Trixie Belden flashed her headlights at the oncoming driver to let him know that he needed to lower his high beams.
“Jerk,” she mumbled as he flew past her, oblivious to her warning. After blinking her eyes several times, she regained her vision enough to realize that the rain was changing over to what she called the two ugliest words in the English language. “Wintry mix. Now I’ll probably be even later to the Bob-White get-together.”
Trixie was returning home from an interview for a summer internship with the New York State Police. It had gone well; so well that it lasted over the time she’d been told they allowed for these interviews. Then, it was followed by a tour of the facilities in Albany by one of the Academy’s Cadets.
When they first notified her that she’d been selected for the interview, nothing had been said about a tour. Trixie was hoping that the extra time in the interview and the personalized tour meant the interview had gone well. She was almost afraid to admit that she felt it had.
If she had left Albany before three as she’d originally planned, Trixie would have arrived at home in Sleepyside with plenty of time to wrap the gifts she had put off purchasing until the last minute, clean up, and change before the other Bob Whites arrived at Crabapple Farm for their annual holiday gift exchange. Instead, she left Albany at the same time that the State Government offices were letting out and she’d been forced to move at a snail’s pace until she was several miles out of the city. She decided to take Route 9 instead of the Taconic Parkway after hearing on the radio that an accident had it closed indefinitely in the southbound direction. Fortunately, traffic was light on Route 9, but the rain slowed her down. She still figured it would take less time than sitting behind an accident for who-knows how long. Now, just as she was heading into an isolated area with many sharp curves and steep hills, she would have to watch for black ice, delaying her even more. And being blinded by stupid drivers certainly didn’t help.
She glanced at her wristwatch but the light from the dashboard was too dim to make out the exact time. Whatever it was, she knew she was late.
“I just love Christmas with all the wonderful foods and decorations. And I just love how Mrs. Belden has decorated this year. You should see all the food she’s prepared for us!” Trixie’s best friend and neighbor, Honey Wheeler, walked into the Belden’s dining room where the table was set for the seven friends along with Bobby Belden and the Belden parents.
“It’s still raining outside but I haven’t given up hope for a White Christmas. Then everything will be perfectly-perfect. Of course, I don’t want the snow to start until Trixie gets here.”
“Speaking of Trixie, did she tell anyone what time she’d be getting here?” Honey set a large bowl on the table and smoothed a wrinkle out of the bright red tablecloth. “I had thought she’d be here by now. Everything’s ready and the food warming in the oven is starting to dry out.”
“I didn’t see her before she left for school this morning,” Trixie’s brother Mart got up from a chair in the adjacent living room and headed towards the table. “Did she talk to you at school, Dan?” He reached to grab a roll from the bread basket.
“Later,” Honey smacked Mart's hand lightly. “Did you see her at school today, Dan? Does anyone even know where she went?” Dan and Trixie both attended the local community college while their other friends were scattered among several different colleges and universities.
Dan pretended he hadn’t heard Honey’s question.
“Dan? Do you know anything?”
“I didn’t see her today. She’s…she’s been very busy with exams and all.”
“Since no one knows why my seldomly punctual sibling is unsurprisingly tardy, I think we should go ahead and eat before our delicious holiday repast is ruined.” Mart again reached for a roll and Honey slapped his hand a second time.
“I vote we wait for Trixie. It’s still not that late and I’m not really hungry. I’d rather have a cold or overcooked dinner than eat without her.” Diana Lynch offered.
“But I’m hungry now!” Mart protested.
“You’re always hungry!” the others called out in unison.
After much discussion, the group finally decided to begin eating without Trixie, certain she’d arrive before they were finished. The meal began in the normally boisterous manner, but gradually they all became quiet as time passed and she didn’t arrive.
“Did Trixie tell anyone where she was going today or if she’d be late?” The concern was obvious in Jim’s voice.
“Well, I suspect it’s the weather that’s holding Trixie up,” Helen Belden rose from the table. “I’ll just set aside a plate for her and I’m sure she’ll be along any minute.” She frowned momentarily. “Though it’s too bad I made mashed potatoes. They never do reheat properly.”
“Serves her right,” Bobby said, poking at the remains of the already cooling mound of spuds with the serving spoon.
“Let’s have less poking and a little more clearing, young man,” Mr. Belden said. “I believe it is your turn to help your mother with the dishes.”
“We’ll help you clear,” Jim offered standing up from the table with his plate.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Mrs. Belden said.
“Yeah, it’s okay, Jim, we got it,” Bobby assured him. At eleven, he had only recently been promoted to the status of receiving an allowance. Even though it involved actually having to do his chores, he was still eager to advertise his new position, especially when there was company.
“I don’t mind,” Jim protested. “I like to help.”
Helen smiled. “I know you do, Jim.” She looked around at her sons and their friends. A surge of holiday joy spread through her as she shared a glance with her husband. His eyes sparkled into hers, reflecting her thoughts. They had raised good children, and those children had made good friends. She felt fortunate to have them, and grateful for the opportunity to make them comfortable within the stretchy, love-filled walls of Crabapple Farm.
“If you really want to help,” she suggested, “why don’t you all go out to the living room? Bobby and I only had time to get the tree half-decorated this afternoon. Do you think the six of you could manage to finish it for me while we wait for Trixie?”
“We’d love to, Mrs. Belden,” Jim said. “Wouldn’t we, gang?”
Amid a chorus of exclamations of agreement, the Bob-Whites trooped out of the kitchen and into the family room where a tall tree stood in front of the large bay window.
Mart went over to the fireplace. “We are going to need more wood if this fire is going to last all night.” He grabbed the poker and moved around the burning logs.
“I’ll get more.” Dan stood up quickly and headed towards the kitchen.
“I’ll help!” Jim Frayne, Honey’s older brother had been unusually quiet all evening. He jumped up quickly and followed Dan out.
“Brrr… I guess I should have put on my jacket.” Dan shivered exaggeratedly as he took some of the split logs from the stack near the service porch door. He stacked them on Jim’s outstretched arms and reached down to get more.
“So, do you know where Trixie is?” Jim adjusted his arms so Dan could pile on more wood.
Dan stood up and placed more logs on top of those Jim was holding.
“I promised…”
“I’ve been there. I’ve made promises to her before and it was usually because of some lame-brained…”
“This isn’t something lame-brained!” Dan defended Trixie. “She just doesn’t want anyone to know about it until she’s certain of…well she doesn’t want to build up hopes. Hers or anyone else’s. You know how she can doubt her abilities. But I do think she expected to be here by now.”
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“I see her every day at school and I’m the one who told her about the internship and urged her to…”
“So, she went to an interview for an internship?” Jim headed towards the door. “Where?”
“Darn,” Dan cursed under his breath. “She doesn’t want anyone else to know. You know how she can be. She doesn’t want to make a big deal and then not get it. Don’t ask me for more. I promised…”
“That’s totally idiotic. If we knew we might have been able to help her.” Jim paused. “Okay, I understand.” Jim managed to open the door into the service porch and waited for Dan to follow with his own load of wood. “But if she doesn’t show up soon, you’re telling me where she went and I’m heading out to look for her.”
“If she doesn’t turn up soon, we’ll ALL be out looking for her.” Dan followed his friend inside.
Mart continued to tend to the fire while the others each took a box from the stack beside the tree.
Jim removed the emerald green lid from a somewhat battered department store clothing box, across the top of which someone had scrawled, ‘unbreakables.’ It contained a jumbled, but accurately labeled assortment of fabric and crocheted ornaments, many of which appeared handmade. The first one Jim noticed was a rather large yellow bird, made of felt and decorated with brown ribbon trim and silver glitter. Though it rested beneath several others, it was this ornament he reached for first. When he tried to lift it out, the opened paper clip attached to it caught on several others; the bird seemed unwilling to leave the box alone.
