Chapter Five

It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s.

~Charles Dickens

“Wasn’t that a lovely sermon?” Mary steadied herself on her husband’s arm. “And a beautiful solo by Mrs. Wilkes. One of my favorite hymns.”

“Mmm.”

“And that dress she wore… she probably made it herself. That particular shade of green was so festive, wasn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

As they drew closer to the cottage, Mary hummed along to the faint piano music she heard drifting from somewhere. She’d never been more grateful to have her husband’s solid frame supporting her. The “blizzard,” which had really been no more than a few inches, had tapered off during the choir rehearsal the previous evening, and when Mary had awoken for church in the morning, the sun beamed happily, as though it had been doing so for days and days. Not that the snow on the ground had noticed—the still-cold temperatures had set it into hard, slippery patches, impossible to navigate without holding onto something sturdy, like one’s husband.

Thank goodness the short walkway out of Mistletoe Cottage had been swept before Mary and George had stepped out for church.

“I meant to tell you earlier, how industrious it was of you, shoveling our walkway even before I got up! I was so impressed with you,” Mary told George.

“That wasn’t me,” he said matter-of-factly.

Mary noticed his grin and squeezed his arm. “George Cartwright, do you mean to tell me that an elf or Father Christmas himself was responsible?”

“No. I think it was our new tenant, Ben.”

“Tenant? Does that mean…”

“He’s agreed to stay with us through the holidays.” George gave a sidelong glance at his wife. “If that’s all right with you, of course.”

“It’s wonderful!” She drew in an excited breath. “What made him change his mind and stay?”

“He didn’t say, and I thought it best not to push him.”

“Very wise of you, dearest. Yes, we mustn’t press him about all the questions we have. He’ll tell us in his own good time.” She squeezed his arm again and turned her attention back to the cottage, all lit up, even in the bright sunlight. She couldn’t bear to extinguish the lights, even in the daytime. “Where is that piano music coming from? Is it Mozart?” Mary tilted her head, trying to pinpoint the source of the melody.

George released his wife’s arm to dig inside his pocket for the key to the cottage. When he opened the door, her question was answered. Ben sat at their piano, startled, fingers poised and frozen as he watched them enter. The music had stopped.

“Oh, that was beautiful! Don’t quit on our account!” Mary exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could play!”

Ben’s cheeks flushed above his beard, and he reached up to close the keyboard’s lid. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked first.”

“Don’t be silly.” She stood near him, at the piano’s edge. “You’re welcome to play anytime. In fact, I’m thrilled to hear it put to good use.”

“Well, not sure about the ‘good’ part. I’m quite rusty.”

“If that’s rusty, I’d love to hear how you sounded in your prime,” Mary gushed before realizing she was embarrassing him even more. “I inherited this piano from an old aunt a few years ago. It’s sort of an heirloom.”

“It’s a respected brand,” he admitted. “Nice, resonant tone. Needs a good tuning, though.”

Mary chuckled. “Not surprising. I’m ashamed to admit—but do you know that it’s never been played here in this cottage? Not once. Neither George nor I know how to play, but I couldn’t bear to sell it. I suppose I’ve used it as a sort of… decorative piece.” She touched the smooth wood, straightened the fake snow, and righted a toppled ice skater. “This one’s my favorite.” She pointed to a man clutching the hand of a little girl. “I used to skate as a young girl. Those are the only clear memories I have of my father, when he laced up my skates and helped me wobble onto the ice.” She realized she was rambling. “How long have you played?”

Ben rubbed his hands together. “Since I was a boy.”

“Mary,” George interrupted, “shall I help start the lunch?”

She saw right through him—George was trying to pull her away and distract her from Ben.

“Oh, all right.” She walked toward the kitchen while removing her coat. “You cut the carrots, and I’ll find the meat. How does a shepherd’s pie sound to everyone?”

“Excellent!” Ben sounded more energetic than she’d ever heard him. He stood to follow her.

George took a handful of carrots then paused to focus on Ben. “You should know something. Apparently, you’re an official member of the family now. Mary’s long-lost nephew.”

Confused, Ben looked to Mary for explanation. She giggled and threw up her hands. “I didn’t know what else to say! We were at church, and Mrs. Pickering asked me point-blank in front of a cluster of choir members, who was the young gentleman at rehearsal with me yesterday? It just popped out—that you’re my nephew, here for a visit. That appeased their curiosity, I think. But I lied. There, in the middle of church!”

She’d thought Ben might be upset, which was why she hadn’t intended on telling him in the first place, but Ben’s expression told her he approved. In fact, he seemed amused by the news.

“It’s fine,” he assured her. “I could do worse than being your nephew.”

