Chapter Two

But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time… as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time.

~Charles Dickens

Mary half-expected to awaken and see an empty sofa. She thought perhaps the stranger had been a figment of her wild imagination, or had regained consciousness in the early-morning hours and decided to disappear.

But when she rounded the corner of the sitting room, there he lay, in almost the same position she’d left him. The fire had sputtered down to ashes, and his blanket had been kicked off. He was shivering again.

“Oh! Poor dear.” She hastily tied the belt of her dressing gown and approached carefully, trying not to startle him awake. She’d managed to pull the quilt up over him, almost to his neck, before she heard a voice.

“How’s our patient?” George asked her from behind.

“Shh!” She turned around. “Still sleeping.”

George smiled, lovingly patronizing her. “Well, he needs to wake up sometime. He’ll need to eat, get his strength back.”

“What time is it?” she asked with a gasp.

George, dressed and ready for work, was clear evidence that she had overslept. She always arose before he did, laid out his socks, made him a hot breakfast, and kissed him good-bye. “You didn’t wake me!”

“You needed your rest. You had a long night.”

“But your breakfast…”

“I’ll pick up something at the bakery on my way.”

Her eyes narrowed. “George, really. A scone? You know that’s not good for your waistline. Or your heart.”

“I’ll choose wisely. No scones.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

She plucked a stray piece of lint from his shoulder and brushed the fabric with her fingertips. His white shirt and gray trousers were pressed and sharp, just as she’d prepared them yesterday. She never wanted him to leave the cottage looking rumpled. Old men looked rumpled and out of use. She never wanted people to see George that way—because that wasn’t how she saw him.

“You get to work, now.” She coaxed him toward the door. “You’ll be late. Especially with that extra stop at the bakery.”

“Yes, dear.” He kissed her cheek, and his whiskers scratched her skin as they always did. “By the way,” he added as he reached for his coat, “I think we should keep this… situation… to ourselves. For a bit. You know how the gossips would love to hear about the stranger who was rescued in the middle of the night. It could turn into quite a scandal. Lots of questions. I think our boy needs a bit of privacy while he recuperates.”

“Agreed. Now, off you go! You’re practically Father Christmas this month, with all those deliveries you’ll be making!”

He put on his cap and tipped it. “We aim to please.”

She watched him leave, still proud of him after all these years. Hard worker that he was, George Cartwright had been the primary postman for the village for the past thirty-five years. In his late twenties, after a decade in the Royal Navy, he had wanted a simple country life. So he’d put his finger on a map and selected the tiny Cotswold village of Chilton Crosse. He became a junior assistant at the post office, helping to sort the post and relieve the desk clerk during her breaks. That was how Mary had met him, in fact, while running an errand for her father, to purchase stamps. She’d walked into the post office to see a new employee—handsome, ambitious, jovial. She was smitten at first sight.

Even past retirement age, George still wanted to work. He had a youthful spirit, was stocky and strong, and had plenty of strength and energy left in him. Besides, to give up the post office would be to give up part of his social life, in a sense. He’d made a career out of having friendly conversations with the villagers. He’d become a brief but important part of their daily lives, enquiring about one person’s illness or another person’s new grandchild. He knew practically every tidbit about everyone in the village. Still, Mary had learned long ago not to weasel things out of him. The villagers told him so much private information because they trusted him. Perhaps when he finally did retire, she could wheedle a few juicy secrets from him…

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw the stranger stir. He scratched his beard and squinted at the bright sunlight streaming in through the front window.

Mary hurried to fill a glass of water for him. Then she returned to his side and offered it shyly, feeling her nerves return. She had no idea what to expect.

He inched up, muscle by muscle, to a sitting position.

“How do you feel?” she asked. “The doctor said you have hypothermia. And dehydration. I brought you some water—”

“Doctor?” he asked, making eye contact for the first time. “Where am I?” His voice held the rasp of one that hadn’t been used for days. His accent sounded a bit posh, like a Londoner’s. It surely didn’t fit the tatty man on her sofa.

“You’re safe,” she assured him. “You’re in Chilton Crosse. A Cotswold village. We—my husband and I—found you, out in the snow last night. You had collapsed.”

