Christmas at Grey Sage

by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  “Maude, would you pour him a cup of coffee? Might help his grumps.” Lita took some of the bags from Alo and headed toward the pantry again. “Maude just went over the guest list of ten. But we have more than one tribe to feed. I didn’t want to leave the mountain again unless I had to, so I bought food for when Catori and Doli and the grandchildren arrive for Christmas.”

  Silas got up from his chair and patted the ten-pound bag of beans. “Looks like we can feed them beans until after the New Year.” He fixed a look on Lita. “Did you get plenty of eggs and cream for the eggnog?”

  “I did, and it would have been cheaper to buy a cow and a couple of chickens.”

  Maude’s eyes widened. “Don’t give him any ideas. I finally got him retired from doctoring and taking care of folks. We don’t need anything else around here to feed or take care of. We just need to get through the next couple of days, and then we’re off.”

  “Oh, sure. You’re off to the warm waters of the Caribbean, spending Christmas with strangers under palm trees.” Lita shook her head. “Wish you’d just stay here with us. Our casita looks like I’ve been spending too much time in the Christmas store in Santa Fe, and Catori and Doli would love to see you. Would you just think about it, Maude?”

  “And I’d love to see them and all your new decorations. But our cruise is already paid for, and my achy joints are ready for some tropical sunshine. And I’m finally putting my toes into the water off Curaçao. Another check on my checklist.” Maude grinned in anticipation.

  Alo removed his jacket. “Tell me again: how many different countries have you visited on your Christmas excursions?”

  “Curaçao will make seventeen countries in the last twenty-two years,” Silas answered.

  Lita rolled her eyes. “There’s just something wrong about Christmas in Curaçao. No snow, no pine trees, no fireplaces. And ‘Silent Night’ samba style?”

  Maude raised her eyebrows. “Just think, though, Lita—it’s all about interesting cultures. You started this. I never saw your venison rump roast with a cactus pear Christmas salad on a Christmas dinner table in West Texas. Oh, or your Hopi Cold Christmas Cake.”

  “Yes, but all of that is our tradition,” Lita retaliated.

  “True, and our Christmas tradition is to see how many culturally different Christmas dinners we can have before we’re too old to travel. Then it’ll be your venison rump roast again.”

  All four adults in the kitchen went silent. Escaping Christmas had become Maude and Silas’s tradition, and even after twenty-two years, remembering still brought pain.

  Lita broke the silence. “And what if I’m too old to cook it?” she asked.

  Alo put his hand on Lita’s shoulder. “See, I’ve been telling you to teach your daughters how to cook in our tradition.”

  “I did teach them, and they’ll do a fine job when it’s their turn. But for now, it’s still my turn. And right now, it’s my turn to get the rest of these groceries put away and the beef bones boiling to make beef stock.” Lita pointed to the door. “Alo, could you take the rest of the boxes down to our casita? And Silas, could you check the cabinet to make certain you have enough nog for all the cream and eggs I bought? And Maude, maybe you could get a pad and pencil and we could finalize the menus while I get the water boiling.”

  Maude rummaged for writing supplies, then sat on the barstool, ready to make notes. “Hmm, the butcher must adore you, paying money for all those beef bones that he’d have to throw away.”

  “I’m not certain we’d want to know what they do with these beef bones if I didn’t buy them, but I can’t make good soup and chili without good stock.” Lita added salt and pepper to the pot.

  “I guess that means we can work soup and chili into our menu, right? Maybe for tomorrow’s lunch?”

  “They’re arriving for lunch tomorrow? And they’ll be back for tomorrow night’s dinner?”

  “Yes on the lunch, no on the dinner. They’ll eat in town tomorrow night. You might go easy on the heat in the green chili, though. Lily says these folks have Midwest palates, and I’m not certain they can handle New Mexico green chili.”

  “Well, let’s tingle those delicate palates and give them a true Sangre de Cristo Mountains experience,” Lita said. She grinned impishly and added more black pepper to the pot. “And Lily’s not bringing a man with her this trip?”

  “No, I couldn’t believe it. Such a rare occasion. But I think that’s why she put this trip together.”