“Well, then, nephew. As you are part of this family, I’m putting you to work!” She handed him a peeler. “Oh, and call us Mary and George now. Wouldn’t want to blow our cover, would you?” She winked.

Mary put him on potato-slicing duty, and before long, the three of them were working in different spaces of the kitchen. Meat sizzled, knives tapped against cutting boards, and Mary hummed the Mozart tune quietly. Soon, the pie was ready for assembly, which Mary decided to do alone.

“Too many cooks in the kitchen,” she claimed, sending the men off to the sitting room to watch telly. George found an old Monty Python program on Channel 4, and from time to time, Mary heard soft chuckles, even from Ben.

 

It wasn’t on the repairs list, but Ben knew how much it would mean to Mary. He’d spotted the gaps when he’d shoveled a thin layer of snow again at six o’clock Monday morning. Two red Christmas lights had gone out, and Ben was teetering on a ladder, trying to unscrew and replace them. Gloves had made the task even more difficult, so he had removed them, exposing his fingers to the cold. He’d seen some replacement lights in a drawer the day before, while searching for a hammer. Naturally, the dead lights stood far apart—on opposite sides of the roof. Rather than grumble, he decided it was a miniscule price to pay for being given shelter, food, and kindness.

“Need a hand?” a Scottish-accented voice called from below.

Ben screwed in the light with a final twist before gingerly shifting his weight to peer down. He saw the silver-haired man from the pub—Mac. He was looking up at Ben, squinting into the sunlight and holding a toolbox. A thick rope encircled his shoulder and arm.

Ben climbed down, careful to distribute the weight of his boots on the thin ladder steps, then reached the snow with a crunch.

“Thanks, no. Just finished up.” Ben found the glove inside his pocket and slipped it back on.

“Mac MacDonald.” He offered his own gloved hand.

“Ben Granger.” He caught Mac’s hand in a lively shake and saw the hint of a cordial smile beneath the stubbled jaw.

Mac had gray-blue eyes that turned the otherwise-rough edges of his face softer and friendlier. Even so, Ben knew what came next—that uncomfortable part of any new conversation in which nosy people sized up other people and gathered information about them. Though Mac didn’t seem the nosy type…

“Quite a job, Christmas lights.” Mac observed Ben’s handiwork.

“Indeed. Replacing them can be tedious,” Ben replied, not knowing what else to say. “Looks like you’re off to a job, yourself.” He gestured toward the toolbox.

“Aye. Mr. Lattimer’s van.”

“Oh. I’d thought you were a plumber. I mean, well, at the pub that day…”

“Aye. I dabble in a bit of everything. Repairs, landscaping, plumbing, automobiles. Whatever’s needed. Mac-of-all-trades, you could say.”

Ben grinned at the pun, though Mac’s face remained the same: deadpan. He was full of surprises, this one.

“Are you looking for work, son? I could use a hand now and again. If you’re interested.”

Caught off-guard, Ben paused, longer than he’d intended. “Err… well…”

“Think it over. You can reach me here.” Mac pulled a business card from his coat pocket and handed it to Ben. “I finally got a mobile phone—early Christmas present from my granddaughter. Guess she was tired of not being able to reach me.” He chuckled.

And with a nod of his cap, he was off.

“Thanks,” Ben called after him then flipped the card over. Sparse and to the point, the card displayed only Mac’s name and landline number in a plain black font. His new mobile number was penciled in below that.

Ben tucked the card inside his pocket, reached for the ladder, and hoisted it away from the roof with ease. It had been a few days since his collapse, and he was mostly recovered. The headaches and shakes were gone, as well as the constant lethargy that had hung over him like a dense cloud. He felt more energetic than he had in many weeks.

Lugging the ladder around to the small garden shed behind the cottage, Ben was aware of how tense he’d been with Mac, preparing to cover his tracks and lie should Mac start digging. Surely he’d heard the rumors around the village: a mysterious nephew, a wanderer collapsing in the street, the scraggly-bearded man suddenly appearing in their fair village and taking refuge in the Christmassy cottage.

Opening the shed with one hand and balancing the ladder with the other, Ben realized he hadn’t thought everything through. Even staying a few short weeks had consequences. Sooner or later, he would have to open up, to offer a little information about himself, at least to the Cartwrights. People expected that sort of thing. But he couldn’t stay cooped up inside Mistletoe Cottage for days on end.

He would have to venture out now and then and face people’s questions. Thank goodness that, for the time being, Mac hadn’t been one of those people.

