Louise accompanied Viola to the kitchen, where she helped her friend prepare two trays with cups of nutmeg-sprinkled eggnog and plates containing small scoops of a dark brown, very moist-looking cake.
“It was good of you to provide this treat for our visitors, Viola,” Louise said as she placed some folded paper napkins on the tray. “I also appreciate your help with the tour of the house. Even with the tour company’s literature, I could never have told them as much about it and your family’s holiday traditions as you did.”
“I needed room in the refrigerator and I enjoy showing off for a crowd,” her friend replied as she topped each portion of cake with a drizzle of thin, sugary glaze. “I must say I’m surprised to find you guiding a house tour. What got you involved with this bunch?”
Louise gave her a brief explanation of what had happened at the Coffee Shop. “I am trying to keep a good Christian attitude about it,” she added, “but sometimes I wish my sisters would …”
Louise laughed.
“Your patience never ceases to astound me. How do you manage people like that decorator woman?” Viola’s tone went up an octave. “Where was she reared, in a designer barn?”
“I don’t believe Laura meant to be deliberately rude,” she said as she picked up the tray of eggnog cups. “Although I must wonder at her reasons for coming on a holiday home tour if all she intended to do was shop for her business.”
“She’s a troll.”
That startled another laugh out of Louise. “Dear me, I don’t think she is quite that bad.”
“Not the Lord of the Rings kind of troll. A business troll. It’s what my father used to call estate buyers who’d read the obituaries so they could be the first to make an offer to the heirs for the valuables of the deceased. They make large profits that way, especially if the family needs money fast. Some people call them hearse chasers.”
Louise grimaced. “That sounds ghastly.”
“It’s more common than you think. Most people don’t realize the value of their belongings, particularly if they’re inherited. Along comes a troll and …” Viola rolled her eyes. “I imagine our decorator friend makes a good living buying antiques and such in that manner.” She fussed for a moment over the arrangement of the plates on the tray. “Before I forget, you and your sisters are invited to my house for dinner on Boxing Day. One of my customers sent me a fully dressed goose, and Lord knows, I can’t eat it all by myself.”
Louise suppressed a smile. Viola always made her dinner invitations sound as if they were made only for her personal convenience, when she suspected the exact opposite was true. Despite her often brusque nature, Viola liked entertaining more than she would ever admit.
When the two women returned to the parlor, the tour group was discussing what they liked about the house and their own family traditions. All but Max Ziglar, who was standing by the bay window and looking out at the snow-covered garden.
Louise could not see his face and she hardly knew enough about him to guess what his thoughts were at the moment. In spite of this and his cantankerous personality, she had the strongest sense that the businessman was extremely lonely. In this lovely, warm room, filled with all these friendly, interesting people, no less. What could have made him so determined to keep others at a distance if he doesn’t like being alone?
As they handed out the refreshments, Viola asked, “Has anyone ever had plum pudding before?” When some indicated that they had not, she added, “Before you try it, let me tell you something about it. This recipe was handed down to me by my mother and dates back three generations before her. English families have enjoyed plum pudding as their traditional Christmas dessert since the seventeenth century. I should also point out that the pudding has never once been made from plums.”
“It smells delicious,” Ted said, “but it doesn’t look like any pudding I’ve ever seen.”
“The original version was made of thick porridge, to which the cook added chopped meat, liquor, a variety of dried fruits, sugar, spices, butter and eggs. The mixture was boiled, not baked, in a cloth bag or special basin. Every member of the family took turns mixing the batter so that they could make a wish as they stirred.”
The young man grinned. “Sounds as intriguing as the pudding smells.”
As Ted lifted a large forkful to his lips, Viola cautioned, “Before you taste, mash it a little with your fork first, young man. The rest of you do the same. You might find a surprise.”
“I’ve found something.” Max prodded his portion with his fork. “It’s sticking up out of the center.”
“Ah, then you’re the lucky one, Mr. Ziglar.” Viola went over and used his fork to extract a bright silver dollar. “Another Reed family tradition. We throw coins, buttons, rings and thimbles into the mix.”
“Edwina, would you like to have mine?” Laura asked after giving the bookshop owner a single, appalled glance. “I’m not really that hungry.”
“Don’t panic. They were a way to forecast the coming year. Whoever got the portion with a coin in it could look forward to wealth, a ring meant marriage, and those poor souls who found buttons and thimbles were doomed to stay single another year.” Viola handed Max his plate. “I’ve never found a coin or ring yet myself. You’re a fortunate man.”
“I don’t like things in my—” Max began, only to be interrupted by Edwina.
“Wasn’t it Prince Albert who made plum pudding a standard during the holidays?” the schoolteacher asked hurriedly. “Or was it Charles Dickens?”
