Christmas at Grey Sage

by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Christmas at Grey Sage by Phyllis Clark Nichols is a heartwarming, comical frolic from the first page. I fell in love with Maude and

  Silas and the Unlikely Christmas Party entourage. Forced to stay together at the Grey Sage Inn in New Mexico one snowy Christmas, a ban of eclectic travelers trying to escape Christmas find the joy and peace of the season once again and help inn-owners Maude and Silas heal from a long-ago tragedy.

  This book is what Christmas is all about. I didn’t want to leave the inn. But the recipes included at the end of this story will make me feel as if I’m there once again, sitting by the fire on a snowy night. Curl up with some hot chocolate and enjoy your stay at the Grey Sage Inn. You will have a blast!

  –Lenora Worth, NY Times, USA Today and PW Bestselling Author

  Christmas at Grey Sage is a beautifully gentle story about grief, friendship, and the unlikely companionship of strangers that will leave you smiling and singing carols as you close its pages. Phyllis Nichols has a knack of creating an enchanting storyworld, populated by diverse and quirky characters you can’t help but root for. A satisfying and fun holiday read.

  –Mary DeMuth, author of over 30 books, including The Muir House

  Phyllis Clark Nichols has done it once more! In this new book, she deals again, masterfully, with the topic of Christmas. In an accessible but deep way, her narrative connects the readers with a collective human wealth of experiences, feelings, senses, symbols, and relationships, inviting them to reflect on their own wounds, in order to emerge with a new sense of joy and hope, not only for Christmas, but for life.

  —Nora O. Lozano, Ph.D., Executive Director, Latina Leadership Institute, Professor of Theological Studies, Baptist University of the Américas

  Christmas at Grey Sage by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Published by Gilead Publishing, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.gileadpublishing.com

  ISBN: 978-1-68370-1286 (paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-68370-1293 (eBook)

  Christmas at Grey Sage

  Copyright © 2017 by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  “Notes on the death of a child,” Dr. Andrew Muck, 2008. Used by permission.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Gilead Publishing, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Leslie Peterson

  Cover designed by Larry Taylor

  Interior designed by Amy Shock

  For Bill, who makes every day seem like Christmas morning

  Grey Sage in Santa Fe,

  the Christmas of 1973

  When Maude opened the door to the Christmas closet in early December that year, she had no reason to think there would only be nine more Christmases celebrated at Grey Sage.

  She pulled boxes off shelves and hauled cartons to the gathering room, the keeping room, and the front hallway. Dressing Grey Sage for Christmas took weeks of artistic planning and three days of hard work. Maude and Lita, her neighbor and friend of Hopi descent, always made ten fresh pine wreaths for the front windows; decorated four Christmas trees with homemade ornaments; arranged pine boughs and hung stockings on three mantles; encircled all the exterior door knobs with jingle bells; gathered pine cones to fill red baskets next to each fireplace; tied miles of red velvet ribbon; and placed too many candles in too many places to count. When the house smelled of conifers and the rooms glowed from the inside out, then the cooking started. And then Maude McClane Thornhill declared it was almost Christmas.

  Christmas always moved in and took up residence in early December, but for Maude, the season did not truly fill the house until the family arrived and “the unveiling” was done. All year long, every day, Grey Sage landscapes begged to be painted, and every year she painted a new one to be revealed on Christmas. But this year’s painting was more than a landscape, and she marked the days until she could drop the green velvet drape for the family to see.

  When Elan had squatted at the edge of the creek looking for smooth stones on an afternoon in May, he’d had no notion that his mother was studying the way the sun’s rays darted through the pines to highlight his face and his swirling blond curls. For months, trees grew greener, water danced over stones playing with the light, and Elan came to life on her canvas. She spent hours painting the delight in his smile and the curiosity in his eyes, and she cherished every one of those hours. This painting would take center stage over the fireplace in her office as soon as the Christmas decorations were back in the closet.

