Chapter Ten

Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it.

~Charles Dickens

Mary shifted to her side and stared at the rose curtains. Thirty-five years old, they were the same ones she’d had since first moving in to Mistletoe Cottage. She studied the pattern of vines, daintily entangled up the fabric. Mary had slept well enough, but she’d awoken to a gentle ache she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. She didn’t want to do anything but stare at curtains. George must have sensed it and known she needed to be alone with her thoughts, so he snuck off to work early after making his own breakfast and gently kissing her forehead.

Her thoughts wandered back to Ben and to the question that had become more prominent each day since he’d arrived.

Why?

Why had this person been placed quite literally on their doorstep? Was his presence in their lives some sort of sign? The coincidences were too strong to ignore—the height, like Sheldon’s, the obvious intelligence, like Sheldon’s, and the new haircut, like Sheldon’s. He even occupied Sheldon’s virtually untouched room.

Why?

What was she supposed to gain from Ben’s visit? At first, she’d thought it was nothing more than an opportunity to show kindness to a lonely man, especially during a holiday season. But the longer he stayed, the more she became convinced his purpose went deeper than that. Deeper than a few bowls of soup or a stack of laundered clothes. Perhaps they were supposed to learn something from each other in the bigger scheme of things. But what?

She shifted in the bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Sheldon. He was always there, every day, tucked into the corner of her mind and her heart. But she rarely allowed herself to walk fully back to that corner and face him with her eyes wide open. It took great effort, after so many years, to paint the details of his smiling face, the light dusting of freckles on his cheeks, and the exact shade of blue in his eyes. Time had faded the details and dulled the edges until they were blurry. And it was easier not to conjure them at all.

But sometimes, she had no choice. Sometimes, he seemed to beckon her.

Mary closed her eyes and saw him—ten years old, cross-legged at the fireplace, cocoa in hand, discarded wrapping paper strewn around him. That particular Christmas, everything had gone horribly wrong. George had twisted his ankle in the snow and been ordered to ice and elevate it the rest of the day. Mary had baked the most beautiful mince pies and promptly dropped all but one on the kitchen floor. Only minutes later, Pronto, the family cat, had decided Christmas Eve was the perfect time to become fascinated with the tree, which had toppled suddenly, breaking three antique family ornaments. After picking up the jagged pieces and discarding them like ordinary, everyday rubbish, Mary had locked herself in the loo and sobbed into a hanging towel.

But when she emerged minutes later, Sheldon had salvaged the remaining mince pie and divided it into three small slices. He handed Mary hers with a loving smile.

“Mum, don’t cry. We can share.”

Mary fought tears again and sniffed. “Thank you, my darling.” Sheldon folded into her arms as she gripped the plate tightly, careful not to let it drop. She kissed the top of his head as she looked across the room at George—foot hiked up on two pillows, eating the last bite of his share. Pronto’s eyes glowed from behind the sofa.

“Mm. Delicious, Mary.” George winked as he set down his plate.

Sheldon led Mary to the sofa, where he’d already set out their gifts. The tradition was to open presents on Christmas Eve and save the stockings for Christmas morning.

“You go on,” she said. “I’ll watch you while I eat.”

He got to work, ripping open the shiny gold paper to reveal a train set. His face said it all. “Mum, Dad! How did you know? I’ve wanted one for ages!”

It was Mary’s turn to wink at George as she polished off her last bite. She didn’t have to open a single present to know she was blessed. She didn’t have to have perfect mince pies or ornaments intact. In the end, those were merely things. And watching Sheldon’s eyes sparkle beside the fire as he admired his new toy, she had all the Christmas she needed.

Years later, Sheldon had referred to that evening as his “Best Christmas Ever.” And she couldn’t help but agree.

Feeling tears dampen her cheeks, Mary wondered what he would’ve become, had he avoided the drunk driver by five seconds, or even two. Bizarre, how swiftly a life is taken. In only a blink. Sheldon would’ve been a successful architect and maybe found a beautiful wife with long blond hair. He would have had three children—two boys and a girl, who also had blond hair. And he would have visited every Christmas and brought along her grandchildren. He would have made the holiday what it should have been—pure joy.

Since the accident, Mary and George had learned to make Christmas special, all by themselves, attempting to recreate those special times. Each year, she made George put up the outside lights and find the perfect Christmas tree, while she put out the gingerbread figures on the mantel and laced festive ivy along the window frames. It was what Sheldon would have wanted. But underneath the external trappings was a void that couldn’t be filled by lights, tinsel, and Bing Crosby. She knew it, and George knew it. But they could never say it aloud.

But, for the first time in years, she had someone else to look after at Christmastime. In fact, until that morning, she’d spent very little time silently fighting that whisper of Christmas depression that came along each year. Ben’s arrival had taken her focus off herself.

“Enough,” she finally said to the air, pulling back the sheets and swiveling her stiff body to put her feet on the cold floor.

She couldn’t waste the day thinking about things she couldn’t change. Besides, she had a rehearsal to get to. Life had a way of moving forward, whether she wanted it to or not.

