Chapter Fourteen

He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten!

~Charles Dickens

Ben had assumed, quite mistakenly, that the second day of the festival would somehow be less frenzied and less crowded than the day before had been. But the morning produced double the crowd of the previous day. Perhaps they were tourists who’d heard about the Dickens Festival from their tour guides. Or maybe they were people who’d wanted to avoid the first-day crowds. Whatever the case, Ben stayed at the pub’s booth all morning, helping to serve the masses.

When Ben took his lunch break, he finally stretched his aching back, took his leave from the madness, and tried to feel human again. On Ben’s way out, Joe had thrust a Styrofoam box into his hands, and Ben knew immediately it was the shepherd’s pie he’d been craving for the past hour. He couldn’t wait to devour it.

Working his way around the village toward Mistletoe Cottage, he spotted Mac, bent behind one of the booths, struggling with something.

“Need a hand?” Ben asked.

Mac grunted and straightened up to face him. He pointed at the booth with his screwdriver. “Bollocks hinge,” he muttered. “They can’t use this shelf until it’s fixed.”

“Can I have a go at it?” Ben handed Mac the shepherd’s pie and bent down on his knees to get a better look. After struggling a couple of times to fit the hinge back on, he knew it was futile. “Seems beyond repair,” he said.

“Aye. I have another that size, back at the shed.”

“I’ll fetch it,” Ben offered.

Mac hesitated then agreed. “Sure you don’t mind?”

“Not a bit. I need the exercise. I’ve been standing at that same post all day. I’d love a jog up the hill. Stretch my legs…”

Mac produced his keys and gave them to Ben. “The hinges are in the second drawer of the workstation. Near the back wall.”

“Back in a jiff.”

“What about this?” Mac asked, holding up the Styrofoam.

“Have you eaten?”

“Nay.”

“It’s yours. Compliments of Joe.”

Ben took off before Mac could protest, weaving his way through the crowd, choosing the quickest route to Mac’s cottage.

Minutes later, he stood in the shed, rummaging carefully through drawers. He didn’t see the hinge in the second drawer, where Mac had suggested it would be. He didn’t find it in the other drawers nearby, either.

He surveyed the entire room, scouring it for another possible spot. He noticed a second workstation tucked into the far corner of the shed. Ben reached for the only drawer, a wide one, and dug through packs of screws, extra nails, some odds and ends—and saw a hint of brass. The hinge was identical to the broken one.

Before Ben closed the drawer, a pair of black mouse ears caught his eye. He peered closer. The ears belonged to a large, thick white envelope. “Your Walt Disney World Vacation Package” was printed in colorful, bold letters on the front. The package likely contained everything—expensive day passes, hotel reservations, possibly even plane tickets. And he could picture the smile on Bobby’s face when he saw those mouse ears on Christmas morning.

Mary’s words from weeks ago echoed in Ben’s mind. “Our mysterious Father Christmas leaves things on doorsteps. He gives people exactly what they need.”

“Indeed, he does,” Ben said aloud, his voice bouncing off the slate floor.

He flipped the envelope over and laid it in the drawer, back where the information belonged, safe and sound—and anonymous, just as Mac had meant for it to be.

 

Mary hummed along to the Christmas carol piped in from Joe’s sound system as she walked the paper cups of wassail to Holly’s booth. Somewhere between last night and the second morning of the festival, Mary had begun to feel infinitely better about Christmas, about the festival—about life. She felt more like her old self. And rather than question why, she decided simply to enjoy it.

And the recent temperature drop, combined with the hint of gray clouds, gave her the slightest hope that they might have a bit of Christmas snow, after all.

As she turned the corner of Holly’s booth, Mary heard Fletcher’s voice.

“When?” he asked into a mobile phone.

Mary joined the small crowd of women—Mrs. Pickering, Holly, and Lizzie—watching his face intently. She wondered what was wrong.

“Mm-hmm,” Fletcher said. “Is she okay?”

Mary knew something was wrong. She set the cups down on the change table and waited for an explanation.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Sure, I’ll tell them. What about later tonight? Eight o’clock? Sounds good.”

“Well?” Holly said with frustration as he tapped his mobile off.

“That was Adam. Noelle had her baby a couple of hours ago.”

A chorus of “Oh!” went up all around.

“But… isn’t it early?” Mary did the math in her head. “Two weeks early, at least?”

“I think so,” Fletcher said, “but the baby’s perfectly fine. Adam says he thinks the due date was about a week off, anyway.”

“So, spill the details—when did it happen?” Holly asked.