“Birds at Christmas, Mom,” Jim whispered to himself, his nimble fingers working to untangle the paper clips. “I thought it was just us.”
His mother’s melodic voice trickled through his memory as he lifted the felt bird from the box.
“Jimmy! I’m going to need some help with these cut-out cookies!”
Nine-year-old Jim Frayne ran excitedly down the hall of the white frame farmhouse outside Rochester, skidding to a stop in the kitchen doorway. He reached back with his foot to straighten out the carpet runner his exuberance had, as it often did, bunched up near the entrance to his favorite room. His mother, busy at the counter with a rolling pin and dusted with just a little too much flour than a more staid housewife may have considered the situation warranted, pretended not to notice.
“I’ve got the dough all rolled out. Now, where are those cut-outs?” she asked, her blue-green eyes twinkling at Jim. “They were right here by the stove last night.”
Jim bit his lip. He had been playing with them earlier, planning which cookies to cut out first, but momentarily he forgot where he had left them. “Oh, I remember,” he said, brightening. “I wanted to listen to the Christmas music on the radio, so I took them with me to the den.” He looked up at his mother with a sheepish crooked grin.
Katje Frayne planted her flour covered hands on her hips and grinned back at him. “Well, are you going to go get them, or do you plan on cutting these cookies out free hand?”
Jim turned and bolted for the den.
“How about walking back with them instead of running this time?”
“Okay, Mom.” Jim returned with the bag of cookie cutters at a much more sedate pace.
“Are they all there?” she asked.
“Sure, Mom. Here’s the tree and the star and the reindeer and bird and the bell.” Jim dragged a chair from the dinette set over to the counter. He knelt on it so he could reach the rolled-out dough. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Why is there a bird? What do birds have to do with Christmas?”
“Hmm. You know that’s a good question,” his mother said thoughtfully as she took a baking sheet out of the cabinet and set it on the counter next to the rolled-out dough. “Punch one out and let’s have a look at it. Maybe you can tell me what kind of bird it is.”
Jim’s green eyes sparkled with excitement as he leaned over the counter to carefully press the bird cut-out into the dough.
“There,” his mother said, lifting the dough bird from the wax paper and placing it on the cookie sheet.
Jim eyed the raw cookie critically. “I know a lot of birds, you know. Dad shows me them in the woods. This one looks like...” he leaned further over the counter, eyes darting between the plastic cookie cutter and the cookie he had made, “a cardinal maybe. Or a goldfinch.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Mostly because of the shape of the beak. See how big it is compared to the head? Cardinals and goldfinches have beaks like that. Dad showed me. Also, they both of them don’t fly south for the winter like a lot of other birds, so it makes sense they’d be around for Christmas.”
“I don’t know when you got to be so smart.” Katje Frayne smiled at her son. She had a beautiful smile and when it was directed at him, it made him feel warm inside, like he was standing in the sunshine. Jim loved it when she smiled at him like that. “I also don’t know where the time went to,” Katje continued. “Goodness, it’s almost five o’clock. We better get going on these cookies so I can get supper for you and your dad when he comes home.”
“Okay, Mom.” Jim quickly cut a few more birds out, then switched to the reindeer until there was no more room in the dough.
“Go ahead and put the sprinkles on the one’s you’ve made and I’ll roll out more dough.” Katje said.
“Yay! This is the best part!” Jim scrambled off his chair, pulled it around his mother and lined it up in front of the cookie sheet.
She opened the jars of colored sugar for him. “Be careful, now. Aim for the cookies, not the pan.”
“I will. They taste better with the sprinkles on them, you know.”
Katje rolled out more dough, then turned to admire her son’s work. He’d used red sprinkles on two of the birds and was just finishing topping the third with gold.
“I made two red cardinals,” Jim explained. “That’s for Dad and me. But I made yours a goldfinch, because you always remind me of sunshine and that’s the same color.”
“I do?” She smiled at him again, but this time her eyes were wet.
“Yes. You’re so pretty and your hair’s all yellow. Being near you is like standing in the sunshine.”
“Well, my goodness.” She waved her hands as if he must have been just flattering her, but her cheeks got pink and the moisture in her eyes turned into a twinkle. She even she patted her hair a little bit as she turned back from putting the cookies in the oven.
“Mom, can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I really like the sunshine.” Jim turned around on the chair to sit down in it. “At recess, I always want to play in the sun, especially if I’m having a bad day. It makes me feel better. You make me think of the sunshine, but also, the sunshine makes me think of you.”
She looked at him seriously, dragging a second chair from the dinette set to sit down next to him.
“Do you have bad days at school often, Jim?”
“Oh no, not very often. Every once in a while, Peter Masterkin makes fun of my hair, that’s all.”
Katje bit her lip. “I see.”
“Dad says not to let it bother me. He says kids just like to point out when someone’s a little bit different. Anyway, they sort of stopped when they found out how good I was at baseball. The same thing happened with Steve Schwartz when he came to our school last year. They gave him a hard time because he goes to temple instead of church until they found out how well he could pitch.”
“Well, Jim, you know it isn’t right to make fun of people even if they don’t happen to be good at baseball.”
“I know, Mom.” He looked serious. “But some of the other boys at school don’t seem to know that so well.”
“Could I ask you to do something for me, Jim?”
“Sure, Mom. What is it?”
“The next time there’s someone else at school having a bad day, I want you to make a point of helping them find the sunshine. Sunshine is meant to be shared. Do you understand what I mean, Jim?”
“I think so, Mom. Next time Peter Masterkin makes fun of somebody, I’ll make a point of playing with that person at recess so they feel better too.” Then his face clouded. “Only, sometimes it’s raining and there is no sunshine, you know.”
“Oh, Jim, now I’ll tell you a secret.” She leaned close to whisper in his ear. “There is always sunshine.”
Jim's green eyes widened as he leaned back to look at her. “There is?”
“Yes. Right on the other side of the clouds. Not being able to see something doesn't mean it isn't there. And I’ll tell you something else, too. Outside isn’t the only place you can find sunshine.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nope. There are other places to look. You can find it in another person, by being kind to them and getting to know them, or inside yourself, by helping others or by sharing what you have. Now what do you think of that?”
“I think that’s wonderful.” Jim said.
“So do I,” Katje said. “Now that I told you the secret, I’ll make you a promise. Anyplace you find sunshine, a part of me will be there, even if you can’t see me, to help your bad day get better. Always and forever.”
“Always and forever? You promise?”
“I promise, Jim. Just look for the sunshine. I’ll be there.”
“That one goes near the window. Moms thinks the glitter looks pretty in the sunshine.” Mart's words shook Jim back to the present.
Smiling at his friend, Jim stepped forward out of his reverie toward the tree.
“I guess I’ll have to come back tomorrow to find out.” Jim hung the bird on a branch near the window and stepped back to admire the effect. It nestled perfectly between the boughs, already sparkling a little in the flickering light of the fireplace and a tiny white bulb twinkling on a branch nearby. “But I think she’s right.”
A movement from the other side of the tree caught Mart’s eye. Honey Wheeler was carefully removing green tissue paper from an ornament that soon revealed itself to be a ceramic farm animal. “Uh-oh, Brian,” Mart teased, “looks like this year, Honey’s got your goat.”
Honey shifted her wide hazel eyes, which were currently brimming with bemused curiosity, between the two brothers. Mart was grinning. Two pink spots had appeared on either side of Brian’s face, highlighting his, in her mind at least, already attractive cheekbones. She dropped her lashes and held up the ornament to inspect it more closely. “It is definitely a goat,” she said, “but what’s the joke? Is it yours, Brian? The goat I mean, not the joke. I assume the joke is Mart’s, not because you’re not funny, Brian, but because he started it. At least, I think he did.”