 

After waking at dawn, Ben took a long bath then put the kettle on. Rather than stay indoors with it, he took his tea to the back garden. On his way out, he passed George, who was off to work earlier than usual. Because neither of them were “morning people,” they just mumbled their good mornings.

A bird singing a very specific tune had led Ben outside. He’d first heard it while stirring his tea. Unlike most people, he tended to think singing birds were rather annoying—all he heard were random notes and even irritating repetitive pitches. But the unusual bird that had caught his attention seemed musically trained. The whistle was beautiful, even rhythmic. Twittering staccato notes were filled with resonance and tone, building to a full-length bird symphony, from beginning to end.

By the sound of it, the bird had likely perched somewhere in the back garden. And opening the door, Ben spotted it immediately—a splash of orange against the bleakness of a bare winter tree. He closed the door quietly, careful not to spill his tea, and studied the bird. It lifted its brown head high, opened its beak, and repeated the song, just for Ben.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mary had quietly opened the door and stepped out with him.

“Yes.” Ben held the door for her as she came through. “It is.”

“I call him Henry.” She folded her arms for warmth.

“Why Henry?”

“I don’t know, exactly. He looks like a Henry.”

Ben took another sip. “So, he makes regular visits, does he?”

“I first saw him about two weeks ago. He’s come and perched on that very branch nearly every day since. Usually this early in the morning.”

“I hadn’t heard it before now,” Ben said. “Or, rather, hadn’t paid attention.”

As though understanding their observations and becoming suddenly shy about having an audience, the bird jumped high and disappeared into the sky, leaving the black pencil-thin branch to quiver in his absence.

“You’re up early,” Mary noted, turning to look up at Ben.

“You, too.”

“I guess it’s because I went to bed so early last night.”

“Sleep well?”

“Quite well. Thank you.” She placed her hands into the pockets of her dressing gown and said, “I’m very proud of you.”

“Proud?” He wrinkled his brow, wondering what she could possibly mean. He hadn’t even checked George’s list yet. In fact, he hadn’t accomplished anything except to have a bath.

“Because you haven’t run away yet. Even though I know you desperately wanted to.”

Ben shrugged. “Well, you and Mr. Cart—George—have made it easy to stay.”

“You’re safe with us here, you know.” Her gaze was unwavering. “Whatever it is that you’ve run away from, it won’t find you here.”

Ben shook his head. “I wish that were true. But it’s in here.” He pointed to his chest. “How do you run away from yourself?”

“If I knew the answer to that, I’d be a rich woman, wouldn’t I?”

“Indeed.” Ben polished off his tea in one gulp.

“Well, I’m freezing my bum off.” Mary chuckled. “Let’s go inside. You have a nativity to build, and I have another rehearsal to attend, then a shift at the bookshop. Must keep busy, mustn’t we?”

 

Rachel, the vicar’s wife, tapped her wand on the music stand and poised her hands. “Ladies, let’s start at measure sixteen. Sopranos, you’re carrying the melody, so I need your voices loud and strong during this section.”

Mrs. O’Grady played the jangly piano as the ladies sang, “Ding Dong Merrily on High…” The song was one of Mary’s favorite Christmas tunes. Her mother had sung it to her when Mary was a little girl.

“Beautiful!” Rachel exclaimed when the song came to an end. “I think that will be one of the highlights. Well done, ladies. Let’s take a little intermission. Say, ten minutes?”

Immediately, everyone began talking with the person next to them, picking up where they’d left off an hour before, when they’d first arrived. The rehearsals were equal parts musical and social, and Mary could never decide which of the two she enjoyed more.

Only a couple of the ladies took their break offstage. The rest stayed where they were but spread apart, in order to have more room to converse, which usually involved hand gestures.

“Are you nearing the end of the countdown?” Mary asked, turning to Noelle, the only one sitting down in a chair.

Noelle put a hand on her protruding belly. “Twenty-one more days.”

“Doesn’t that final month seem like three combined?” Mary sympathized.

“It really does. Every muscle aches. Every movement takes extra effort. But little Adam will be worth all of it.”

“Adam! So you’ve decided on the name.”

“Finally. Adam didn’t want to name his son after himself—it would make the fourth Adam in his family. But I couldn’t think of any other name I loved more than my husband’s.”

“That’s precious,” Mary said, and she meant it. Noelle and Adam’s love story was one that the village had seen unfold shortly after Noelle came over from America. The childhood sweethearts had reconnected after years apart. The best kind of love story.

Noelle turned to find her bottled water, leaving Mary to overhear someone else’s conversation. The twins, Holly’s teenaged sisters, stood giggling together. They were nearly university age, and over the years, especially the past year, Mary had watched them mature and grow into beautiful young women.

“I stood behind him at the bakery yesterday,” Bridget said. “He’s so tall. He’s a giant!”

“A handsome giant,” added Rosalee. “I saw him this morning, walking on the other side of Storey Road. I like him without the beard. But he doesn’t smile very much, does he? Looks a bit… intense.”

