Kissing Father Christmas (11 page)

P
eter soon led us off the main road onto a well-worn trail. He maneuvered through a muddy patch of the trail and through a glen. When we came out on the other side, I knew where we were. We were on our way to Rose Cottage.

He continued pedaling down a very bumpy path and turned toward the cottage. We stopped by the rock wall and after he helped me get out of the wagon, we took the stone steps up the walkway to the front door. “It's still pretty early,” I said. “Are you sure it's going to be all right if we disturb them?”

“Let's see if they're up.” Peter pounded on the doorframe with his open palm.

When Ian opened the door, fully dressed and with a grin, I knew this was all planned.

“We need some coffee,” Peter said. “Do you know where we might find some?”

“I think we have some for you wayfarers.” Ian stood back and held the door open. “Miranda, we have some vagrants that have come calling. Can we spare them a bit of Christmas cheer?”

The scrumptious fragrance of dark coffee and muffins baking in the oven filled our nostrils. Ian leaned over and kissed me on the cheek as I entered. Miranda received an effortless greeting kiss from Peter and then gave me a tender hug and kiss on the cheek. I was beginning to fall into the local way of giving and receiving airy greeting kisses.

“Were you surprised?” Miranda asked.

“Yes.” I leaned closer and whispered, “I thought I was in a dream.”

“Good. I hope you keep feeling that way.”

I turned to look at Peter. He appeared quite proud of himself for pulling off the surprise.

“What time did you guys have to get up to do all this?” I pulled my heavy sweater over my head, hung it on the coat hook with my scarf, and left my boots by the door.

“Not very early,” Ian said. “Come on. Sit by the fire. The coffee is ready. Miranda said she knows the way you like it: nice and dark.”

What followed was the merriest, most spontaneous Christmas Eve morning breakfast I could ever have imagined. We talked and laughed and did what close friends do during the holidays. I'd never experienced anything like this before and I wanted to cry. The tears I kept blinking back were because of the loveliness of it all and also because I knew that when I went home in a few days, I wouldn't have anything like this.

Ian started telling a story about how he had pulled off a surprise on Peter's birthday a few years ago. “Everyone at the office came in early by fifteen minutes. When Peter arrived, it looked as if all of us had been there since dawn working on an important project. He came strolling in and thought he'd missed the notice about the early arrival.”

Peter shook his head as if the memory was slightly painful. At the least, it had embarrassed him. That was a look I was all too familiar with but not one he seemed to wear often.

“We all put on that we were frantic for coffee. Peter agreed to go around and get everyone's order and dash out to get it for us. He had no choice. We shamed him into doing it.”

“You were brutal,” Peter said. “I don't know where you all came up with such nonsensical orders. Half-caff, nonfat, soy latte with an extra shot and extra hot.” He shook his head again.

“Oh, so you remember my order after all,” Ian teased.

“Did you remember everyone's order?” I asked.

“I wrote them down. And everyone kept correcting me and saying I'd written the wrong thing or that they'd changed their minds. It was pandemonium over morning coffee. You wouldn't have believed it.”

“When did you catch on that they were giving you a hard time?”

Peter looked at Ian and gave him a smirk. “Not until I got to the front of the line at the crowded coffee shop with my list. I looked up and there was Ian behind the counter, wearing a green apron and putting on an act as if he worked there. Everyone at the coffee shop was in on it. They had a cake waiting for me.”

“And coffees, too, I hope.”

“For everyone else, yes. For me, I've avoided coffee ever since that day.” He gave Miranda a chin-up look and lifted his Christmas mug that had already been refilled twice with Miranda's special blend. “That is, until today.”

“All I know,” Miranda said, “is that whatever prank my husband pulled on you, you deserved it after what you did to me the first time we had you here for supper.”

“What did I do?” Peter looked so innocent. His short brown hair was still scruffy from the bike ride. His soft blue eyes looked bright in the glow of the Christmas tree lights and undoubtedly due to the fact that he'd had three cups of coffee.

“I served pasta.” Miranda waited with her dark eyebrows raised as if waiting for him to remember and add his part to the tale.

“Oh, right. With the shrimp and garlic and capers.”

“Yes. With the shrimp and garlic and capers. And lots of Parmesan on top.” Miranda turned to me. “I put the plate in front of him and he just stared at it.”

“I was taking a moment to offer up a prayer of gratefulness.”

Now it was Miranda's turn to shake her head as the story was unfolding. “I thought maybe he had food allergies and was trying to decipher all the ingredients. I asked if he was okay with what I'd made.”

Peter grinned at the memory. “I told her I did have a few allergies, actually.”

