A Merry Little Christmas (13 page)

Once inside, they were engulfed by hallways full of shadows and echoes that came from their footsteps on the marble floor. The whole effect was disconcerting and lonely and not a bit like what a person would want home to feel like. Maybe the velvet mattress of wealth really was full of spurs.

“My father will be in his office.” As Charlie led Franny through the house, they passed a majestic entry with a spiral staircase as well as a type of medieval statue, which appeared to be guarding the house against intruders. The statue was falling down on his job, since she was surely an intruder. Franny glanced around at the expensive paintings and tapestries lining the walls and alcoves. Everything was elegantly decorated for Christmas, but the cheery look of the garlands and wreaths was swallowed up by the gloom. “So, you grew up in this house.”

Charlie leaned down to her and whispered, “Well, I think I grew up in
spite
of the house.”

“Oh, I see.” Franny wondered why prosperity so rarely joined hands with joy. “To see it for the first time, though, it is breathtaking.” She touched a dial telephone. “I noticed you have a lot of these. And so, do you have a color television set?”

“Not yet. My father thinks black-and-white has more character. I think he’s just being cheap.”

But not one thing in the house appeared to be cheap. Not a thing Franny could see.

They arrived at a set of imposing double doors, which were embellished with polished wood and stained glass. “Well, this is it.” Charlie gave her a brisk nod. “Let me go in first, and then I’ll come back for you and introduce you.”

“All right.” Franny blinked back her surprise at the formality.

He shut the doors behind him and Franny remained in the dark hallway, glancing around, feeling a little wobbly. It seemed unnatural for her to stand there, looking around, waiting like a peasant trying to enter the royal court. Memories from her youth came to her, ones where she would burst into her father’s tiny study in the attic and run into his arms. The oak chair would squeak as he leaned down to kiss the top of her head, and the scent of Old Spice would tickle her nose.

Even when Franny got older and brought her schoolmates home, she still did the same thing, rushing into his room to share her friends, her excitement, her life. She had hundreds of those moments, a treasure chest of memories—all of them beloved, but at the time, all taken for granted. Now, standing outside Mr. Landau’s office door, she realized how truly blessed she’d been and how sad she was to have lost it all.

Charlie opened the door, his eyes bright with what looked like excitement mingled with something else. Could it be fear? “Father is eager to meet you.”

Franny waved her perspiring hands in the air. “Good. That’s good.”

“By the way, Father doesn’t do hugs. Not the hugger type, if you know what I mean. So it would be best to just shake his hand.”

Franny had rarely met anyone who wasn’t a hugger, but she didn’t want to upset the apple cart. So, no hugging Charlie’s father. What other rules and protocols were there to have a proper audience with the great and powerful Mr. Landau?
Now, Franny.
She got her attitude back in check and followed Charlie inside the office. Mr. Landau sat behind a sprawling mahogany desk—the kind she imagined in the office of the president or some sort of dignitary—and tried to disengage herself from all that Charlie had told her about him.

After Charlie made the appropriate introductions, Franny shook hands with Mr. Landau, who, on first impression, looked like the photographs she’d seen of Sigmund Freud with his balding head, sculpted white beard, and little round eyeglasses. Perhaps they’d entered the fifth dimension…
dunn-duhh
…
The Twilight Zone
. She hid her amusement. Her uneasiness was making her a little goofy. To her pleasant surprise, in spite of Mr. Landau’s intimidating appearance, the encounter felt reasonably welcoming. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“Please sit down.” Charlie’s father made no mention of his son’s limp. Odd. He motioned to the chair where he wanted her to sit. “So, you are Francine Alexia Martin, the woman who sold her farm to Charlie.”

“Yes. That’s me.” Franny shrugged. She wasn’t used to people using her full name. “The meaning of the name is—”

“Yes, I know, it means ‘from France.’ ” Mr. Landau tapped his fingers together, looking pleased with himself.

