Chapter Thirteen

But every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it.

~Charles Dickens

It didn’t matter how old she got or how many years passed her by. Mary still had occasional flashbacks of childhood moments at unexpected times. And when they came, they were as vivid as the day she’d lived them.

Opening the December 21 door on the wooden advent calendar, Mary recalled her mother’s anticipation as she waited for little Mary to peek into a door each day and discover the treat inside—a trinket, a chocolate, or a special note from Father Christmas. Mary could still see the creases of her mother’s fingers and smell the lavender scent of her perfume as she leaned over and helped Mary unwrap the treat. Simple days. Glorious days.

Looking back always filled Mary with an equal measure of bitter and sweet. She enjoyed having had those days in the first place but was sad they were gone forever. Her mother, her father, and even her brother were long gone…

The soft chime of the mantel clock told Mary she was late.

“Blast,” she whispered, turning from the calendar to search for her coat. Since the morning when she’d allowed herself to lie in bed and wallow in memories of Sheldon, she had been off-kilter. Even the gift wrapping and cookie baking she’d done the night before as a necessary distraction weren’t distracting enough. She couldn’t seem to snap out of it. The more she tried to jump back into that cheery Christmas mood she so desperately craved, the harder it became.

In fact, wrapping her scarf about her neck, Mary thought of how she was cheating herself. More than any other day of the year, one day had come to be her favorite—the first day of the festival. The whole village would be coming together to kick off the celebration. She always anticipated the music, costumes, food, games, and sleigh rides. Any other year, she would’ve been the first one outside, helping the vendors or browsing the booths, out of sheer eagerness to see it all begin. She loved to watch the children’s smiling faces and see Mr. Bentley dressed as Father Christmas outside the bakery, passing out Christmas sweets. But not this year, not today. She would rather stay snug in her cottage than participate.

Still, Mrs. Pickering would come knocking at her door if she remained absent for too long, so she buttoned the final button, patted Bootsie on his sweet little head, and stepped out of Mistletoe Cottage, wishing that at least the weather would have cooperated. At least a dusting of snow might have made it easier for her to pretend. But she peered upward to see a bright-blue sky and damp patches on the ground after last night’s rain.

Breathing in, Mary shut the door and found her happy face, reminded of the one Eleanor Rigby kept in a jar by the door. Mary had always thought that was what the Beatles’ lyric meant—the “social” face people put on before stepping outside, in order to blend in with everyone else. As she produced a smile, Mary could feel the corners of her mouth turn up and the hint of wrinkles form at the corners of her eyes. Having George at her side would have helped. But the festival began on a weekday this year—no time off for the postman during the busiest season. Still, he would be changing into his Scrooge costume each night to wander about the village, staying in character with all the other Dickens characters. Now that, she couldn’t wait to see.

As she neared the first booth, Mary heard a melody drifting from the other end of the street—classical, Victorian, and Dickens-sounding. Joe’s wife, Lizzie, was in charge of the music, and Joe had helped set up the sound system the previous night. Mary and the festival committee thought it a good idea to have music playing in the daylight hours, as people shopped. At night, there would be live music—a children’s concert, madrigals, and even a harpist. Of course, the grand finale, a Christmas Eve concert, would include the ladies’ choir. She only hoped they were prepared enough.

“Mary!”

Hearing her name, she crooked her neck to see Joe, across the street, waving at her. Outside the pub was a booth decorated with a sign: Ye Olde English Pub. Underneath it, assorted sweets, treats, and drinks filled the shelves of the booth.

When Mary crossed over to meet him, Ben appeared with a friendly “May I interest you in some roasted chestnuts?” He held out a paper bag, stuffed full.

“Oh, they smell delicious.” She reached for her bag.

“No, no.” Ben waved her money away. “For you? On the house.”

Mary thanked him and took the bag. “The booth looks wonderful. Have you been stocking it all morning?”

Ben nodded and suppressed a yawn. “No rest for the weary, eh?”

People had started to gather, and Mary was suddenly in the way. “I’ll be going,” she told Ben. “See you later on!”

She nearly ran into a little boy in Dickens-wear, presumably Tiny Tim. To her right, she saw Mr. Bentley, wearing his hood and rich-red costume. He sat in his usual chair outside the bakery.

“Why, good morning, Father Christmas,” Mary said, approaching him.

“Hello, young lady.” Mr. Bentley reached to find his plate of samples. “Care for a gingerbread?” His voice sounded gravelly with age.

“They look marvelous.” She took the smallest one. “Thank you.”

Children had started to gather behind her, to see Father Christmas and to sample his treats. She backed away to give them room and decided to see if Holly needed any help. She and Amy Fitzsimmons were sharing a booth this year—Holly displayed coffee-table books and gift items, while Amy offered small antique reproductions, toys, and lace from her Emporium.

“Mary!” Holly waved as she approached. “Wonderful to see you. Isn’t this fun?”

She was wearing a colorful holiday sweater, with miniature candy canes as earrings.

“It is!” Mary replied. “I’m here to offer my services. Is there anything I can do?”