“First he said he had an allergy to shellfish. And garlic. What were the rest?”

“I told her I was lactose intolerant, could only eat gluten-free pasta, and that capers tend to put me into anaphylactic shock. But other than that, her meal looked just fine.”

“You didn't believe him, did you?” I asked.

“For about two seconds.”

I looked at Peter and said, “All this makes me wonder. Why should I believe that glamping is a real thing?”

“It is,” Ian said in Peter's defense. “I've been glamping. It's great fun. Miranda hasn't gone yet. Maybe we should plan a trip for next summer.”

Miranda cleared her throat.

Ian quickly corrected himself. “Why wait for summer? We could try for early spring. When are you coming back, Anna?”

“I don't know yet.”

“You've got to be here for my dad's birthday in July.” Ian told about the birthday gathering last summer when he got ahold of one of the helium balloons and went around startling all the older women by speaking to them in a squeaky, helium-altered voice.

“One of these days you will have to join the rest of us who act our age.” Peter said it in a good-natured way but his comment caused Ian to pause and take on a more serious expression.

Ian looked at Miranda. She smiled, mostly with her eyes. Her head bobbed slightly.

Rising to his feet and standing by the fire with his arm resting on the mantel, Ian said, “You're right, my friend. And it seems that day has come.”

I watched my cousin carefully, not sure if he was about to give a meaningful speech by the hearth or if this was one of his jokes.

“Miranda and I…” Ian paused. “Well, in truth, it's going to be all Miranda from this point on. But you see…” He looked over at his wife.

Miranda's face was pink and her lips were pressed together as she gazed back at him with deep affection.

I knew what Ian was about to say next. My hand rose to cover my mouth so that I wouldn't blurt out the glad news for them.

Ian's voice rose with pride. “We're going to have a baby.”

O
nce the cheers and hugs and handshakes were all undertaken with much joy, Ian returned to his place next to Miranda on the love seat. He took her hand and Miranda said, “Please don't say anything to anyone. We really wanted to make the big announcement at Christmas dinner so that we tell everyone on both sides of the family at the same time.”

“We're the first ones you've told?” I asked.

“Yes.” Miranda glanced at Ian. “And there's a reason for that.”

“We've talked about it,” Ian said, “and we have both agreed that we'd like the two of you to stand in as our child's godparents.”

I felt a sweet rush of excitement at Ian's request. My family didn't have a tradition of appointing godparents, so I wasn't sure what it entailed, but I was honored to be invited and to be included as a special part of their family this way.

“I'd love to,” I said quickly. “Yes, of course. What an honor.”

The three of us turned to Peter. His expression had clouded and he looked as if he was still seriously weighing the pros and cons of such a responsibility. That's when I realized I may have spoken too swiftly. I didn't know what that tradition meant here in England. I had assumed it meant that I would be actively interested and involved in their child's life, which appealed to me very much.

In a somber tone Peter said, “If anything happens to the two of you, it would fall to Anna and me to raise your child.”

Ian nodded. He looked serious, but not too serious. In the starburst of such happy news, leaving his child as an orphan was the last thing Ian seemed to be considering.

Peter, however, seemed to be taking his time as he considered that possibility. His hesitation cast a solemn cloud over what had been a joyous gathering.

Is Peter hesitating because Ian and Miranda said they wanted to name me as the counterpart? What is it that I'm not understanding here about the role of godparents?

“I'd like to give it some thought,” Peter said.

“Fair enough,” Ian replied. “Take your time. You've got until the end of July.”

“Or possibly the first week of August.” Miranda turned to me. “I almost said something earlier when you were talking about returning in the spring and when Ian suggested we all go glamping. I wondered if you would consider coming in late summer instead and staying through the fall?”

“Or come both times,” Ian said. “Better yet, why don't you move here? We'd all be in favor of that, wouldn't we?”

Ian looked over at Peter. He seemed to still be lost in thought over the complexities of being a godfather.

“Is there something I should know?” I asked.

Peter's chin lifted with a quick snap. He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“About being a godparent, I mean. Is there more to what I just agreed to than I know?” I released a nervous chuckle, hoping it might help alleviate the somberness that had filled the room. “If there is something I'm missing about this, please tell me now.”

“It's no small commitment to raise a child,” Peter said with his stoic expression remaining.

We all knew how much Peter had taken on by helping to raise his sister. No one wanted to diminish that factor in his life. Perhaps the thought of being committed to two children was more than he was willing to process. I thought about what Ian had said the day before about how Peter needed to move ahead with his own life apart from the needs of Molly.