Brian took a step toward her and carefully took the goat from her hands. “They’re both mine,” he said. “The goat and the joke. But you’re right about one thing.” He pointed at his brother. “He started it.”
“Well, that does it.” Honey declared, taking the goat back from Brian and plunking herself determinedly down on the Belden’s cozy couch. “I’m not putting this or one more single ornament on that tree until you tell me the story of this goat.”
Brian grinned and dropped a hip on the arm of the sofa, looking down at her affectionately. “Well, it all started the year Bobby was born.”
“A rough year for us all,” Mart interjected, dramatically looking off into the middle distance. Diana giggled from the step stool behind him, pausing from her job of artistically re-arranging the various colored small balls at the top of the tree.
“Why, Mart,” Honey’s eyes were wide. “Bobby was just a newborn. He couldn’t possibly have been that bad.”
Mart opened his mouth, presumably to inquire if she’d ever met his baby brother, but Brian stopped him. “I believe the lady asked me to tell the story,” he said.
Mart rolled his eyes and stepped rather reluctantly back to the tree.
Brian moved off the arm of the sofa to settle more comfortably next to Honey. “The year Bobby was born,” he whispered, “wasn’t rough because of Bobby. It was rough because that was the year that Mart discovered the pun.”
Honey giggled, placing a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my goodness.”
“You can imagine what I went through that year. It didn’t take long for him to learn that his constant attempts at ‘punning’ weren’t exactly my favorite thing.”
“Which of course only encouraged him more,” Honey guessed accurately.
“Exactly. By Christmas, I’d had enough and the whole house knew it. That,” Brian pointed at the ceramic ornament Honey was still holding, “is part of a ten-piece set. It is one of my favorite things.”
Honey nodded understandingly. She knew how much Brian liked a well-coordinated set of anything.
“It’s a nativity,” Brian explained. “As far as I can remember, I always loved finding this set, gathering all the different animals and people and hanging them on the tree. Besides that one, there’s Mary and Joseph, and a baby Jesus, plus the three wise men, a cow, a donkey and a sheep.”
“How lovely!” Honey sat up straighter, looking at the box, eager now to see the other nine ornaments.
Brian smiled at her. “Yes, pretty neat, right?”
She nodded.
“I always thought so,” Brian said. “I've also always liked things to be, well, complete. I enjoy that sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing something. Growing up, when we’d put together a puzzle or something, there was something I found so satisfying about putting in the last piece.”
Honey nodded again, silently encouraging him to continue.
“So, this one,” Brian nodded across the room at his brother, a half-frustrated, half-fond smile on his face, “well, you know how smart he is.” Brian lowered his voice while sharing this, not exactly feeling the need to highlight his admiration so obviously in front of Mart. “He started hiding the last piece of everything, just to bother me. Not only that, but he very quickly got disconcertingly good at pretending he hadn't. Sometimes, long after I’d caught onto his little scheme, he’d be so convincing that I’d actually believe the piece really was missing.”
“Oh, Brian. You poor thing.” But even tactful Honey couldn’t hide her grin.
Not that Brian minded. It was worth having Mart steal one piece of everything he owned to witness the pink tinge of happiness in Honey’s cheeks and the sparkle in her mesmerizing hazel eyes.
“That year when we decorated the tree, as usual I put on the nativity set.” Brian’s warm brown eyes darkened, flashing a passionate danger that Honey rarely saw. His gaze flicked involuntarily to Mart. “Most of it anyway.”
“Oh!” Honey’s hand flew to her mouth. “He didn’t. Not the nativity. Not Christmas.”
“Yes, he did.” Brian confirmed. “I had nine pieces on the tree. Jesus near the top, because he’s the most important, of course, then Mary and Joseph a little lower, then the wise men in the middle. On the very bottom branches, I usually put the animals. But that one,” Brian indicated the ornament Honey still had in her lap, “was missing. The box was empty and the goat wasn’t on the tree.” Brian paused. “But I knew where it was, or, at least, I knew who did.”
“Oh-oh.” Honey’s eyes widened, and she placed both her hands over her mouth.
“I remember him sitting right over there.” Brian pointed to a corner of the living room to the left of the fireplace. “He was trying to look innocent, but I could see him smirking. I told him that hiding my goat wasn’t funny, and that he’d better cough it up if he knew what was good for him.” Brian’s voice hardened into a decidedly un-Christmas-like tone as he related the confrontation.
“What did he say?” Honey asked, leaning forward out of the couch cushions.
“He pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about. But, of course, I knew he did. The standoff went on for hours. He wouldn’t give in and I wouldn’t let up. Finally, Moms called us in for dinner. During the meal, that’s when things really escalated.”
“What happened?”
“He kept up the innocent act. I stood it as long as I could. I tried to convince my parents of what he’d done, but it wasn’t working.”
“Didn’t they believe you?”
Brian looked thoughtful for a moment. “It wasn’t so much that they didn’t believe me, but that they just weren't as concerned about it as I was. It didn’t seem to matter to them whether the goat was on the tree or not. I think they figured that if Mart had taken it, eventually he’d put it on the tree and that would be that. But of course, to me, it meant a great deal. The nativity set was my thing. I had the responsibility of making sure none of the pieces got broken or lost and that they all were hung properly on the tree. Even back then, I had a lot of trouble leaving anything undone. I remember, eventually Bobby started fussing and Moms left the table to quiet him. Mart kept pushing and Trixie was laughing at me. Finally, I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“What did you do?”
“I snapped. I grabbed the entire bowl of cranberry relish off the table and threw it at Mart.”
“Oh!” Honey gasped. “You didn’t!”
“Well, I didn't throw the bowl itself, just the relish. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except Mart was wearing his new white Christmas sweater from Aunt Alicia. She made us all one that year. Dad planned to take our annual holiday photo that night after dinner and we were all supposed to wear our new sweaters. Needless to say, Mart's was ruined. Trixie had to strategically stand in front of Mart, while awkwardly holding Bobby, to cover up the damage I had done. I was grounded the whole month of December. Right after the photo was taken, Moms sent me up to my room. As I was trudging up the stairs, I saw Mart retrieving that little guy,” Brian pointed to the ornament, “from behind a row of books in the den. He stared at me with wide-eyed, fake innocence as he hung it on the tree. If Dad wasn’t standing right behind me on the stairs, I probably would have run across the room and pummeled him. I was so mad. Ever since then, the incident has been referred to as the time Mart managed to get my goat.”
Honey wrapped her arms around her sides, doubled over on the couch from laughing so hard. “Oh, Brian,” she gasped, tears rolling down her face, “I’m sorry, it’s just so funny. You poor, poor thing.”
“You think that’s bad? He’s stolen that goat from me every Christmas since and hidden in a different place. After that first time, I decided to just look for it instead of throwing food at him. I usually found it, too. One year though, it never made it on the tree. You see how the paint is worn off and sort of running away on the left side of the goat’s face?”
Honey looked closely. “Yes, now that you mention it. What happened there?”
“Well, that’s from the year he buried it in the wall of my snow fort in the backyard,” Brian explained. “I didn’t find it until March.”
“Oh, I see. The poor thing is a little worse for wear.” She smiled. “But now it’s just extra special, because it has a story.”
“It took me a few years,” Brian admitted, “to come to the same conclusion.” He smiled back at her. “But now I agree with you.”
