Chapter Nine

“I wish,” Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: “but it’s too late now.”

“What is the matter?” asked the Spirit.

“Nothing,” said Scrooge. “Nothing.”

~Charles Dickens

“Maybe three inches,” Ben instructed, tilting his head. “Or whatever you think. You’re the expert.”

Not that he cared whether his head was completely shaved. But he’d gotten tired lately of always tucking hair behind his ears, especially as he worked with Mac. So, when he’d paused at the window of Snippity-Do-Dah a half hour ago and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass, Ben decided it was time for a significant trim.

“Here?” the girl asked, taking a lock of hair between two fingers.

“Sure.”

She seemed to be a rare hairdresser who preferred the quiet and didn’t talk her customers’ ears off just because she thought that was part of her job. Or maybe she, like Ben, was not a morning person. Either way, he was grateful for the silence.

Closing his eyes as she worked, he thought about yesterday—a bad day. His body was still being punished by hard labor that he wasn’t used to, but the pain was more than that. It went deeper than muscular pain. He couldn’t think of a single reason to get up and face the day. That familiar, suffocating cloud was back, and it hung over him, taunting him. He couldn’t conjure up the strength to blow it away. So, he’d rolled over, shut his eyes, and begged his mind to fall asleep again. Easy way out—oblivion.

He recalled Mary’s quiche and her concerned expression as she’d served it, probably wondering where the congenial Ben had gone. But he hadn’t been able to summon the casual conversation it would have taken to reassure her he was fine. He wasn’t fine. Why pretend?

The sudden, brassy hum of the blow dryer startled him, but the rush of warm air on his neck and his scalp made him close his eyes again. He wished he could return to this place in time, this peaceful warmth, whenever he sensed the darkness creeping in.

After clicking off the dryer, the young woman squeezed a circle of clear gel into her palm, rubbed her hands together, then massaged it into his scalp, sculpting and maneuvering the newly clipped hair the way she wanted it.

“All finished, sweetie.” She unclasped the smock then removed it dramatically, like a magician’s assistant waving her cape to reveal a rabbit’s sudden disappearance. She popped her gum and admired her handiwork.

Ben glanced at the mirror and saw the old him reflected back—the clean-shaven, well-groomed man he used to be. Professional. Capable. Confident. Why wasn’t transforming the inside as easily as transforming the outside? A few snips, a little gel, and voila!

“Thanks,” he told her, counting out the pounds.

“Thank you.” Her mouth widened into a generous smile.

For a second, he thought the smile might indicate more than gratitude—he sensed a bit of cheeky flirtation behind it. He didn’t know what to do with that, so he dipped his head and walked toward the door with a quiet, “Bye.”

Ben had exactly enough time for a quick stop before showing up at Mac’s cottage. He walked past the Indian restaurant, then the Emporium, and found the bakery where he’d accompanied Mary last week.

As he entered, he saw an elderly man inside, to his right, sitting in a blue chair and wearing a friendly expression.

“Hello.” Ben paused.

“Would you like a sample, young man?” He lifted his plate a few inches higher so Ben could see the bite-sized scones. His aging fingers trembled.

“Thank you.” Ben chose a toothpick from the outer edge. “Mmm. Blueberry.”

“My personal favorite,” said the man.

“Mine, as well.”

“You’re a new face in town.”

“Yes. Just visiting.”

“I’m Alton Bentley.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bentley. My name’s Ben.”

Another customer appeared behind him, eager to enter, so Ben left the sweet old man and made his way to the glass counter, which displayed rows and rows of sweets, pastries, breads, and cakes. He wondered how early the workers had to awaken in order to get them ready.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman behind the counter. She had sandy, shoulder-length hair and pretty dark eyes that looked hollow and tired. Perhaps she was the one who’d gotten up at an ungodly hour to put the treats in their places for people just like him.

“Err… sorry. I haven’t yet had a chance to—”

“Take your time.” She stepped back to shuffle through receipts as he struggled to make a decision. A minute later, he said, “I think I’ll take the blueberry scones. Two, please.”

She took a sheet of tissue paper from a box and reached in.

“The samples work, apparently,” he said as she raised her head.

“Pardon?”

“I said, the samples work. The ones that old man is passing out.” He pointed back behind him.

“That’s my father.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, he loves being the center of attention. He’s been doing that job for more than a decade. Usually, he sits outside, but it’s too cold in December. He’ll turn ninety this month.”

“He doesn’t look a day over seventy.”

