Here I Stay (31 page)

Poor Martin. He was trying hard to simulate a festive spirit, but she knew his heart wasn't in it. His religious scruples were not the problem; he would
strip and paint himself blue and join in the ritual observances of the ancient Druids with perfect equanimity if he were so inclined. Andrea knew what was bothering him. She wished she could convince him there was no cause.

Her busy fingers stopped as she glanced from the bow she had just tied to the picture hanging by the door. She couldn't imagine why she had once found it disturbing. It was really quite lovely, combining the charm of primitive portraiture with the skill of an untrained but talented artist. And what a face it was—not beautiful, the struggles of life had left their scars on cheeks and brow. But the strength, the resolution...

Andrea raised her hand in salute. Then she gave a soft, self-conscious little laugh. No, Martin would never understand; he thought of her as narrow and unimaginative, yet his was the truly narrow mind. Like all self-proclaimed skeptics, he had a buried streak of primitive superstition running through him; when faced with something out of the ordinary, his first reaction was apprehension and alarm.

She reminded herself she must be fair. She had felt alarm too, in the beginning. Yet from the beginning she had been conscious of a force, sustaining and supportive. How else could she have survived the backbreaking work and terrible anxieties that would have crushed most people? It had always been with her—not a ghost or a restless spirit, that was nonsense—but the imprint of a will so strong it had survived for half a century to reinforce a woman with similar strengths and similar needs. She was able to draw on that strength because she and Mary were so much alike. A mind of another pattern would not feel or receive it, just as a body
would reject an organ from a donor who was of the wrong type.

Why shouldn't it be true? And if it was not true, what was the harm in believing it? Many people had private superstitions. Mary was hers—a talisman, a good-luck charm, a guardian angel.

Poor Martin.. .Her invitation to spend Christmas with them had been a sudden, spontaneous impulse, but she didn't regret it. She was very fond of Martin. He could be maddening at times, but he was sweet and funny and utterly dependable. She owed him a great deal. Hopefully they could go on being friends after he left. Anything else was out of the question, naturally. Not for the insulting reasons he had suggested; she just wasn't attracted to him, sexually or romantically. She felt sure he didn't care for her in that way either. A man in love wouldn't remain so detached—never touching, never seeking closeness. He was ripe for marriage, that was his trouble—lonely, dreading old age. He had imagined he was in love with her because she was there. Any woman would do as well. If he were married, with a family of his own, he would stop interfering in her life and Jim's.

That business of Jim's interest in the girl who had died young—it was typical of Martin to read all the wrong things into it. He thought of it as morbid, a sick fantasy. It was nothing of the kind, only a sensitive boy's daydream, a passing crush no more dangerous than her own youthful passion for movie stars and heroes of swashbuckling novels.

She could enjoy Martin so much if he would just stop bugging her about Jim. That was the source of almost all their arguments. Naturally she wanted Jim to lead a normal life. He would go back to college
eventually—when he felt well enough—there were several excellent little schools nearby. If he chose to live on campus, that was his decision; but if he had a car of his own...She could afford to buy him one next fall, assuming that business continued to improve.

If he wanted to leave, she wouldn't stop him. But why shouldn't his vision of the future coincide with hers? Together they could make the inn a success. A Christmas festival as famous and popular as that at Williamsburg, a gift shop, a restaurant—there were lots of possibilities. Not many young men had a career handed to them on a silver platter, a chance to be employer instead of wage slave...

Andrea tied a bright red ribbon around her package and added it to the pile on the bed. Poor Martin. She would have to find a nice wife for him.

By midafternoon the downstairs rooms looked
beautiful, and even Martin, absently sucking his bruised thumb, admitted that the results justified the effort. Sprawled on the stairs, Jim said, "We've forgotten something. No mistletoe."

"It is not, thank God, a plant indigenous to this region," said Martin, around his thumb. "If it were, your sister would have demanded that I climb a tree to get it."

"We've got to have mistletoe," Jim insisted. "We can probably get some in town. Hadn't we better get started?"

"If your heart is set on mistletoe, go and get some," said Andrea, folding the stepladder.

"We're supposed to go to Sue's open house," Jim reminded her.

"Oh, damn. I completely forgot. I can't go. We haven't even started on the tree yet."

"We'll decorate the tree tonight." Jim stood up and put his arm around Andrea. "With all the trimming—carols, hot buttered rum—the works. Come on, Andy."

"I've got two people coming tomorrow and four the day after," Andrea began.

"We'll help you tomorrow. Won't we, Martin?"

"Sure," Martin said, a smile softening his face as he watched them.

"I know what that's worth," Andrea scoffed. But she couldn't resist the appeal or Jim's embrace. Like all boys he had objected to hugs and kisses, but recently his demonstrations of affection had become more frequent. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. A few years ago he would have squirmed and made faces. Now he returned her kiss with a hearty smack.

"It'll be fun. You don't have to dress up; Sue said it was come as you are."

Naturally Andrea paid no attention to this absurd remark—just like a man! She knew every woman at the party would be dressed to the hilt. She burrowed in the back of her closet, hoping, illogically, to discover some forgotten garment that would suit the holiday spirit, but of course found nothing; she hadn't bought new clothes for a year, and her best had been less than glamorous. Finally she slipped into the old green wool, scowling as she belted it tightly around her waist. At least it was the right color.

They had to park some distance from the basket shop. Most of the cars must belong to Sue's guests; the other shops in town were closing when they got there. As they walked along the street, the door of Past and Present opened, and Al Wyckoff called to them.