 

“That’ll be thirteen pounds, even.” Mary placed the hardcover novel into a brown paper bag. She took Mrs. Harrison’s money and wished her a happy Christmas. Mary always enjoyed being able to tell something about people by the books they bought for themselves: historical romance for Lizzie Tupman, architecture books for Adam Spencer, and the Bronte sisters for Gertrude Middleton.

“Here they are.” Holly approached the register and handed over the new books. Mary examined all three covers—a gun with bullet holes, a police badge, and a mysterious passport. The book titles were all stamped in bold, masculine fonts.

“Yes,” she said. “These will do just fine.”

“Did your nephew enjoy the last one, the submarine novel?”

“Nephew? Oh, yes. Ben. I believe he did. He finished it in three days’ time.”

“Those action books are fast reads. Or so Fletcher tells me. Not really my thing.” Holly shrugged. “But that’s the beauty of books, isn’t it? Everyone gets to choose the world they want to live in for three hundred pages or so.”

“Indeed. Oh! Speaking of—when does the new book club start up again?”

“I thought we could wait until right after the holidays. Things get so busy for people around this time, it would be a challenge to have full attendance. I think we’ll meet the first week of January.”

“At Gertrude’s cottage?”

“At her insistence.”

“How wonderful. And it’s Little Women?”

“Yes. I thought it would be a slight departure from Jane Austen. Though I had to quarrel with Gertrude about it. She’s such an Austen fan now that she insisted on having the book club read all six books, back-to-back. But I thought we needed a little break in the middle. We’ll get back to Austen soon. I had to promise. So, in the end, she caved. Little Women, it is.”

“I haven’t read that book since I was a wee girl,” Mary said with fondness. “I think I even still have my old copy, though it’s frail and falling apart. Should be interesting, reading it again through adult eyes.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Holly placed the new books into a bag for Mary. “Those childhood books tend to stay with us, don’t they?”

“They certainly do. Thank you again for these. If you need me longer, I might be able to stick around…”

“No, it’s fine. There’s a lull. And anyway, Rosalee is coming in half an hour for her shift.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll leave you to it.”

Mary hugged the package to her chest and prepared herself for the blustery winds that stirred up the snow into miniature cyclones outside the window.

Five minutes later, she opened her cottage door to the familiar, hearty scent of shepherd’s pie. Shutting the door, she saw Ben, lifting a portion of steaming pie onto a plate. He glanced up and gave a sheepish smile.

“Hope you don’t mind. Thought I’d warm up the leftovers.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” said Mary, walking closer. “It was thoughtful of you.”

Something was different. As she approached, she saw that Ben’s beard was gone! The hair was the same length but combed through. He was a new man. A younger man.

“You shaved!” she exclaimed, setting down the books. Their weight had felt more like ten books than three by the time she’d reached the cottage.

“Yes.” He reached for a second plate. “Got tired of the itching.”

Mary removed her scarf and chuckled. “I wish you’d talk George into shaving his. I keep telling him he’d look twenty years younger without it. And his kisses wouldn’t be so scratchy.”

“I don’t know that I could change his mind.” Ben focused on the pie, careful not to drop any bits on the table as he transported it from pan to plate. “A man’s beard is a sacred thing. Or so I’m told. It’s the first time I’ve ever had one.”

She studied his face while he wasn’t looking—his chin, the strong line of his jaw, the thin-ish lips. He had a handsome face, not rugged but still masculine. She would need a while to get used to the new man standing in her kitchen, doling out portions of shepherd’s pie.

“Oh,” she said, remembering. “These are for you. I exchanged the Campbell book for them—you were finished with it, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” He set down the spatula, reached inside the bag, and removed the three books in one grasp. As he sorted through them, he would pause, flip the book to skim the back cover, nod, and move to the next. She hoped the nods meant approval.

“Haven’t read these before.” He glanced up. “Thank you. But really, it’s too generous…”

“Not at all.” She struggled out of her coat. “Holly Newbury—that’s the bookshop’s owner—has a used-books section and said she’ll just shelve them there when I return them. Didn’t cost me a single pence.”

Ben came around the table to help her out of her coat. “Nice of her to do that.”

“She’s wonderful. Our little librarian, I call her. She began a book club over the summer that made readers out of everyone. I love working at her shop. Well, volunteering, more like. Most people would hate working retail during a bustling holiday season, but I rather enjoy it. Especially when I get to hear good news first-hand—”

“News?” He picked up the spatula, finished plating Mary’s portion, then slid it to her side of the table as she sat down.

“The best news. Bobby Cahill—only son of our local veterinarian—is only eight years old. Adorable little boy with ginger hair and sparkling green eyes. Well, he was diagnosed with leukemia earlier this year. I was wondering why Bobby wore so many ball caps and why he looked so pale. I knew he was ill but never imagined leukemia. The parents decided to keep it a secret until a few weeks ago. They’re very private people.”

