Chapter Eight

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose.

~Charles Dickens

Roasted new potatoes, chicken casserole, Caesar salad, French-cut green beans, roast beef, and more… how could she possibly choose? In the end, Mary decided not to. She shuffled along the makeshift buffet line, unashamed of dabbing small, measured portions of each selection onto her plate. After all, she had contributed two of the dishes—the miniature potpies and a quiche. That surely gave her the right to sample everything.

She had looked forward to the luncheon all week. Most people’s eyes glazed over at the mention of committee meetings, but not Mary’s. After-church meetings often involved generous potluck lunches and the chance to chat with women she didn’t see through the week.

Making her way toward the long table in the church hall, she attempted to balance her overflowing plate without dropping a single bean or potato. Mary arrived at her spot and set down her feast. Amy Fitzsimmons, the Emporium owner’s young wife, had already found her chair, across from Mary, and waved as she sat down.

“Amy, dear, you look wonderful. How’s that precious baby of yours?” Mary asked, removing the napkin from the table.

“He’s perfect,” Amy said, flashing the grin of a proud mother. “He’s such a good boy. Learned a new word yesterday. Doggie. Though he says it more like ‘goggie’ right now.”

“So sweet,” Mary said. She fought the vivid image of Sheldon at that age, sitting on his father’s knee as he pointed out words in a book. “Apple. Bat. Car.” When George started to close the book, Sheldon would grunt, frown, and point, until George opened it and read again. Sheldon’s gleeful smile reappeared as George read for the hundredth time. Mary felt a painful ache inside her chest over the memory.

“Mary, this quiche is outstanding!” said Lizzie, Joe’s wife, sitting two seats down. She pointed to her plate.

“Oh,” Mary said, shocked back into the moment. Collecting herself, she added, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“You must give me the recipe. Joe would go mad for this. Maybe even add it to the pub menu.” Lizzie dove in for another bite.

Holly approached the table and took a seat beside Mary, gently nudging her elbow. “Hi there.”

“Hello, dear. What a pretty skirt.”

“Oh, thanks.” Holly brushed the green fabric with her fingers. “It’s new.”

Mary took a bite of casserole. “It was nice to see your sister in church this morning. Back from London already?”

Holly’s seventeen-year-old sister, Rosalee, had recently embarked on a new career. Her role in a period piece for the BBC had been the talk of the village for weeks.

“Yes.” Holly reached for her tea. “She returned yesterday. I think she was pleased with how her scenes came out. She’s definitely found her calling.”

“I’m so proud of her,” a voice agreed. Mildred Newbury, Holly’s new stepmother, was sitting catty-corner from Mary across the table. “And Bridget has found her way at last, I think. She’s excited to apply for university. With her recent grades, I think she’ll have her pick.”

Mary was relieved that Bridget, Rosalee’s twin, had straightened out. Over the summer, Mary had heard rumors of Bridget’s slipping grades as well as a dalliance with an older boy.

Most of the ladies had found their seats and were chatting in between bites. The last to sit was the committee chairperson herself, Mrs. Pickering. She sat at the head, naturally.

“I didn’t see your nephew. In church this morning, I mean,” Mrs. Pickering told Mary, loud enough for half the table of twenty women to hear.

Mary glanced up from her green beans and waved her fork casually. “Yes. Well. He was feeling under the weather. I insisted he stay at the cottage. No reason to have him spreading germs to the congregation.”

“Quite right.” Mrs. Pickering seemed to approve. “Very sensible.”

After a half hour, giving the ladies time to finish their plates and exhaust all topics of conversation, Mrs. Pickering stood and rang a little bell to call everyone’s attention. Then she lifted her notepad from the table, adjusted the glasses on her nose, and began the discussion of pertinent items regarding the Dickens Festival: the number of merchants participating with booths, seven this year; the Victorian costumes, which were coming along nicely; the program schedule for each of the festival nights; and the other last-minute issues to be decided.

The meeting was productive, but it lasted nearly three hours, in total, including the lunch portion. After sitting all that time, Mary found standing up without a wobble to be a challenge.

“Here, let me get this,” Holly offered, nudging back the chair to give Mary more room.