  Maude treasured family assemblages during the Christmas season, and this year would be no exception. She always stuffed the days leading up to Christmas as tight with memory-making activities as she stuffed the children’s Christmas stockings with surprises. Never was there a shortage of laughter, food, and storytelling.

  Usually, a couple of days before Christmas, the ladies of the family enjoyed last-minute shopping in the Plaza and on Canyon Road while their husbands minded the boys. Evenings meant a steaming, spicy bowl of green chili with Indian flatbread in front of the fireplace and a sampling of the sweets from Maude’s favorite bakery in town, or a morsel of the homemade candy her mother always brought. Somewhere in the mix of activities were board games, a bonfire with marshmallows, stringing popcorn for the birds, and the Thornhill siblings taking turns playing their favorite Christmas tunes on the piano.

  She made certain Elan had everything he needed for spectacular Christmas memories. Although Maude and Silas had wanted other children, that was not to be. Christmas gave Elan and his cousins several days together for walks in the woods and snowball fights and sled races.

  By this time, enough years had passed that Thornhill traditions were firmly tied to Santa Fe. Alo and Lita Loloma—neighbors who were more like family—always insisted on hosting a traditional Christmas Eve dinner. Lita would take over Maude’s kitchen and prepare a traditional Hopi dinner of venison rump roast with her secret spices; a Christmas salad of prickly pears, jalapeños, red lettuce, red onions, sliced avocados, and pine nuts; an array of roasted root vegetables with polenta; and her ancestral Cold Christmas Cake. She proudly served her Christmas Eve dinner on the dining table Maude had designed. Alo had scoured the pine brake down the hill for the perfect tree to build Maude’s table. He surrounded it with handmade chairs and a pine bench sufficient to seat eighteen of the Thornhill clan and four of the Lolomas every Christmas.

  After the last bite of the Cold Christmas Cake, everyone would load up the vehicles and drive to Santa Fe to attend the Christmas Eve service at the cathedral. Afterward, if the temperatures cooperated, they’d enjoy a walk around the Plaza and wander onto residential streets and avenues to see the luminaria-lined neighborhood sidewalks. The lights, the sounds, the smells, the feel—Santa Fe was nothing short of enchanting at Christmas.

  But neither was Grey Sage. Not one complaint was ever heard when Silas suggested they load up and head home for that last cup of hot chocolate and a treat before bedtime. The day had been full, and not even the adults lingered in front of the fire after putting the children to bed. The house was always warm and quiet—nothing to be heard except an occasional whir of the wind through the pines.

  That Christmas morning, Maude and Silas rose early and walked through the gathering room. Silas had spent hours last night assemblin
g Elan’s Christmas present and needed one last look at his masterpiece before heading to the kitchen to make the urn of coffee. Maude’s job was to move the cinnamon buns from the fridge to the counter to let them rise and to build the fire in the keeping-room fireplace. She had always been better with wood and matches than with coffee scoops and coffeepots.

  Although it was still dark, they looked out the kitchen window and determined by moonlight that they’d had at least a two-inch blanketing of snow during the night. Fresh snow and the smell of coffee and cinnamon buns made for a perfect Christmas morning as far as they were concerned.

  Just before daybreak, when Maude could stand no longer stand the fact that she and Silas were the only ones awake, she went into the gathering room to build another fire. Alo had stacked the firewood in the box last night, so all she needed to do was put it on the grate and strike the match. When the fire blazed, she pulled Handel’s Messiah from the shelf and placed the album on the turntable. She turned the volume up so high that when she dropped the needle at the beginning of the “Hallelujah Chorus,” the rattling windows shook away the overnight dusting of snow on the outside wreaths.

  Maude replaced Handel with the silky voice of Perry Como singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” only when she was certain no one could still be asleep.

