Chapter Eleven

There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet.

~Charles Dickens

The small trough looked rudimentary and rickety, as it should have, with splintered wood and rustic dimensions. Ben had arrived early at Mac’s shed to finish constructing the manger. Studying his accomplishment, Ben was satisfied with the end result. When Mac returned from another job, he, Ben, and Fletcher loaded the manger, along with the pieces for the entire structure, into vans and drove them to the church. The task of assembly required non-stop lifting, balancing, hammering, gluing, and more lifting. And still, they hadn’t yet added the roof.

Ben was ready for a substantive break when Mac asked, “Are you up for more manual labor? Another project starts day after tomorrow.” Mac probably should’ve waited to ask the question for a moment when Ben wasn’t pouring sweat, stretching his agonizing back muscles, and wondering what he was about to get himself into.

For some reason, Ben let his mouth answer before he could think about it. “Okay. What is it?”

“The festival. We’ve got the booths pre-made and jointed, but they need to be set out, with some minor repairs made. It’s a two-day job, several hands on deck. Interested?”

Ben took a long swig of bottled water then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d stripped off his jacket thirty minutes ago, even in the nippy forty-five-degree weather. When he stopped moving, he felt a sudden chill.

Reaching for his jacket, he said, “Sure. Count me in.”

Though his tortured body was on the verge of crying out, “No!” Ben knew deep down that he couldn’t miss being part of the festival. He enjoyed contributing and being behind the scenes of something bigger than himself. And, certainly, in some small way, he was giving back to a village that had already shown him kindness. Besides, he didn’t have anything else to do with his days.

“Okay, where do you want her?” a voice said from behind.

Ben turned around to see an angel, a full meter tall, wobbling toward them. The man lugging it had dark, wavy hair and wore a trench coat.

“’Tis lovely, indeed,” Mac said, studying it as the man set the angel down. “Noelle did a beautiful job.” The fiberglass angel had an ethereal face, but her warm expression was almost human.

“Thanks. I agree. But I’m sort of biased. Noelle was nervous—hadn’t painted on anything but a flat canvas before. She worked hard on this. Do you think it can be secured well enough on the roof?” The man peered up at the structure.

“Aye, no problem,” Mac said.

The stranger noticed Ben then steadied the angel with one hand while reaching out his other. “Hi. Adam Spencer.”

“Ben Granger. Nice meeting you.” He shook Adam’s hand.

“Mary’s nephew, right? The one from London?” Adam asked.

“Ben’s my new apprentice,” Mac added with a satisfied nod. “Hard worker.”

Fletcher had been hammering away in the background while they talked, and he approached them, out of breath. “Hey, Adam. How goes it?”

“Everything’s good. Keeping busy.”

“Must be,” Fletcher continued. “Haven’t seen you around lately.”

“Yeah, I’ve spent a lot of time back and forth to London, trying to get some things in place before the baby arrives. I want to take a bit of time off when that happens. We’ll see.”

“Oh,” Ben said as the lightbulb came on. “Spencer. I think I met your wife—does she own the art gallery?”

“That she does,” Adam said. “Inherited it from her aunt Joy.”

“Not Joy Valentine… the Cotswold artist.”

“That’s the one.”

Ben grinned and shifted his weight. “You won’t believe this, but I actually purchased one of her works at Sotheby’s, at that auction. Three years ago, was it?”

“Almost exactly,” Adam confirmed, looking impressed. “Noelle found those paintings in a locked room of her aunt’s cottage after she died. That’s where we live now, Primrose Cottage. Just up the hill.” He pointed south.

“The piece I purchased is from a series called ‘Freedom,’” Ben said. “It’s this seagull, hanging in mid-air above the ocean. She captured it so well. I think her work is brilliant.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell Noelle you said so. She’d love actually knowing someone who bought the painting. Where is it now? Did you hang it in your flat?”

He’d asked a perfectly reasonable question, but Ben didn’t have a reasonable answer. Ben had gotten so caught up in the conversation about the painting that he’d almost let the wall crumble entirely. But he erected it again as he remembered his situation. “Err… yes. Yes, my flat.”

The truth was, he didn’t know exactly where it was. He’d left his London townhouse in such a fog on that evening six weeks ago, physical objects hadn’t mattered, not even his mobile phone. Material things had all lost their importance long before that night when he’d packed a quick bag. He’d had no idea of his destination, only that he’d needed to leave, to escape the pain. Suddenly, he wished he’d been careful enough to salvage a few things. Maybe Martin had saved the important items for him and put them in storage somewhere, on the off chance that Ben would return someday. That night, Ben had written his best mate a text, a suicide note of sorts, only he hadn’t intended to kill himself. No need. He already felt dead inside.

