A Christmas Peril (The Teacup Novellas - Book Five) (7 page)

“You mean, besides dishpan
hands?”

I laughed. “Yes,
Gary
, what don’t you love, besides dishpan
hands?”

He narrowed his eyes in
deep thought. “Well, let’s see. I’m not too fond of broccoli. I hate the smell
of rotten eggs. And . . .” He settled his eyes on mine again.
“And a war that takes me away from the most amazing girl I’ve ever met.”

I glanced down into my cup
of tea when my eyes begin to sting. “Yes. The war. But let’s promise not to
talk about it until you have to leave. I don’t want it to spoil our perfect
day.”

He squeezed my hand. “Agreed.
No talk of war.” He took a deep breath and asked, “Who is Mrs. Hering?”

I shifted my thoughts,
grateful for the diversion. “I was hoping you’d ask. It’s such an interesting
story.”

“Then you must tell me.”
He planted his elbow on the table then rested his chin on his fist. His dimples
deepened with his warm smile, and I had to rein in my butterflies just to put a
sentence together.

“I’m sure you know the
history of the store, dating back before the Civil War.”

“I do, but I’d love to
hear you tell it.”

“It wasn’t called Marshall
Field’s back then, of course. But did you know that Mr. Field was only
twenty-one years old in 1856 when he started working for the original dry goods
store he would one day own? That’s only a year older than I me.”

“But I’m sure he wasn’t
half as pretty.”

I could feel the heat in
my face. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But by 1868, the store was moved to
its location here at State and
Washington
. Of course, the Great
Chicago
Fire of 1871 leveled it, but not before
many of the employees worked valiantly through the night to save the most
expensive merchandise and much of the files and records.”

“I remember hearing the
stories of that when I was a kid. I think someone in my dad’s family worked
there at the time.”

“Here I am prattling on
when you probably know more about it than I do.”

He took my hand in his and
twisted the opal ring on my finger. “I doubt it. Besides, I happen to like
listening to you prattle. So please
‌—‌
prattle
on.”

I couldn’t help laughing
again. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

“About the tea room. Back
in those days, it wasn’t proper for a woman to eat in a restaurant unless she
was accompanied by a gentleman. But if a woman was shopping and wanted
something to eat, it was an absurd inconvenience for her to go all the way home
for lunch then have to return to finish her shopping. Then one day an employee
in the millinery department named Mrs. Hering noticed that one of her customers
was tired and hungry, so she offered to share her lunch with her client
‌—‌
a homemade chicken pot
pie. Soon Mrs. Hering started bringing lots of her pot pies for her customers.
Eventually the store opened a tea room to accommodate all their customers, and
Mrs. Hering’s Chicken Pot Pies have been on the menu from the very beginning.
Isn’t that a great story?”

As if on cue, the waitress
returned with our food. While I enjoyed my salad,
Gary
devoured his steaming pot pie, groaning
with pleasure with each bite.

He wiped his lips with his
napkin. “I suppose it would be bad form to pick up the plate and lick it?”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

He raised a brow, taunting
me, and for a moment I thought he might just do it. Thankfully, he pushed the
plate aside and sighed with satisfaction. “That, my dear Lucille, might just be
the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Really? Didn’t you say
the same thing about your pancakes just a few hours ago?”

He leaned in, motioning me
closer. “Yes, but that was then and this is now,” he whispered.

I smiled at his silliness,
wishing I could freeze the moment and savor it forever. I fought the nagging
ticking of the clock in my head, already wondering how I’d handle saying
goodbye when the time came.

He seemed to pause, his
face suddenly growing serious. He leaned toward me again and placed his hand on
my forearm. “Tell me something. Is there someone special in your life, Lucille?
It only now occurred to me that you might be seeing someone.”

I couldn’t help but enjoy
the concern in his eyes. “Yes, I’m afraid there is.”

He straightened and
started to say something until I placed my hand firmly over his, entwining our
fingers. I gazed down at our joined hands. “If you must know, he’s the most
handsome guy I’ve ever known. But the thing that melted me from the very
beginning was . . . well, it’s kind of corny. Maybe I shouldn’t
say.”

“Please. Tell me.”

His sad puppy dog eyes
nearly cracked me up. I pressed my lips together, willing away the giggles
bubbling around inside me. I reached for my teacup with my other hand. “I mean,
he’s a nice guy and all, but it was
‌—‌
well,
I might as well just say it. The guy loves to wash dishes. And apparently I’m a
real sucker for guys in aprons.”

Gary
’s face flushed with relief as he pulled
my hand to his lips and kissed the top of it. “Oh Lucille, don’t do that. You
scared the socks off me!”

I laughed so hard I
spilled some of my tea, wobbling the cup back to its saucer. “I’m sorry. I
couldn’t resist
‍—‍”

“No! Don’t apologize. I
may be a tad slow, but I think you just made me the happiest man on earth.
Unless you’ve had lots of guys wear aprons in your kitchen and wash your
dishes.”

