, though. As the oldest, Louise remembered their mother preparing the gooey, sweet bread and allowing her to help. Now she was happy to leave the cooking to Jane, who'd never had the chance to cook with their mother.
“Sorry,” she said as she sat down.
“Last one gets to say grace,” Jane said, grinning.
“I'd be delighted,” Louise said. They all bowed their heads. “Lord, we thank you for this special day when we celebrate your birth. Thank you for our loving family and the joy we have together. Thank you for this meal and for the sweet memories it brings of loved ones who are now with you. We ask your blessing on the food and on our time together. In Jesus' name. Amen.
“Everything looks and smells delicious.” Louise took a serving of the egg strata. “What is in the strata this year, Jane?”
“It's pretty basic. I used ham and cheese, but I tweaked it a bit to make it taste like a Monte Cristo sandwich. You can sprinkle a dash of powdered sugar on it, or some maple syrup.”
“I'll try it with the sugar.” She passed the dish to Alice. As she placed a cloth napkin in her lap, she said, “I was late because I was trying to straighten Cynthia's stocking. I'm afraid it's seen better days. I'm thinking I need to make a new one, or buy a handmade one. I've seen some lovely personalized Christmas stockings.”
“Oh no. I love it the way it is,” Cynthia said. “I can't imagine Christmas with a different stocking.”
“But darling, it's as old as you are.”
“Really? I didn't realize that. Where did it come from?”
“Have I not told you that story?” Louise said. “Well…”
Louise's
Christmas Memory
How can such a tiny girl make so much noise?” Louise murmured as she cradled her crying baby on her shoulder.
Carrying Cynthia to the window that overlooked the street in front of their Philadelphia apartment, she wondered if her first-born was destined to be an opera singer. She certainly had the lungs for it. Louise hoped she'd inherited her parents' love of music, but only time would tell if their talent had been passed on to her.
“Hush, baby, hush,” Louise cooed, praying her three-month-old infant would find relief from her colic.
Gently falling snow was blanketing the neighborhood of aging brownstones, giving it a charm it lacked in the harsh light of day. The soft yellow glow from the old-fashioned street lights reminded Louise of a Christmas card scene, and indeed it was less than two weeks until the celebration of Christ's birth.
“Daddy should be home soon,” she told her baby.
Even when Cynthia was red-faced and tear-streaked, she was the most beautiful human being Louise had ever seen. Her perfectly formed miniature toes and fingers were marvels to behold, and the pale blonde hair on her head was unimaginably soft against her mother's cheek. She even had her own special scent, sweeter than talc and more beguiling than the finest perfume.
Movement seemed to calm her baby, so Louise paced the small apartment, and looked at the ingredients she'd optimistically laid out for Christmas cookies. She so wanted to follow the Christmas traditions her mother started when Louise was a baby. Although Cynthia was too young to know or remember, it was still her first Christmas. Everything had to be perfect.
Louise looked out the window again. When would Eliot get home? She knew he was busy with end-of-semester activities at the conservatory, but his homecoming was the highlight of her day. She loved him even more now that they'd become parents together. He didn't have movie-star good looks, and lately he seemed a little too thin, but to her he was the handsomest man alive.
Cynthia gradually stopped crying, and Louise peeked at her little face nestled in a soft pink flannel blanket embroidered with teddy bears. It was one of three hand-stitched by her aunt Alice. Her tiny eyes were closed, and Louise carefully laid her in the wooden cradle Louise's father had repainted for her. It had been in the attic at his home since her youngest sister Jane had outgrown it. She gently pulled a warm fleece blanket over her baby and stepped away.
Her quiet stealth didn't wor
k. Before she could get the flour for her cookies measured, Cynthia protested loudly. She was wide awake and clenching her little fists.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Louise said picking her up again. “It's too soon to eat again. Don't you know little girls need sleep?”
Louise smiled in spite of her weariness. Although she'd read Dr. Spock's book about raising children, nothing she remembered made her less concerned or less tired. She'd already called the pediatrician twice since bringing Cynthia home from the hospital, but he didn't seem worried about her baby's tummy troubles. ‘She'll outgrow it' did nothing to reassure a new mother with a colicky baby.