“Well, it’s nice to meet a fellow alien. I mean, Londoner,” Adam joked. “Seriously, Chilton Crosse welcomed me with open arms. And there’s nothing like a Christmas spent here. Quite an experience.”

“Speaking of…” Mac prompted. “Are you here to help out or just deliver this beauty?”

Mac reached for the angel, tipping her toward him.

Adam removed his trench coat and started to roll up the sleeves of his expensive-looking shirt. “Put me to work!”

 

In the remaining hours it took to finish the nativity structure, Ben couldn’t stop feeling shaky. Partly, his body was weak from the physical exertion. But he’d also been caught off guard by the talk of London and the painting. It was jarring to picture that townhouse again, a place he’d spent so much of his time with Amanda. Then on top of it, seeing Noelle’s life-sized angel had reminded him of another angel—the one he carried with him, always.

Fortunately, the group had completed the nativity project without conversation. Ben wasn’t in the mood for more talk. Each man had worked together in relative silence, except for the occasional suggestion to move, tighten, or level something.

“Good work,” Mac said as they stood back to get the full picture—a life-sized structure, large enough to fit life-sized people. Ben had to admit, it appeared solid, sturdy, and well constructed. He would never have believed a few days ago that the wood he’d cut would amount to a work of art. All four of the men had taken nearly an hour to secure the angel up top, but it was the crowning jewel.

“Lagers at Joe’s, everyone. On the house.” Mac slapped Ben’s back.

“Sorry. I need to be somewhere else,” Ben mumbled, hoping Mac would understand. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Ben would’ve enjoyed the camaraderie of celebrating a job well done. But he was grumpy and edgy—not exactly the recipe for good company. He needed some place to sit and stew, where he could be alone. The last thing he wanted to do was be jam-packed into a booth at a rowdy pub, hearing happy people trade humorous stories and laugh at each other’s jokes—people living a carefree life.

As he zipped his jacket and watched the other men head toward the pub, Ben wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. Retire early? Read the last of his spy novel? Eat a meal he wasn’t hungry for? Nothing felt right.

For the first time all day, he stared up at the sky, really studied it. The orange hung at the edge of the horizon. Fanning out in front were spectacular red, yellow, and purple clouds. Rainbow clouds, Amanda used to call them. In fact, if he hadn’t been shivering under his jacket and if the air hadn’t been so crisp and cold that it stung his lungs, he would have sworn it was a summer sunset. Such a Technicolor palette seemed out of place in a winter sky.

Hands in his pockets, he let his legs take him where they wanted to go. He wasn’t ready to go back to Mistletoe Cottage. Earlier, he’d noticed a road leading off to the side of the church that he hadn’t yet explored. His legs took him in that direction. He walked briskly at first, his breaths puffing out in a rhythmic beat. But when the road became steep and hilly, his instinct wasn’t to stop and turn back. It was to tackle it head-on. Running up the incline was almost easier than walking up it—something to do with the speed and momentum. He removed his hands from his pockets and ran. And ran.

He ran for at least a half mile, until his legs went numb and his lungs felt the stabbing pain of freezing air. Slowing his pace, he noticed the faint tree-lined path to a spectacular mansion that glittered with dazzling lights and had Christmas trees out front. A sign up ahead told him it was Chatsworth Manor. This village is full of surprises.

He could hear the cheery voices of people gathering at the entrance. It looked like a party—one he didn’t wish to join. So he reversed his path and within minutes, stomped his way back down the hill at an easier pace. Seeing the dim glow of church lights ahead, he moved closer. The building was probably empty, offering just the sort of solitude he was looking for.

He entered the church and was relieved to find that it was, indeed, empty. Walking the main aisle down the center, he kept his eyes on the stained glass forming a cross behind the pulpit. The symbol of faith was a comfort for so many around the world. He almost wished it could comfort him, too.

To the left of the pulpit, in the corner, stood a magnificent old piano. He couldn’t resist. Just as his legs had taken him up the hill, his fingers drew him to the keyboard.