“In that case,” Honey said, “let’s put him on the tree where he belongs.” She stood up and, remembering what Brian had said, placed the goat on one of the lower branches. He joined her then, and together they hung the rest of the set on the tree: the animals at the bottom, then the three wise men on the next higher branches, Mary and Joseph at eye level, and baby Jesus beneath a twinkling white light near the top. Mart watched them working together, but he didn’t say a word. This year, he left Brian, and the nativity set, unmolested.
Trixie couldn’t decide if the headache she was developing was due to not eating since breakfast or anxiety due to the rapidly worsening road conditions. She was usually a devil-may-care type person, taking each day’s challenges as they came without much concern about consequences. Bad weather never bothered her. Bad driving conditions might slow her down, but without causing much concern. Tonight, was different. She found herself fearing what might be around each curve or over the crest of each hill she approached. It was a totally new feeling and not one she relished.
She downshifted and let up on the accelerator, preparing to brake only if necessary as she neared another curve. Just as she entered the curve, a car came seemingly out of nowhere, sliding across the barely visible double lines and heading towards her. Somehow, she managed to stay on the pavement as her own car slid around the curve and missed the careless driver.
Just as she sighed in relief, she came upon a dark sedan that had stopped. Its motor was running but no brake or warning lights were visible. Trixie had no option but to hit her brakes. Almost miraculously, her car came to a stop only inches from the other vehicle. She sat with her eyes closed for a few moments, offering a silent prayer of thanks and waiting until her racing heart slowed. Finally, she was able to peel her hands free from their tight grip on the steering wheel.
Trixie stared at the car ahead, trying to determine why it was stopped and what she might do. Thanks to the raised head rests, she couldn’t see how many or if any people were in the car. She did know that if she didn’t move her car, she’d be the one rear-ended by the next unsuspecting motorist, so she pulled around the vehicle and as far as she dared onto the narrow shoulder. As she drove past, she could see that the driver’s head was resting on the steering wheel, but she couldn’t tell if he had any companions in the car.
She turned and saw that there still appeared to be no movement from the other driver. While she was aware that this could be some sort of ruse to get her to leave her car, she decided that no one was stupid enough to voluntarily leave a car running on a blind curve in an ice storm and she needed to check it out.
Trixie reached under the seat and pulled out a flashlight before leaving the car and walking slowly towards the other automobile. She shined the light into the woods along the roadway to ensure there were no other vehicles or people nearby and continued on. She aimed the bright beam into the driver’s face several times as she approached and, determining it was a middle-aged man, she called out several times. He never looked up or responded in any way. She tried to open the driver side door and found it locked. She walked around and tried the passenger door to find that it also was locked. After banging on the windows and calling out, then trying to bust the glass with a too-small flashlight, she decided the best thing to do was to try to find a house or business nearby where she could call for help.
Thankful that her dad had insisted she always have flares in the car, she took three from the trunk of her car and began to walk up the slight incline towards the car and the curve beyond.
Suddenly, with no warning, the man lifted his head and floored the accelerator, almost hitting Trixie as he sped past and down the dark roadway. Some distance later, he turned on his lights and continued on.
“Now, that's downright mysterious,” Trixie gasped as she watched the vehicle disappear into the snowy night.
“Some of my favorite Christmases were those we spent in our tiny apartment in Sleepyside with a small tree that was decorated with Dollar Store bulbs and ornaments my mother and I made.” Diana backed off the step stool and surveyed her work at the top of the Belden's tree. Satisfied that she had done as much as she could until more ornaments were added, she went over to the stack of boxes.
“My mother has a few things from her parents that she was able to keep after they died, but no Christmas decorations. And my Gramma and Gramps Lynch still use all of theirs. The last thing Mother would have on our trees in the main rooms of our house now are Dollar Store or Walmart ornaments, but we do have a small children’s’ tree upstairs that includes the decorations made by us kids.” Diana selected a box with ‘Fragile’ written on each side. “Will your mother trust me with these?” she asked Mart.
“I’m sure she’d allow you or Honey,” Mart joked. “But the rest of us know to keep our distance from anything marked ‘Frahgeelee’”.
Everyone else moaned at the much-overused line from the “Christmas Story” movie.
Ignoring Mart, Diana peeled off the tape and removed the lid of the box. She took out a thick foam pad and removed a tissue wrapped item. She sighed loudly as she revealed a dainty glass dancer, and then two more. “Aren’t they…. I don’t know the right word to describe them.”
“Lovely, beautiful, ethereal, treasurable, inestimable, recherché, Dianarable?” Mart walked over as he offered a few adjectives.
“Leave it to Mart to find just the right word.” Dan called from the other side of the tree.
“Or seven,” Brian quipped.
“Dianarable?” Diana looked up at Mart. “Is that a word?”
“It is now. I made it up.” Mart took one of the figurines. “Every time I see this one, I think of you, so it’s Dianarable.”
“I’m not a dancer. My mother had me in lessons once but they ended abruptly when…”
“Exactly. I was at the show that fateful evening years ago, but I’d also seen you at rehearsals and realized that you stood out from the other dancers. You were, you were …To my nine-year-old eyes you were a young Margot Fonteyn. Despite my naivety, it was obvious you’d had lessons, while the others were far less talented…especially my oh-so-graceful sibling.
“I was not that good!” Diana laughed.
“I think that lissome dancer figurine is a perfect representation of your performance that unforgettable evening of the Dancing Daffodils.” Mart held up the figurine he’d been holding. “Look, she even has beautiful raven locks.”
“Well, if that’s supposed to be me, then this blonde must be Trixie.” She held up the figurine she was holding.
Mart snorted loudly. “I think a more appropriate exemplification for my lumbering sister might be combat boots.”
“Mart!” Diana took the dancer from him and began looking around the tree.
“What are you two swooning about?” Dan asked as he came over to see what had their attention.
“Did I ever tell you about the night of the Dancing Daffodils?” Mart asked.
Dan shook his head. “Daffodils?”
“Should I tell it or do you want the honors?” Mart turned to Diana who was now on the step-stool, still looking for the perfect place to hang the dancers.
“I’ve tried to forget that night entirely. I’m sure you can tell it much better than I can.”
Mart rubbed his hands together and grinned mischievously. “Well, let’s see. It was a truly unforgettable evening in the spring that I was in fourth grade and Diana and Trixie were in third,” he began. “I really didn’t want to go, but my parents insisted.”
Mart recalled almost every detail of that night, but wondered how much it was wise to reveal to Dan. However, it didn’t take much more prompting for him to proceed to share the majority of his memories of that fateful evening.
I’d been whining and complaining to my parents since we’d left our house. I did not want to watch our school’s Third Grade Spring Pageant. Each month of the school year a different grade was responsible for providing entertainment before the start of the Sleepyside Elementary PTA business meeting. My entire family had sat through my Shimmying Snowflake routine as part of the Fourth Grade Winter Program in January and now I was being subjected to Trixie’s turn as a Dancing Daffodil.
“Do I really have to sit through this? Brian isn’t here!” I protested as we waited in the school’s Cafetorium.
“Brian has Boy Scouts. Otherwise he’d be here, too.” Moms was incredible. She never took her eyes off the stage.
“It’s not fair,” I protested again.
“Mart!” Moms shifted our youngest sibling, two-year-old Bobby, from one side of her lap to the other so that she could lean towards me. “Trixie sat politely through your program in January and I expect you to pay her the same respect tonight.”
I turned to my father, hoping for some support. His stern look made it clear that I was expected to sit and suffer.
I squirmed a bit as the music teacher came down the center aisle and sat down at the piano in front of the raised stage. She was followed by two third grade teachers. One took the chair next to her and the other stepped over to a microphone. I immediately recognized the tune she began playing as the very same one they had used for last year’s third grade spring pageant, as well as the year that Brian was in third grade. Obviously, Dragon Breath Berry never changed the program.