  In a matter of moments, all the seats in the living room were taken by coffee-sipping adults in red-and-green plaid and monogrammed Christmas robes, all awaiting the sideshow of five little boys who were about to see what Santa had been able to get through the chimney.

  Within minutes, the sounds of laughter, chatter, Christmas carols coming from the stereo, and the humming of an electric train filled the living room at Grey Sage.

  Six-year-old Elan lay on the Saltillo tile floor, his eyes following the train under and around the Christmas tree. “Look, Dad, it has an engine and a caboose just like the one that goes by Pop’s house in Texas. I think Santa had to stay here a long time last night to lay this track and build this train.”

  Silas, always the careful one, was on his knees next to Elan, making sure the cord was safe. “Sure did, son. I can imagine it was a really difficult job, and Santa must have been grateful for the Feast Day cookies you left under the Christmas tree.”

  Maude sputtered into her coffee and laughed. She stepped nearer to her husband and needled his leg with her bedroom slipper. “Oh, yes, Elan. I wonder if Santa followed the instructions like your dad does when he puts things together.” She looked down at her husband and winked. “I’m just glad Santa didn’t find the rest of Lita’s cookies in the butler’s pantry, or else we’d have none for our Christmas celebration today.”

  Elan scooted across the floor and hugged his father. “This is the best Christmas ever, Dad. A train—a real electric train! And you think Santa will bring me new cars every year?”

  Silas ruffled Elan’s blond curls and hugged him. “Maybe, if you write him a letter.”

  After breakfast and cleanup, Maude returned to the family in the gathering room. Elan was still on the floor by himself, flipping switches and examining train cars. “Elan, you need to get your clothes on. Your cousins are all dressed and ready for sled rides. Besides, no self-respecting engineer would still be in his pajamas at ten o’clock in the morning.”

  Elan hopped up. “Okay, Mom. But don’t turn the train off, Dad. I’ll be right back, and I like to hear it running.”

  As he walked by on the way to his room, she handed him a box wrapped in red foil. “Here, Elan. See if you might like to wear this today.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Elan took the box and ran down the hall to his room. In only a few moments, he returned in gray-striped overalls, a red shirt, and an engineer’s cap. “Look, Dad. I’m an engineer. A real engineer!” His face glowed with excitement.

  “Hmm . . . A barefooted engineer.”

  “Dad!” Elan squealed as Silas scooped him up and then tickled his feet until he dissolved into giggles.

  Watching them, Maude laughed. Her heart was full. This—this was what she lived for. It was Christmas morning. Her house was filled with family, all laughing and telling stories, enjoying good food and good cheer. And the contentment she saw on Silas’s face and the joy she heard in Elan’s voice were all she needed for the holiday—and for all time.

  Christmas was just as it should be.

  Monday, December 19, 2005

  Maude stood at the kitchen window and rubbed her hands, especially the fingers of her left hand. Seems the cold made them ache a bit more with every winter, making it painful to hold her palette now. But she wasn’t painting today. She and Lita would spend the day preparing for the arrival of the ten guests who would occupy the inn for the next couple of nights.

  She turned from the window to see Silas in the keeping room just off the kitchen, sitting in his favorite chair.

  Reason says I should have used that ratty chair for firewood years ago, but somehow seeing Silas this morning, sitting, reading, and drinking his second cup of coffee, makes me glad I kept it.

  Making Silas comfortable these days was higher on her list of priorities than replacing a worn-out chair.

  Seeing her look, Silas grumbled from across the room, “Lita doing the grocery shopping? Did you tell her not to buy eggnog? I don’t like that store-bought eggnog. It’s too sweet. We’ll be making our own.”

  “I’m certain Lita knows you don’t like eggnog from a carton since she’s been drinking your homemade eggnog for about forty years.” Maude continued looking over the guest list Lily had sent.

  “Did you tell her to buy real cream and lots of it?”

  “Yes, Silas. She’s getting extra cream and extra eggs, and we’re counting on you for the extra nog. In any case, she and Alo should be here shortly. She’ll be preparing food, and I’m sure Alo will be cutting wood.”