“Both, I think. Prince Albert contributed his part by being a little homesick,” Viola said. “He grew up in Germany, and when he came to England he missed the traditions of his youth. The Queen pampered him by serving his favorite foods. That included plum pudding, which eventually was added to what had been the standard holiday fare of boar’s head, wassail and mince pie.”
“Boar’s head?” Laura paled. “The whole head?”
Viola nodded, obviously enjoying the younger woman’s reaction. “Have you ever had headcheese? Want to know how they make it?”
“Say no, Laura,” Edwina murmured.
“Ah, what was done at court inevitably trickled down through society and was mimicked,” Louise said, trying to draw them back onto the subject, “even by the poorest and humblest of families. Dickens, of course, popularized the treat in A Christmas Carol, where Mrs. Cratchit served hers ‘blazing … in ignited brandy.…’”
As the group finished their refreshments, Viola took a moment to admire the gift from the Howards, especially Louise’s contribution, which was fragrant with the scents of ginger and nutmeg. “Thank you again for this, Louise. I’ll look forward to having some of your nut bread in the morning with my coffee.”
“You’re welcome. If you find a silver thimble in one of the slices, give me a call.” She chuckled at her friend’s startled expression. “Wendell carried off mine from my sewing basket last week and I haven’t seen it since. Maybe he decided to spice up my bread.”
Louise preceded the tour van back to town, where the group was scheduled to break for brunch at the Coffee Shop for an hour before continuing on to the Holzmanns’ home. She had to admit that the tour had gone better than she had expected, thanks in large part to Allan and Viola. She was actually looking forward to taking them on to the next house.
As she parked, Louise sat in the car for a moment and watched the group climb out of the van. “All right, Lord. You were right, I was wrong. Being a Good Samaritan feels very nice.”
Ted and Allan insisted on Louise’s joining them at the Coffee Shop, and over their light meal of omelets and citrus salad they discussed Viola Reed’s home and how intriguing Queen Anne architecture was in general.
“I’m fascinated by how surprising such houses are,” Allan said. “Like Miss Reed’s home—it’s not a predictable structure, so when you first walk through you really never know what’s going to be around the next corner.”
“Rather like the owner, I imagine,” Ted put in as he removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a paper napkin. “But at the same time I have the funny feeling that once you get to know her, you always know where you stand with that lady. Would you agree, Louise?”
Louise tried to think of a discreet way to describe her friend’s penchant for blunt honesty. “Viola never minces her words.”
“I picked that up right away,” Laura said, apparently oblivious to her own lack of tact.
Allan stroked a tanned finger across his white mustache in a thoughtful manner. “It’s a shame that every year more homes like Miss Reed’s are demolished instead of renovated and restored. Although some can’t be saved, I’ve always felt as if I were watching history evaporate into thin air.”
“History is for books,” Max Ziglar said. “Houses should be efficient, practical and suited for life in modern times.”
Louise was not surprised by his attitude. The businessman struck her as a thoroughly modern man. That immediately raised another question in her mind: If he felt that way, what was he doing on a tour of historical homes?
“History gives us a sense of place and purpose, by telling us from where we came,” Allan said, taking exception to Max’s statement. “It inspires us to create our own history for future generations. It’s really no different than what we do as parents to set a good example for our children and grandchildren.”
Max’s gaze grew distant. “Then they grow up and do what they want.”
“You can combine them, you know,” Laura said. “Spread some bits of history around a modern house. That’s what I do. People like both.” Her cell phone rang, and she answered it with “L. A. Lattimer” before she rose and walked away from the table.
Louise privately wondered if anything really mattered to the interior decorator outside of making money. “What is your opinion on homes of historical importance, Edwina?” Louise asked.
The schoolteacher brushed a wave of her salt-and-pepper hair back from her round cheek. “I’m like Allan. I think history should be passed along to the next generation. Houses like Miss Reed’s make excellent classrooms. I would love to have brought some of my students along with me.” Edwina told them a little about the inner-city school at which she taught and added, “Most of the children live in apartment houses in the city and don’t even have a yard where they can play.”
“My father died when I was young and my mother could only afford an apartment after that,” Ted mentioned. “Once you get used to the lousy maintenance, noisy neighbors and terrible views, they’re not so bad.”
Louise suspected otherwise and her heart went out to him. “Do you still live in an apartment, Ted?”
“For the time being. My wife and I fell in love with an old Colonial-style farmhouse that we discovered outside the city.” He took out his wallet and removed a photo of the house and showed it around the table. “As you can see, it needs some renovation, but it stands on fifteen wooded acres. It’s really the sort of place you dream about owning.”
“Have you put a down payment on it yet?” Edwina asked.