The early darkness of December made it feel even more like bedtime, but Cynthia was having none of it. Louise sat and rocked her in the wooden chair that had been their first furniture purchase after she became pregnant. It didn't do much good to soothe the baby, but Louise was glad to get off her feet for a bit. She felt herself drifting toward sleep, and she fought it, afraid of dropping her baby if she dozed off.
The sound of Eliot coming in the door couldn't have been more welcome.
“How are my girls?” he asked, walking into the living room, his hair damp from melting snowflakes.
“One of us is exhausted,” Louise said, rising to receive his light kiss. “Unfortunately, it's not Cynthia. She seems determined to stay up all night.”
“Every time I see her, I can't quite believe she's ours to keep,” her husband said, looking at the baby with adoring eyes. “I feel so blessed to have you and Cynthia in my life.”
“I'm afraid you won't appreciate your wife quite so much after I warm up yesterday's tuna casserole for dinner,” Louise teased.
“You know I eat to live, not live to eat,” he said repeating what he always said when dinner was unappetizing. Unfortunately, that was more frequent these days, as Louise struggled to be both wife and mother.
She hurried to the kitchenette, the area that passed for a kitchen in the small apartment. Somehow, she managed to put the leftover casserole in the oven while holding the baby. Maybe she could start making her mother's cookie recipe as it heated.
When Eliot had washed up and changed into an old sweatshirt he'd found in the basket of clean but unfolded laundry, he came into the kitchen and took his daughter.
“Let me hold her,” he said. “It's the highlight of my day.”
“Did you have a bad day?” Louise asked, trying to sound like a supportive wife, even though she was reeling from fatigue.
“No, things went smoothly.” He looked at the cookie cutters scattered on the counter. “You're not going to bake tonight, are you?”
“I have to,” Louise said. “It wouldn't be Christmas without homemade cookies. And remember, I have to make extra for your departmental party.”
“Store-bought cookies would be fine for that. I hate to see you slaving away in kitchen when you're so tired.” He rocked Cynthia in his arms, and she cooed happily for him.
“I love making traditional Christmas cookies.” She held up angel, tree, and bell-shaped tin cookie cutters with little red and green wooden handles. “It wouldn't seem right if I didn't make Mother's special recipe. She always made a thin white icing out of powdered sugar. When I was old enough, I always got to sprinkle red and green colored sugar on them.”
“Still, you don't need to make them for my school party. Other people will be bringing things too.”
“Eliot Smith, I won't have you taking those neon-colored Christmas cookies I've seen in the grocery store. Anyway, it is less expensive to make them myself. I already have the ingredients.”
“I just hate to see you working so hard.”
“It's not work. I love carrying on the traditions my mother started. She had so many, and I want to do that for Cynthia. I loved how every year she gave Alice and me an ornament as a keepsake. I still have all of mine.”
“Yes, you put them on our little tree last year,” he said. “It was nice to hear you tell about the significance of each one.”
“And I still have the stocking she made for me when I was a baby. She made one for each of us, Jane also, though she didn't get to finish that one.” Louise sighed deeply. Her mother had died giving birth to Jane, so Jane never got to know their mother. “Aunt Ethel later finished it by embroidering Jane's name on it. I want to carry on that tradition for Cynthia too.”
“That's a lovely tradition. Next year you'll have to make one for Cynthia,” he said, cooing at his tiny daughter as he sat at the Formica and chrome table for dinner.
“No, I'm going to make Cynthia's this Christmas. It's a family tradition, and I can't wait to get the material and start it. After all, I have Mother's old sewing machine, so there's no reason not to.”
“That machine is older than I am,” Eliot said.
“I doubt that!” His age was a running joke between them, but most of the time Louise forgot he was fifteen years older than she was. In fact, he enjoyed clowning around so much, Louise sometimes felt like the older one.
When the casserole was hot enough, she took a head of lettuce from the refrigerator and chopped off a wedge for both of them, dribbling French dressing over each serving. It wasn't much of a vegetable, but it was green—sort of. Eliot never complained about her less-than-expert meal preparations, but lately she'd been wishing she had time to do better for him.