Holly chewed at her lip. “If you want, you can be in charge of taking the money.” She showed Mary the cashbox and calculator then unfolded a chair for her. “Will this be okay?”

“Certainly,” Mary said, grateful for a way to participate in the festival today without actually participating. She could remain behind the scenes, out of the way.

 

Last week, Ben had spotted the ideal gift for George while passing by a shop window, but he hadn’t had time to purchase it. After working non-stop at the pub booth on the first morning of the festival, he finally had time. Around noon, Joe insisted Ben enjoy the rest of the day, peruse the booths, and mingle with the villagers. Instead, Ben walked along the pavement behind the booths, where there was less traffic. All the shops were still open, minimally staffed, so Ben headed straight to Smoke & Mirrors, a small tobacco place sandwiched between the bookshop and a dress shop. Established 1743, the sign read.

As he walked inside, Ben noticed immediately the claustrophobic atmosphere—long walls created narrow halls packed with items on every shelf, ceiling-high: cigars, pipes, tobacco, backgammon games, flasks, and pocket knives. Classical music was playing, and the dark wood tones and hunter greens of the walls reminded Ben of an exclusive men’s club. The stench hit him next—that acute, pungent odor of dozens of tobacco brands all mingling together into one spicy scent. His sinuses stung as he inhaled, and he wondered how the shop owner, Mr. Belvedere, kept from passing out every time he turned the key in the lock. Surely his senses were dulled to it.

“May I help you?” Mr. Belvedere asked, folding his newspaper. He sat at the back of the shop, behind a glossy wooden counter. He had one of those bristly moustaches that reminded Ben of a thick and wiry horse-grooming brush.

“I’m looking for a Christmas gift,” Ben replied. “A pipe. Your very best.” Ben knew that George smoked an occasional pipe—Mary either approved of or simply turned a blind eye toward the habit.

“I know just the one,” Mr. Belvedere said. A stout man with a beer-barrel chest, he had trouble climbing down from his high stool. When he finally teeter-tottered his landing, he paused and looked up at Ben, squinting and pointing. “Aren’t you…”

“The Cartwrights’ nephew,” Ben acknowledged. “Yes. Yes, that’s me. The pipe’s a present for George.”

“Yes. Well, follow me.” Mr. Belvedere walked the length of the shop until he reached the pipes. He touched three boxes before tapping one on the upper shelf and announcing decidedly, “This is the one.”

He uncapped the box with great reverence, as though revealing a precious diamond. Though Ben had no expertise with pipes, when he saw the smooth, grainy wood and slightly arched neck of the pipe, he could tell it was a quality piece.

“Beautiful finish, a fine choice,” Mr. Belvedere said, playing the eager salesman. “One hundred ten pounds.”

“I’ll take it.”

Following Mr. Belvedere to the register, Ben knew that George wouldn’t have minded the cheapest pipe in the shop. He wasn’t the fancy type. But Ben wanted to get the best. He had so few opportunities to show him gratitude.

Minutes later, Ben walked past the toy shop. He hadn’t planned to enter—he had no need to buy anything for a child. But, seeing a basket filled with wooden toy sailboats, he paused then stepped inside.

As he waited for the teenaged sales girl to approach, he reached for one of the sailboats. “Do you know who makes these?”

“He’s a local. Mr. MacDonald,” she confirmed. “He brought those by yesterday, and we’ve already sold three.”

“Make that four.” He reached for his wallet. He would keep the boat for himself or maybe give it to a random child as a gift. The purchase was a nice way to make a small, anonymous donation toward his friend’s hobby.

Remembering his mission, he pressed on. Finding Mary’s present hadn’t been half as easy as finding George’s had been. It took scouring and hunting—things Ben had little patience for. But when he did find it, at the Emporium across the street, it was the one. Within minutes, the saleswoman had wrapped the gift and placed it into his hands. He could hardly wait to see Mary’s face.

After leaving the shop, he crossed the street and spotted a pair of jet-black Mickey Mouse ears bobbing inside the crowd—little Bobby, who had been through so much in his young life. Without thinking, Ben stepped in front of the boy’s parents with a sincere smile.

“Excuse me. I’m Ben Granger, nephew of Mary and George Cartwright.”

A flash of recognition crossed the woman’s face. “Yes, nice to meet you.”

“Well, I have something for your little boy. I don’t have any use for it, and I was looking for someone who might.” Ben reached inside one of his many bags and produced the wooden toy sailboat. A wide grin spread across Bobby’s face.

“For me?” he asked.

“Just for you,” Ben said. “If it’s all right with your parents, of course.”

The mother nodded, patting Bobby’s shoulders. “Say thank you to the nice gentleman.”

“Thank you!”

“Happy Christmas,” Ben added before they parted ways.

He started to head toward Mistletoe Cottage again but noticed activity near the church. The nativity scene had attracted a gathering. He took a few steps in that direction to get a better view and saw Fletcher and Holly, dressed in their Biblical attire, arranging themselves inside the structure. Mrs. Pickering fussed over them, smoothing out Mary’s costume and fidgeting with Joseph’s fake beard. Ben felt a bit of pride as he saw it all come together, knowing he’d played a quiet role.