“It’s a place I’ve always wanted to visit, and—”

“Mmm, yes. Let’s talk business for a bit, shall we?”

Franny could tell it wasn’t a question, so she remained silent.

Charlie’s body stiffened like the hardbacked chair he sat on.

Clocks ticked from every corner and crevice of the room. How Mr. Landau could think straight in his office with so many distractions was a mystery, and who would want such an incessant reminder of time?

Mr. Landau shuffled some papers on his desk. “From the information I’ve gathered, you had a well-run farm…considering. One doesn’t usually think of a farmer as being female, though.” His eyes tapered with sharp awareness, reminding Franny of a hawk. “So, I’ve been deliberating, trying to figure out how you did it…how you ran the operation by yourself.”

“Well, after my parents died, I had some—”

“Upp!” Mr. Landau raised his forefinger. “I gave it some serious thought, and I came up with the answer.”

“You did? I’d love to know how I did it.” Franny bit her tongue, admonishing herself for her flippancy. “I mean, I feel honored that you spent the time to try to figure it out.”

“Please indulge me,” Mr. Landau said.

“Sure.” Franny could tell she had no choice in the matter, but she was curious about his discoveries. She had no idea why anyone would bother studying her comings and goings so closely.

“For most women it would have been impossible, especially starting out so young.” Mr. Landau marked something on a notepad with a fountain pen, as if keeping score. “But I think I found the secret. It’s in your character. You’re not afraid of years upon years of relentless, bone-tiring, mind-numbing work. That routine behavior either comes from someone who is witless and void of ingenuity, or it means you’re shrewd. You know what you like, and you’re not afraid to work hard to keep it. I’m impressed. And I’m not a man who is easily impressed.”

“Thank you.”
I think.
Franny gave herself the luxury of relaxing her shoulders. “But I do want to—”

“Upp!” Mr. Landau’s finger took to the air again. “But then you surprise me still, because after all your hard work, you sold the farm. Just like that. Now why is that, Miss Martin?”

“Father.” Charlie leaned toward the desk. “I didn’t bring Franny here to—”

“It’s a simple question, Charles. Miss Martin doesn’t have to answer it if it makes her uncomfortable.”

Franny looked at Charlie, who gave his head the tiniest of shakes, giving her permission to let it go. But it was, after all, a reasonable question, and even though it caused her pain, it was a query she couldn’t hide from.

She looked at Mr. Landau, whose bushy eyebrows were raised. “I had this dream surrounding music.” The blood rushed in her ears. “I see it as foolish now. I wanted to sing and play the guitar professionally, but my parents couldn’t afford the lessons. It wasn’t their fault, of course. Someone loaned me a guitar and a lesson book some years ago. I tried to teach myself, but it was hopeless. I don’t think I have any natural ability. Since I could never
play
the music, I still hoped to be a part of it somehow. So I decided to move to the city to find a job at a radio station.”

Mr. Landau rose from his chair as if he were alarmed about something she’d said. “You were right to think this dream in the city was beneath you.”

Is that what I said?
Franny shrugged. “Well, no one would hire me anyway.”

Mr. Landau seemed absorbed, staring at a photograph of an elderly gentleman. Perhaps it was a picture of his own father. With care, Mr. Landau sat back in his chair. “Music is like a rose. It’s beautiful, but we don’t need it to survive.” Then he suddenly gazed at her with a sharp expression, as if awakening from a trance. “So, are you regretting the sale of your farm now?”

“Father, we have a deal worked out. Franny will move back to the farm, and I’ll pay her to be my farmhand. I’ll be living in the apartment, of course.”

His father rose from the chair again, looking agitated. “And you, Miss Martin—you would agree to this arrangement? To work as a hired servant on the very land you owned as your birthright?”

Choose your words carefully.
Franny offered her most genuine smile. “I don’t think I have to own a farm to enjoy its merits.”

Mr. Landau eased back into his chair but didn’t look satisfied. “This, I can’t understand.” He patted the handkerchief in his suit pocket, which was a perfect white rectangle.

