Chapter Seven

As I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.

~Charles Dickens

The pages turned like tissue paper. Always afraid she would rip them—and she had, a few times before—Mary handled them with a sensitive touch. George often prodded her to purchase a new Bible, but she couldn’t bear the thought. The book had been her grandmother’s, with underlined passages that had been important to her decades before and notes scrawled in the margins from her vicar’s sermons. Most people would’ve treated the Bible as a delicate heirloom, something to be placed on the shelf, dusted often, and taken down once a year for a Christmas reading. But Mary put it to use, reading out of it nearly every day. It had helped her in her very darkest of days, thirteen years before, and she’d made a habit of looking to its wisdom ever since. Even the simple act of placing it in her lap and feeling its weight gave her a familiar comfort.

Because of the holiday season, she was reading the Christmas story. Normally, she read from one of the four Gospels about Jesus’s birth. But today, she decided to go further back, to Isaiah, to the prophecy. She hummed along to the melody in her head of Handel’s “Messiah” as she read the words: “For unto us, a child is born…”

She heard footsteps and looked up to see Ben shuffling into the room. He walked as if he were a hundred years old.

“Did the heating pad help?” she asked, wincing along with him.

“A bit.” He walked closer, his hand cradling his lower back. “Sorry. I’ve interrupted you.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m doing my daily reading.”

“Which book?” he asked then saw the Bible.

“Well, I typically bounce around, see where things take me. But this month, it’s the Christmas story. I’m reading a passage in Isaiah—I’m sure you know it well enough, with your musical background.” She didn’t dare sing, but she quoted by heart: “‘And the government shall be upon his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…’”

“Isaiah 9:6,” he rattled off.

“Yes.” She was impressed.

He scratched at his jaw, where a hint of stubble had grown overnight. “As you said, I know it from a musical standpoint…”

“Ah. Well, I was about to flip to my favorite part.” She thumbed carefully until she reached the spot, a few pages over.

Her peripheral vision caught him shifting his balance and putting a hand into his jeans pocket—a sure sign of either boredom or discomfort. Still, she pressed on.

“It’s Isaiah, Chapter Fifty-three. Most people don’t realize how this relates to Christmas, but it really does. It details who Christ became. And why He arrived here…”

Ben probably felt stuck, having to listen to her wee sermon, but he had asked what she was reading, and that was her answer. Besides, her faith was a part of her. Over the past several days, she’d shown Ben many other sides of who she was. Why not this part, as well?

“Here.” She began to read a verse, but before she could even get the first few words out, Ben interrupted.

“May I ask you…” He settled on the arm of the sofa across from her.

“Mmm?”

“Well. I hate to sound impudent. But… do you really believe all that?” He waved a pointed finger toward the book she held.

“What? The Bible?”

“Well, yes. Things such as a virgin birth. Or a resurrection. Or a giant whale spitting out a man…”

“Absolutely. Don’t you?”

Ben ran a hand through his long dark hair. “If I’m truthful, no. There was a time I used to. As a boy. Not anymore.”

Mary hadn’t expected that. The topic was such a fragile one, much like the paper she held between her fingers. With a single misstep, a wrong word spoken, their conversation could be torn in two and change their entire relationship. She might fracture whatever it was they’d built.

“What made you stop believing?” she heard herself ask. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Ben shook his head, but his answer was slow, thoughtful. His eyes skimmed the stone floor as he spoke. “Lots of things, I suppose, over the years. I think it started at university, being exposed to education, liberal thought. Philosophy classes widened my perspective, made me look outside the rote I’d been taught in Mass. Then, as an adult, I saw the bigger world issues, bigger than myself. The cruelty of how some people are made to live, things they have to endure. Where is God in all of that? Why doesn’t He reach out and stop it, if He’s all-powerful?” He shifted and softened his expression, clearly trying to balance his honesty with tact, for her sake. “Then, not long ago, it became quite a personal reason…” He paused, and just as he’d decided to open his mouth again to finish his sentence, the phone rang.

Planning to let the answerphone pick it up, Mary remembered the call she was expecting from Mrs. Pickering about the next rehearsal. The mood was already broken anyway. Ben stood with a deep breath, visibly relieved by the interruption.

“I should probably get that,” she muttered, attempting to get up from the rocking chair quickly enough—but her creaking knees wouldn’t allow it.

“Want me to answer it?” Ben offered, moving toward the phone.

“Yes. Please. And remember—you’re my nephew.” She winked. “Should anyone ask.”

He caught it on the fourth ring. “Cartwright residence.”

Mary was plodding toward the phone, but she paused when she heard Ben say, “Oh, hello… yes, certainly… all right…”

She stared out of curiosity until he hung up the phone.

“That was for me, actually. Mr. MacDonald,” Ben explained, pointing a thumb back to the phone. “He’s got another job for me today. If that’s okay. I already repaired your toilet’s latch and replaced a couple of lightbulbs when I woke up this morning. I don’t think I had anything else from George left to do.”