“This is the exact same…” I quickly stopped speaking when I saw my father’s scowl.
After the first teacher made some announcements that I managed to ignore, Dragon Breath played a few bars of introductory music and several of Trixie’s male classmates, dressed as trees, entered the stage from the left, singing about birds and flowers and green leaves or something. They were making their best efforts to march, but the brown cardboard “trunks” of their trees limited them to an awkward type of shuffle. The only boy who was even close to keeping in step with the music was Nick Roberts, who I knew at that time from Little League. I was trying to decide on the appropriate insult to throw out at our next practice when the line of trees reached across the entire stage and, while they continued to ‘march” in place, several third-grade girls entered from the right.
Clad in green t-shirts and tights with large yellow paper “skirts”, I recognized them as the infamous Dancing Daffodils that had been in prior years’ programs. It was considered a big honor to be selected as a Daffodil, although the group of eight-year olds in paper skirts did more leaping and twirling around the shuffling trees than dancing. I was surprised to see that Trixie, who was not known for her gracefulness, was at the front of the line. As always, she was trying to jump higher and twirl faster than any of the other girls. I thought she looked pretty neat until her paper skirt started to slide down in the middle of her largest leap. She tried to catch it, but it fell all the way down and bunched around her feet. She managed to stay erect for a moment, but finally fell forward. The girl immediately behind her reached to help, but my ever-graceful sister fell head first off the stage and into the lap of Dragon Breath.
The other girl looked down at my sister and, obviously not knowing what to do, she began twirling around like a real ballerina, unaware that, without any music, the rest of the class had stopped shuffling and leaping and began to leave the stage.
While Dragon Breath was trying to get my sister off her lap, the other two teachers ran up onto the stage. They were joined by two more teachers who had been backstage. One stopped and grabbed the lone Dancing Daffodil while the other teachers chased after the rapidly dispersing students.
After a collective gasp and long awkward silence, several people in the auditorium began coughing and choking to disguise their laughter. My mother stood up, practically threw Bobby at my father, and headed down the aisle to help my sister, who was now kicking and yelling for Dragon Breath to put her down.
I noticed that there were tears running down my father’s cheeks. I started to ask why he was crying, but quickly realized he was trying not to laugh. “I think we need to get the car,” Dad said as he held Bobby with one arm and guided me along with the other. “Your sister...” he choked on the words. “Trixie is going to need a quick getaway. We both began to howl with laughter.
We hurried out to our car and Dad drove around to the stage door. “Wait here with Bobby,” he instructed me as he ran inside. A few minutes later he came back with Moms, Trixie, who was now wearing a large man’s shirt spattered with paint, and Diana Lynch, still wearing her daffodil costume. That was when I realized that Diana had been the daffodil who’d tried to help Trixie when she fell. Both girls’ eyes were red and puffy, and dried tears streaked their green-painted faces, but they seemed to be fine.
“Diana’s father won’t be here to pick her up for another hour so we’re taking her home,” Moms explained as the two girls climbed into the car, one on each side of me.
“Thank you for helping Trixie,” I said to Diana.
“I wasn’t much help.” She looked down into her lap. “She still fell off the stage.”
“Yeah, and right onto Dragon Breath!” I turned to my sister. “Tell me Trix, how bad is her breath?”
Diana looked at me and smiled. “You guys really call her that?”
“Well, her breath does stink!”
“Yeah, but not as bad as her pageants.” Diana said.
I stared in awe. Not only was she pretty, but she was funny too.
The two girls’ giggles quickly turned to loud laughter. Diana grabbed my hand and squeezed it, and I forgot all about stinky breath and stinky pageants.
After over a decade, Mart still remembered exactly how he’d felt when the “prettiest girl in Sleepyside” had taken his hand but he left that part out when sharing the story.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever been as traumatized as I was that evening. I was so relieved when your parents got me out of there and I got to go home with you…and Trixie. And I still haven’t set foot in a dance studio since then, much less danced.” Diana stepped off the stool and lightly touched Mart’s arm. “Where are your ornaments, Mart? Aren’t you going to help decorate?”
“But you have returned to the stage; at least in school productions.” Mart turned quickly and started to rummage through a box, trying to hide his blush.
Dan laughed at his friend’s discomfort and then whispered, “Guess you had a thing for each other even then.”
Deliberately ignoring Dan, Mart pulled a shiny red ornament from the box. “When did we get this? Why would Moms ever get one of these?”
“Oh, I gave that to Trixie several years ago when I drew her name in the Bob White Gift Exchange.” Diana took it from Mart and sat down, gently fingering its details. “This little trailer ornament reminded me of when she and I rekindled our friendship, and I became a member of the Bob Whites, and she exposed my fake uncle and found my REAL uncle, and we got to go to Arizona together and we met the Orlando family and learned all about Dia de Los Muertos, and….”
“Quite a lot of memories in one little trinket.” Mart took it and rolled it around in his hands. “It does look a bit like the Robin.”
“Tell us about the Robin, Di.” Tactful as always, Honey urged Diana to join them in sharing memories. “I was with Trixie when we encountered the Darnells, and we’ve heard the rest of the story from Trixie, assisted by Mart, of course.” She smiled at Mart. “But I’d like to hear what you have to say about it all.”
“Well, you all know that my parents purchased a travel trailer the summer we all three turned thirteen?”
Honey nodded.
“And you and Trixie actually ran into the Darnell family when you were looking for Jim upstate and they were using it to look for work.”
“And, if I recall, you thought the Darnells might have stolen it.” Mart teased Honey.
“Well they had…I mean they had borrowed it and... there were trailer thieves around and we did find them,” Honey protested. “I mean we found Jim and then he helped us find the thieves and then we found out that the Darnells weren’t really the trailer thieves and then my parents adopted Jim and he became my full-blooded adopted brother, and then Mr. Darnell got a job and they didn’t need it anymore and then...”
Honey clasped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Di. You tell the story.” She took something out of her box.
“Yes, and so I saw how much fun you and Trixie were having while I was having to go to Cotillion classes and tea parties and spend days in the city, shopping with my mother. It only added to my loneliness and feelings of inadequacy and to see others doing fun things. Then my so-called uncle showed up and my mother was SO delighted to have found her “long-lost older brother.” She turned to Jim and Dan. “You know my mother was orphaned too.
“Anyway,” she continued after they’d nodded their understanding. “My “uncle” only encouraged my mother in her nouveau-riche ideas. He tried to separate me from the Twinnies, and just helped make my life even more miserable than it had been. Did you know he thought I should be sent away to boarding school?
“You guys sensed how unhappy I was and Trixie spotted my “uncle” as the fraud he was and helped to confirm my father’s suspicions, so my father gave him a bunch of money and the Red Robin with its tow car.”
“And that’s when Trixie and I almost met our demise, thanks to her investigating,” Mart added.
“I know that was awful for both of you,” Diana continued. “I still shiver, thinking what that awful man, Tillney Britten, did to Trixie.” She turned to Dan. “I guess you know that he kidnapped her, tied her up in the Robin and then drove off. We still don’t know what he planned to do…”
“But, surprise!” Mart interjected. “I just happened to be hiding in said camper trailer with a tape recorder and managed to save…”
“I don’t know who saved who, whom, whoever…but you two managed to turn my fake uncle over to the police and then we found that I had a real uncle in Arizona and I joined the Bob Whites and we went to see my real uncle that Christmas and…” Diana caught her breath. “This little red camper trailer reminded me of the Robin so I gave it to Trixie. So where should I hang it?”