“Only you, Lieutenant.”

The rest of the day is still
a blur to me. We spent another hour or two at Marshall Field’s so
Gary
could buy Christmas presents for his
family. I enjoyed learning more about his parents and brother as we shopped. At
my suggestion, he bought a china teacup and saucer
‌—‌
the same holiday
pattern as the ones we’d been served in the Walnut Room.

“There’s a wonderful story
behind this pattern. Back in 1938, the American agent for Spode asked one of
their artists back in
England
to design a new Christmas pattern. The
artist
‌—‌
I
think his name was Holdway
‌—‌
did so and sent a sample to the
American. The plate featured a Christmas tree with presents hanging from its
branches.”

“That’s strange, don’t you
think?”

“Well, yes. And the
American told Mr. Holdway he liked the pattern, but could he put the presents
on the floor
beneath
the tree and decorate the tree with ornaments.
Turns out, Mr. Holdway had ad-libbed the entire concept because he’d never seen
a Christmas tree!”

“Hadn’t seen a Christmas
tree?”
Gary
laughed. “How is that possible?”

“I have no idea. What’s
even funnier, he had no clue what went on the top of a Christmas tree, so he
painted a Kris Kringle. See it up there?”

“Will you look at that,”
Gary
said, twisting the cup around. “Don’t
most trees have angels on top?”

“Well, of course they do.
Even so, it’s become quite famous. They have whole sets of this pattern now,
serving pieces and all. I think they’re beautiful. Don’t you?”

“Yes, and it’s perfect,”
he said, as we waited for it to be gift wrapped. “Mom will love it.”

Of course, I had no way of
knowing
Gary
had no intention of giving that cup and
saucer set to his mother. Later that evening back at my house, before we said
goodnight,
Gary
suddenly snapped his fingers.

“I almost forgot! I got
you something.” He rustled through the large shopping bag and came up with a
small box
‌—‌
identical
to the one we’d had wrapped at Marshall Field’s.

“But isn’t this
‍—‍
”

“No questions. Just open
it.”

I couldn’t figure out what
he was up to, but just as I suspected, inside the box I found the Christmas
teacup and saucer wrapped in white tissue paper.

“
Gary
, I don’t understand.”

“You see, my mother has
more teacups than she knows what to do with. She collects them. When I’m on
leave over in
England
, I always try to find one to send her.
Which is why she has little need for another one.”

He took the box from my
hand, then carefully set the cup and saucer alongside it on the side table.
“You, on the other hand, seemed quite fascinated by this pattern and its
peculiar history. Which is why I thought it might be fun to give you a souvenir
of our day together.”

“I don’t know what to say.
I’m embarrassed to say the thought never crossed my mind to buy you something
today.”

“Oh, but you gave me the
best possible gift.”

“What’s that?”

“A day I’ll never forget.”

I placed my palm against
his cheek. “I’ll never forget it either,
Gary
.”

This time, the clock I
heard ticking was the grandfather clock in our entry hall. I chose to ignore it
when
Gary
wrapped me in his arms.

“Lucille, if I could, I’d
go AWOL just so I could stay here with you. I’d never go back, never leave
you.”

“Now, Lieutenant. I could
never live with myself if I caused you to be dishonorably discharged.”

He smiled, pushing a curl
from my face. Then without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned down and placed the
gentlest of kisses of my lips. As I closed my eyes, I melted into his embrace,
and wished, for the second time that day, that time would stand still.

Chapter
7

I closed Aunt Lucille’s diary, using the
satin ribbon to mark my place. I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to
absorb it all. It felt a little strange, reading her intimate thoughts, as
though I was actually there, invading their most private moments. Still, I was
hanging on every word, anxious to find out what might happen next.

But my eyes were burning and fatigue
washed over me again like an ocean wave. I needed to sleep, even though I kept
picturing
Gary
surprising Lucille with the special Christmas
cup and saucer. I smiled at the thought of that same teacup and saucer on the
shelf above my office desk. I tried to imagine the joy Lucille must have felt
when he gave it to her. Such a thoughtful thing to do, and yet she still barely
knew him. I too felt the apprehension she mentioned so many times‌—‌wasn’t
it all too much, too soon?

Something else struck me about the part
when they had lunch at the Walnut Room. How
Gary
twisted her opal ring as they talked. I smiled, knowing just how sweet a
gesture that was because my Mark so often did the same thing. I glanced over at
Mark and wondered when he would toy with it again. What if he forgot? What if
he forgot
all
those little things that told me he cared for me? Like the
way he always insists I have the last bite of popcorn or ice cream we share. Or
the way he draws figure eights with his finger when he rests his hand on my
knee. Or the way he slings my dishtowel over his shoulder when he helps in the
kitchen.