Fletcher grinned his cowboy grin and tucked his hand into his jeans pocket, clearly enjoying being the only source of information for all the eager ladies. “Adam didn’t say much—only that she started having contractions early this morning at the cottage. So he rushed her to the hospital in Bath, and she had the baby about thirty minutes ago. He says she might be up to visitors later tonight. If all goes well, she’ll bring the baby home tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe how quickly they rush women out of the hospital these days,” Mary chided. “Back in my day, they let us stay at least three days, sometimes even a week!”

“I want to go see her,” Holly said, turning to Mary. “Will you come, too?”

“Count me in!”

“What about the nativity?” Fletcher said.

“Oh.” Holly paused. “I’ll see if Bridget and Riley will take our places. They’d make an adorable Mary and Joseph, wouldn’t they? They could be our understudies.” She pulled out her mobile and tapped the number.

Mary saw “Scrooge” approach the booth, wearing his top hat and frock coat she’d hemmed last week, and when he came to stand beside her, she clutched her husband’s jacket sleeve. “Dear, did you hear the good news? Noelle has had her baby. Little Adam.”

“That’s marvelous. Everyone healthy?”

“Yes, thankfully. I was worried because he was a bit premature. Adam says we can go and visit her tonight. In Bath.”

“Who’s going?” George wondered.

“Probably just us girls,” Mary said. “Though the men are certainly welcome to join us.”

“I’ll go.” Fletcher shrugged. “Nothing better to do.”

Holly finished her call and said, “Bridget can fill in for us.”

George paused and smoothed out his beard. “I could drive. We could take our car. I think there’s room…”

Mary looked at Holly and Lizzie, and both nodded in agreement.

“Thank you, dear.” Mary leaned in to nuzzle George in a hug.

“Oops, I think we have a customer. Back to business for me,” Holly whispered, reaching for the cup behind Mary. “Thanks for the wassail!”

“You’re very welcome.” Mary let go of George. “Do you think Ben would want to go?” she whispered as he started to leave. George needed to return to work, to play his role.

“Not sure. Wouldn’t hurt to ask him. Make him feel included. I’ll leave it up to you, love.”

Two hours later, Mary walked into the cottage to find Ben sipping tea at the table, reading a new book. She sat down to give him all the wonderful details about the baby. Ben and Adam didn’t know each other well, but still, she thought Ben might be the teeniest bit glad to hear such wonderful news. When she asked if he wanted to accompany her to see the new bundle of joy, she didn’t expect a hearty yes, but the stoic refusal she did receive was equally unexpected. He wasn’t so much rude as unemotional, robotic.

Mary thought everyone loved babies and finding out that someone had become a new parent. Wasn’t that reason enough to show a sliver of enthusiasm? But Ben didn’t appear joyful. He appeared reserved—and distant.

Perhaps he was having one of those episodes again, where he had trouble being social or warm. Despite any progress he made, whatever he was running from always seemed to find him and steal the light from his eyes. She didn’t take his mood swings personally anymore. She knew they had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his past. Whatever his mysterious past entailed…

“That’s all right,” she reassured him. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

“I will. Thanks, Mary,” he said quietly, flipping the page.

 

Mary was certain the ride to Bath couldn’t be terribly thrilling for George and Fletcher—but if that were true, they weren’t showing it. During the entire twenty-five minutes, the girls, all crammed together in the backseat, jabbered away about nothing but babies, babies, babies. They discussed the adorable outfits and rattles and baskets Noelle’s baby was about to receive from them, the way babies’ skin smelled sweet and felt softer than fleece, and even the cry that only newborns could make. Mary saw Fletcher and George, seated in front, occasionally nod, probably chatting about cars or the weather. They were good sports, and Mary was glad they’d decided to come along and endure all the baby talk.

As they all walked through the sliding doors, Mary noticed the typical hospital odor—that stale mixture of ammonia, broccoli, and sickness. She had to remind herself that hospitals didn’t always represent tragedy. They weren’t only places where a person went to identify her lifeless son and hold his lifeless hand for the final time; sometimes, they also represented a new beginning. She squeezed George’s arm as they entered the lift, and she channeled her anxiety into her grip as they rose higher.

A surprise awaited them outside Noelle’s room. Mary saw him first, recognizing the slender frame before he even turned around. Frank O’Neill was the curator of the Chilton Crosse art gallery and a friend of Noelle’s.

He swiveled around to see their smiling faces. “Oh, marvelous to see you all!” He gave Holly and Mary a hug with each arm.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t expect you!” Holly said. She and Frank had worked together for years, when Holly was his assistant at the gallery.

“Noelle made Adam call me about the baby, so of course, I had to come.” He beamed. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“It is,” Mary agreed.

Holly lowered her voice to ask Frank as discreetly as possible, “Are you… okay? About Lily?”

Frank’s smile faded at the mention of the fiancée who’d recently broken his heart, but Mary could tell he was fighting to stay positive. “I’ll be fine,” he assured Holly. “She’s moved on, and I will, too. Someday.”