“How about next to this red truck? It would need to have something to tow it.” Dan pointed to the ornament he’d just hung. “Is the Robin the same trailer where Celia and Tom used to live?”
“Exactly!” Diana placed the camper next to the truck. “And didn’t Tom used to have a red truck? Only, as I recall it was faded almost to pink.”
“Yeah,” Dan agreed. He taught me how to drive on that piece of….and it had the most stubborn clutch.”
“He taught all us to drive, at least on a standard transmission, in that thing!” Jim offered. “Is there a tow truck anywhere in that box? I think Tom ended up towing it to the junk yard.”
“Tom takes such good care of all his vehicles I’ll bet someone’s still driving it someplace.” Honey corrected.
“Tom drove my Uncle Bill into the city to bring me out here. Fortunately, it was in a nice car and not that truck.” Dan paused before continuing. “Uncle Bill hardly said two words the entire trip but Tom…I knew from the start that he was a good guy; honest and real. I hadn’t met anyone who was real for a long time.”
Dan stared silently at the tree while the other Bob Whites allowed him his thoughts.
Trixie silently thanked Tom Delanoy for being such a demanding driving instructor as she tried to keep up with the driver of the sedan who was speeding recklessly around blind curves and up and down hills. She saw him weave and skid frequently and felt a loss of traction herself a few times but remembered every tedious lesson about using lower gears instead of the brakes, turning into a skid, and never panicking. Fortunately, they appeared to be the only drivers on the now-treacherous road and she was very thankful for that.
Trixie noticed a significant improvement in the road conditions as they neared Poughkeepsie. Obviously, they had pre-treated the roads, but it still didn’t mean that it was okay to drive like the man in front of her.
Shortly after coming into Poughkeepsie, the sedan slowed and, without the use of a turn signal, turned left and headed up an almost vertical incline. Trixie slowed and stopped, watching the car’s wheels spin as the driver tried to find traction.
“They must have spent all their time treating the main road but ignored less-traveled streets,” Trixie thought to herself as she watched the other driver continue to struggle. “Well, here we go,” she said out loud as the car disappeared over the hill and she attempted to follow it up.
Tom’s demanding lessons worked again as Trixie managed to get up the hill with only a little trouble. She crested it and saw that the other driver was speeding away but still swerving back and forth.
“At least there’s not another hill,” she thought as she followed cautiously.
“Finally!” she called out when she saw the vehicle slow and turn into a driveway. She slowed and stopped before turning off the public street, watching as the other driver parked and took something that looked like a bed pillow out of the back seat. He then slipped and slid as he tried to hurry towards the main entrance of a building that looked like some kind of medical office. The man went into the building and disappeared from her view.
Trixie backed up so she could read the monument sign located at the driveway entrance. “Hudson Valley Center for Sleep Studies. Specializing in Sleepwalking, Sleep Apnea, Insomnia, Night Terrors and Narcolepsy.” A small wooden sign stood in front of the impressive brick monument. “Absolutely no admission after 7:00 pm.”
Trixie pondered the significance of the two signs and the man’s wild ride through an ice storm. She felt certain he was carrying a pillow into the building and not something more ominous. And while his being asleep and the waking so suddenly definitely was odd, nothing about his appearance or even his behavior seemed sinister.
Trixie read the two signs a second time. “Oh! Of course!” she exclaimed out loud and then slapped the side of her head. While she probably should go inside the clinic to verify her conclusion, she figured the man was in the right place and didn’t need her help.
“Narcolepsy!” She began laughing loudly. “Narcolepsy!” She couldn’t wait until she shared this with the other Bob-Whites.
She turned her car around and headed towards home.
“Okay! We need to finish this tree!” Dan broke the silence and reached into a box, pulling out a small plastic bag holding four large construction paper flowers of varying shades of pink and red.
“Looks like Sleepyside schools used the same arts and crafts patterns as those in the city. I made the exact same pitiful poinsettias one year. My mother hung them on our tree that year, along with a lot of other paper cut-outs she had made.” He held them up to show everyone while he walked around the tree. It seemed odd to be looking for the best place to hang them, but he was recalling the care he’d taken the last time he’d hung paper flowers on a tree.
“I think I found the most perfect place to hang my last point setter, Mommy.”
“It’s poinsettia, Danny,” Claire Mangan corrected her young son. “And it’s such a beautiful big and bright poinsettia, it needs a place of honor on the tree.
Claire saw where Danny was pointing. “That looks perfect.” She checked the yarn loop on the flower to make sure it was attached properly and gave it back. “Do you want to hang it?”
“Oh yes, Mommy. That’s perfect! And look! I can reach there!” Dan tried to get the hook over a branch of the small tree that stood on a corner table. “But it’s hard to get the loop on those pricklies.” After several attempts he was able to hang the construction paper bloom.
“I wish we had a thousand, or even a gazillion point setters for the tree,” Danny mused as he and his mother stepped back to see how the lone flower looked. “But if we had a gazillion, we’d need a bigger tree.”
“I’m sorry our tree isn’t bigger,” His mother apologized. “But our apartment is small and I think this little tree will be spectacular once we get all the other decorations on it.”
“Do we have other decorations, Mommy? We had lots last year.”
His mother quickly scratched at her cheek before she responded. She pretended it was a tickle but Danny had seen her do that so much over the past few months he knew she was wiping a tear.
A year ago, Danny and she had lived in a much larger and nicer, although still modest, apartment with Danny’s father. Since that time, Timothy Mangan had been killed in an automobile accident. Danny had understood that they’d moved because of money but he was far too young to understand the complexities involved with cashing a life insurance policy that named Tim’s late mother as beneficiary, or getting some kind of compensation from the drunk driver who had killed his father.
While Danny missed their nicer apartment and his old school, he didn’t think the tiny one-bedroom apartment was too bad, especially since it was close enough for him to walk alone to the store where his mother worked. And his mother kept reassuring him that they’d be able to find something nicer in the near future. Given the apartment’s size and lack of storage, Claire had placed much of their belongings in a storage unit, waiting for that promised larger place. What Danny didn’t know was that, only weeks earlier, someone had broken into the storage unit and taken everything that was remotely of value, including all their Christmas decorations.
“Mrs. Yagyu from the store is coming by later with some ornaments for the tree.”
Danny recognized the hoarseness in his mother’s voice and hoped she wouldn’t cry.
“She already gave me the lights that are on it. The ornaments she’s bringing will be beautiful and she promised that they will have a special meaning, too. I’ve made a few using her instructions, but they aren’t as beautiful as hers. Our tree won’t be very big this year but it will be very, very special,” she tried to reassure Danny.
“As long as Santa Claus finds our new ‘partment.” Danny looked up inquisitively.
There was a knock on the door before Danny’s mother could respond and she hurried over. After quickly checking the peephole, she opened the door.
“Evelyn,” she greeted the petite lady standing in the hallway. “Come in! Let me help you with those.”
Dan could see that his mother’s coworker was carrying several white boxes tied in string. “Are those our decorations?” he asked. “Are they the special ones?”
“Yes Danny. Now can you remember your manners and help Mrs. Yagyu with her coat? You remember her from the store.”
Danny walked over and took Mrs. Yagyu’s coat. “Where do you want this, Mommy?”
“Put it on the bed.” Danny’s mother led her friend into the kitchen where they sat down and opened the boxes, both of them chatting excitedly.
“Oh my!” Danny heard his mother exclaim. “Evelyn…oh, I can’t…they’re exquisite!”
“I mixed the ones you made with mine. You did a lovely job on yours.”
“But nowhere near as nice as these.” Danny saw his mother pull a long string with tiny white paper things attached along its length. The string and the birds were covered with something that made them sparkly.