 

Hoping to be the only one at Mistletoe Cottage so that he could place his gifts beneath the tree incognito, Ben clicked his key inside the lock and pushed open the door. Mary sat in her rocker, needlepointing. She noticed Ben and removed her glasses. Bootsie meowed, at her feet.

“Well, hello,” she said. “I expected you well after dark, with all that activity at the pub.”

Ben shut the door, set his packages nonchalantly on the sofa, and took a seat nearest Mary. “Lizzie took over for me. I’ll go back this evening and see if they need another hand.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” She eyed the packages then replaced her glasses and returned to her project. “At the festival?”

“Well, the booths were too crowded for me, actually. So I did a bit of browsing in the shops, instead. I didn’t expect to see you here, either. Figured you’d be working at a booth or maybe rehearsing.”

“There’s a rehearsal later this afternoon. The final one. I hope we’re ready.”

“You will be,” Ben reassured her.

He rubbed his hands together, feeling the heat from the fire. Having a gap in conversation with Mary was unusual. Even when he didn’t want to talk, she always seemed to find something to fill the space so easily. But there she sat, rocking, focused on her needlepoint.

He recognized the stoic look on her face. Others might interpret her expression as concentration as she watched the needle go in and out. But this was different—a sadness behind the eyes.

Helpless to fill the gap on his own, Ben reached inside his bag for the wrapped package, the size of a hefty encyclopedia, and held it in front of her. “I have a present for you.”

She removed her glasses again and stared at the shiny gold paper. “For me?” Her eyes grew wide.

“An early Christmas present. You can have it now.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.” He chuckled. “Right now.”

She set her needlepoint on the ottoman and accepted the package. “What have I done to deserve this?” She looked like a little girl with bright eyes, excited to be told she had a surprise.

“Everything. I wanted to do something special. Besides, it’s nearly Christmas, isn’t it? Close enough, at least.”

“I suppose it is.” She found a crease in the paper and dug her fingernails in to unwrap one end. “What have you done here?” she asked, her smile turning to a sly grin. He could see her trying to work out in her head what the present might be.

Ben couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such eager anticipation, waiting for someone’s reaction. This was the “better to give” part of that old platitude. He would much rather watch someone else open one of his presents than open one of his own.

Mary neatly folded the gold wrapping and set it aside. Wriggling her fingers inside the gap of the brown box, she popped the tape. “My, this is elaborate,” she whispered. “Did you wrap this?”

“I’m not nearly that talented.”

Lifting the flaps and peeking inside, she touched the tissue paper and reached in, digging deeper, until her hands found something. She looked up at Ben then raised the something out of the box. He leaned in to pull the box down and away from her, so she could see the gift fully. She set it into her lap and stared intently at the mahogany box, topped with miniature skaters on an oval-shaped patch of ice. A Christmas tree stood at the end of the scene, with snow all around.

“It’s musical.” Ben reached over to twist the gold knob. It started to play.

“‘Ding Dong Merrily on High,’” she acknowledged, humming along. The skaters glided along the ice, drifting to the tinkling music. “It’s so beautiful.” She met his gaze with surprise in her eyes. “Thank you, Ben. How incredibly kind of you.”

“You’re the one who’s been kind to me. This is the least I could do. I wish I could do more. There’s no way to repay you for what you and your husband have done.”

Mary shook her head but didn’t speak. Tears had filled her eyes, and suddenly, Ben felt responsible. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He reached for the tissue box on the other side of the sofa and offered it to her.

“Ignore me. I’m a silly woman.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I don’t know why I’m crying. But it’s such a lovely gift…”

“Well, I’m thrilled you like it. I saw it in the shop and knew it already belonged to you.”

He could tell she was forcing more tears away. Then she lifted the music box out to him. The skaters were slowing down as the song dwindled. “Here. Would you find a place for it, please? On the piano, I think.”

“Certainly.” He took it from her and found an empty spot that seemed the right fit.

“You knew exactly how to cheer me up,” she said as Ben returned to his seat. Then she laughed—a hearty chuckle he hadn’t heard from her before.

“What is it?” he asked.

She smoothed out the tissue in her hands. “Well, here I am, bawling my eyes out like a baby, telling you I’m all ‘cheered up.’ I’m a funny old thing, aren’t I?”

“I think you’re a lovely thing.” He reached over for her free hand and clutched it.

She squeezed it back. “Ben, would you do something for me?”

“Name it.”

“Would you consider… staying? I mean, past the holidays? I don’t think I could bear to have you leave us so soon. You’ve become part of the family, in a way. It would make me so sad to see you go.”

A sting of tears hit Ben unexpectedly. He hadn’t thought past the end of today, much less the end of the holiday. Surely, he’d imposed on them long enough. But as he thought about it, a part of him couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to leave Mistletoe Cottage, either. Not yet.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll consider it. No promises, though. Okay?”

“That’s good enough for me.”