[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm (19 page)

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Authors: Janette Oke

BOOK: [Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm
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“So what do we eat today?”
Christine shrugged. Then she chided herself. She was acting every bit as immature as he was. She forced a smile, willing herself to change the mood in the room. “I’m the cook for tomorrow,” she said lightly. “I guess you and your father will need to figure out today. You’ll manage just fine. You’ve had lots of practice.”
He growled, “He won’t even be home until who knows when. All he ever does is work.”
When she didn’t respond, he stood. “Well—if food’s up to me, I guess I’d better go shave. Even the Greasy Spoon won’t let me in looking like this.”
Christine was relieved to hear a lighter note in his voice.
“By the way,” he asked as he exited the room, “did the flowers arrive okay?”
“The poinsettia plant—yes. Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
He nodded, then was gone.
Later he returned, clean-shaven and immaculate—one would never know he could look as tousled as he had earlier, Christine noted as she lifted a golden mincemeat pie from the oven.
“Umm. You really expect that to still be here tomorrow?” His voice was teasing.
She set the pie on the cooling rack and turned to him. “It’d better be,” she warned, teasing him back.
He laughed and crossed to her, removing the potholders from her fingers and lifting her hands up around his neck.
“I’ve been thinking. One thing we sure missed is the mistletoe.” He lifted her chin and looked into her face. “But then ...” he continued, “who needs mistletoe?” He pulled her closer and kissed her.
“What’s happening tonight?” he asked against her hair.
“Go to service.”
“Service?” He pushed back and looked at her. “On Christmas Eve?”
“Yes, the Christmas Eve service.” She was sure she had misunderstood something. At his “What’s that?” she found it hard to believe he was serious. Had he truly never been to a Christmas Eve service before? No wonder he had not been touched by the Christian faith.
She eased herself back from his arms. “It’s wonderful. You’ll see. It gives life—meaning—to Christmas.”
He frowned.
“It starts at nine and—”
“Nine? What about Mrs. What’s-her-name?”
“She gives us all a special privilege tonight.”
His frown deepened. “Well, bully for her,” he muttered.
She chose to ignore his last comment. “It will be a candlelight event. With lots of music. It’s always beautiful.”
“Like a ... a concert?”
“More than that.”
“Do they preach at you?”
She stared at him. “Preach at you? No. No, they tell the Christmas story.”
“The Christmas story?”
“About Jesus’ birth.” Was he actually this ignorant concerning Christmas?
“Oh, that,” he said with a shrug.
So he did know something about it.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out car keys, jingling them in his hand. “Boy,” he said—and Christine was not sure he was even speaking to her—“I need a new car. This old thing ... maybe the old man ...” He stopped and looked at her. “Whoops-maybe
my father
will spring for one. As my Christmas present. Yeah.” And then he was heading toward the back door.
Just before he opened it, he turned once more. “Just to keep things straight,” he said, “I haven’t agreed to go to that service of yours. I didn’t even know it was part of the deal.”
The door banged shut, and he was gone.
As it turned out, they did go to the service. Boyd and Mr. Kingsley picked Christine up, and they drove over to the church together. As soon as she stepped inside she felt contentment wash all over her. It was so beautiful. So peaceful. So
Christmas.
But the feeling gradually seeped away during the service. Mr. Kingsley and Boyd were both shifting uncomfortably on the wooden pew. Neither of them seemed to know the familiar carols and stood silently, shuffling their feet, while the congregation sang. When Joseph and Mary—costumed children from the Sunday school—knocked on the door of the inn, Boyd rolled his eyes in mockery. It robbed the evening of its beauty, its poignancy. Christine found herself anxious for the meeting to end.
“Well, that was nice,” said Mr. Kingsley as they left the church.
“I could do with a coffee,” said Boyd.
“I need to get back,” Christine reminded him.
Boyd sighed in exaggerated fashion, but he made no further comment.
With Boyd’s eyes on the street ahead, he said, “So, Dad—where do you want to go for coffee?”
“The Savoy Hotel,” he answered without hesitation. “They always serve mincemeat pie at Christmas.”
We’re having mincemeat tomorrow,
Christine almost said, but she bit her tongue.
“Great mincemeat,” continued Mr. Kingsley.
It was snowing softly, appropriately, as Christine stepped from the car in front of the boardinghouse. “See you tomorrow,” both men said. Christine concluded that their thoughts were more on the mincemeat pie than on her or the beautiful evening and Christmas celebration. She stood and watched the car spin away. The snow silently caressed her cheeks and lashes. The streetlamp’s glow highlighted the drifting flakes. “Silent night, holy night,” whispered Christine. But for some reason she had not yet worked through, she did not feel that it really was.
