A Christmas Hope (14 page)

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Authors: Joseph Pittman

BOOK: A Christmas Hope
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“Hello, welcome to A Doll's Attic, I'm . . .”
“Nora, right?”
“Yes. Wait, we've met. . . .”
“Cynthia Knight, and this young cherub is my son, Jake.”
“Oh hi,” Nora said. “Please come in, come in . . . what are you doing out in this weather?”
“Picking up some groceries, and then I was passing by and . . . well, I decided to stop in on a whim. I've heard so much about the store, thought I should check it out.”
Nora believed the first part of her story, but not the second. The lawyer inside her was anticipating the big reveal, her mind all ready with an objection. She cut to the chase. “Is there something I can do for you, Cynthia?”
“I wonder, do you time for a cup of coffee, maybe over at the Five O'?”
Though the invitation took her by surprise, actually the idea of girl talk over a coffee was appealing. “Oh, well, sure, there's not much going on here. But can I ask what this is about?”
“Brian Duncan,” Cynthia said.
Nora's smile turned upside down, as the saying goes. Of course, now she remembered who this woman was. Cynthia Knight was Brian's best pal in town, and no doubt he'd told her about the kiss. Objection overruled.
 
The Five O' was pretty quiet at the moment, the lunch rush hadn't yet begun and breakfast had been digested hours ago. Even so, with the forecast as it was, Martha Martinson, proprietor and all-around jokester, told the ladies to take their pick of booths as only two of them along the long bank against the wall were currently occupied, both of them with burly men in flannels drinking coffee.
“You can have your pick of them, the booth or the guys,” Martha said and then laughed heartily.
So much for a quiet cup of coffee.
“The booth is just fine,” Nora said, wishing Martha could tone it down a bit.
Cynthia just waved off Martha's attempt at humor. “Pay her no mind, Nora, it's what we all do in Linden Corners.”
“Just for that, I'm putting sour milk in your coffee,” Martha said.
“Ah, so it will be an improvement over the swill you usually serve,” Cynthia said, who grinned up at Martha. Having been one-upped, she retreated back to the kitchen.
Nora gave her . . . what, friend . . . friend of a friend . . . frankly, she didn't know what to think of Cynthia Knight, about their relationship or what she wanted. They'd already established their topic of discussion: one Brian Duncan, but so far Cynthia hadn't been very forthcoming with details. On their short walk over, Cyn had talked casually about the store and the coming storm and other safe subjects. Before leaving, Nora had told Travis she was going to have coffee with “Mrs. Knight,” promising to return soon with hot chocolate for him. He was actually fine with being left alone, turned out he was having fun pouring through the boxes and discovering the shiny Christmas trinkets and ornaments. Nora had reminded him to be careful, and he just rolled his eyes at her, the “duh” heard but unspoken. “Look what you have to look forward to with Jake,” Nora had said as they headed out the door.
Now that they were settled with coffee and pastries set before them, Nora peered over the mug at Cynthia, eyes narrowed.
“So, Brian Duncan, you said. What about him?”
“Wow, you don't waste time, do you?”
“I'm used to it, I was a lawyer for too long.”
“Aha, billable hours,” Cynthia said. “My husband, Bradley, he's an attorney, too.”
“What kind?”
“Tax. Offices up in Albany.”
Nora nodded. “So he spends all his time in an office or worse, a cubicle, pouring through files and watching the ticking of the clock. I'm familiar with it, even though I practiced criminal defense, so fortunately many of my days were spent in court. Broke up the routine.” When she said those words she surprised herself by having spoken of her career in the past tense, as though being confined to Linden Corners had closed her off to her previous life. Her past had lost its place in the world.
“Linden Corners must be quite a change of pace.”
“From sixty to zero,” Nora said.
“That's funny, never heard it said quite so . . .”
“Succinctly?”
Again, Cynthia laughed warmly, this time loud enough to catch the attention of the other people inside the diner. The burly guys ignored them, going back to their coffee, but the waitress who was refilling their cups came over to the booth. Nora noticed she was a cute young thing, blond and slim, with lots of makeup that made her cheeks rosier than . . . well, Santa Claus, she thought. Her name tag read SARA.
“Sorry, ladies, I don't mean to interrupt your day, but, Cynthia, um, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Sure, Sara. Hey, do you know Nora Connors? She's the new owner of Elsie's.”
Sara said hello, then, “Yeah, sure, you come in for lunch sometimes, always to go.”
“Nice to meet you, officially, Sara.”
It was then Nora realized who this Sara was, the lucky woman engaged to Mark Ravens. Funny, she thought, meeting both of them in their place of employment, both of them waiting tables in places as different as could be, a greasy spoon and a fancy resort. She thought of Mark's comment about wanting more out of life and trying to make things perfect for his girl. Nora stole a look at the modest engagement ring on Sara's finger and felt a stab of jealousy hit her. Starting out, they were full of optimism and love.
“What's up, Sara?”
She hesitated briefly, then blurted out: “I want to kill that Mark Ravens!”
“Whoa, honey . . . relax,” Cynthia said. “I thought you two were getting married.”
“Yes, we are, and if he has his way, well . . . he wants us to get married in a bar!”
She spoke that way, with forceful exclamation points giving her words additional impact, so much so Nora felt she could actually hear the punctuation.
“Oh, Brian told me about that,” Cynthia said. “Not a good idea, huh?”
“Where's the magic in that?” Sara asked. “Oh, we had such a big fight over it!”
“Actually, Sara, if I can interject a moment,” Nora said. “I know it's none of my business being the new girl in town, but I was there when Mark asked Brian about the idea, and he seemed so earnest . . . he just wanted to make you happy.”