  “Why? Because she’s manless right now?”

  “Maybe.” Maude shrugged. “Or maybe she’s got her eye on the single military guy.”

  “Which one? The old retired guy or the young soldier?” Lita dumped a bowl of beef bones into the stock pot of boiling water and secured the lid on top.

  “Now, Lita, Lily has her ways, but I don’t think . . .” She trailed off. Lita was already shaking her head.

  “Uh-huh. I still don’t understand how you two became such friends. She never married and changes men more often than we change the light bulbs around here, and you’ve been a one-woman man all your life.” Lita washed her hands and dried them on the dish towel, then reached for a basket of fresh peppers.

  “I don’t think our friendship had much of anything to do with our mating instincts. I think it had to do more with our mutual curiosity. When we met, she was Manhattan in a sack dress and a fur-trimmed jacket. I must have looked like Annie Oakley to her—my third day in Chicago and standing on the corner of Madison and Wabash trying to find my way to the main building on Michigan Avenue. She took pity on me and walked me to the front door a few blocks away.”

  “Somehow I can’t picture Lily being kind to a stranger.”

  “Like I said, I think she was just curious. We were so different. It’s a lot more than eighteen hundred miles separating Lubbock from New York City. We had much to learn from each other. And of course, we shared a passion for art,” Maude finished with a smile.

  “But that was so many years ago, and you’re still friends.”

  “That we are. I guess those long walks on Lake Shore Drive stretched more than our legs. And then there were the late nights in the studios trying to finish a project. And all the days and evenings we spent in museums together while I was filling up time and missing Silas.”

  “Was she man crazy then?”

  “You might say that she liked variety, and she was a bit—” Maude paused. “Ahead of her time. At least, ahead of my time.”

  Lita laughed out loud. “Guess she taught a young, small-town, yes-ma’aming, church-going, skinny thing like you a few new tricks.”

  “Well, friendship with Lily exposed me to a bit more than art. But that was—is—Lily. Underneath all that flamboyance is a good soul who loves life and sees the world differently than most of us.”

  “She’s still raising eyebrows with her flamboyance. Last time she was here for a retreat, I heard a young artist ask her where she grew up, and she shook that flaming red mane of hers and said, ‘Grow up? I didn’t grow up. Who wants to grow up?’” Lita mimicked the way Lily shook her long, curly locks. “Left that poor young thing speechless.”

  “Avant-garde. That’s what she was and still is.”

  “Avant-garde or not, I’ll be on my guard and prepared for most anything with her around. At least they’ll be out touring Santa Fe most of the time.”

  “Yes, they will. And while they’re out, I’ll be packing my red crepe pants and kimono for Christmas Eve in Curaçao,” Maude said with satisfaction.

  Tuesday, December 20

  Maude sat on the brown leather sofa, sorting room keys and papers and eyeing her college friend, whose curly hair was still pumpkin red after nearly five decades.

  Backed up to the blazing, mammoth fireplace in the gathering room, Lily had pulled her green plaid poncho up above her buttocks. She stood, humming for a moment, then smoothed the poncho back down over her green wool pants. “Almost nothing warms my backside like a roaring fire.
Mind you, I did say ‘almost.’” She gave Maude a look that Maude knew too well.

  The rest of the visiting entourage sauntered in from the dining room, where Lita had just served them coffee and buñuelos—her version of dense donut holes rolled in cinnamon and sugar.

  Lily leaned over to put her mug on the pine coffee table and whispered, “Pardon me, Maude, but a couple of these folks cannot hear, and the rest of them don’t bother to listen.” That said, she stood, lifted the sterling-silver whistle from the chain around her neck, and blew into it as though she was trying to blow out the fire behind her.

  Maude shrieked and covered her ears, and Lita nearly broad-jumped over the sofa.

  Maude should have known better. This was how it was with Lily—one unexpected surprise after another.

  When Lily’s nine had huddled around her, she announced, “This is our host, Maude McClane Thornhill. She and I have history going back to our college days at the School of the Art Institute in Chicago.”