The woman chuckled quietly as she reached for a paper bag.

Before he walked off, Ben caught sight of something he hadn’t noticed—chocolate croissants under glass. He hadn’t tasted one since his honeymoon, nearly fourteen years ago.

Ben exited the bakery and turned toward Mac’s place, but he couldn’t stop thinking about those croissants—and his honeymoon. He let the memory have its way.

They’d been in Paris on their second day of holiday. Amanda had tugged at her new husband’s sleeve and lured him inside a quaint café. She ordered two enormous chocolate croissants and two espressos then led Ben to a corner table. Amanda’s smile was brighter than usual that day. She seemed blissful, happy in Paris, and happy with life. It was contagious.

As Ben sipped his espresso, Amanda tore her croissant and chattered on about Paris—the Louvre they’d seen that morning, the outdoor cafés, even the size of their glamorous hotel loo. She told him she wanted to return to Paris for a future anniversary.

Ben watched his wife. Her words evaporated while he cued in on her familiar mannerisms—the way her thin, feminine hands danced along with her dialogue, the way she swatted at that one loose strand of sandy-blond hair that always dangled near her cheek, and the way her eyes widened when she punctuated certain words. He loved to watch her tell stories, even if they sometimes had a tendency to ramble on.

And in that moment, watching her flick the flakes of croissant off her fingers, Ben felt a powerful surge of love for her. Beyond the lavish wedding, the expensive honeymoon he’d saved up for five months to pay for, beyond the hoopla of parties, and beyond rituals and toasts to the happy couple, everything amounted to just them. The two of them had started a life together. Partners. Friends. Companions.

Their life together had only just begun to unfold. There, in the little café.

“Ben? Did you hear me?” Amanda had tilted her head and blinked at him.

“Every word,” he lied. Then he reached for her hand and stood, raising her delicately from her chair as her confused smile widened. And then he kissed her, slowly and deeply, right there in front of a roomful of strangers. He barely heard the “oohs” and a smattering of applause around them. When he backed away, he saw tears in his wife’s eyes.

“I love you,” she said.

And that was all he ever needed to know.

 

By the time Ben reached Mac’s property, he had forced away the blissful honeymoon memory. All he would ever have left of Amanda were memories. And so, that momentary bliss always turned to torture.

Mac, without knowing it, had the perfect antidote waiting for Ben—the precision of carpentry. Ben could turn off his emotions for a while and use the logical, rational side of his brain. The moment Mac began to speak in mathematical terms, Ben understood. He’d had no idea how precise carpentry needed to be. But it was right up his alley—designs and measurements and figures. His field of study had prepared him for such things, in a sense.

They sat at Mac’s kitchen table for an hour, going over the sketches for the nativity scene again. The plans were even more detailed than they’d been before. Mac had worked hard over the weekend. He patiently explained to Ben all the steps involved—the measuring, cutting, and anchoring processes. He pointed to the designs with the pencil’s eraser as he spoke. Finally, during the assembly near the church, a sturdy base would be attached to the side walls, along with a back wall and a wood-shingled roof. Then they would add an angel up top—one that Noelle Spencer had painted for last year’s Christmas play. The project was far beyond what Ben had expected, in terms of scale and detail.

“Think you can handle it?” Mac asked then chewed off the end of the scone.

“I do,” Ben said. He didn’t know if Mac really believed him—or whether he even believed himself—but he would spend the rest of the day proving it to both of them.

Mac gathered up the papers he’d spread all over the table. “Let’s get started, then.”

They spent the next two hours in Mac’s work area behind his cottage. He’d converted a small cabin structure into a substantial toolshed, fit with a couple of benches, three saws, and an entire wall of tools hanging on hooks.

The first thing Mac did was hand Ben a pair of safety goggles and gloves, then he showed Ben how to use the different saws and how to mark the proper measurements. Ben got the hang of it almost immediately, and soon, he was doing the cuts on his own while Mac supervised.

“Guess I can leave you to it, then,” Mac said as Ben cut his fourth piece of wood without any guidance. “I’ve got a few stops to make this afternoon. There’s always something to do around the village.”

“I can imagine,” Ben said. “You’re in high demand.”

“Aye. ’Tis rare when I get a day off.”

Mac started to leave, but Ben stopped him. “Mac, I should tell you something.”

Mac paused, his face wearing the same matter-of-fact expression it always did.

“Well…” Ben removed his goggles. “You should know the truth. I’m not their nephew. Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright, I mean. We’re not related.”