“But that makes him all the more mysterious. He broods. Like Mr. Darcy.”

“Ooh, yes! Our own Mr. Darcy in Chilton Crosse!”

Mary could hardly contain her chuckles as she eavesdropped, knowing precisely whom the girls were admiring. She could just picture her “nephew’s” cheeks flushing red at the mention of it.

“Ladies.” Rachel tapped her wand, drawing everyone’s attention gradually forward. “Time to start gathering again.”

 

After setting the shingle perfectly in line with the rest of the row, Ben used the staple gun to secure it in place. He’d completed a fourth of the roof for the nativity when he heard Mac’s footsteps shuffle on the dusty floor of the shed.

“Impressive.” Mac stopped in front of the workbench and crossed his arms to assess Ben’s work.

Removing his goggles, Ben looked up. “Thanks. Made good progress this morning.”

“I see. Looks professional. I don’t think I could’ve done better myself.”

Ben rubbed his fingertips together. The pads of his fingers had grown raw over the course of the afternoon spent handling wood. But adding shingles was a tedious process that required a careful touch. He’d quickly learned that work gloves only got in the way. And besides, the extra effort was worth it. He had to admit, it did look professional. He’d been so concentrated on setting one shingle at a time that until that moment, he hadn’t stepped back to see it as a whole.

“We’re right on schedule,” Mac confirmed. “We’ll haul everything to the church in the morning for assembly. An all-day job.”

“Looking forward to it. It’ll be good to see this thing put together.”

“Aye. Should be a sight.”

Ben rubbed his neck, sore from stooping over the shingles with intense concentration. “This village certainly knows how to ‘do’ Christmas. A live nativity, the Dickens Festival. And I hear there’s a sleigh ride, as well?”

“Aye. Mr. Elton’s mare. She’s hearty but gentle. This may be her last year to pull the sleigh, though. Getting old, like the rest of us.”

“Mary told me something about a Mystery Claus? A Father Christmas who goes about the village, dropping presents on people’s doorsteps. And he’s been able to conceal his identity all these years?” Ben watched Mac’s eyes for a change in expression or a flicker of admission. But he saw nothing of the sort.

“Aye. Everyone wonders who ’tis.”

“Who’s your guess? Any suspicions?”

Mac scratched his silver-stubbled chin and pondered his answer. “My money’s on Duncan Newbury. Richest man in town, with a heart of gold.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Haven’t met him yet.”

“A good soul. My mate for many years.”

“Well, whoever the Mystery Claus is, I applaud him. At least he gives people something tangible to believe in.” Ben picked off a dab of glue that had stuck to his palm.

“Tangible, as opposed to…”

“I guess, as opposed to just faith. I mean, this mystery person—he helps people. He gives them something physical, meets their actual needs instead of offering prayers that won’t go anywhere.” He caught Mac’s tilt of the head and wondered if he’d offended him. “Look, I’m not knocking people who have faith. I admire those who believe in something they can’t even see. But in my profession, I was taught to be logical, to make assessments and judgments based on facts. I just… well, I have a hard time believing in things I can’t see with my own eyes.” He wiped his hands together, dusting off the dried glue.

“Your profession?” Mac raised an eyebrow.

Ben realized the hints he’d given. He could either lie or be frank. Time to make a quick decision.

“I’m a physician,” he admitted. “Well, was a physician. Until about six weeks ago.”

“Aye?” Mac raised the other eyebrow, showing genuine surprise.

“A heart surgeon.” Even uttering the words felt strange. He hadn’t thought of himself in that way for so long. In fact, the more he’d been separated from it, the more blurred his identity had become. He tried to connect his thoughts back to his original point. “So, because of that, I’ve been trained to deal with issues in terms of symptoms, test results, procedures—things I can see, things I can do something about.”

Mac nodded, but the hesitancy in the nod told Ben he didn’t agree. The nod was more of an “I’m listening” courtesy nod. Although Mac was never vocal about it, he might well have been a religious man with a silent faith and a very private relationship with God. Ben hoped he hadn’t crossed any invisible lines or moved down a peg or two in Mac’s eyes.

“I believe that people have a right to believe whatever they wish to believe,” Mac said, his voice steady.

His worry evaporating, Ben smiled his agreement. But Mac wasn’t finished.

“Still, faith in a higher power can be an anchor for some people. Especially those in danger of drowning.”

Before Ben could process what Mac could’ve meant, a dog barking in the distance startled him. A man walked up the hill with a Border collie at his heels, dancing around him, heralding his arrival.

“Hey, y’all,” said Fletcher, approaching the doorway. “Thought I’d see if you needed a hand on that nativity. Are we puttin’ her together?”

“Nay, not today.” Mac bent down to rub the dog’s ears. “In the morning. Could use your help, though, loading the van.”

“Sure. No problem. Oh, there was something I wanted to ask you…”

Ben could tell he wasn’t needed in the conversation, so he quietly stepped back to focus on the shingles. As reached for his goggles, he tried his best to swat away the image of a drowning man—and the idea that he might be the very person Mac had in mind.