By the time dinner was ready, Cynthia had dropped off to sleep in her father's arms, and he had better luck laying her down. She settled into a sound sleep, one that would last hours instead of minutes, Louise hoped.
She brought out a bowl of strawberry gelatin, but Eliot declined. He didn't have a sweet tooth, and even if he had, the somewhat rubbery red dessert didn't look that appealing. She'd tried to save money by buying an unknown brand, but it wasn't very tasty.
In fact, she'd been unusually frugal the past month, and had managed to save up enough to buy some really nice fabric for Cynthia's Christmas stocking. She felt a bit guilty about scrimping on groceries, but Eliot wasn't one to notice or complain.
After they'd finished eating, they sat at the table sharing the day's events. A strident ring from their old black phone interrupted their conversation.
“I guess I have to get it,” Louise said, enjoying the quiet minutes with her husband too much to move. Maybe she would wait until morning to mix up the cookies.
“Louise, this is Reverend Baker,” a familiar voice said. “I hope I'm not interrupting your supper.”
“No, not at all, we've finished.”
“How is that new bundle of joy?”
It seemed a bit unusual for the minister of their church to call, but she soon learned the reason.
“We've had something of a crisis,” he explained. “Mrs. Taylor had a nasty fall on the ice and broke her right arm.”
Louise's heart sank. She knew exactly what that meant. The choir director wouldn't be able to lead the Christmas concert. She'd been asked to substitute once before when Mrs. Taylor had been ill.
“I know how busy you must be with a new baby,” the minister continued, “but is there any possibility you could fill in for her? You did such a fine job the last time.”
How could she turn down such an important request? Part of her very much wanted to grab the opportunity, but how would she fit it into the crowded days before Christmas? She gave Eliot a panicky look, but there was no way she could say no. Her father was a minister, and she knew how hard it could be to serve as spiritual counselor and the head of a church.
“Yes, I can,” Louise said a bit bleakly.
Rev. Baker didn't seem to hear her reluctance. He thanked her profusely and told her the rehearsal times.
“Thank you so much, Louise. The congregation would be terribly disappointed if we had to cancel the Christmas program.”
Eliot looked unhappy when she hung up.
“You just took on another job,” he said with a worried frown.
“The choir director fell on ice and broke her arm.”
“Darling, don't tell me you agreed to direct the Christmas concert?”
“I did. I'm sorry it will make more work for you when you're so busy with end-of-semester duties.”
“You're the one who's overworked already. Maybe you can put off making a stocking for Cynthia until next Christmas. She won't know the difference.”
“But I will,” Louise insisted stubbornly.
“At least cut back on making cookies,” Eliot suggested mildly.
Before Louise could argue against that idea, Cynthia cried out for attention.
“It's time to feed her,” her mother said.
No matter how much she had to do before Christmas, Louise was determined to carry out all the wonderful traditions her mother had started. She silently thanked the Lord for an understanding husband, the opportunity to serve her church, and beautiful memories of her beloved mother.
When Cynthia cried at five in the morning the next day, Louise felt as though she hadn't slept at all. The baby's 2:00 am feeding hadn't gone well, and it had taken a while to get her back to sleep.
“Coming, my little darling,” Louise said in a soft voice, hurrying to pick her up before she woke Eliot. He needed to sleep until the alarm rang.
By the time Cynthia was fed, changed, and rocked back to sleep, Louise felt too wide awake to bother going back to bed. In fact, this was the perfect time to mix up her Christmas cookies before she fixed breakfast for her husband.
Besides making cookies, she looked forward to buying material for Cynthia's Christmas stocking today. She'd already checked nearby stores without finding the red quilted material she'd set her heart on. This afternoon her neighbor Maxine was going to baby-sit long enough for Louise to take a bus to the city center, where the venerable department store, Wanamaker's, was located. It was the oldest business of its type in Philadelphia, and one of the first in the country. She had high hopes of finding some spectacular material in their yard goods department.
Tales from Grace Chapel Inn Page 7