“No, of course it’s fine. But your back…”

Ben shrugged as George had many times, brushing Mary off whenever she showed a bit of concern for his health. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Doesn’t sound as if there’s any hard labor planned for me today.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“What do you know about him? Mac? I have trouble reading him sometimes. Seems like a bit of an enigma.”

Mary nearly chuckled as Ben stood in front of her, the very definition of the word enigma.

Seeing that Ben hadn’t caught the irony, she tried to answer his question with a straight face. “Mac can be a bit mysterious, yes. I know he was once married long ago, has a daughter, I think, and perhaps a granddaughter or two? But they don’t live here. He’s been here in the village as long as I can remember, working around the fringes of it, always helping out whenever we need him. He’s the heart and soul of this place, if you ask me. As fine a man as they come.”

“He seems genuine. Hard-working.”

“That’s for sure. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him rest, as a matter of fact,” Mary admitted. “Well, I was going to offer you a hearty lunch, but it seems you have a busy day ahead.”

“Mac and I will grab a late lunch mid-day, I’m sure.” Ben found his jacket. “I won’t be back until dark, most likely.”

“Have a lovely day, Ben.”

“You, as well.” He waited for her to make eye contact again, then he said, “I hope I didn’t offend you. Before the call. Being so blunt about my beliefs. Or lack thereof.” He grinned. “That was never my intent—to offend.”

“No offense taken at all. You’re entitled to your beliefs. Or lack thereof.”

His smile grew into a grin, and she even heard a chuckle as he turned to go.

The cottage seemed suddenly very empty, even as Bootsie remained at the door and meowed his good-bye. He’d become quite attached to Ben and had taken to following him around the cottage, even scratching at his bedroom door early each morning.

Mary mused about their earlier conversation, wondering what personal story he’d been about to tell her when the phone interrupted. She hoped that, one day soon, he might finish it…

 

Ben zipped his jacket after closing the cottage door, grateful not to have to trudge through—or shovel!—fresh snow. Everything had melted away, leaving him a rather pleasant walk to Mac’s cottage.

On the way, he chided himself for letting his guard down with Mary. He’d never intended to inquire after her faith or give that much information about his beliefs. He didn’t know where all the God talk had come from. But he couldn’t take it back. It was out there for her to ponder and analyze. He hoped she wouldn’t press him on it later, that she would forget he had said anything at all.

Forcing his mind elsewhere, he thought about his day. On the phone, Mac had mentioned something about a “commissioned” project involving carpentry. That sounded intriguing—and intimidating. The only experience he’d ever had was nailing pictures to a wall or using an occasional screwdriver.

He reached Mac’s cottage within minutes and noticed how well it represented the character of its inhabitant. A humble, unassuming stone cottage with a thatched roof, the house sat on the outskirts of the village, over a hill. In fact, it was isolated from the main street and the other buildings. It sat in a world unto its own, with vast fields and unending countryside beyond.

Mac stepped out the front door, as if on cue, and met Ben halfway down the stone walkway, two mugs in hand. He offered one to Ben.

“So, what’s this project about? You’ve got me curious.” Ben blew on the steaming tea before venturing a sip.

“An anonymous donor has asked that we build a nativity scene. The vicar called me up early this morning to tell me.”

“Nativity scene? I take it that means more than some little crate of a bed?”

“Aye, ’tis life-sized. Large enough to include a live Joseph and Mary—a base, three sturdy walls, a roof, and a manger for the wee babe. We have a little over a week to completion, but we can finish the whole job in about four days’ time. I’ll be able to pitch in now and again, but I have other work to attend to…”

“And that’s where I come in,” Ben added.

“Aye. Come inside, and we’ll talk specifics.”

When Mac opened the dense wooden door to his cottage, Ben followed him inside, where the quaint space was dimly lit. The square footage was minimal—only a cozy sitting room to the right, a hint of the kitchen on the left, and a hallway probably leading back to a bedroom or two. Definitely a man’s space, the home was filled with darker colors and no frills. A few paintings hung here and there, depicting hunting dogs or outdoor country scenes.

Mac led Ben straight to the kitchen and sat at a round table, where Ben joined him.

“We’ll build this from scratch.” Down to business, Mac took up his pencil and pointed to a thick pad on which he’d drawn an elaborate sketch. Even the shingles on top of the structure’s roof were detailed. “We have no pattern,” he explained, still pointing, “so we’re on our own. I’ve determined the general measurements. We can mess about with the figures as we begin. Nothing set in stone yet.”

“Mmm.” Ben nodded as though he could possibly contribute anything at this stage.

“It’s basically a three-step process,” Mac continued. “There’s lumber up at Mr. Elton’s—leftovers from another project he had going. We’ll have to haul it here to the cottage, where I’ve got the saws and tools we need. We’ll cut the pieces to size then take ’em to the site outside the church for assembly. I’ll arrange extra help for that part of the job. We’ll need it.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“Aye, in theory.” Mac set down the pencil. “Let’s get to it.”

 

Ben was prepared to disguise his back and shoulder pain and dig in. He didn’t want to give Mac any excuse to dismiss him.