“Understandable. A leukemia diagnosis can be devastating. Some people like to hunker down, keep things in the family.”

“Yes, true,” she agreed as Ben joined her at the table. “Anyway, Bobby’s had a blood transfusion and several months of chemotherapy, bless his brave little heart. The parents took him to a hospital in Bath for treatments and testing. Well, today, the vet, his wife, and Bobby all came into the bookstore with these enormous smiles. Bobby announced to everyone—he’s in remission!”

“That’s excellent. Children can often fight the disease better than adults. He’ll still have to be watched carefully for the next few years, but remission is the best possible outcome.”

Mary wondered how Ben knew so much about the disease. Perhaps a family member or friend of his had suffered from it. “Yes. There was a collective shout of joy from all of us standing there. And, precious boy, all he could talk about after that was his insatiable desire for a trip to Disney World. He even wore little mouse ears and showed them off proudly. The mother kept patting his shoulder and saying, ‘We’ll see.’ I highly doubt his parents can afford that sort of trip, especially with all the costs of treatment. But I’m sure they’ll find a way.”

“No doubt. They deserve a nice break after what they’ve been through.”

“Indeed.” Mary shifted her focus to her food. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until this very minute. George will be missing out, but I can reheat his when he returns. He plays poker once a week at the bakery. They close up shop early for it—Old Mr. Bentley’s idea, began years ago. It became so popular, they started rotating in the newer members. Even the vicar joins them, when he’s able.”

“The vicar? Gambles?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it gambling, exactly. It’s quite harmless. They play with plastic tokens,” she confided then shook her head. “I don’t see the fun in that. But I can’t fault George for his poker nights. He doesn’t see the fun in my book club or choir rehearsals, but he never complains. I’d be a hypocrite to nag at him to stay home. Nothing worse than a hypocrite…” She dug her fork into the first bite. “Mmm. Every bit as good as the day it was made, don’t you think?”

He nodded his agreement as he took his first bite.

“People underestimate leftovers. I’m a fan of them. Takes a few quick minutes to heat them, and there you have it. No waste, no want.”

“Drinks,” Ben said suddenly, with a click of his finger, and got up to fetch them.

“Water is fine. Don’t go to any trouble for me,” she called after him.

He returned with two water glasses and set them down.

They clinked forks against the plates and ate in silence until a thought popped into Mary’s head. “May I ask you a question?” she ventured, since he seemed in good spirits.

Ben hesitated then shrugged his okay.

“I want to know more about your musical background. When I heard you playing the piano—well, I can recognize talent. You certainly must have been schooled…”

Ben dipped his head, and she couldn’t tell whether it was because of humility or embarrassment. He wiped his mouth and took a swig of water.

“A long time ago,” he said softly, his gaze returning to another place and time, “music was my passion. I took to it immediately, at four years old—became obsessed with the piano in our parlor. Something about pressing the keys and hearing notes emit from a wooden box fascinated me. Mum enrolled me in theory lessons, piano lessons. She was only humoring me, but I was dead serious. Wanted to become a concert pianist someday…”

“And did you?”

“Oh, no.” He plunged his fork into a mound of mashed potato. “Father didn’t approve. So I went into what you might call the ‘family business.’ By the time he’d lectured me into thinking music was an empty, unreachable goal, I had started to believe him. And that was that.” His clipped tone told Mary he didn’t want to discuss it further.

She cleared her throat and returned to her meal. “Families are funny things,” she mused. “Expectations, obligations, duties that they attach to one another. A relative’s opinion matters so much. Too much, I sometimes think…” She realized she was rambling, probably boring him to tears. “In any case, your path has led you here, to our doorstep. And I’m glad of that.”

She meant every word, but he probably thought of her as a silly old woman, overemotional or melodramatic. Time for a change of subject. “We’re almost ready for dessert. Interested in a scone? Maybe a custard tart?”

“No. Thank you.” He rose to gather his plate and utensils.

She crisscrossed her own fork and knife over her nearly empty plate and followed him to the kitchen. “I’ll take those,” she insisted as he switched on the tap. “You cooked. I’ll wash up.”

“Fair enough, thanks. I think I’ll retire early.” He collected his new books from the table.

“Have a good rest,” she called after him, thankful for their brief talk. Still, Mary wondered if her prodding had been too much, too soon. She hoped he wouldn’t retreat into his shell again. Oddly, hearing those new bits of information had only made her more curious than ever. The pieces in this puzzle still weren’t fitting.

There was more to his story; she was sure of it. She only hoped she had enough time to discover it.