Helps in the kitchen. Just like Uncle
Gary used to do.

If I thought about the similarities long
enough, it might creep me out. No, not really. Nothing creepy in a few
coincidences. If anything, these things endeared me to my aunt and uncle even
more. As I let myself drift off to sleep, I imagined Uncle Gary and Mark
meeting for the first time. As they shook hands, would each notice the other’s
dishpan hands?

At seven the next morning, Gordo woke me
up, arriving right on time with his Krispy Kremes.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” He gave me a bear hug
as I stood up. “How are you this morning?”

I stretched, knowing I must look like
something the cat dragged in. “I’m good. I guess. I must have really slept
hard. Never even heard the staff come and go like they usually do, banging
around and talking too loud.”

Gordo made his way to the other side of
Mark’s bed. “You ought to go home and get some real rest, Lucy.”

“I know.” I scratched my head and yawned
again. “There will be time for that later.”

“How’s our boy doing this morning? Any
changes?”

I stared at Mark, suddenly realizing how
impatient I was to put this all behind us. “No changes.”

“I see somebody gave him another shave.
You do that?”

I snorted. “Not hardly. That takes a far
steadier hand than mine.”

Gordo smiled. “Did you know he keeps an
electric razor in the glove compartment of his car so he can shave on his way
home every day?”

“Really? Why?”

“Says it saves him time, so all he has to
do when he gets home is take a quick shower, dress, and head over to your
place. He always says the favorite part of his whole day is seeing you.”

I smiled, remembering the big goofy smile
he always gave when I opened my door for him. “My favorite part too.” I
swallowed hard to tamp down the lump in my throat.

“Come here,” Gordo said, motioning me toward
him.

I dashed a tear from my cheek and slowly
made my way over to him. He pulled me close to his side, draping his arm over
my shoulders. “Lucy, he’s gonna make it. You’ll see. He’ll be up and bossing us
all around in no time.”

A half-hiccup, half-sob slipped out and
with it, a lot more tears. Gordo pulled me closer. “We’re all here for you,
Lucy. Me and the guys, we’ve all got your back. And I wouldn’t have it any
other way. Mark’s our brother, y’know? Maybe not kin, but just as close. And
when this all blows over, first thing he’ll want to know is if we took good
care of you.”

“I know.” I wiped my cheek against my sweater
sleeve. “He’d be really proud. And grateful, Gordo.”

His kissed the top of my head, a lot like
my brother does, then released me. He leaned over Mark’s bed and patted his
hand. “You take care, buddy. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

After he left, I went to the bathroom and
tried to freshen up. I had just come out when Shelly arrived. I offered her one
of Gordo’s donuts, but as usual she took a pass. She’s much too
health-conscious to give in to the sinful pastries. Me? I inhaled mine as we
chatted over the Starbucks she’d brought.

A little while later she left, promising
to return this afternoon when she picked up her parents at the airport.
Apparently the cruise line had moved heaven and earth to help the Christophers
get home, but it had taken several days. I was sure Mark’s mom was worried sick
by now.

And so it continued. One day pretty much
morphing into the next, and the next after that.

I was finding it harder and harder to
keep my game face on. Oh, the tears came and went. No surprise there. But a
foreboding sense of gloom was wending its way through my spirit. Maybe it was
just the initial shock wearing off. Or maybe it was the monotony. Either way, I
despised it and tried to fight it off however I could. My first line of defense
was scripture. I camped out in the Psalms, clinging to them like a life raft in
a dark and threatening sea. I reached for my Bible and opened it to Psalm 55.

Give ear to my prayer, O God; and do not
hide Yourself from my supplication. Give heed to me, and answer me; I am
restless in my complaint, and am surely distracted.

I’m always amazed how God speaks to me
through His word. Sometimes it seems like David was reading my mind when he
penned those words a few thousand years ago. I am restless in my prayers,
crying out to God on Mark’s behalf. And I’m definitely distracted by the
ever-present fear. I try so hard to shake it but I can’t. It feels like an
elephant has made its home on my chest. Sometimes I can hardly breathe.

I know I’m helpless. Apart from my
pitiful prayers, I know there’s nothing I can do to bring Mark around. Most of
the time I read the Psalms out loud to him. Other times I have to force my
focus on each and every word, willing myself to stake my trust in God even when
it feels like the fear will swallow me whole.

I blew out a long sigh and set my Bible
aside, then reached for the diary. Scripture soothes my soul‌—‌most
of the time‌—‌but my aunt’s journal occupies my mind, keeping me
distracted. And this morning, I feel an urgent need for all the distraction I
can get.

“Okay, Mark, last we read, Uncle Gary
kissed Aunt Lucille for the first time. And I’m fairly sure I saw you blush
when I was reading that part, but let’s see what happens next.”