Thankfully, though, today’s heavy lifting of wooden planks into a van wasn’t going to be just a two-man job. Mac had already recruited additional help. As they drove up to the farm in Mac’s ancient, battered van, two other men stood near the farmhouse, chatting easily with Mr. Elton. Ben recognized Joe right away—his burly frame would surely shoulder much of the workload. The other man wasn’t familiar. He looked younger, around thirty, maybe.

As they exited the van and approached the men, Joe waved at Ben while the other man extended his leather-gloved hand. “I’m Fletcher Hays. You’re Ben, right? The Cartwrights’ nephew?”

“Yes.” Ben was getting better at filling the awkward pause before the lie.

“Great to meet you.”

Ben recognized an American accent. “You’re from the States. Southern?”

“Texas, born and raised. Not sure what the kids here will think of the accent. They might struggle with it.”

“Kids?” Ben asked.

“Oh. Yeah, sorry. Students, I mean. I’m a new teacher. History.”

Mac had given them time to get acquainted, but at this point, he seemed itchy to get down to business. He handed Ben a pair of work gloves, and the men took his cue and went to work. Ben’s sore muscles had him cringing each time he stooped to grab the end of a new plank and chuck it into the van. But after half an hour, he grew numb to the pain. Or maybe the pain had worked itself out. They moved in silence, except for the occasional grunts and thuds of lumber into the van.

Joe had brought his van, too, so when the job was done, they made their way back to Mac’s cottage, where the planks were unloaded. This process went faster, and before Ben knew it, the work was complete.

“Thank ye for your help,” Mac told Joe and Fletcher. They all exchanged good-byes, and Mac said to Ben, “You’re done for today, as well.”

“Oh. I assumed we’d work into the afternoon.”

“Alas, I’m committed to a couple of side jobs, so there’s no time to show you how to cut the wood. But we’ll start again Monday, early.”

“Can we afford a weekend off?” Ben probably sounded overly eager, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself for forty-eight hours off. “I can work tomorrow, if you like.”

“Nay, not necessary. We’re on schedule for now. Can you put in full days next week?”

“Absolutely. I’m looking forward to learning a new craft.”

“Aye, ’tis hard work but rewarding. Nothing like taking a shapeless piece of wood and building something grand with your hands. ’Tis my favorite kind of work, truth be told. Doesn’t feel like work at all.”

It struck Ben. “You’ve made those pieces in your cottage, haven’t you?” He remembered the sitting room. “The rocking chair?”

“Aye.”

“And even the kitchen table?”

“Aye.” Mac chuckled, a hint of pink dabbing his cheeks as he kicked a pebble on the ground.

“Do you ever sell your pieces? You should start a business.”

Mac shook his head. “Nay, ’tis only a hobby.” He thought longer about it and shrugged. “I make carvings for my sister’s grandson. For Christmas. Toy guns or a wee sailboat, that sort of thing.” He steered the conversation sharply again. “About the nativity—you’ll be paid at the end of the project,” he noted.

“Oh. No, I don’t need payment.”

Mac stared with a confused frown, the crinkles in his forehead deepening. “Son, I can afford to pay ye.”

“No, it’s not that. I don’t want people to know this, but”—he lowered his voice—“I don’t really need the money. I’d rather work for other reasons. Let’s just say I need this job. To keep me… occupied.”

“Aye,” Mac said as if he understood perfectly.

“Why don’t you take what you would’ve paid me and donate it somewhere? A worthy cause.”

“All right, son, if you’re sure.” The wrinkles had softened into acceptance. Possibly even respect.

“More than sure.”

 

The walk back to Mistletoe Cottage felt restorative. Ben took the back route, behind the shops on Storey Road, to avoid meeting or talking to anyone. He reflected on Mac’s type of work. In some ways, it was more rewarding than what he’d done for the past several years. There was something about working with your hands, touching the earth, the wood, being that close to nature. Working in silence with others and getting something accomplished together, something you could see take shape, right before your eyes. Something tangible. It might not be as important as saving a life, but it was still important, in its own way.

As he neared Mistletoe Cottage, Ben realized he’d been humming “The Messiah” in his head. He recalled the verse Mary had begun to read before the phone interrupted them: “a man of sorrows, familiar with suffering.” He recalled that verse, somewhere in the back of his memory, but had never thought about it before—Jesus as a suffering man. As someone who experienced pain and loss, like any other human being.

And it struck him. Ben had always let the church, or his parents, decide who Jesus was for him—far away, hard to understand. Some vague shadow of a deity that rose so far above that He was never quite accessible. Ben had swallowed someone else’s doctrine willingly all those years. But it was a vapid doctrine that came up empty when he needed it most. He couldn’t find a single ounce of comfort in those clichés and trite rituals that everyone else seemed to bathe in without question.

But seeing Mary’s faith this morning—the innocence of it, the unwavering confidence of her answers—certain questions had started to take root in his mind. Doubts about his own staunch, bitter beliefs about God. He didn’t even know what those questions were, specifically. He only knew that a sweet older woman, holding a thick, antique Bible on her lap, had shown more passion for her God than anyone he’d ever seen.