“Look Danny,” his mother motioned for him to come in from where he stood in the doorway. “These are the ornaments for the tree. Do you like them?”
“They’re all birds. What do birds have to do with Christmas?” Danny wasn’t sure if he liked them or not.
“People often decorate with birds at Christmas, Danny. Those birds who stay behind often brighten up the dark days of winter with their songs and color.”
“But these are white.” He still wasn’t convinced. “Do they sing?”
“Oh, Evelyn,” his mother apologized. “I’m so sorry. I thought Danny would love them as much as I do.”
“Come here, Danny.” Mrs. Yagyu motioned for him to come closer. “Sit down and I will tell you the story about the cranes and their importance in my culture. Your mommy thought it was such a nice story she wanted to share it with you. And what better time to share than at Christmastime?”
Danny climbed up onto the chair next to her and wiggled around. He liked the sound the vinyl made when he moved around on these chairs.
“My parents came to America from Japan, just like your grandparents came here from Ireland. Has your Mommy told you about Ireland?”
Dan nodded. “She told me about leprechauns and Saint Patrick and shamrocks.”
“Just like you, the Japanese have special symbols and traditions. In Japan, the crane is believed to be a mystical creature that can live for a thousand years! We Japanese call it “the bird of happiness” because it represents good fortune and longevity—that means to live a very long time.”
“Like a thousand years!” Danny added.
“Yes! We also believe that our souls are carried to heaven on the wings of the crane.”
“Did my Daddy go to heaven on a crane?” Danny looked to his mother.
“He just might have.” His mother looked at Mrs. Yagyu for affirmation. “What was that prayer?”
“The crane also is believed to protect young children. Mothers in Japan recite this prayer for the crane to protect their children, ‘O flock of heavenly cranes, cover my child with your wings. ‘“
“I say my prayers every night before I go to bed, but I don’t say that one.”
“Of course,” his mother offered. “We can say something like that together. Would you like that, Danny?”
Danny looked up at his mother and nodded. He picked up the string of birds and held it up to the light. “They are kinda’ sparkly. Do these come in other colors?”
“You can make them in any color you want, but your mommy liked these white ones. The sparkles reflect the light and will make your living room seem light and bright.
“The cranes like you are holding have become a symbol of hope and healing during challenging times for the Japanese. Our tradition also teaches that if you fold a thousand origami cranes and make a wish it will come true. The traditional way to make cranes is to hang them on strings like this one, each on top of the other, with forty on each string. Then you will need twenty-five of these strings to make a thousand. That is called ‘Senbazuru’.”
“Do you have a thousand cranes in those boxes?” Danny looked to see what was in the open box.
“There aren’t quite a thousand, but there’s enough paper in the other box for you and your mother to make more. Then you’ll have a thousand.” Mrs. Yagyu took the lid off the second box and showed Danny the paper, string, glitter and other supplies inside. “You can make even more than that if you want.” She reached inside and took out two small squares of paper.
“Here, let me show you how to make one.” She handed one piece of paper to Danny and laid the other flat on the Formica table top in front of her. “First you fold the top corner of the paper down to the bottom corner. Crease it as flat as you can and then open again.”
Danny watched intently and then folded the paper. Mrs. Yagyu reached over to help him get a sharp crease like hers. “Then fold the paper in half sideways, like this.”
It took several attempts, but eventually Danny had made a crane. It was wrinkled from his repeated attempts and the wings looked more like bulbs than wings, but he held it up proudly. “Look, Mommy! I think I’m going to make a thousand all by myself!”
“One down and nine hundred and ninety-nine to go,” his mother laughed. “Let’s take yours and hang it on the tree with your poinsettias and the cranes Mrs. Yagyu brought us. Then we can make some more.”
After much discussion and repeated attempts, the three of them had hung twenty strands of forty white birds with Danny’s mother promising that they would make five more strands the next day. Danny ran across the room to view their work.
“Oh, Mommy. I don’t want colored birds. I like how the little white lights make the birds so shiny. And with my point setters, we have colors. It’s just so beautiful.” He ran over and hugged his mother.
Danny saw that his mother was wiping tears. “Don’t cry Mommy. This is the best Christmas tree we ever had! I bet no one else at school has one like this. And I think the story about the cranes is really cool!”
Danny watched as Mrs. Yagyu also wiped tears. “Don’t cry, Mrs. Yagyu. I really like your birds. I think they’re much cooler than St. Patrick.”
“I don’t know about that, Danny, but I’m glad you like them.” Mrs. Yagyu turned and headed towards the bedroom to get her coat. “I think it’s time to go. Don’t forget to make the rest of the cranes and don’t forget that they bring good luck and longevity, as well as hope and peace. My wish is that these cranes will bring those to you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Yagyu,” Danny called out as he continued to stare at the tree.
After placing the four Belden poinsettias on the tree, Dan took a plastic container, wrapped in several layers of tape, out of the box. Reading what was written on the lid, he turned to Mart. “Is there a reason we’re not supposed to open this until after midnight on Christmas Eve?”
Mart took the box. “I’ve never seen this before but that’s definitely our Dad’s handwriting.” He unsnapped the lid and looked inside. “What the…” He pulled out a Santa Claus, completely naked except for a carefully placed hat he held in front.
“Yuck! What is this?” Honey had come over and pulled out a large brown glob with Santa’s face painted on the front.
“Is that a Hershey’s kiss? Diana asked.
“Look closer, Diana.” Mart laughed. “It’s a turd! A Santa Turd! I’d say that would ruin a white Christmas!”
All six of the young adults now were sorting through the box.
“Is this supposed to be a Mexican Santa? He’s holding am enchilada…Oh!” Brian turned bright red and dropped the X-rated Santa back into the container.
“And look at this. It’s Kung Fu Santa.” Jim pulled out a Santa in the classic Kung Fu pose.
“And this must be the Mrs. Claus that goes with naked Santa!” Diana’s face turned bright red as she pulled out an ornament.
“Please tell me that's the last box,” Dan said. “I've been enjoying being a part of this, but if you Beldens have any more edgy holiday traditions beyond a secret dirty Santa collection, I really don't want to know.”
When the laughter died down, Honey turned back toward the tree. It looked beautiful, but something seemed missing. After a moment, she realized what it was.
“I hope there's at least one more box,” she said. “Because right now, this tree is missing a topper.” She turned to look at Brian and Mart. “Where is that beautiful white angel you usually have up there?”
“Oh,” Brian said. “We keep her in a separate box. It must be around here somewhere.” He rummaged through the small mountain of cardboard and tissue paper that had formed near the tree as they decorated. “Here it is.”
Brian handed the box to Honey. She opened it and carefully removed the delicate angel. It was made of lace, with tiny shiny beads attached to its wings and halo that shone gently, subtly reflecting the white tree lights.
“Oh, she’s as beautiful as I remembered.” Honey breathed. “Is she handmade?”
“Yes. Moms' grandmother made her. It’s crocheted, I think. You stitch and shape the yarn, then coat it with glue or resin to harden it into shape.”
“How wonderful.” Honey whispered softly.
“Trixie doesn’t think so. Aunt Alicia tried to get her to use the same technique to make snowflakes one year.”
“I can guess how that turned out,” Honey said, “using my detective skills. First, the party in question is known to detest needlecraft of all sorts. Secondly, this is the fifth Christmastime I’ve been fortunate enough to spend time here at Crabapple Farm and I’ve never seen one crocheted snowflake either completed or in the process of construction. Therefore, I deduce that Trixie abandoned the project almost immediately.”
Brian laughed. “You deduce correctly, Detective Wheeler. But thanks to great-grandma, at least we have the angel.”