  “Good, we wouldn’t want our guests to arrive to a cold house, now would we, Maude?”

  It was strange to be thinking of food and fires and guests this time of year. It had been an age since Grey Sage had housed people during the Christmas season.

  Not so the rest of the year. Several years ago, Lita had persuaded Maude and Silas to open their home as an inn.

  Lita had pleaded. “But Maude, you know how many times the tourists see the sign on the gate and drive in. They already think it’s an inn, and they’re looking for a cup of coffee and something to eat.” She also convinced Maude they could easily sleep and feed twenty on the weekends. “I’ll do the cooking and cleaning, and you can host retreats.”

  Maude had given in to the idea of hosting artists’ and writers’ retreats, and it wasn’t long before Grey Sage developed quite a reputation across the Southwest and in the East, where Silas and Maude still had many friends.

  But even as life returned to the house with so many guests, the one thing Silas and Maude could never manage was Christmas at home. They closed Grey Sage for two weeks during the holidays and took a trip.

  Until now. This year Lily Mayfield had persuaded Maude to open Grey Sage for a couple of nights for a group of her travelers. Maude agreed—with the condition they’d be out by Thursday, with Silas and her on a flight by Friday morning.

  Maude felt the wind gust as Lita came through the back door. “Getting colder out there?”

  “Oh, yes.” Lita plopped several bags on the counter. “The sky’s a thick gray this morning. I’m happy to be done with the shopping and back home.”

  Maude rushed to grab a bag of groceries before it toppled onto the floor. “Shall we get the other bags out of the truck?”

  “No, Alo’s bringing them after he puts the frozen items away in the storage-room freezer. Let’s just take care of these. We’ll have plenty to eat no matter what, and plenty of coffee. Speaking of which, I need a cup. What about you?”

  “No, thanks. There’s coffee in the pot, but I’ve had my limit. And don’t offer any more to Silas, please.”

  Maude started toward the pantry with several ca
ns and two bags of rice but was stopped by Lita, who had bolted between her and the pantry door. “Why don’t you pour my cup of coffee and let me put these away?” her friend suggested.

  “I know, I know. You just don’t want me messing things up in there.” Maude smiled and released the canned goods and rice into Lita’s arms.

  Lita laughed. “For certain you do a better job of pouring coffee than you do of putting away groceries. You and that artistic brain of yours think it’s better to just open the door, toss them in, and see where they might land. Only thing is I’ll be the one sweeping rice and trying to find the canned artichoke hearts while I’m preparing meals for our guests.” She continued into the pantry. “Did you get the guest list yet?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Lily sent it this morning.” Maude poured Lita’s cup of coffee and added cream, handing it to Lita when she returned.

  Lita took it with a grateful smile. “Did the number change?”

  “No, still only ten. She also sent a rooming list and a brief description of our guests. Looks like an interesting-bordering-on-eccentric group headed our way.” Maude grabbed the list and shared the details. “A retired military officer, an aging ballerina, a religion professor with his wife and a son who’s recuperating from war injuries, a pharmacist and his music-teaching wife, a grieving widow who’s a psycho-therapist, her daughter . . . Need I go on? Oh, and then there’s Lily.”

  Lita took a sip of her coffee, then began steady trips to the pantry and back. “Well, sounds like they have it all covered. We’ll have music and dance, religion and politics. Oh, and with a grieving psycho-therapist who has a single daughter, we’re bound to see tears. And, as you say, there’s Lily. She always brings the drama with her latest man-grabbing stories.”

  Alo came through the kitchen door with more grocery bags hanging from his arms, shoulders, and hands. He grunted as he kicked the door shut. “We could have left the frozen goods outside. Feels like they wouldn’t be thawing ’til June. How many guests are we expecting? You have enough groceries here to feed a hungry tribe.”