Amanda had a nice voice, but she wasn't one of the strongest vocalists. Louise hated to lose any member of the choir, but others in her section would be able to compensate for her absence.
The second call worried her more. With Cynthia on her shoulder vocalizing in her own unique way, Louise struggled to hear what the soloist with a cough was saying.
“The doctor says I can't possibly sing Christmas Eve,” she croaked in a barely audible voice. “I'm sorry to let you down.”
After offering sympathy to the soloist, Louise was ready to panic. She had to find someone who was qualified to take over her part, but she didn't know the choir members well enough to be sure of a replacement. Her only recourse was to call the director who was sidelined and get her suggestion. She was a lovely woman who couldn't have been more helpful, but she was also a talker. It took some spectacular howls from Cynthia to cut short the conversation. Then, of course, she had to make another phone call to line up the replacement.
“Want me to do the grocery shopping?” Eliot offered when she finally got off the phone.
“No, I know just what we need. It will be faster for me to go.”
“Well, the streets are a little slick. Drive carefully,” he said.
Did he think she was going to drag race through staid Philadelphia neighborhoods? Louise left in something of a huff, although she was the first to admit it was fatigue and frustration, not real anger.
She'd forgotten how long the checkout lines could be on Saturday, especially since the weather report was calling for snow. After wheeling her own cart out to the car because the boys who were hired to do it were overwhelmed, she managed to get home with five heavy sacks to carry up the slick front steps of the brownstone.
In the apartment, Eliot was just about done feeding Cynthia, and he wanted to hurry to the Laundromat. The machines were apt to be busy, so he took a book along to pass the time while he waited.
Louise envied him the quiet hour or two spent reading, but the streets were getting slippery, and she had to change the baby and put away the groceries, a job she preferred to do herself because her husband could be a little too creative about where to put things.
At least she had a free evening to work on the stocking, she thought as they sat down to a TV dinner of Salisbury steak, corn, and mashed potatoes that evening. It was a poor substitute for home cooking, but all she had time to prepare.
“I have a wonderful idea,” Eliot said as he finished and laid down his fork.
“Oh?” She was battling waves of fatigue, but was hopeful she'd revive when she started work on the stocking.
“Let's start a tradition of our own: an evening to relax and enjoy the Christmas carols we both love.”
“This evening?”
Her heart sank. How could she refuse to spend time with her husband after he'd done the laundry, hauled it up to the apartment, and put most of it away himself? He was worn out from end-of-semester responsibilities, not to mention being short on sleep. He deserved some quiet recreation with his wife.
But she was exhausted too, and all day she'd looked forward to working on the stocking.
“Maybe you could play records while I sew. That way we can both enjoy the music, and I'll get some work done on the stocking.”
His silence said more than words could.
“I won't work late, but next week is going to be terribly busy,” she said. “We have rehearsals every evening, and it's almost impossible to work during the day. There are so many interruptions.”
“Louise,” he said in a solemn voice, “please be reasonable. You're exhausted, and you've already ruined fabric because you're too rushed to take pains with your sewing. Let's make popcorn and hot chocolate and enjoy each other's company for a change—at least as long as our daughter lets us.”
She sighed, not wanting to argue but disappointed by his attitude. Even though he was right that Cynthia would not know when her special stocking was made, he still didn't understand how important it was to follow her mother's traditions. Nothing she could say was going to sway him.
“All right, I'll make popcorn,” she said, trying to conceal her disappointment. “I guess we deserve it after a TV dinner.”
Her hope was that Eliot would fall asleep on the couch, and she could get some sewing done before she woke him up to go to bed.
Instead, Louise found it impossible to keep her eyes open. She snuggled beside him and let the wondrous carols wash over her, but she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder long before she finished her bowl of popcorn.
The following week disappeared in a haze of fatigue as Louise held rehearsals, wrapped gifts, addressed Christmas cards, mailed packages to her sisters and father, and finished Christmas baking. Cynthia seemed to have her days and nights mixed up, although she rarely went more than a couple of hours without needing her mother's full attention. Eliot kept busy working on plans for the next semester, frequently going to his office on campus for a quieter space.
The stocking lay on the table, untouched but not forgotten. Louise kept telling herself that she had plenty of time to work on it, but other responsibilities always seemed to keep her from it. How on earth did her mother manage to get everything ready for Christmas and still give her daughters all the attention they needed?
Christmas Eve came quickly. In the past week, Louise had been busy tending to Cynthia and running rehearsal every night. She hadn't had time to work on the stocking, and she was frustrated, but the day before Christmas was one of the most beautiful days she'd seen in Philadelphia. The grime of the city and the roofs of brownstones on her street were covered with glittering white, and the gently falling snow didn't keep people from coming out on the holiest of nights. Louise was gratified by the turnout for the concert, especially since it meant congregating in spite of the very real fear of the Asian flu. As she watched the crowd fill the pews in the sanctuary, she prayed that the musical program would be inspirational as well as entertaining.
In the choir room, everyone was robed and ready, although Louise was a bit worried about the substitute soloist. Lucinda was a high school student recommended by the church choir director, even though she didn't sing regularly with the group. A petite, dark-haired girl with huge brown eyes, she was nervously wringing her hands as she waited to march in.