“Our present incomes keep us from qualifying for the home loan we would need, but”—he shrugged again—“we’ll keep saving our pennies to buy it or something like it.”
Jane helped Alice load her car with the gifts for her ANGELs and with a box of caroling booklets. Before Alice drove off, Jane promised to meet her sister in town as soon as she finished a few last-minute chores at home. “I am not going to be late, I promise. I really want to hear the ANGELs sing.”
Alice studied her face for a long moment. “All right, but remember, I’m counting on you.”
As soon as she heard the car drive off, however, Jane left the kitchen and went into Daniel Howard’s study.
Whenever she felt troubled as a child, she had come to this room. Her father had always kept his door open, even during the afternoons when he worked on his sermons, and he had always made time to listen to her. When her father was not at home, Jane would still visit his study and sit in his favorite armchair, and feel instantly better.
She needed that kind of comfort now.
Jane had not been entirely honest with Alice earlier when they had talked about Christmas. She did miss the happy holidays of her childhood, but that was not the whole problem. Jane was not even sure what was driving her to such hectic activity. She only knew that she felt better if she kept busy from dawn until dusk.
I’m trying too hard, she thought.
She should have thought, I’m running away from this vacation.
Jane moved around the room, running her hands over the backs of chairs, looking at the different photos Daniel had displayed of his wife and daughters. Although her father was gone and the room had been redecorated, she still felt his presence whenever she came into the study.
A photo of Daniel and his daughters captured her attention. She studied it, looking into his kind eyes, wishing she could reach into the photo and touch his hand.
“I wish you were here, Father.” She went to his favorite armchair and curled up on it. “I could really use your advice.”
Daniel Howard had always known how to talk to her. He had coaxed her to talk about her concerns simply by helping her to sort out her feelings. She could remember a dozen times when she had rushed to the study, looking for him.
“I’m not going to school today, Father,” she had once said when she was in the fifth grade, “I’m never going to school again.”
“Come here, Jane.” He had set aside his Bible and taken her onto his lap. “You’re feeling very angry today, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m so angry I could blow my top, just like a volcano.”
“That’s not a very good feeling, is it?”
“No.” She had buried her face against his chest. “I hate being angry. It hurts my heart.”
“So you’re feeling a little sad, then too. Were you sad before you felt angry?”
She had not meant to tell him, but the words began pouring out of her. “No, I was angry first, when Will and Jerry made fun of me on the way home from school.…”
Now Jane slowly began to sort through her feelings, asking herself the same questions that her father would have, trying to pinpoint what she had not been able to express to Alice.
Like her sisters, she had wanted this Christmas to be special. She had not lied to Alice when she said that. She also understood Louise’s reluctance to get involved with the tour group. They had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange the time off in order to be together for the holidays and do all the things that they never had time to do.
Yet on the first day of their long-anticipated vacation, Jane had talked her sisters into giving up some of their time to help guide the Christmas homes tour. She had told herself that it was the Christian thing to do, but there was a small corner of her heart that was glad to give up some of the time with her sisters in order to spend it with people that she did not know. People who did not know her. People who really did not care about her. People who had no expectations where she was concerned.
That was what confused her. That same little corner of her heart wanted to find other things to do. Things that would keep her occupied and busy. Ways she could use up the time when she might otherwise be idle.
No, she had to be brutally honest, at least with herself. She wanted to find things to use up the time that she had promised to spend with her sisters.
Jane knew that Alice had expected her to go with her to town, and yet she had used chores as an excuse to stay behind. If she had gone in the car, Alice would have wanted to talk more about Christmas and gifts and how much fun they were going to have. And she did not want to do that. She did not want to keep up a happy pretense.
Would she really rather scrub the kitchen floor than spend time with her sisters? Part of her said yes, because it was easier to be busy. It was safer. Like pretending not to want anything special for Christmas.
There were a dozen things Jane might have suggested, but she was worried she would ask for too much, or the wrong thing. She did not know what they expected of her.
“I don’t want them to be disappointed in me.” Was that what she dreaded most? She was avoiding their time together and keeping so busy so they would have no reason to complain about her or to feel resentment toward her.
She had rarely come home for Christmas before, when their father was alive, and now she would never have another Christmas with him.
Jane closed her eyes. Of course, that was the root of it. She was acting out of guilt.
Stay busy, don’t ask for anything special and no one you love will have any reason to resent you.
Daniel would have let her cry and then he would have prayed with her. Now she would have to pray by herself, and in that moment she missed her father more than any other time since his passing.
“Dear Lord,” she prayed, “You gave us this beautiful holiday, and here I am, spoiling it. Help me with my feelings. Help me to accept the love my sisters have for me instead of being afraid of it. And if You have some extra all-purpose courage lying around, I could sure use some.”