“I can see why Franny would feel that way.” Charlie picked up a brass spyglass from the desk and fingered it. “We think we can control things in this life, but in the end we possess nothing. Maybe the pursuit of joy comes more easily when we hold the reins less tightly.”

“Hmph.” Mr. Landau glared at the spyglass as he fingered one of his cuff links. “When did my son become a philosopher?”

“I think it was the day I met Franny.” Charlie set the spyglass back down.

Franny warmed at Charlie’s declaration, but the lovely sensation faded as she watched Charlie and his father share a barbed look that appeared to convey meanings far deeper than Franny could fathom. She wondered what baggage had been stacked between them—the history they were battering each other with.

Charlie rested his fingers on his eyelids as if he were getting a headache. “And another thing.” He looked at his father. “I don’t think the word
shrewd
fits Franny’s personality.”

Mr. Landau reached over and readjusted the spyglass that Charlie had just set back on his desk—but he only moved it by a fraction of an inch. “And why not, Charles? It’s a perfectly good word.”

“Because
shrewd
has the connotation of someone who’s scheming. And Franny is anything but that. She is guileless and brave and…well, unforgettable.”

“Unforgettable. Hmm.” Mr. Landau leaned forward in his chair and gave his son a good long look. “Well, I see you’ve spent some time together. Miss Martin, I would enjoy getting to know you better. I insist that you attend a dinner party I’m having with a few of my friends this evening.”

“I would like to, but I’m Charlie’s guest, so I should leave it up to him.” Franny had no idea if she were breaking some kind of protocol and yet it didn’t seem right to accept an invitation without getting Charlie’s input.

Charlie looked over at her, smiled, and then looked back to his father. “Yes, that would be fine.”

“Excellent. It’ll be formal, by the way, so you’ll both want to change. It won’t be a problem, though. Charles, your bedroom is still full of your clothes. Nothing’s been changed. And the housekeeper always keeps a selection of cocktail dresses in one of the bedrooms in the east wing. Miss Martin, you’re welcome to use any of those.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Mr. Landau looked as though he might disagree but said no more. Wasn’t he used to people calling him kind? She had no idea, since everything she’d experienced in the Landau house seemed as foreign as though she’d traveled overseas.

“Father, I hope Willie will be here tonight. I’m eager for Franny to meet him.”

Mr. Landau went back to shuffling papers. “No, he has other plans this evening.”

“Oh?” Charlie said. “His plans…or yours?”

Mr. Landau glared at his son. “Now, Charles. Let’s make the most of our evening with Miss Martin. Why don’t you give Franny a tour of the house before you both dress for dinner? I’ve got some urgent business to attend to right now.”

For the first time, Franny noticed a mark on Mr. Landau’s left cheek—similar to the angular shape of a broken twig. It was an enflamed crimson color at the moment, so perhaps the redness was fueled by his sudden agitation…and perhaps there was more of it to be had just under the surface, an anger that his eyes were trained to hide.

“Of course.” Charlie didn’t look away from his father. “But if I give her a tour, I’ll be turning on all the lights as we go along. This house has been dark for too long.”

Charlie chose to give Franny a grand tour, deliberately missing, of course, all the family portraits covering the walls. To him they weren’t so much family as dark memories longing to be forgotten. So he just breezed her right by them toward the conservatory.

“I have a surprise for you. I’ve saved the best for last.”

“It’s hard to envision anything more wonderful than what you’ve already shown me.”

Charlie stood facing her in front of two French doors, and then with his hands behind him he opened the doors, not wanting to miss a second of Franny’s reaction. He flipped some switches and the room came to life with all its usual dazzling beauty and elegance. Ever since he was a kid he’d thought the room looked magical with its black-andwhite marble floor and glass atrium ceiling. But even as an adult he still thought the room special. Not just because it held his music but because it was a safe haven, a sanctuary away from his father’s world.