“Don't take me wrong,” Peter said. “I couldn't be happier for the two of you. I need to think through my part, though.”

The way that Peter was taking this so seriously made me agree for the first time that maybe Ian was right. Peter did have too much loyalty for his own good.

Fortunately, Ian managed to turn the tense moment into a lighter one by suggesting that we join in a toast to the new little one. He went to the kitchen and pulled out four fluted glasses. In the refrigerator he had a bottle of sparkling pear juice that he and Miranda had chilled and saved for this moment.

We clinked our glasses, offered another round of cheering congratulations, and to my relief, Peter's countenance returned to one of happiness for Ian and Miranda. Our breakfast time wound down and Peter said he needed to get going.

Instead of riding back with Peter, I opted to stay at Ian and Miranda's. I'd left my sketching supplies there when we went to the play last night. I explained to Peter that I had a Christmas gift I was still working on.

Miranda nudged me as if trying to get me to give Peter the gift for Molly before he left. It was there, by the door, in my shoulder bag. The timing didn't feel right to me, though. Peter appeared to still be in deep contemplation and a children's book might add more anxiety to him right now. Besides, the book wasn't wrapped and if I was going to give it as a gift, I wanted it to look like one.

Peter gave me a casual good-bye kiss. This time my calculations had improved and as soon as he started to lean toward me, I turned my head just enough. His feathery gesture landed between my ear and my cheek and not in my hair like last time. I felt a sense of cultural accomplishment. I knew how to blend in with the hellos and good-byes without constantly giving away the fact that I was an American.

“Thanks for the gorgeous ride,” I called out from the open door of the cottage.

Peter turned and waved. I couldn't help but think that he still looked sad. Or maybe it was his way of being serious. I remembered the way he'd furrowed his eyebrows when he went through the list of facts about Big Ben. Ten feet of concrete. Cast iron. Limestone something or other.

Maybe this is how he processes life. He needs measurements and a thorough understanding of the materials. He wants to know if there are potential flaws.

I grabbed a dish towel and helped Ian dry the dishes. I remembered how Peter knew exactly how much the clock tower had shifted over the years and how it had tilted so many millimeters to the north.
Or was it to the east?

“Ian? Do you know that Big Ben is shifting?”

He gave me the most peculiar look.

“Big Ben. The clock tower at Parliament. It's shifting on its foundation.”

“Yes.”

“You knew that.”

“Yes.”

“Is that an architectural thing? Facts and planning and measuring?”

Ian chuckled. “I don't suppose we'd be very successful as architects if we didn't check the facts and do extensive planning and measuring.”

“I think that's what Peter is doing,” I said. “About the invitation to be a godparent. He seemed so serious about it like he was measuring and calculating what could go wrong. I just wondered if that's how he is.”

Miranda and Ian exchanged glances.

“That's a great insight,” Miranda said. “He definitely has a serious side to him. More serious than this guy.” She gave Ian a playful tap with her elbow.

Ian took the dish towel and gave Miranda an equally playful snap with the end of it. “I'd stick around here and defend the depth of my seriousness as well as my knowledge of which buildings in London are sliding into the Thames, but I have to leave you two. My dad is making the rounds at the hospital this afternoon in his Father Christmas robe and I'm his understudy.”

“Remember! Don't say anything to your dad yet.” Miranda patted her midriff.

“You can count on me.” Ian planted a kiss on her lips and gave her a big hug. “I'll be back in plenty of time for the Christmas Eve service tonight.”

Miranda and I settled into the same easy pace we'd shared the day before at Rose Cottage. I finished sketching the princess scenes in the coloring book for Julia and wrapped the book for Molly. I'd brought a few small gifts with me from home and was glad that I had a little something for Ian and Miranda as well as Edward, Ellie, and Mark, as well as for Andrew and Katharine. I tried to convince myself that the book for Peter and Molly would be taken as nothing more than a kind gesture. Giving it to him shouldn't feel awkward. It wasn't as if there was any reason why he should have a gift to exchange with me. I told myself things were as they should be.

Friends. Just good friends.

I'd be back in the spring. Or the summer. Or maybe I'd end up moving here as Ian suggested. Clearly, the way Peter did things was with meticulous consideration of all the facts. If we were in the process of building something lasting, then maybe we were still in the process of pouring the ten-foot-thick cement foundation.

I was okay with that. It was good to have people in my life who were anchored in reality.

That didn't keep me from dreaming, though. How could I not give way to fairy-tale possibilities of a Christmas yet to be? Not after the way I'd been awoken this morning with pebbles on my windowpane and a planned surprise breakfast at the end of the gorgeous bike ride.