"On your way to Sue's party?"

"That's right. Aren't you going?"

"I was just closing when I saw you. I found a frame for you, Andy—I think it's exactly what you wanted. Come in and have a look."

Once inside they scattered, Martin to examine the old books, Jim to admire Wyckoff's collection of antique tools. The frame was perfect—not too wide nor heavy nor ornate, like so many of the ones Andrea had seen. It was also in good condition. Some of the gilt had rubbed off but the delicate papier-mache molding was intact.

Andrea looked dubious, as a matter of principle. Wyckoff said, "Hard to find one this size, you know. And it's in excellent condition."

"Not too bad...How much do you want for it, Al?"

"Let you have it at cost." He named a figure that
struck Andrea as reasonable, though far from cheap. She reached into her purse.

"What's that for?" Jim asked curiously.

"Mary's picture. I told you I intended to hang it in the hall. Do you think this frame will suit it?"

"It's okay, I guess. How do you know it will fit?"

"I measured it, silly." She handed over the money and Wyckoff began wrapping the frame. "By the way, Andy, have you decided about that weapon?"

"I don't want to think about guns at Christmas, Al."

"Who are you going to shoot?" Jim asked.

"Nobody. Al thinks—"

"I don't think, I know. It's a jungle out there, and every property owner has the right to defend himself."

From Martin, seemingly deeply engrossed in a book, came a raucous and uncouth raspberry.

"Now don't fight," Andrea said firmly. "You two disagree about practically every subject I can think of, but this is no time for a debate."

"I don't like guns either," Jim said. "Anyhow, you don't know my sister, Mr. Wyckoff. She doesn't need bullets. God help the poor sucker that gets in her way."

"You won't think it's so funny if Gary Joe Bloomquist breaks in there some night and—"

"Oh, for God's sake, I'm sick of hearing about Gary Joe," Jim said, losing his patience. "You people are trying to make him into a local Jack the Ripper. He's not so bad."

"How can you say that?" Andrea demanded. "You, of all people."

"He gets mad and he gets frustrated and the only thing he can think of is to punch somebody out,"

Jim said. "Haven't you ever felt that way? And you're a lot smarter than poor old Gary."

"I admire your charitable attitude," Wyckoff said grumpily.

"That doesn't mean I won't beat the shit out of him if I catch him hanging around," Jim said with a grin. "Assuming I can, that is."

"I don't want to hear any more about guns or beating people up or any more four-letter words," Andrea said forcibly. "This is Christmas, damn it."

The whole town was at Sue's, and as Andrea had expected, the women were resplendent in their best. Sue jingled like Santa Claus's sleigh, and rather resembled that hearty old gentleman in her scarlet caftan embroidered with white doves of peace. She hailed them from across the room and gestured hospitably at the punch bowl.

Martin was prompt to follow the suggestion, but Andrea remained standing in the doorway with Jim beside her, on the fringes of the crowd but part of it. Smiles and greetings and calls of "Merry Christmas" came at them from every direction. Someone was playing a guitar and a few determined souls were bellowing "God Rest You Merry Gentlemen," their voices almost drowned by the general uproar of laughter and conversation. One of the singers broke off to mime an invitation to Jim. He waved back, but stayed at Andrea's side.

"It's like we've been here for years instead of only a few months," he said.

Andrea nodded, remembering last year's office party—a typical production of its kind, when they all got drunk as soon as they possibly could and people who ordinarily didn't have a civil word for one another paired off in dark corners for a spot of
adultery. If Reba's tales were to be believed, Ladiesburg was not immune to either failing. But there was a difference; she couldn't put it into words...

"Like we belong here," Jim said. "Like family."

After leaving the open house they drove to the highway for a hamburger at one of the fast-food places, and then went home and got to work on the tree. The night was crisp and cold, crackling with stars. Jim started a fire and Martin opened a bottle of his favorite hock, then a second bottle. That was his major contribution; Andrea refused to let him handle the fragile old ornaments or climb the ladder. She did the upper section of the tree herself, topping it with a tinseled star eight inches across that had once belonged to Bertha. Then they all collapsed onto the sofa to admire their work and finish the wine.

Ropes of cranberries and popcorn, tinsel tarnished to antique softness draped the green boughs. Andrea had found a box of old cards among Bertha's treasures and had interspersed them with gleaming glass balls. Candles would have completed the period look, but she was afraid to risk them; multicolored lights flickered on and off, sending gleams of crimson and blue, green and gold around the curved surfaces of the ornaments.

"What a lot of work for something that will only last a week," Martin said.

"Don't play Scrooge. Admit it's beautiful."

"There's magic in it," Martin agreed. "Peace and joy, the innocence of childhood. More wine?"

"Why not?" Andrea held out her glass.

"Not for me, thanks." Jim stood up. "I'll leave
you two alcoholics to finish the booze."

"Good night, darling. Sleep well."

She didn't see what happened; she only heard a soft thud and a muffled exclamation from Jim. Martin, who was facing the door, laughed. "What was that about alcoholics, buster? Anybody who misses a doorway that size has got to be a little looped."

"Jimmie, are you all right?" Andrea shifted position. The overhead lights went out and Jim said, "There. You can see the tree better now. And I don't want to hear any cracks from you, Martin, till you've made it upstairs on your own feet."

"I've no intention of moving," Martin said comfortably. "Good night, Jim."