  She gestured around the room. “Some of you would say Maude and Silas own this place. But what on earth does that mean? How can anyone own a piece of the earth, especially when the people who owned this part of the world from the beginning are all dead and they never got a penny for it? I own no property, but apparently Maude and Silas do.”

  She paused with a flourish, and Lita snuck an eye roll at Maude.

  “Now, Lily, we know who really owns this property, so let’s just say we are in possession of the deed to the property for a while. And we do try to be good stewards of it while we enjoy the peace and serenity we have found here.”

  Lily acknowledged Maude’s explanation with a nod of her head before turning back to her charges. “All that said, Grey Sage is their home, and we are their guests. As Maude noted, they are the earnest caretakers of this land and this inn, and I assure you we will be treated royally. Maude is an artist and teacher of sorts, so she aptly named each of the inn’s suites after an artist. And when you enter your suite, you’ll understand why. You’ll find stellar art and sculpture and mind-expanding reading material. As I told you on the drive out, Maude’s artists’ retreats here are heralded across America.”

  Maude felt her cheeks turning red not from the roaring fire, but from Lily’s extravagant comments.

  Lily held fast to her clipboard with one hand, trying to tame her spongy red curls with the other, and continued her formal introductions of Silas, Alo, and Lita. Once finished, she announced, “People, as I call your names, you may pick up your key, and Alo or Silas will escort you down the hallway of this wing to your suites.” Lily pointed to her right. “You have about twenty minutes to freshen up and meet me back here at eleven for departure to downtown Santa Fe. We have things to see. By all means, dress warmly.” She gave the group a stern look. “If you’re here on time, there’ll be no need to blow the whistle.”

  Maude glanced over at Lita. She had a hunch that during the morning’s room cleaning, Lily’s whistle might accidentally find its way under the bed, only to be found Thursday afternoon right around the time of Lily’s departure.

  Lily positioned her glasses, easily mistaken for large red teething rings, on the end of her nose and looked down at her rooming list. “Greg.” She motioned for Maude to hand him his key. “You and Iris are in the Renoir Suite at the very end of the hall. I think you’ll find it most impressionable.”

  As Greg and Iris walked away, Lily leaned in and whispered to Maude, “You think he got it? Remember, he’s a theologian, so I’m not asking him any serious questions, because I don’t want to sit and listen for the next half century.”

  She returned to her list and sized up the Martins’ son. “And, Kent. You’re in the Wyeth Suite, first door to the right as far away from your parents as I could house you.” His left arm in a sling, Kent took the key with his right hand, politely thanked Maude, and winked at Lily.

  “Beatrice . . . my dearest Beatrice. I think you’ll find the Degas Suite absolutely stunning, just like you, my darling. Degas must have been obsessed with dance. He splashed ballet dancers over many a canvas. Silas, could you help Beatrice, please?”

  Silas extended his arm to Beatrice to make certain she found her suite and conversed with her as they walked away. Lily leaned in to Maude again. “She’s a bit eccentric and pirouettes around the room periodically to music that only she hears. But if she remembers to come to dinner, I don’t think she’ll show up in her tutu.”

  Maude still marveled at Lily’s boldness. “Shush, Lily. Beatrice could hear you and be offended.”

  “Perhaps, but she’d forget all about it in less than ninety seconds.” Lily looked back at the clipboard. “Dr. Sutton, you and Laura will be in the Monet Suite. I’m hoping what you see there might inspire you to delight us with a little Debussy after dinner this evening, Laura. I’m certain you didn’t miss the Steinway in the corner over there.” Lily nodded toward the piano and wiggled her fingers on her right hand as though playing a keyboard. “Don’t forget your gloves for our trip downtown,” she told the woman. “Must keep those delicate fingers warm.”

  Maude handed Ted Sutton the key and caught the grimace on Laura’s face. “Or maybe you’d prefer playing some Christmas music for us. After all, what is this season without its glorious music?”

  Laura worked at a smile, said nothing, and followed her husband to the hallway entrance.