Sara rolled her eyes to the point that Nora wondered if kids ever outgrew the silent weapon known as sarcasm. “Oh please, two men planning a wedding, what, they want to raise a toast with cans of beer? That's not the day I've been dreaming about since I was five!”
“And did you tell Mark that?” Cynthia asked.
“Yeah, but he just stormed out, as though I'd done something wrong.”
“So how did you leave it?”
“Oh Cynthia, I think I just hurt his feelings big-time,” she said. “I mean, I guess I've been putting too much pressure on him lately, telling him I wanted to settle on a date, and I know he was trying to be sweet and romantic and . . . so Mark, by having us get married at the same place that he proposed—and on the anniversary of the engagement to boot—but really . . . a bar? Where's the honeymoon? The Five O'?”
“Hey!”
It was Martha from over by the counter saying that, and all the women just erupted into peals of laughter, Martha included. The moment broke the ice, and finally Cynthia took hold of Sara's hand and imparted a bit of wisdom. “Sara, if you don't want to get married in a bar, then don't. Talk to Mark, calmly, leave the exclamation points here, okay?”
“Thanks, Cynthia, I knew you'd be rational.”
“I think that's a compliment,” she said.
Sara was about to return to her station when Nora stopped her. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure, I like secrets.”
“When it comes to what women want, men are usually pretty dumb. They don't really understand what makes us tick,” she said, “but what I saw in Mark's eyes that day, he adores you and only wants to give you the best, and not just on your wedding day but for your entire lives. For a man to admit such a thing in front of a perfect stranger—well, you're a lucky girl.”
“Thanks, Nora, I'll remember that.”
So Sara left them alone again, having forgotten to refill their coffee, which by now had grown a bit cold, not unlike outside, where the snow had begun to fall. Both women observed it, nervously checking their watches before looking back at each other.
“Yeah, I think we should head out, no telling how quickly this storm will hit,” Cynthia said.
“We never had a chance to talk, about Brian.”
Cynthia reached over, placing her hand over Nora's. “Just heed your own advice, men don't understand women, and so if a woman is going to kiss a man and then tell him she just wants to be friends, well . . . that's as mixed a message if ever I heard one. Look, Nora, we barely know each other and so maybe I'm overstepping my bounds . . .”
“No, it's okay, Cynthia, I appreciate it,” Nora said, feeling a little hot beneath the collar. Of course Brian had told his best friend about what had happened that day in his driveway, how foolish was she to think he'd keep it bottled up inside. Unlike her, who hadn't told a soul. Who did she have to tell anyway?
“Brian is a helper . . . a fixer. When he came to Linden Corners, he was a bit of a mess, he didn't know who he was or what he wanted from life, he was just passing through—that's where the nickname came from, coined by our own Martha Martinson over there. He could easily have blinked twice and been driving out the other side of town, but instead something called to him here. When his weeklong stay became a month and then a whole summer, he did nothing but help out others. What he did for your mother after George passed away, what he's done for Janey, the sacrifices he's made in order to make others happy, it's a rare quality. But in all this time, I still don't think Brian has rediscovered himself. He helps everyone but himself. I think you're his latest reclamation project.”
“I didn't ask for that.”
“See, that's the thing, you don't ask, he just does.”
“So what you're saying is, don't mess with Brian.”
“Be his friend, as you said. Just don't mess with his heart.”
Nora nodded, words forming on her lips. “That's why I did it, Cynthia, kissed him. So we could remove that element from our relationship . . . gosh, that sounds so lame the way I say it. Like a man and a woman can't be friends without romance getting in the way? Not very evolved for a defense attorney.”
“Don't be so hard on yourself, Nora. Remember, you're not a lawyer anymore, you're a person.”
Nora allowed herself one last, wide smile. “Thanks for that. I think you're funnier than Martha. This was actually nice, girl talk, something I've missed.”
“Then we'll have to do it again, soon,” she said. “But for now, I think the storm is doing all the talking.”
As they settled their tab and made their way into the fresh falling snow, they parted with a hug. Nora watched as Cynthia got into her car, settling little Jake into his car seat, and that's when she realized the tyke had slept through the entire conversation, about weddings and love and relationship issues and kissing men when it wasn't appropriate to do so. In a half hour's time, Jake had learned a valuable lesson: When the ladies start to chatter, just roll over and sleep. Nora found her mood improved as she made her way back to A Doll's Attic, the bells above the door jangling, announcing her presence. They didn't bother her.
When Travis came running out of the storeroom, she realized she'd completely forgotten to order his hot chocolate, a wave of regret washing over her. What kind of mother was she? But her son didn't seem to mind, as his face was lit with an enthusiasm she had rarely seen in him lately, his hand dangling a glass ornament before her.
“Mom, look what I found among Mrs. Wilkinson's boxes,” he said.
She looked closely to see what had so intrigued him, and what she saw inside the round glass globe was a snow-coated windmill, its sails turning as white lights blinked on and off, on and off. A small inscription said S
INTERKLASS, THE
N
ETHERLANDS
.
“Just like in Linden Corners,” he said.
No matter where she went in this town, Nora Rainer couldn't escape Brian Duncan, nor the specter of that old windmill. Just then the howling wind rocked the windows of the store, and Nora gazed out to see snow being blown sideways; the lights inside the store flickered. The storm had hit fast, its fury increasing exponentially with each passing second, it seemed. As she and Travis gathered up their stuff, she thought about the real windmill alone on that open field, and how its mighty sails would be answering nature's call. She hoped it would be safe, it and the people who lived to see it spin.

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