“Aye,” Mac said, his face unchanging.

“You knew?”

“Suspected.”

“I think I should explain…”

“Nay. None of my business. If the Cartwrights feel close enough to call you their nephew, that’s good enough for me,” he said with a firm nod then walked toward the open door.

If he’d revealed the truth to anyone else in the village, Ben would’ve had to call up the Cartwrights and let them know their cover had been blown. But Ben knew in his own gut that Mac would never say a word.

Secure in that knowledge, Ben replaced his safety glasses, switched on the old radio nearby to a seventies rock station, and moved on to the next piece of wood.

 

“Your hair!” was the first thing Mary said when Ben entered the cottage several hours later.

He’d forgotten all about it. He rubbed at the back of his head, touching the bristles of newly shorn hair with his fingertips. “Just a little trim.” He shrugged.

“I like it,” she said, getting a closer look. “The cut reminds me of my Sheldon’s. He used to wear his hair that length. And he used to put… jelly? Or mouse…”

“Mousse?” Ben corrected with a grin.

“Yes, that’s it. Mousse. Messy, foamy gunk. But it made his hair look so handsome…”

He watched her eyes go distant and cloudy.

“What’s for dinner?” George asked loudly, clapping his hands as he entered the room.

Mary blinked and forced a smile. “I don’t know. What are you going to make for us, husband?” She winked up at Ben and faced George, who gave her a quick peck on the lips.

“I don’t think you’d enjoy burnt steak or rubber chicken, my dear.”

“George.” She swatted his arm. “You know I was teasing. I thought we’d do breakfast for dinner. How does that sound, Ben?”

“Uhm… fine,” he said, his mind still on Mary’s faraway look. Ben had assumed that Sheldon was somewhere in another city, busy raising a family. But Mary’s look told him that perhaps Sheldon was too busy. Come to think of it, Ben hadn’t witnessed any communication between Sheldon and his parents—no letters or phone calls—and Mary hadn’t mentioned his coming to visit for Christmas or that he might reclaim his bedroom. Something didn’t feel right…

Soon, Ben sat down with George and Mary to a filling dinner of eggs, sausage, toast, and jam. Ben talked freely about the nativity, about all his newly acquired carpentry skills, and about how much progress he had made.

“I can’t wait to see it,” Mary said. “I think Fletcher and Holly are signed up to be Mary and Joseph, at least for two of those nights.”

“Why didn’t they ask us?” George said, straight-faced, sopping up his egg with the last bit of toast.

“Is that a serious question?” Mary paused to look at him. “We are much too old.” She looked at Ben with a half grin. “Can you imagine, the two of us as Mary and Joseph?”

“Well, you’ve got the name right,” Ben played along.

“You two. Stop teasing.” She stood up to clear her plate and took George’s, too, as he swiped the last sausage from it.

“It’s so easy to do,” said George. “You make it irresistible.” He scooted his chair from the table and joined her in the kitchen. “We’ll take care of this, love. Why don’t you go and sit down. Rest your feet.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

“We’re sure. Aren’t we, Ben?”

“Positive.”

“All right, then.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I think I’ll go have a proper lie down. I seem to have the beginnings of a headache.”

She padded through the sitting area and down the hallway.

Two hours later, when she still hadn’t emerged from the bedroom, Ben assumed that she’d decided to retire for the evening. In the nearly two weeks he’d stayed at Mistletoe Cottage, Ben hadn’t seen Mary go to sleep before midnight.

Since he’d slept away the previous day, Ben was anything but drowsy. So instead of turning in after dinner, as he usually would have, he decided to join George by the fire. Ben stretched out on the sofa, his feet hanging over the edge, a Tom Clancy book propped on his abdomen. George took his place in the recliner across from him, reading something called The Shack.

After a while, George snorted then stirred in his chair. He closed his book, removed his glasses, and stretched his arms above his head with a grunt.

Ben shut his book, too, to see if George was heading off to bed. When George’s arm came back down to his lap, Ben noticed the picture frame behind him. He’d seen it before but not with his fresh questions about Sheldon. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course.” George suppressed another yawn and leaned back, intertwining his fingers.

“About that picture behind you…”

George arched his neck to see. In the picture, Sheldon stood a foot taller than both his parents, encircling their shoulders with his arms as they stood in front of a Christmas tree. All three smiled widely for the camera. “Oh, yes. Sheldon and the two of us. Just before his final term at university.”

Ben shifted to a sitting position, elbows on knees, to get a closer look.