“You'll do just fine,” Louise said, hoping to calm her.
“Sometimes my voice squeaks when I'm nervous,” she confessed.
“You're probably not half as nervous as I am,” Louise said with a light laugh. “Anyway, this is a very friendly audience. They don't expect perfection.”
The choir sang beautifully in spite of several absent members, but the part of the program that would stay in Louise's memory forever was Lucinda's solo. She stepped forward and began “Oh, Holy Night,” while everyone listened in silent rapture. Louise's eyes were teary as the familiar words reminded her of the birth of the Savior. Mary had been a young girl herself when she brought forth the Christ child, so who better to sing of that sacred event than a teenager?
Lucinda's voice didn't squeak. Quite the opposite. The words flowed from her. When she finished, Louise could see she was pale and shaken by her own performance, but it had been flawless.
After the congregation filed out, still awed by the beauty of the soloist, Louise hurriedly received congratulations and met her husband. She'd prevailed on Maxine to watch Cynthia, but she didn't want to take advantage of her by lingering at the church.
“It was wonderful,” Eliot said, helping her with her coat. “You certainly brought out the best in the young girl.”
“It wasn't me,” Louise said thoughtfully. “The Lord inspired her.”
When she remembered Lucinda's pre-concert fear, her performance did indeed seem like a miracle.
The two of them arrived home to a second miracle, albeit a tiny one.
“She's sleeping like an angel,” Maxine said as she pulled on her boots to leave, “It was a lovely way to spend Christma
s Eve.”
Louise sent her home with a plate of cookies and many thanks, then turned her attention to the table with her portable sewing machine. Somehow the week had flown by with no time to finish Cynthia's stocking. She had presents wrapped to put in it, but the fabric was still lying there in pieces.
“At last I can get this sewn,” she said, sitting down at the makeshift table.
“You're not going to sew now, are you?” he asked.
Eliot's disappointment pricked her conscience, but how else could she give her baby a Christmas stocking?
“It won't take long. I have everything planned out. All I have to do is stitch it up and put on the finishing touches.” This wasn't strictly true, since she intended to appliqué Cynthia's name on one side and finish it off with rickrack she'd found in her mother's tin workbox.
“There's no way I can talk you out of it, is there?” her husband asked with resignation.
“No, but you could make tea. We can celebrate the evening with a Christmas cookie.”
He grumbled, but put together a little snack of cheese and crackers to go with the cookies. Louise had been too nervous to eat before the concert, so she was more than grateful for the gesture.
“I'll just nibble while I work,” she said. “This will go fast.”
“It's after ten. Can't you come to bed now and finish tomorrow?” he asked in a dispirited voice.
“No, I'll do it now, and tomorrow we can have the whole day to celebrate Christmas.”
He picked up a library book he wanted to finish before it was overdue, but soon he gave up and went to bed.
Although she kept telling herself she could easily finish before Cynthia's midnight feeding, she started having trouble with the quilted material almost immediately. It was too thick to flow easily under the foot of the machine, and several times she had to stop and start over after putting in only a few inches of stitching.
“I hate this machine,” she said, wondering if hand sewing would be more efficient even if it would take longer.
She gave it a try, but forcing the needle through the thick layers hurt her fingers, and she never had mastered the use of a thimble. How could she be so proficient on the piano and all thumbs when it came to sewing?
Most of her snack was sitting untouched on the edge of the table, and she took a few moments to eat a cheese square and a frosted cookie. But the cookie only reminded her of how wonderful Christmas was with her mother, and she returned to the machine, determined to sew the back and front of the stocking together.
The machine jammed almost immediately. She tried to inch the fabric out from under the foot, knowing if she pulled too hard it would rip. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she couldn't hold back her sobbing.
“Are you all right?” Eliot asked, coming into the room in his robe.
“No, the machine won't sew.”
“Come to bed, darling. You can finish tomorrow.” He gently put his arms around her as she sat, and she was greatly tempted to give up on the stocking.
“I can't,” she said miserably.
“I've never known you to be so stubborn,” he said, obviously making an effort not to sound angry.
“Go back to bed.” She just couldn't deal with an irate husband and a cranky sewing machine at the same time.
“No, not until I understand why you're driving yourself to finish the stocking when Cynthia won't know the difference. You could make it in July, and it wouldn't matter to her.”
He pulled up a kitchen chair and sat down beside her.
“It's not just a stocking,” Louise said, sniffling. “I want to be the kind of mother Alice and I had. I know how life was hard for her, but she always made Christmas wonderful for us.”
“You see your mother as perfect and want to be like her,” Eliot said thoughtfully.
“Yes, I want to walk in her footsteps.” Louise swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “She loved us so much and left us so soon. The least I can do is try to be like her for Cynthia.”
Eliot leaned forward and took her hands in his. “Don't you know you're already an amazing mother? You're unique and special. When our daughter is old enough to realize how blessed she is to have you, it won't be because you've tried to do everything as perfectly as your mother did.”
“You're just saying that to make me feel better about being a failure.” Louise took a tissue from a nearly empty box on the table.