His sapphire-blue eyes were stern at first but then softened. The bags under them told her he hadn’t slept in days and days. She handed him the glass of water, and he took it. The first sip was a challenge, as he sputtered and gagged. But then he seemed to get his sea legs back and swallowed several quick sips in a row.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked.

He took the last gulp then nodded and handed back the glass. His trembling hands told her he was lying.

“I’m going to prepare you some hot soup.” She set down the glass and stooped over to add another log to the fire.

“Where’s the, err…” He pointed his finger around the room. “The loo?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Down the hall, to your right.” She watched him sway, struggling to stand. Her instinct was to move forward and help, offer an arm, but something told her he wanted to do it on his own.

“Take your time,” she said cheerily as she stoked the fire. Then she headed for the kitchen.

Thankfully, she’d made a hearty batch of chicken noodle soup two days ago, when George had started showing signs of a mild cold. She warmed it on the stove top, stirring now and then, and wondered what the day might bring. Her plans had changed instantly with the arrival of the stranger. Not that her plans had been all that glamorous to begin with—purchase some lace to send to her sister in Bath, start addressing her Christmas cards, and finish the wash. Nothing that couldn’t wait. Although she would have to decide what to tell Holly about the next day’s shift. Mary was only a volunteer at the Book Shoppe, but during the busy Christmas season, her absence might be felt in a pinch…

Breaking her thoughts, the man entered the sitting room and headed to the adjoining kitchen. Bootsie followed, sniffing at his bare feet. As the man sat at the breakfast table, he resembled a ninety-year-old, moving at a snail’s pace, stiff and aching.

Mary busied herself with her task. She poured steaming soup into an ample bowl, filled a cup with strong tea, broke off a handful of crusty bread, and organized it all onto a dinner tray. She lifted it, careful not to strain the chronic arthritis in her wrist, and walked toward the table. When Mary placed it in front of him, he stared at the food with vacant eyes, picked up the spoon, and inhaled the steam from the pool of broth.

“It might take a few bites before your stomach adjusts,” Mary reassured. “But it’ll be good for you. I promise.”

He took a cautious first sip, wincing as the broth went down. He took another sip, then another, and before long, he’d emptied half the bowl. Mary tried not to stare as he ate, but she couldn’t help noticing the chunk of gold on his wrist—what appeared to be an extremely valuable watch, one of those Rolex pieces, maybe. Something else about him that didn’t quite… fit.

“May I ask,” she said softly, “what is your name?”

He swallowed and paused, as though debating whether a name would be too personal to give out. Then he said, “Ben,” and dipped his spoon back into what was left of the soup.

“I’m Mary. Mary Cartwright. And my husband is George.”

He nodded and shifted his attention to the tea.

Realizing that was all she would get out of him this morning, Mary went to pour herself a cup of tea. Though she craved more detail, she refused to be the overbearing, nosy type—no matter how much she wanted to be. In his own good time, he would reveal more. Baby steps, she told herself.

Behind her, she heard a quiet, “Thank you, Mrs. Cartwright.”

She smiled and watched the dark golden nectar swirl around inside the cup.

 

She shouldn’t have felt guilty, but she did. Rummaging through someone else’s property might have bordered on being illegal.

Mary shoved aside the guilt and continued digging through Ben’s bag. He couldn’t very well continue to dress in filthy clothes for the next couple of days. She was a firm believer that clean clothes made a person feel instantly better. Something about the fresh scent offered a fresh outlook.

Earlier, after the soup, Ben had returned to the sofa, bundled up beneath the quilt, and fallen fast asleep again. Once she was certain he would be out for a while, Mary approached his bag, which was still sitting on the floor after the chaos of the previous night. She’d dragged it into the spare bedroom and sat on her knees to sort through it. Her only intention was to retrieve his dirty clothes and give them all a proper wash-up. Though tempted to peek through the bag’s many side pockets, which likely held clues to his life, she paused and decided against it. No. She would not take advantage of the stranger. Her job here was to help, not to pry.