Christine was the first to trek through the newly fallen snow to the streetcar stop the next morning. She found that childishly exciting, dragging her feet so that she made swooping arcs, wishing for snowshoes so she could make more interesting patterns. She turned once and looked back, pleased with what she had just created. If she hadn’t been concerned about someone possibly watching, she would have loved to make a snow angel.
The big house was silent as she let herself in at the back door. She supposed they both were still sleeping. No one in this family was inclined to bound out of, bed early to discover what was under the tree.
Christine had already placed her wrapped gifts there and had noticed a few other small packages had joined hers. She didn’t suppose her gifts would seem like much to a father and son who could buy anything they wanted. But she knew she had to get them something—if it was really going to be Christmas.
She moved as quietly as she could, preparing the turkey for the oven. It was much too big a bird for three people. She wondered what Mr. Kingsley would do with it after the meal was over. Well, she would not worry about that. She was sure he could find some use for the leftovers.
Even as busy as she was, she had momentary pangs of loneliness, being so alone on this most important day of the year. She carefully worked her way through her list of duties, trying to think only ahead to the enjoyment of sharing the meal together. It was almost noon before she heard anyone.
Mr. Kingsley was the first to enter the kitchen. He greeted her, sniffed appreciatively, then asked if she’d made coffee.
Christine set about putting on the pot. Mr. Kingsley pulled up a stool and talked while he waited for the coffee to boil.
“With that new snow last night, roads were a bit slick. Boyd put a dent in his front fender. But then, he says he needs a new car anyway. Thought he could go down and pick one out. For his Christmas present, you know.” He laughed goodnaturedly. “He tells me he’s already got a favorite. I was thinking Ford—but not my Boyd. He has an eye for the best—that boy. Well, maybe not always the best, but at least the most expensive.” He laughed, then said, “Sometimes those two things don’t line up right. You ever notice that?”
Christine hadn’t—but she didn’t shop like the Kingsleys.
Mr. Kingsley poured his own coffee. “Don’t expect the boy up for a while. We didn’t get to bed very early last night, and he does like his sleep. Been that way since he was a kid. Doesn’t get his sleep, he gets cranky.” He moved toward the door.
“Think I’ll put on a fire. A bit of a chill in the air.”
“Would you like something to go with your coffee?” asked Christine. “I made some muffins and there’s—”
“Maybe later. I’m sorta used to getting my eyes open with coffee first.”
The nine-o’clock curfew loomed when Boyd dropped Christine off at the boardinghouse. He walked her to the door, placing an arm around her shoulders and drawing her as close as he could. The parcels she held in her arms kept them a little distance apart. “Thank you for my first Christmas. First real Christmas,” he said and kissed her forehead.
Christine smiled.
“The dinner was absolutely wonderful.”
He kissed her again.
“And I loved the tie pin.”
A third kiss. Christine began to giggle. “I hope no one’s watching.”
“I don’t care if they are,” he said, and he kissed her once more.
“Oh yes, and my father liked his tie.” Playfully he leaned to kiss her again, and she pulled away, laughing.
“Thank you—again,” she said seriously, “for the beautiful bracelet. I’ve never had anything so special.”
“You deserve lots of special things—because you’re so special.”
She could not speak, nor could she reach out to him because of her parcels, so she just smiled up into his eyes—all the promises in her heart she could not say aloud.
“I must go,” she whispered.
He opened the door for her, gave her a little wave, and closed the door again. She heard his whistle as he made his way to his car.
But later, as she lay curled up to marshal body warmth until her comforter took over, she felt a strange feeling of loneliness.
Why do I feel like I’ve missed something? Like I-didn’t even have Christmas? We had a more beautiful tree than I’ve ever had in my life. I got nicer gifts
.
The dinner turned out well-even the mincemeat pie. So why? I even went to the Christmas Eve service. Why?
The answer seemed to be whispered to her in the stillness
of the night
.
Things ... trimmings ... gifts—that’s not what makes Christmas.
Christine was surprised to feel tears wetting her cheeks. Somehow—in all of the flurry—she had missed the spirit of the wondrous event.
CHAPTER
Fifteen
Christine saw Boyd every evening that week. He usually called and set the time first, but one afternoon he arrived at the office just as she was tidying up her desk. She looked up in surprise. He gave her a big grin and pulled a long-stemmed rose from behind his back. “I’m taking the prettiest girl I know out to dinner tonight,” he announced loudly enough for all those nearby to hear. Christine flushed. She was sure she was expected to join in the little game and ask who that might be, but she couldn’t make herself say the words.
“And—in case you are wondering who that might be ...” Boyd swung on his heel. “Miss Stout, are you free tonight?”
Laughter rippled through the row of young typists, and the stiff Miss Stout glared.
“I feared not.” Boyd shook his head, obviously enjoying her discomfort. “Your calendar is undoubtedly full. Well, in that case, Christine, would you honor me?”

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