“No, I'm saying it because it's true.” Eliot moved so he was across from her and looked directly into her eyes. “Look how hard you've worked on the stocking already. You're as devoted to your daughter as any mother can be. You don't need to make her a stocking to prove that.”
Louise didn't say anything. She watched her husband, who was gazing at her with pure love on his face. Big wet tears were coursing down her cheeks.
“My darling Louise, there's something Cynthia needs more than a fancy Christmas stocking.”
“And you're going to tell me what that is,” she said, forcing a smile through her tears.
Eliot laughed and handed her another tissue. “Your daughter needs a mother who loves her enough to put aside this compulsion to be perfect. That would be a true gift for Cynthia—the ability to keep our priorities straight. She needs us to not aim for goals that interfere with the thing that matters most: love.”
Louise hated to admit it, but she knew Eliot was right.
“Can I still finish the stocking, just to be done with it?” she asked with a broad grin. She wiped her eyes and stuffed the tissue in her pocket.
“We'll finish the stocking,” he said, surprising her. “Let me take a look at the machine. I'm no mechanic, but maybe I can get it going again.”
She was too surprised to protest.
“Here's the problem. The thread is all jammed up under here.” He slid off the little metal plate below the needle and pulled out a tangle of bright red thread. “Now rethread it and see how it goes.”
He sat by her side as she managed to make fairly straight lines of stitches. Their beloved daughter slept through the hum of the machine, and the fabric finally took the form of a big bright stocking. The rickrack and Cynthia's name could wait for another day, she decided, overwhelmed with gratitude as her husband stayed by her side.
“My mother didn't do everything perfectly,” she admitted. “One Christmas, she didn't realize the holiday turkey was fully thawed. She overcooked it so much it was dry and stringy. Alice and I ended up snacking on popcorn and hot apple cider, and the turkey was cat food for quite a few days.”
“Was your mother upset?” Eliot asked.
“Perhaps, but she never let us know. My father was a good sport too. I believe he convinced her to open a can of Spam to go with our sweet potatoes. Now that I think back, it was her attitude that made her such a good mother.”
She held up the stocking, wondering why the toe looked so small. Her seams were uneven, giving it wavy sides, but it was still big enough to hold Cynthia's small gifts.
“It's beautiful,” her loving husband said. “Where should we hang it?”
“Oh dear, I completely forgot about a loop at the top. It won't hang.” All Louise could do was laugh.
“We'll lay it on the back of the couch and take a picture of Cynthia and the stocking. You'll see, someday it will be a beautiful memory,” Eliot said.
Louise nodded.
“Our daughter's first Christmas will be memorable enough. She's blessed our life more than I can ever express.” Louise's eyes were moist, but this time her tears were joyful.
“She's the most perfect gift of all,” her husband murmured, leaning close and pressing a warm kiss on Louise's damp cheek.
Cynthia cried out so loudly, she startled both her parents. Louise laughed and hurried to pick her up, while Eliot took a bottle of formula from the refrigerator.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, laughing while he warmed Cynthia's midnight snack.
“It is indeed a blessed Christmas,” Louis
e said smiling down at the precious gift in her arms.
Daddy was right, you know,” Cynthia said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I love my stocking, and to me, it is perfect, and so are you. I'm sorry I was such a colicky baby, though.”
“You were a perfect baby,” Louise said. “Thankfully, the colic only lasted a few months, for your sake and mine.”
“Yes, it's a good thing, or I would be suffering now, after stuffing myself with your delicious food, Aunt Jane.” Cynthia patted her stomach and laughed.
“That was a fabulous breakfast,” Alice said. “Eating the sweet bread and licking my fingers took me right back to my childhood.”
“I'm glad you liked it, but you can thank Mother's recipe. I couldn't improve on that one.” Jane grinned. “If I'd had her recipes when I worked at the Blue Fish Grille, I'd be a famous chef by now.”
“That would be our loss. We couldn't run the inn without you,” Alice said.
“We wouldn't have tried,” Louise said.
“I thank the Lord you did,” Ethel said. “I'm glad you girls want to keep the old traditions alive. It brings back such sweet memories, it's almost like having my dear Bob and Madeleine and Daniel with us. In spirit, anyway.”
“I feel that way too,” Alice said. “Jane, why don't you change while we all clean up from breakfast? We're all dressed for church.”
“All right. I'll meet you in the living room so we can open our gifts.” Jane put down her napkin and left the room.
Alice finished washing the dishes and left the others to dry and put them away. She took a cup of tea and went into the living room. The fire had died down, but the room was toasty warm. Since they'd be leaving for church in a while, she left it alone. She took a closer look at Cynthia's stocking. It did look well used, like a child's favorite blanket.
Glancing up, Alice noticed the old family nativity set on top of the mantel. The baby Jesus was in the manger. Had it been there earlier? One of their traditions, since they were children, was to place the baby in the manger after Father read the biblical story. They still observed that practice as a reminder of the reason for Christmas. One of her sisters had done it this year without her, which made her a little sad. She shrugged. At least they were all together. That's what was important.
Tales from Grace Chapel Inn Page 11