So, she abandoned the smaller side compartments and unzipped the largest part of the bag. Within minutes, she’d found—amongst a toothbrush case, shaving kit, and nearly empty box of Pepcid—four wrinkled and smelly T-shirts, three pairs of jeans, two expensive-feeling sweaters, and several pairs of socks and underwear. She could launder them before he even woke up. She hoped he wouldn’t be livid with her for going through his bag. She didn’t know him well enough to anticipate his reaction. Still, she would take her chances.

 

The mundane act of folding laundry shouldn’t have been emotional. They’re only clothes, Mary told herself. Just common, everyday fabrics.

But as she laid out the enormous chocolate-brown sweater on the breakfast table and folded neat creases, something familiar settled in the center of her stomach. The last time she’d laundered a tall young man’s clothes, her son had been twenty years old. In fact, he’d been very close to Ben’s height.

It had always struck her as comical, her son’s height. She and George were considered petite people—well, short, really—their parents and grandparents had all been short, as well. How, then, had Mary and George been blessed with such a tall son? One who towered over everyone and even played basketball at university? One who had to hunch in order to hug his mother or duck in order to pass beneath the cottage’s low door headers?

The chocolate sweater turned wavy, and Mary realized she was crying.

“Oh, dear,” she whispered, abandoning the sweater and reaching for a tissue. She couldn’t let her emotions get the best of her and distract her from the task at hand. Besides, Ben had nothing whatsoever to do with Mary’s son. By all appearances, this man was a wanderer, a drifter who would probably leave them as suddenly as he’d fallen at their doorstep. She must push aside her own selfish memories and cater to this stranger in need.

She heard the doorknob turn and started shushing George before he even crossed the threshold.

“He’s still sleeping,” she warned.

“Still?”

“Yes. But he did get up for soup a few hours ago.”

“Well. That’s something.” He removed his coat then paused before kissing his wife. “You all right? Your cheeks look red.”

Mary remembered her tears and gave a casual, reassuring wave. “I’m a little flushed from doing some chores, dusting, whatnot. Why are you home early?”

“Had some unexpected help from the Murdoch boys. They needed extra spending money, and we had plenty for them to do.”

“How nice.”

Mary returned to her laundry, peeking over at Ben, whose chest rose and fell with deep breaths. His eyebrows were no longer crinkled into that permanent frown he wore, even in his sleep. For the first time since she’d laid eyes on him, he seemed peaceful.

“Can you watch him for about an hour?” she asked George.

“Watch him?” he whispered back. “You make him sound like a child we’re babysitting. Or a dog.”

She play-thumped his arm with her free hand. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just… he still seems a little disoriented. I’d hate for him to wake up with no one here. I’ve got a couple of errands to run, and I want to return before dark. The sun sets so quickly during these winter days…”

“Go on. I’m only messing about. Take as long as you need.”

She folded the last T-shirt swiftly, with expert fingers, and added it to the finished stack. “These are his,” she instructed. “They’re all cleaned and pressed.” She took her long wool coat from the rack and handed it to George. “There’s more soup in the refrigerator if he should wake up. You can heat it on the stove top.”

George held the coat as Mary threaded her arms through.

“Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “Go on, and take your time.”

“Thank you, dear.” She pulled her gloves from the pockets and found her handbag nearby as George opened the door.

Immediately, the brisk air chilled her lungs and froze her cheeks. But she loved it. A few measly flakes drifted from a gray sky, but they were enough to make her smile. Mary thought about how rapidly Christmas would come and go. It was only the second of December, but the final month had a tendency to fly by faster than any other month did. So she wanted to savor every snowflake, every twinkling light, every gold ribbon, and every garland strand.

Gazing at the village, she sensed a rush of childlike excitement. Her home, Mistletoe Cottage, stood at the outskirts of Storey Road, the village’s main street, and several meters away from George’s post office, the first structure in a row of pristine limestone shops. She could see the entire street, in fact, from her doorstep. The village came alive in December, partly for the tourists and partly for the residents. Every shop had worked tirelessly the past week, hanging festive decorations. They had coordinated their efforts, each shop using white lights of the same size to give a unified effect. They also displayed Christmas merchandise inside front windows—all mixed with golds, greens, and reds. Strung overhead between the shops, in perfect alignment, hung enormous evergreen wreaths. Soon, Mr. Elton would make his horses available for sleigh rides, and of course, then there was the Dickens Festival during the final week of December.

