Engaging Father Christmas (8 page)

The rest of the lobby was humming with activity. Parents on all sides were congratulating each other for their children’s performances. Buoyant cast members were taking advantage of the table spread.

I watched Mark as he stood tall and straight, receiving a steady stream of handshakes and accolades.

Making my way to the other side of the lobby, I joined the parents and children who had stepped into a line, instinctively forming a queue to have a chat or a photo with Father Christmas. Ian was seated on a high-backed chair that was trimmed with evergreen and red ribbons.

I stood to the side, trying to suppress my grin as I watched Ian with the children. He poured on the charm, holding babies, letting them pull on his beard, or leaning over to listen to toddlers as they whispered in his ear.

He
was
Father Christmas.

For fun, I got in line too. Ian looked up and noticed where I was standing. He winked at me, and I understood I didn’t have to wait in line. Ian already knew what I wanted for Christmas. As a matter of fact, I had a pretty good feeling my wish was at the top of his list.

Chapter Twelve

W
e’re thinking of going to hospital,” Ellie said, coming up beside me after most of the hubbub in the lobby had calmed down. “Edward hasn’t paid a visit to Andrew yet. We thought we might all pop over instead of going directly home. Do you and Ian have plans for a trip to hospital as well?”

“I’m not sure what we’re going to do. Should I call you after Ian is finished here?”

“No need. We’re not ready to leave just yet. The children are enjoying their moment of glory. A bit too much, Edward thinks, but how often will such an event occur?”

Ellie flitted off to finish her obligations in the coat room while I strolled over to the refreshment table to see if I could do anything to help clean up.

A woman dressed in a hilarious penguin costume, complete with a long beak, said, “Oh, no, we have it all covered, dear, but thanks ever so for offering. You’re the friend of the Whitcombes, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m Miranda.”

“We think your beau did a lovely job as Father Christmas.”

“I’ll tell him you said so. Your costume is . . .” I hadn’t selected my descriptive word ahead of time and nearly couldn’t find the right one. “ . . . charming.”

“I’m the Christmas penguin, you see.”

I didn’t know any stories about Christmas penguins, so I apologized for my lack of familiarity with British Christmas tales and asked her to explain.

“Oh, there’s no explanation, really. This was the only costume I had!”

I laughed with her, and we joked about how she could start a new tradition.

Flora from the Tea Cosy stepped close and entered into the conversation as if she had been with us from the beginning and, having stepped away for a moment, she now had returned. She had quite a talent for slicing into conversations that way.

“My, that was an interesting young man at the Cosy this afternoon, wasn’t he?” Flora looked at me through her large, round glasses.

I gave her a noncommittal nod.

“The bag he carried was altogether ominous, though, wouldn’t you agree?”

I nodded again.

“I understand he carried it with him to the train station, got on the 3:22 for London, and who knows what he’s up to now. Good riddance, I say.”

Clearly Flora’s sources were on the job that afternoon, all the way to the train station, to give her a full report.

“We don’t need his sort around here, do we? No one quite seems to know why he came here. You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”

My wonderful knight in shining velvet robes came to my rescue at just the right moment. He greeted the women, received their compliments, and politely asked if he might steal me from their company.

The Christmas penguin was agreeable, but Flora made it clear she had hoped for a longer visit.

As Ian and I stepped away from the ladies, I said, “You came at just the right time.”

“Did I now? You weren’t getting uncomfortable talking about Josh, were you?”

I looked up at him. “You heard.”

“Of course I heard.” With a twinkle in his eye, he added, “Christmas wishes weren’t the only secrets whispered in my ear once I put on these robes.”

“What did you hear?”

“Only that the menacing, ski-cap stalker followed you here, engaged you in a brief conversation, had some tea and scones — with jam and cream, by the way — and left on the next train to London.”

I laughed at his rundown. “You got it all straight then. Except for one addition.”

“What’s that?”

“Josh wanted to know if I was taken.”

Ian raised one of his stage-makeup, white, bushy eyebrows. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I was practically engaged to Father Christmas, and if he didn’t get out of town, you would run him over with your reindeer.”