  Lily took another key from Maude and turned to the two handsomely dressed women on her left, the older one in gray and the younger one in navy pants and a red sweater, both in pearls with leather tote bags on their arms. Obviously mother and daughter, they stood next to the wing chair. “Reba, you and Emily will share the Picasso Suite—twin beds and a panoramic view of all of North America.” She made a dramatic, wide sweep with her free arm.

  Emily slipped the key from Lily’s hand. “Thank you, Lily. I know we’ll enjoy the view.” They followed Alo down the hallway.

  Lily leaned toward Maude. “Translated, that means ‘My mother is in serious need of therapy, and I’m trying to make the best of it.’ I’m thinking of removing that tortoise-shell clamp from Reba’s hair to see if that might loosen her up. Meantime, she’s the therapist, and I assume she’ll enjoy trying to read something into Picasso’s techniques.”

  Maude chortled. “Lily, you’re still as wicked as ever. Maybe more.”

  “And finally, Colonel Walton, because you are the classic gentleman, you’ll be staying in the Rembrandt Suite, right next to mine. I hope you will find everything to your taste.”

  Maude handed him the last key. The colonel took Maude’s hand and kissed it before taking the key. “I’m most certain that it will be impeccable. And if not, I’ll park myself in that wing chair next to that blazing fire.” He walked away, but just before entering the hallway turned back to Lily. “And did I miss the name of your suite, Lily?”

  “I’m right next to you in the Pollock Suite. You know how eclectic and colorful I can be. Don’t you think it appropriate?” She lowered her chin and her eyelids ever so slightly and then tossed her hair like a sassy fourteen-year-old.

  Once he was a few steps down the hall, Lily put her clipboard on the rustic coffee table in the center of the room. “Don’t you think he’s charming? He’s ninety-plus but doesn’t look a day over seventy.”

  Maude, still amazed with Lily’s flirtatious, seventy-two old girlishness, replied, “He is every bit of charming, and he’s traveling alone. Is the colonel the reason you planned this trip?”

  “Maude, when do you call ‘babysitting a declining ballerina’ traveling alone? Beatrice’s third husband was Henry’s friend, and Henry made one of those deathbed promises that he’d look after Beatrice. Some women—excluding me, of course—need to be taken care of, and Henry’s too much of a soldier and a gentleman not to make good on his promise. Oh, but he’s a divine dancer, smooth and certain.”

  “Ah, do I detect that rapid heartbeat you get when you find a man attractive?”

/>   Lily rolled her eyes. “Only slightly accelerated.”

  “Got a minute to sit with me?” Maude patted the brown leather cushion next to her, and Lily sat down. “When you called, you only told me you had a group of people who needed rooms in the inn at Christmas.”

  “Yes, and you promptly told me there was no room in the inn because it was closed for Christmas. I think I’ve heard that ‘no room in the inn’ Christmas story before. So I asked you again because I couldn’t bear to put these gallant gentlemen and refined ladies in a barn. I begged.”

  “As I recall, you did. You begged, and I said yes.”

  Lily removed her red glasses. “Thank God. What would I ever do without you, Maude?”

  “I know you’ve always been like the Pied Piper with a gaggle of followers, but even you would admit this crew is a bit—well, more than a bit—interesting. What I’d really like to know is why they would want to travel at Christmas?”

  Lily stared back at Maude. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are asking me that question. Why do you and Silas travel at Christmas?”

  Maude bit her lip and swallowed the words she did not want to say. “I don’t need to explain that. You know why we travel at Christmas.”

  “I do. And is it too much for you to imagine that others might find the holidays a bit difficult as well, and they don’t want to be alone in their murky miseries when they’re supposed to be making merry?”

  “I certainly can. But a road trip from Chicago to Denver with an out-of-the-way side trip to Santa Fe? Why not New York or London or—”

  “And why not Christmas at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs?” Lily interjected. “It’s an elegant five-star hotel. What could be more perfect in December? Snow. Mountains in the distance. There’ll be divine musical performances, and we get to glitter and shine two evenings for formal dinners. The food is world class, along with the spa. So many colors to paint over our miseries.” Lily flittered her hands in the air like a bird flying away.