“Thank you, dear. That helps. It was a quite a long one, this time,” she muttered, out of earshot of Mrs. Pickering.

“She does have a tendency to ramble on,” Holly concurred.

“Oh—I didn’t see Noelle here this morning. I hope everything is all right with her pregnancy.”

“Yes, as far as I know,” Holly offered. “But she’s so far along now that I think she tires easily. She wouldn’t have lasted long at this meeting.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Mary snickered.

Outside, waiting on a bench, George tapped his pipe against his palm and stood when Mary exited the church.

“When did you get out?” she asked, envious of him.

“A half hour ago.” He supported her elbow, and they edged along the path toward Storey Road.

“And you’ve been sitting here, waiting on me all this time?” she asked.

“Well, Mr. Elton kept me company, up until about five minutes ago.”

While Mary had attended her meeting, George was at rehearsal inside the church. He was playing Scrooge in the abbreviated version of the Dickens play presented during the festival. He’d learned nearly all his lines, but Mary knew she would have to quiz him in the next couple of weeks to make sure.

“How did rehearsal go?” she asked, stepping in synch with him.

“Oh, fine. No worries. A few minor bumps, but we’ll get there.”

She interlocked her arm with his and thought about how lovely it was to have a husband just the right height for her. He stood three inches taller—perfect for dancing. Not that they danced anymore. But if they were ever to dance, he was at a good height for it.

When they arrived at the cottage, Mary had hoped to hear piano music or perhaps to see Ben at the fireside, reading one of his spy books. Instead, the cottage was quiet, except for Bootsie’s irritated mew, begging for a meal. From all appearances, Ben hadn’t been out of his room all day, and it was nearing three o’clock. Mary wondered if he had taken ill. She contemplated knocking on his closed bedroom door to offer him food. But she reminded herself that he was a grown man, capable of living his own grown-up life.

After she and George had dinner later in the evening, she hemmed a costume while George snored softly in his chair. She heard Ben’s door creak open. Instead of joining them in the sitting room, he ventured toward the loo then shut the door. Presumptuously, she put aside her hemming and went to warm up a plate. She’d made two pie tins of quiche that morning—one for the meeting and one for them, at the cottage.

Placing a generous slice into the microwave, she heard a door open. Ben shuffled into the room, his hair rumpled and a two-day growth of beard on his face.

“Hungry?” she asked just as the microwave beeped. She removed the quiche to set it down with a fork.

Ben only yawned, sat, and started to eat. Clearly, he didn’t want to be disturbed.

She pretended to be busy in the kitchen and found some crockery to wash, giving him privacy without actually leaving the room. She’d only experienced less than a fortnight’s worth of him, but based on observation, she knew parts of Ben quite well. But moments when he was closed off and inaccessible, in his own universe, made her wonder more about the parts she didn’t know. We’ve moved two steps backward again.

The light and darkness of Ben was extreme. There seemed to be no middle ground or shades of gray. One day, she might get the inquisitive, polite Ben who offered to put away groceries, sit and watch telly with George, or even turn her dusty piano keys into a masterpiece. But the next day might bring gloomy Ben, the pensive, sullen man who grunted his answers and walked around her cottage like the shadow of a ghost, void of all hope. She wondered which one he truly was, deep inside. Surely, he hadn’t always been both.

In the beginning, she’d been curious about that dark side of Ben. But after having seen the lighter side, she wanted more of that. She was interested in helping diminish the dark parts, helping to heal whatever wounds might have taken him there in the first place.

She remembered dark days, too. The hopelessness felt like looking up from the bottom of a deep, narrow well, into a light that was impossible to reach on her own. But, sooner or later, she’d had to make a choice: keep living that way and die a slow, painful death of the spirit or decide to live and to do more than simply exist. She’d chosen to get up, dust off, and move along, day by day. She hoped, soon, that Ben might choose that path, too. But she couldn’t choose it for him.

Behind her, she heard Ben mutter his thanks and shuffle back to Sheldon’s room. Mary cleared away his dish, put the quiche back where it belonged, and returned to her sewing, hoping the next day would bring him one day closer to crawling out of that well.