“Did you, now?”

Nudging Ian to the side of the lobby, as far away from any possible eavesdroppers as possible, I said, “I told Josh something else, and I need you to know about it.”

Ian’s bushy eyebrows dipped, expressing his concentration in what I was about to say but exaggerating the expression in such a way that made the moment seem more dramatic than I thought it should be.

In a whisper, I said, “I told Josh who my father was.”

Now Ian’s eyebrows lifted in an equally exaggerated fashion, almost causing me to laugh. I knew what I was telling him wasn’t a laughing matter.

“I felt I could tell him since he was the one who first urged me to come to Carlton Heath after seeing the photo of my dad dressed as Father Christmas. I trust Josh to keep the confidence.”

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Yes. He’s a psychologist. He keeps confidences for a living. I just wanted you to know. And as far as his visit to the Tea Cosy, I’m convinced it was more about satisfying his curiosity concerning Carlton Heath and the chance to add a few more hours of adventure to his ski trip than it was about me. That’s how he is.”

“You’re sure, then, that I don’t need to hunt him down and make it clear he doesn’t have a chance to reconcile with you?”

“You don’t need to hunt him down. We don’t have any reconciling to do. All is settled.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

I never had a brave defender like Ian in my life before. I kind of liked his expressions of eagerness to protect me. His valor seemed a little more believable, though, when he wasn’t looking at me with two snow-white caterpillars appearing as if they were doing push-ups on his eyebrows.

Mark dashed up to us at that moment, his face flushed with the rush of the sudden glory. “Are we leaving soon?”

“We’re ready if you are,” Ian said.

“Mark, you did such a fantastic job. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Miranda.” He seemed to emphasize the “Aunt” just enough for me to catch his meaning.

I smiled, and he smiled back. The lump in my throat didn’t go down easily.

“Mark and I will bring the car round to the front,” Ian said.

“Okay. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes.” I returned to pick up my coat from among the few left hanging in the coatroom and then stepped out into the chilly night air.

A jolly sight greeted me. Father Christmas was behind the wheel of his convertible sports car with the top down. Mark was perched on the top like a celebrity in a parade, ready to wave to loyal fans as he passed by at two miles per hour. Both men were once again receiving the accolades due after such memorable debuts.

I slipped in on the passenger’s side only after excusing my way through the final circle of adoring fans. This gathering of merry-eyed girls in the preteen bracket gazed at Mark with unalterable admiration. His life in this small village would never be the same.

“Will you sign my program?” one of the girls asked.

I pulled a pen from my purse and watched Mark enjoy his moment in the moonlight.

Once the giggling flock scattered, Ian started the engine. As soon as it began to rumble, Ian waved his hand so that the wide sleeve of his brocaded robe flapped like a great bird.

“Good night, Father Christmas!” one of the preteens called out, igniting another round of giggles from her chums.

“Happy Christmas to you all,” he called, as we drove out of sight.

The cool, rushing breeze chilled me instantly even though Ian had the car’s heater going. Mark was full of glee over his newly acquired fame and found happiness in scrunching into the narrow storage space behind the seats, lifting both hands in the air, and shouting, “Whoo-hoo!” for the first two blocks.

Ian and I exchanged smiles. Watching Mark was too fun to tell him to stop. Every child should feel that happy, that free.

Ian leaned over. “I’ll take a dozen. Just like him.”

With a cunning grin I replied, “I think you’ll need a bigger car.”

Ian laughed his deep-hearted laugh, and our merry mobile headed over a ridge. We turned on the cutoff road that led toward the old church.

From behind a stately rise of the unaltered medieval forest, we saw it, all at the same moment. The golden moon. That eternal orb, broken in half, teetering in the velvet night like a crown cast at the foot of a throne.

Ian stopped the car. The engine purred. The three of us stared without speaking.

Mark sat up straight in his seat of honor and quietly sang in Latin. I have never heard anything so piercingly beautiful.