George grabbed the frame and brought it closer, his eyes filling with memory. He handed the picture to Ben, who examined it while George spoke. “It was a fine day. Sheldon’s last day of exams. He was going to be an architect—”

“‘Was’? What happened to him?” Ben handed the frame back.

When George locked eyes with Ben, his pupils turned the color of burnt orange, reflecting the dancing fire off to the side. Ben regretted the question immediately, and he wished he could snatch it away and put it into his pocket for another day. Not once in the previous two weeks had either George or Mary pried into his personal life, despite having every right to do so. Still, there he was, asking a deeply personal question he had absolutely no business asking.

“I’m so sorry, George.” Ben shook his head. “I truly didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” George gazed at the picture and sighed a long, thoughtful, burdened-down sort of sigh. “It happened the very night this photo was snapped. Sheldon had come home for the Christmas holiday and was eager to spend an evening out in London with some childhood mates from the village—good lads, all of them. But Sheldon hesitated because he thought it was bad manners, leaving us on his first night home. But Mary insisted. She wouldn’t spoil his fun, and she reassured him we’d all have plenty of time to spend together. When the lads picked him up here at the cottage, Sheldon asked for a photo beside the tree—he and his mum had decorated it when he first arrived—then off he went with the lads, to celebrate the end of term.” George wiped his eyes. “Mary got the call an hour later.” His voice broke under the weight of the words. “The lads didn’t even make it to London. There had been an accident on the way.” His bottom lip quivered as he barely got the words out. “A drunk driver had sideswiped their car. The other two boys had minor injuries. But our Sheldon… he was killed instantly.”

Ben felt the sharp pull in his abdomen, where his ulcer still lingered. The pull shifted to nausea as a wave of anger came. A young person’s life being snuffed out too soon—it confirmed to Ben the unfairness that existed in the world. The pain in George’s eyes was too familiar, and for his own selfish sake, Ben wished he’d never asked the question in the first place. It was too hard, walking down that excruciating path again, even with someone else at his side who knew that shared pain.

“I’m so sorry,” Ben whispered, his eyes downcast. “For your loss. And for bringing this up. I didn’t mean to bring back the memory for you.”

“No. It’s all right.” George wiped his cheeks with one hand then leaned back to replace the frame. “It’s not a memory that ever leaves me for very long. I remember it every day, in some form. But it’s good to remember. Not the loss, but who he was. What he meant to us.”

“What was he like?” Ben sensed that George wanted to tell him.

“A carbon copy of Mary. In personality, at least,” George mused. “Positive-minded, amiable. Chatty. He could be mates with anybody. That was his greatest gift, I think.”

Ben nodded. “That’s definitely a gift, trusting people enough to create a friendship.”

“And, of course, we have no idea where the height came from. Six foot two, he was. My great uncle was tall, and so was a distant relative on Mary’s side. You know, I’ve always thought that tall men, in particular, have a harder time being humble.”

“What do you mean?” Ben asked.

“Well, just that they see the world from such a greater height than the rest of us. They look down on people, whether they mean to or not. Can’t help it. And I think, for some folk, that sort of goes to their heads. But not Sheldon. He was the most humble soul I’ve ever known. A gentle giant, we called him. Would give the clothes right off his back to help someone. He gets that from Mary, too.” He corrected himself. “Got that from Mary.”

“I can see that,” Ben agreed. “She saved my life.”

“Do you know, that was my first thought, after we found you in the snow? I thought to myself, ‘Sheldon would be so proud of his mum right now.’ Isn’t it odd? After all this time—thirteen years, nearly fourteen now—and he’s still my first thought.”

Ben fought the prick of tears as he wondered whether Amanda would still be his first thought, even decades later.

“Well.” George slapped his knees. “I suppose I’d better go join the missus in the Land of Nod.” He grunted to stand. “Good night, young man. May you sleep well.”

He patted Ben on the shoulder as he passed by.

“You, as well,” Ben said.

Hearing the bedroom door close a minute later, Ben moved his gaze to the fire. He wondered whether he would ever be able to think about Amanda with that kind of acceptance or that sort of closure and peace. George hadn’t shown a trace of wrath against the drunk driver who’d stolen his son’s life—only sadness at his loss and gratefulness at having had Sheldon as long as they had.

But picturing Amanda’s beautiful face in vivid detail, Ben didn’t think that kind of acceptance would ever come for him. All he could feel when he thought of her, if he ever felt anything at all, was regret.