Dear Diary,

Obviously, I fell asleep
before finishing last time. I finally realized I’ll never get it all in print
at the rate I’m going. Still, I can’t bear the thought of missing a single
detail, because I still feel like it’s all just a wonderful dream. Like I could
wake up any moment and be back on that El, picking my textbook off the floor
without the help of a handsome lieutenant.

That next day,
Gary
went to church with us. I had to fight a
touch of pride as I walked into the church I grew up in with this handsome man
in uniform at my side. Then, as we sang the first hymn, the beauty of
Gary
’s rich tenor voice floated around us
like the softest velvet. When I looked up at him, he paused, asking what was
wrong. I love that he had no idea why others were looking our way.

Once we took our seats
again, he tucked my hand in the crook of his arm and placed his hand over mine
‌—‌
a gesture I’d come to
enjoy immensely. I felt protected. Cherished, somehow. For the rest of the
service, he never let go. I didn’t hear much of Reverend Thornton’s sermon, my
heart and my thoughts wrapped as one in constant prayer for this human gift sitting
beside me. For his safety once he returned to the war. For the precious moments
we had left together.

After church we said
goodbye to Mother, Father, and little Jack.
Gary
’s parents had invited me for Sunday
dinner, and I was anxious to meet them. I found them to be utterly delightful,
though much more reserved than their son. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds made me feel so
welcome. To be honest, I was relieved. I still wondered if
Gary
was a bit of a ladies’ man. Had he
brought other girls home to meet his parents? Lots of other girls? But those
fears evaporated as the Reynolds seemed genuinely interested in getting to know
me, asking about my family, discussing mutual friends, and so on.

I
asked them about Gerald,
Gary
’s older brother who had recently deployed
to
England
with the 8
^th
Air Force.

“Gerald
was anxious to get over there and help with the war effort,” Mrs. Reynolds
began. “But it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done
‌—‌
saying goodbye to him. Craig
practically had to pry me out of his embrace.” She looked across the table at
Gary
, her eyes glistening. “And I admit, I’m
not sure I’ll do any better on Wednesday when you leave, son.”

Gary
stood, rounding the table to give her a
hug. “Ah, sure you will, Mom. You and Dad will finally have some peace around
here.”

“That’s
for sure,” Mr. Reynolds teased.

“Who
knows, maybe you’ll both take up some new hobbies. Like ice hockey. Or maybe javelin
throwing. Hot air ballooning?”

“Very
funny,” Mr. Reynolds said dryly, laughing with us.

The
easy conversation continued for the rest of the meal, then Gary and I did the
dishes. (Of course!) Later, Mrs. Reynolds played the piano as the four of us
sang Christmas songs. After a few of the more festive tunes, she played the
introduction to “O Holy Night”
‌—‌
my
favorite carol. Halfway through the first verse,
Gary
’s father took a seat in his easy chair,
pulling his handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his eyes and nose and
glanced up at me with a trembling smile. Finding it impossible to sing, I
slowly made my way to the sofa next to his chair. I clasped my hand over his
and tried to smile.

As
Gary
’s voice swelled with the reverent,
beautiful lyrics and melody, I swallowed hard. I’d never heard anything so
beautiful in my life. Just then, I noticed a tear streaking down his mother’s
face as she continued to play.
Gary
never stopped singing, but moved to
stand behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.

I knew
his parents’ tears had little to do with that unforgettable melody or their
son’s incredibly talented voice, and everything to do with him heading back to
war. An odd feeling descended over me, as though I were imposing on an intimate
family moment. I looked away, focusing on the gaily decorated tree in the
corner of the room and the Zenith console radio on the far wall. I imagined the
Reynolds listening to evening broadcasts filled with news of the war, and
wondering if their sons were safe. And I tried to imagine what it was like to
have not one, but two sons so far away in harm’s way.

“Fall
on your knees!

    O
hear the angel voices!

O
night divine,

    O
night when Christ was born;

O
night divine, O night, O night Divine.”

I
closed my eyes, trying to banish my worrisome thoughts and simply live in the
moment.

Later,
as we said our goodbyes, I knew something inside me had changed. Maybe it was
being in
Gary
’s home or being a part of the impromptu
singing around the piano. But considering I’d only known the Reynolds for a
couple of hours, I felt strangely at home in their presence. The thought gave
me pleasure.

Over
these last couple of days,
Gary
’s approaching departure has consumed me.
On Monday, he accompanied me on my commute to Northwestern where he strolled
the campus while I attended classes. That evening we had dinner at the
Continental Room at
Stephens
Hotel
.
Afterward we went dancing, and I prayed the night would never end. Oh my, can
my lieutenant dance!

This
morning (Tuesday), I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in class, and for the
first time in my life, I skipped classes so I could be with him.