His boys’ choir voice wasn’t cooperative on the high notes, but it didn’t matter. Mark wasn’t performing now. It was just us — Ian, me, Father God, and all the hosts of heaven bending down to listen to a song that rose from a true heart.

Ian took my hand, and a line from a Christmas carol rode over the top of Mark’s canticle, blending perfectly.
Let heaven and nature sing. . . .

At that moment, I felt as if I were experiencing a snapshot of heaven. The glorious beauty and sense of perfection and wonder felt like a glimpse of that which is true and lasting. It was as if I were viewing a wallet-sized photo of eternity.

For so many years I had gazed at the snapshot of my father. The photo, in all its curious wonder, was still only a flat, frozen image of a real person I had never met. The photo carried with it a clue about a place called “Carlton Heath.”

Now here I was, experiencing the immenseness of Carlton Heath in all of its beauty. It was far beyond the sketchy speculations that had risen in my imagination from the one simple photo.

As Mark’s voice rose into the night air, I wondered, was everything around us more or less a fixed snapshot that alluded to a greater beauty? A deeper mystery? A hint of what was to come? How many unknown layers were there to life — to the eternal life that was hidden in Christ? What glorious surprises awaited us in the real land of which this earth was only a snapshot?

Let heaven and nature sing. . . .

Mark’s song ended on a note that he sustained much longer than I would have thought possible. Then all was silent except for the low rumble of the car’s engine.

Without any of us trying to define what had just taken place, Ian edged the car back on the road and continued our short journey to the hospital.

I watched the moon as we drove down the lane and thought of how the upturned golden curve of light resembled a smile. I liked the imagery that Father God was pleased with our spontaneous worship and was smiling down on us.

Keep smiling, Father God. Keep smiling on us, I pray.

Mark scooted down into the narrow space behind the bucket seats and bundled up in a plaid wool blanket Ian earlier had pulled from the trunk. My guess was that Ian made the blanket available just in case Mark came down from his high and needed more than his fame to warm him.

The blanket was the MacGregor tartan, of course. I remembered the blanket fondly from a picnic Ian and I had last summer. We took off with plans to spend the day on the coast of southern England. I wanted to picnic beneath the fabulous White Cliffs of Dover. However, we only made it as far as Windsor before the car began to sputter. Ian found a repair service, and we spent the day strolling around the castle grounds, waiting for the fuel line to be replaced.

Ellie had packed us a picnic lunch, which we carried along with the MacGregor plaid blanket to a grassy knoll on the public grounds of Windsor Castle. There, within view of the British guards with their tall fur hats strapped under their chins, I learned about the MacGregor crest and the clan motto, “Royal is my race.”

As Ian turned the steering wheel and headed for the hospital on this cold winter night, it did indeed seem as if he was part of a “royal race.” His white hair and beard shone in the moonlight. All the gold and silver trimming on his robe stood out with regal shimmers. His jaw was set. His face directed straight ahead. The Scottish warrior was on his way to see his father.

All was calm. All was bright.

Oh, how I wanted to believe this was how life was going to be. Once I had a few significant pieces of the plans for my future lined up, I could nestle into this place of beauty and hope. Carlton Heath was not yet fully my home, but I wanted it to be — soon.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he hospital staff at the front desk had big smiles and hellos for us when we entered and they saw Ian in full costume.

“What did you bring us, Father Christmas?” the admitting nurse asked.

“Good cheer and merry greetings,” he said in a robust voice. Some of the faithful employees seemed to be looking behind Ian for his sack of gifts. A childlike shadow of disappointment crossed their faces when they didn’t see a bag slung over his shoulder filled with goodies.

“We do have biscuits left over from the play tonight,” Mark said. “My mum is bringing them.”

A few minutes after Mark announced the biscuits, Ellie, Edward, and Julia entered the hospital carrying the promised goodies.

The lobby suddenly became cheerier. Night staff appeared from behind swinging doors and file cabinets.

“We’re going to visit my father,” Ian said to the head nurse. “You won’t mind if we’re above the limit for visitors, will you?”