He sat down, lifted the lid, and placed nimble fingers on the ivory keys. He played one note, then two, then three. A few notes later, he was playing Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8. His favorite piece, it had invited a standing ovation at his last concert, eons ago. The music came in a rush. Though he’d rarely played as an adult, his fingers still held the memory of the notes. The crescendos and diminuendos. The staccatos and the shifting tempo. He remembered all of it vividly. Hearing the music echo in that small space, bouncing off the stone floor and filling the room with magic, Ben’s state of mind was marginally better. Some of the angst exited through his fingers, and the keyboard absorbed it.

Finished, he lifted his hands and let the final notes linger. He wondered why life couldn’t always hold the kind of beauty those notes produced, why the beauty couldn’t last instead of having to end. Why did there have to be so many minor cords, such dissonance?

 

When Ben reached the door of Mistletoe Cottage, he panicked. It was gone. Reaching into his jeans pocket, he couldn’t feel that familiar cold silver or the blunt edge of the angel’s wings. He wondered if he might’ve dropped it during the afternoon, with all that moving, stooping, and bending. Or maybe he’d lost it during his impetuous run up the hill.

He inserted the key Mary had given him two days before. Peeking inside, he saw only Bootsie, who was curled up and snoring softly on the end of the sofa. He recalled that Mary and George were out to dinner at the Newburys’. Being the “nephew,” he had been invited along but had declined.

He shut the door and walked past the cat, into the corridor, and into Sheldon’s room. He couldn’t recall where he’d last seen the angel, though he always kept it on his person, tucked safely inside a pocket or sometimes in his wallet. He felt again, to make sure he hadn’t been mistaken. He searched his bag first. Then he unzipped pockets, shoved his fingers deep into their crevices, and finally tipped the contents of the bag onto the floor. He rummaged through it, frantic, hoping to see a flash of silver.

He couldn’t lose it. The angel was the only thing of value he possessed.

Panting, he threw down the empty bag in frustration and rocked back on his ankles. Rubbing his thighs with his palms, he racked his brain.

“Where is it?” he grunted through clenched teeth.

He decided to return to the worksite of the nativity. He would scour the cold, damp ground all night, if that was what it took. But then he thought of the jeans he’d worn the previous day, the ones he’d slung over the chair. Mary hadn’t laundered them yet. He reached for them and dug his long fingers into one pocket. He came up empty and began to lose hope again. But when he thrust his hand into the other pocket, he touched the comforting cold silver, gripping the grooves of wings and the folds of a dress. My angel.

Clutching it, he sat back on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. Losing the angel would have been like losing them both all over again.

He opened his hand and tilted his palm toward the bedside lamp. He thought about the day he’d bought the angel for Amanda and remembered the surprise in her bright eyes. She’d clutched the angel to her chest and leaned in to kiss him. He could still recall the exact pitch and lilt of her voice as she half-squealed into his ear, “I love it!”

The pendant had been more than an angel to them. It represented years and years of hormone shots, fertility treatments, doctor visits, disappointing news, and—finally!—success. All that time, they had never lost hope. They’d been counseled on the emotional dangers of trying to have a baby under such grueling, uncertain circumstances. Fertility treatments sometimes did enough damage to split couples apart. But unlike most couples, Ben and Amanda bonded over the shared desire for a baby.

So, when the pregnancy test came back positive, they’d held their breath, having been through the scenario before. And weeks later, when the sonogram told them they were having a healthy little girl, hope rose again. Maybe this time…

And when the pregnancy progressed so far that Amanda was confident enough to suggest a name, Ben went straight to Tiffany’s and pointed at a representation of that name under glass. Angelina. Angel. Their angel.

He remembered that hopeful moment and compared it to his current despair—the empty vacuum his life had become. And Ben started to weep. The torment rose from the bottom of his abdomen, up to his face, then rushed out in painful dry heaves.

He was back inside the nightmare—a harrowing dream where he was being chased, and no matter how hard he ran or how loudly he yelled, he was merely running in place, all his cries silenced. He was trapped, with the monster catching up to him. Always catching up to him.

Ben’s breathing slowed as the heaves calmed themselves. He wiped his face with harsh strokes, angry about having entered that hollow cavern. Utterly pointless. Tears never brought anyone back or made the burdens easier to bear. He hadn’t allowed himself to weep, not even at the funeral, as his mother-in-law placed a comforting hand on his back while the casket was lowered into the ground. Ben had felt so cold and numb that day. When the shock wore off weeks later, the pain had truly begun…

He stood and tucked the angel down inside his jeans pocket then kneeled to place the scattered items back into his bag—an effort to turn chaos back into order. As if that’s even possible.