So much to look forward to…

 

Holly Newbury’s bookshop stood at the other end of the street, six shops down. The distance was a nice little walk, during which Mary could stop and chat or wave at someone across the way. As tempted as she was to visit the bakery for gingerbread and mulled cider, she didn’t have time.

Turning the brass knob in her gloved hand, she entered the Book Shoppe to that familiar scent—strong coffee, new books, and at this time of year, peppermint.

“Mrs. Cartwright! I didn’t think I’d see you until tomorrow,” Holly said, approaching her. “Do you fancy a coffee? Or tea?”

“No, dear. Thank you. I only have a moment. I wanted to let you know I won’t be in tomorrow. I hope that doesn’t produce any problems.”

“No, of course not.” She offered a beautiful, youthful smile.

Holly had plenty of reason to smile. She’d opened a thriving bookshop a few months ago, moved into a wee cottage of her own on her family’s property, and fallen madly in love with a young man. Early last summer, Holly had met Fletcher Hays, an American from Texas, and the whole village had buzzed about their friendship. Holly had denied their connection early on, but Mrs. Cartwright had seen instantly, at the weekly book club, the way Fletcher’s gaze lingered on Holly when she wasn’t looking. Meant to be, Mary remembered thinking when Holly had finally come to her senses.

“I hope nothing’s wrong,” Holly said through a frown of concern.

“Oh, no. Everything’s fine. I have some… unexpected business to take care of. I hope that’s all right.”

“Mrs. Cartwright, you won’t even let me pay you. It’s more than all right. I appreciate any time you’re willing to give. You’re a treasure.”

“Well, thank you.” Mary felt her cheeks flush.

Her volunteer days had begun two months ago, when she’d noticed a few bored, rowdy children wrestling in the nook at the corner of the shop.

Realizing the parents had no intention of stepping in, Mary walked into the nook and past the children then assessed their average age. She chose a book from the shelf—an old favorite of hers, Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit. She sat on the stool, opened the book, and began to read aloud. The children soon released their holds on each other and sat, too. They folded their legs and arms and stared, mesmerized as Mary showed them the colorful pictures.

Holly saw what was happening, and afterward, she’d asked if Mrs. Cartwright would consider holding a regular, weekly story hour. The answer was an instant yes, under the condition that Mary wouldn’t accept any money. She didn’t want monetary value attached to something that didn’t feel like work. Since then, she’d entered the shop early on some days, helped out when the children were in school, filled the gaps for Holly by shelving books, made coffee, and chatted with customers. It had provided a welcome outing each week that helped Mary stay productive and involved in the village.

“Oh. There was something I wanted to purchase while I’m here.” Mary scanned the shelves. “Do you have a book that a young man might enjoy? Well, young to me. In his late thirties or thereabouts. It’s… a sort of Christmas present,” she clarified.

“I’ve got exactly the thing.” Holly clicked her fingers together.

Mary followed her to the suspense section and watched Holly run her fingers along the novels’ spines until she found the right one. “Here. The Trident Deception, by Rick Campbell, an American author. Sure to please any male, young or old. They’re calling this author the next Tom Clancy. And Fletcher loved it, if that’s any endorsement.”

“Perfect. I’ll take it.” Mary thumbed through her pound notes to pay for the book.

“It’s on me,” Holly insisted, shaking her head. “I want to do this.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t—”

“You can, and you will,” Holly said, her tone firm but sweet.

“Well, if you’re absolutely sure…”

“I am. Absolutely. Happy Christmas.” Holly carried the book to the nearest counter, slid it inside a crisp, brown paper bag, and handed it over to Mary.

“Speaking of Fletcher, how is your young man?”

“He’s wonderful. Thanks for asking. He starts his new teaching job at the school right after the holiday. He’s thrilled.”

“How lovely! He’ll make a wonderful teacher. And how is… Frank?”

Holly shook her head. “Not well. He had to go on holiday. Get away for a while.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I think it’ll do him good. Noelle and I encouraged him to go to Cornwall and breathe in the fresh sea air. He’s at her family cottage now, in fact.”