“You came!” said a voice behind them.

Mary looked around to see Adam emerging from the hospital room, hands raised to greet them.

“Hey, thanks for coming!” If a man could glow, Adam was positively glowing. He would certainly make a wonderful father.

“Want to see my little man?” he asked. “The nurse brought him in a few minutes ago.”

“Is it all right with Noelle?” Mary wanted to make sure.

“Absolutely. She’s feeling good. In fact, she’s been expecting you. Jill, our mate all the way from London, is already in there with her.”

He backed away and let them through. George and Fletcher lingered behind with Adam and Frank—a newly formed boys’ club.

“Aren’t you coming, dear?” Mary asked George.

“No, no,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to overcrowd the room. You girls go in first. Have your fun.” He winked.

Noelle, who was wearing no makeup, seemed as radiant as ever, with her blond hair swept up into a ponytail. At the bed sat a slender, red-haired woman, looking as striking as any model in a magazine, holding out a hand to touch the blue bundled blanket Noelle held.

A chorus of quiet congratulations and compliments came from the girls as they approached the bed. Noelle shifted little Adam ever so slightly, so the new arrivals could see his pink, scrunched-up face. He gurgled and frowned before settling in to sleep again.

“Oh, Noelle, he’s completely gorgeous!” Lizzie said, barely containing her squeal.

“He’s the cutest thing ever!” Holly concurred, cooing at him as she moved closer.

Mary let the girls have the first look and stepped aside to greet Noelle’s friend, who had stood to give them room.

“I’m Mary Cartwright.”

“Jill Holbrook.”

“Oh, I remember you,” Mary said. “From Noelle’s wedding. You were childhood friends…”

“Yes, that’s right.” Her perfect green eyes were highlighted with strong dark eye makeup.

“How lovely to know someone from childhood,” Mary said. “Aren’t those sorts of friendships the rarest treasures?”

“You are so right. I’m thrilled that Noelle and I reconnected. And Adam, as well. We’ve all been the best of mates ever since. In fact, they’re godparents to my little Evie.”

“And now, you’re godmother to my Adam,” Noelle whispered, looking up.

Holly and Lizzie had moved to the same side of the bed, and Mary had a bit of space to stand at the other side. She leaned closer to Noelle, taking in the pudgy, round little face of the newborn wrapped securely in his mother’s arms.

“What a blessing,” she whispered to Noelle, “to have a son. A precious boy to hold and to love.” She tried to control the tremble in her voice, but Noelle had probably caught it.

Noelle squeezed Mary’s hand as they locked eyes. The softness in her gaze made Mary wonder if Noelle might suspect how both wonderful and difficult the moment was for her.

 

When George and Mary arrived at the cottage, Ben was in the process of tying a bin bag. He hadn’t expected them back so soon. He had planned on retiring early, before they returned. While they were away, he’d busied himself around the cottage—fixing a leaky tap, replacing dead lightbulbs, and taking out the rubbish. Though George had stopped making lists for him a week ago, Ben consistently found things to do. The chores made him feel better about staying.

“How was your trip?” Ben asked, setting aside the rubbish, and slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. He attempted a warm, interested tone but hoped he wouldn’t be given too many details. He wasn’t sure he could handle them.

“Wonderful.” Mary unwrapped the scarf from her neck.

George helped her out of her coat then removed his own.

“Cute baby,” George said, hanging the coats on the nearby rack.

“Oh, he was gorgeous,” Mary gushed, using her hands to tell the story. “He opened his eyes for a few seconds—they’re dark blue! And he has the tiniest fingernails I’ve ever seen. I think he’s going to be a good baby. He seems calm. Not like some I’ve seen, even as newborns, fussy and temperamental.”

“That’s nice,” Ben offered, trying to be polite.

“Adam and Noelle will make such good parents,” she mused. “That’s a very lucky little boy.”

“Indeed,” Ben said. Then he added, “Well, I’m glad you had a nice trip. I’d better turn in—long day tomorrow, up early.”

“Goodnight, son,” said George.

“Sleep well,” Mary added.

“I will. Thanks.”

Inside the darkness of Sheldon’s room, with only the glow of the moon shining through the narrow window on the opposite side, Ben felt the need to crumble, where it was safe to break down, with no one to watch him and no one to ask questions. But he knew that if he visited that place in his memory, he might never come back. So, standing with his back to the door, he breathed in and fought it. Turning his hands into tight fists at his sides, he clenched his jaw and fought.

He would have to learn to be happy for people who had what he no longer had—and to be glad for people who had new babies and new futures as parents. It wasn’t their fault his dreams had ended abruptly and tragically, or that he’d missed his chance to experience everything Mary had just described.