Frank O’Neill, the art gallery’s curator—and Holly’s former boss—had recently suffered a heartbreak. His fiancée, Lily, had broken up with him suddenly. She was involved with another man, whom she’d met on the Internet. She’d left Frank’s ring sitting on the gallery table three weeks ago, with only a brief note.

“He’ll recover,” Holly added. “I’m sure of it. It’ll just take time.”

“The poor dear…”

Mary noticed two customers lining up, clearing throats, ready to ask Holly questions. So Mary said a hasty good-bye and walked back out into the bleak midwinter, the book tucked securely under her arm. Mission One accomplished. On to Mission Two.

On the way to her final stop, Mary noticed the sky’s light had faded significantly. She approached Mrs. Pickering’s market, which was directly across the street, and paused to chuckle at two young boys in the road, pelting each other with snowballs. The snow certainly brought out the mischief in some.

“Good evening!” Mrs. Pickering called when Mary stepped inside.

“Hello, Mrs. Pickering.” Mary knew, as always, that she couldn’t get away with grabbing her selected items, paying, and leaving. A visit to Mrs. Pickering’s was never that easy. Just as one was required to pay for one’s items, one was also required to receive a heaping dose of Mrs. Pickering’s village gossip or to endure an uncomfortable barrage of nosy questions. Neither was enjoyable, but Mary had learned long ago to nod amiably and listen quietly. The faster to get on her merry way.

Fortunately, another customer came to the counter, giving Mary the opportunity to grab a nearby basket and dart toward the first aisle. She’d already made her mental list on the walk over, and she found all the needed items in a few minutes.

She placed them on the counter, one by one, as Mrs. Pickering started in: “Did you hear about last night’s little event?” She punched certain words for dramatic effect, raising her eyebrows along with them.

Genuinely curious, Mary made eye contact. “Event? No. What happened?”

“Well.” She placed her elbows on the counter and leaned in to whisper, “Apparently, Dr. Andrews was called out in the middle of the night. Rather urgently.”

“Oh?” Mary knew exactly where the story was going and diverted her eyes toward the counter. She had never been a good liar, and her heart raced at the thought of having to offer a false reaction—or worse, to come up with an untruth.

“Yes. I don’t know many details. Only that some… tramp… collapsed in the street, and someone found him, nearly dead! Dr. Andrews even had to perform CPR!”

“Who was he?” Mary asked as casually as she could, fishing out the frozen peas from her basket, still unable to look Mrs. Pickering in the eye. “This… person?”

“It’s a mystery,” she replied. “He must still be in the village somewhere, recuperating. If he’s not dead, that is.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” Finally, Mrs. Pickering began tapping keys on the till, completing the order.

Eager for a change of subject, Mary brought up the forecasted mini-blizzard—eight inches of snow were predicted!—which gave her the four minutes of conversation she needed before finally leaving the market. Sometimes Mary wasn’t certain Mrs. Pickering’s items were worth the price of the awkward conversation. Especially today.

 

Returning home, her back aching and arms quivering under the weight of the groceries she carried, Mary struggled to reach the knob of Mistletoe Cottage with her fingers, so she knocked with her foot instead. A few seconds later, the door opened.

“Here,” George said, seeing her loaded down. He took all four bags, including Holly’s submarine novel clutched under Mary’s arm, and marched the bags to the kitchen table.

The blazing fire George had recently made was too irresistible. Mary removed her gloves and walked straight toward it, stretching out her aching fingers. The immediate heat stung her cheeks, thawing them. She closed her eyes and sighed. A lovely fire to banish away the cold like a warm embrace.

Suddenly remembering their guest, she glanced to her left and saw the empty sofa, the quilt crumpled at one end, discarded.

“Where’s Ben?” she asked George, who was busy unpacking the groceries.

“Who?”

“Our young man, of course! He didn’t leave, did he?” She wriggled out of her coat and walked toward the kitchen, trying not to show her alarm.

“I put him in Sheldon’s room. He woke up about an hour ago, so I heated up some soup. He ate half of it then started for the sofa again, but I pointed him in the direction of the bedroom. Thought he’d be more comfortable there.”

Mary approved. “I’d had the same thought last night.”

“So it’s Ben, eh? You managed to nudge something out of him?”

“Not much,” she admitted, tucking her still-cold hands inside her skirt pockets. “Only a first name. He was hesitant about even that, so I left it alone.” She lowered her voice and inched closer to her husband. “Did you see the watch?”

George nodded and raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think the lad’s been homeless for very long. He would’ve sold that watch by now, if he needed to. Must be another story there…”

“Story?”

“Well, I think there’s more to him than the beard and the standoffishness. He’s not your typical vagabond. Not one who makes a habit of it, anyway. I suspect he’s running away from something.”

“I wonder what it could be.”

“We’ll probably never know.” George shrugged. “In any case, he’s settled in for the night. Did you finish your errands?”

“I did. Though Mrs. Pickering made it a challenge.”

“Doesn’t she always?” He snickered. “That woman can get under the skin of the most patient of men. Don’t know how Mr. Pickering used to put up with it.”

“Oh, George.” She patted his ample waist as she reached for her apron, planning to tell him all about her outing over a dinner of chicken and dumplings.

Hours later, near midnight, both of them still contentedly full, Mary and George sat near the fire as they did every evening. Mary continued her needlepoint, and George read his script until he dozed off, which was usually around page five.

Earlier, Mary had tuned the radio to the “All Christmas, All the Time” station, despite George’s grumblings. He never complained beyond the grumbling, though. He understood how crucial the holidays were to Mary, especially since the accident. It was her bit of therapy or perhaps avoidance—even Mary wasn’t sure. Either way, over-celebrating the holidays worked to soothe her, so George always indulged her. He put up the lights each year, always earlier than anyone else in the village, and helped her deliver presents to nearly everyone in the village each Christmas Eve.

Just as Bing began to croon about the holly and the ivy, Mary heard a door crack open in the hallway behind her. She arched her neck to see Ben, who dipped his head to avoid hitting it on the doorframe.

“Good evening,” Mary said, offering a warm smile. “Or, I guess I should say, nearly morning…”

“How long have I been out?” he asked, his monotone voice creaky from so much sleep. His long hair was matted on one side, and Mary noticed he was wearing one of the plaid shirts she’d washed and folded for him.

Mary did the math in her head and replied, “About ten hours.” She placed aside her needlepoint. “How are you feeling? The doctor said to watch for nausea, headaches, that sort of thing.”

Ben paused and shook his head. “Headache’s gone. No nausea. Only a bad bruise where I hit my knee. Nothing that won’t heal.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous, actually.” His stomach growled to confirm it.

She rose from the rocking chair, stiff from the day’s activities. “I can fix that, easy peasy. You have a seat.”

Mary busied herself in the kitchen, glad that she’d saved a plate of leftover dumplings. She heard her husband attempting conversation with Ben, but their voices were low and hard to make out. The tones were even, matter-of-fact. She was dying to hear every word, but she would pry it out of George later.

As she set the warmed-up plate on the kitchen table, the men got up to join her.

George protested to something Ben had just said: “No, son. Don’t feel you have to—”

“Have to what?” Mary asked.

Ben approached her, pulled out his chair, and explained. “I should leave. Tomorrow. I’ve imposed on you good people enough.” He sat and unfolded the napkin.

“But you mustn’t,” she insisted. “You’re not well enough. You still need your rest. Besides, wherever will you go?”

Ben shrugged with one shoulder. “Not sure yet. Haven’t thought it through.”

“Well, anyway,” she continued, “a huge snowstorm is forecasted for tomorrow. Eight inches of snow. You can’t put yourself back out in that weather. It wouldn’t be wise.”

“Mary does have a point,” George added, coming to stand beside her. “It’s sensible, staying here with us, at least one more night. Besides, you’ll have a harder time saying no to my wife than you will facing that snowstorm. Once she gets something in her head, it’s set there for good. No use squirming out of it.”

Mary wasn’t completely sure whether that was a compliment or an insult, but either way, he was right. She knew the lengths of her own stubbornness. She could be quite convincing when she put her mind to it.

Ben smoothed out the napkin and said, almost too softly, “In that case… all right. One more night. Thank you.”

He lifted his fork and speared a dumpling as Mary lifted her eyes and beamed at George.