“Will you help me put it on top of the tree, Brian? I don’t think my arms are long enough, even if I stand on the chair.”
“Sure.” Brian mounted the folding chair they’d temporarily placed near the tree to facilitate the decor of the higher branches, attached the angel to the top and carefully climbed back down. “There. How does that look?”
“Beautiful,” Honey told him. “She reminds me of a story of my own that also involves a nativity set.” She looked at Brian with a shy smile, which he thought also contained a trace of sadness. “Only mine’s not as funny as yours.”
“Well, it's probably not as embarrassing either.”
“It is sort of embarrassing.” Honey blushed a little. “But I don’t mind telling you, if you want to hear it.”
“So, it’s a Christmas story about something that happened to you?” Brian asked.
“Yes.”
His eyes softened. “Why would I not want to hear that?”
Honey smiled. Sometimes Brian’s very words felt like hugs, instilling her with a sense of security, comfort and peace. She’d never told anyone this particular story before, but she knew she could tell it to Brian. With him, she always felt safe.
“Okay, you asked for it.” Honey took Brian's hand and led him back to the couch. She sat down and picked up a decorative holiday cushion. “It happened at boarding school, the December before I met you all.” Honey began, cradling the pillow in her lap. “So, seventh grade. The big thing happening was the Seventh Grade Secret Santa. People had been talking about it for years. It was sort of legendary. I was looking forward to it, too. It sounded like fun.” A small frown wrinkled Honey's pretty forehead. “But of course, it wasn’t.”
“Why not? What happened?”
“Oh, Brian it’s just so hard to explain, but there’s something about boarding schools, the ones that I went to anyway, that just suck the fun right out of everything. First of all, even though everyone called it a Secret Santa, it turns out that wasn't what it was.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. Instead of having everyone pick names so that the person who gives a gift to someone gets a gift from someone else, they paired us up and the pair exchanged gifts.”
Brian looked horrified. “That’s not a Secret Santa at all!”
“Exactly! It’s like they missed the whole concept. And that didn’t seem to bother anyone but me. That sort of thing happened a lot to me at those schools.” Honey shuddered. “Anyway, we drew names the day before Thanksgiving break and then there was a big party the night before Christmas break where we were supposed to deliver our gifts. I drew Betsy Hollingsworth Vanderbilt's name. Yes. Those Vanderbilts. Of every girl in the class, she was the very last I would have picked. I was scared to death.”
“Scared? Why?”
Honey toyed with the fringe on the holiday throw pillow in her lap. “First of all, she was one of the girls who particularly didn’t like me, and second of all, I mean, what do you get a Vanderbilt? The whole thing made me really anxious. I couldn’t sleep and started spending every spare minute trying to come up with a gift idea that could possibly be good enough.”
Brian sucked in air through his teeth, but he didn’t say anything. Honey didn’t acknowledge that she had noticed, but she shifted herself closer to him on the couch.
“The night they paired us up, Betsy followed me back to my room, acting all of a sudden like she was my very best friend, even though she’d never done one single thing with me all semester. The few times she’d even spoken to me before that she was, well, not saying anything nice.”
The color rose in Honey’s cheeks and she stopped speaking. Brian reached over and took her hand, gently untangling her fingers from the cushion's fringe. She looked up at him, took a breath and smiled.
“Betsy parked herself in my room and just sat there while I packed for Thanksgiving break. She asked me all these questions about what I did when I wasn’t at school and where I liked to travel, things like that. I didn’t know what she wanted from me, but I got the feeling she was disappointed in my answers. There kept being these awkward lulls in the conversation, but she wouldn’t leave, so finally I turned the radio on. As soon as she heard the music, she suddenly asked me what my favorite Christmas song was. I told her it was 'Angels We Have Heard on High.' I’d barely gotten the name of the title out before she bolted from the room. That’s the part of the story your angel reminded me of,” Honey explained.
Brian had been wondering how Honey had made that connection, but he didn’t tease her about it. He only smiled and nodded, silently encouraging her to continue.
“I worried about what to get Betsy all through Thanksgiving break. Mother and Daddy noticed, and I tried to explain what was wrong, but they didn’t seem to understand.” Honey paused and looked up at Brian.
He grinned. “Kind of like my parents, when Mart got my goat.”
“Yes. It's funny,” she said. “It doesn't sound too terrible now that I'm older. But, at the time, it was a really big deal. I guess sometimes parents forget how scary these things can be when we're kids. I hope, if I ever have children, that I can still remember to take the time to see things through their eyes.”
Brian nodded thoughtfully. “That's a really admirable goal. We got a lecture at school this semester about that. As doctors, we need to make sure not to get so wrapped up in the clinical studies and the science that we forget that we're actually dealing with a scared human being who doesn't understand what's happening to them.”
“Oh, Brian,” Honey said, “I don't think you'll ever forget that.”
Brian smiled. “Well, maybe not as long as I have you to give me such interesting reminders.” He leaned back and draped an arm around the back of the couch behind her. “Tell me the rest of your story.”
“Well, when I got back to school after Thanksgiving, things got worse. Everyone was talking about what they were getting their gift partners, and I still couldn’t think of a thing. Betsy kept cornering me places, asking if I’d figured out her present yet, and telling me that it had better be good, because she’d gotten the most amazing thing for me and it wouldn’t be fair for her to get short changed.”
“Is getting short-changed really something a Vanderbilt needs to worry about?” Brian couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“Not all the Vanderbilts are rich, actually,” Honey pointed out. “But this one was. Betsy didn’t have to worry about anything. That’s why it was so hard to figure out what to get her. That, and I didn’t know her at all. I tried all sorts of things. I tried being friendly with her and her friends, but she made it clear that, aside from harassing me about her gift, she really didn’t want to spend time with me. I even tried to call her parents, but all I got was a maid who told me they had gone to Bermuda and wouldn't be back until Christmas Eve. That’s when Miss Trask got involved.”
“Our Miss Trask?”
“Yes. She was my math teacher at boarding school, remember? She noticed I was more preoccupied than usual and she kept me after class one day to ask me about it. I don’t know why, but I ended up blurting out the whole story. By then, it was the middle of December and I’d gotten myself in such a state about what to get Betsy. When Miss Trask asked, it all just came pouring out.”
“Thank goodness for Miss Trask.”
“I know.” Honey smiled. “She just listened to me, you know? And she sat there handing me tissues until I stopped crying. Then, she did something teachers hardly ever do. Instead of giving me some vague generic advice and encouraging me to figure it out myself, she actually offered to help.”
“She helped you figure out a Christmas present for Betsy?”
“Yes. She went to her desk and showed me a special catalog that only sells farm animals. Only, you don’t keep them for yourself, the animals are donated to a poor family somewhere in the world who needs them.” Honey pointed to the tree. “One goat, for example, can provide milk and cheese for a whole family for their whole lives.” Honey bit her lip. “I mean…”
“The goat’s life, not the family's.” Brian supplied. “I know what you’re talking about. I’ve seen those catalogs and I think it’s a neat idea. A gift like that can really make a big impact.”
“Yes. A gift that keeps on giving, helps people who really need it and solves my problem of what to get the girl who has everything,” Honey said. “It was perfectly-perfect. That was the beginning of my admiration for Miss Trask.”
“She certainly is super.” Brian agreed. “So, you got Betsy Vanderbilt a goat for an underprivileged family for Christmas?”
“Well, the goat was my first choice, but after I had ordered it, I overheard some of the other girls talking about what they were getting for each other at breakfast one morning, and they were spending a lot more money than the goat cost, so at the very last minute I added a cow.”
Brian chuckled. “So, did Betsy like the present? What did she get you?”
Honey laughed. Brian stopped chuckling to watch the flecks of joy and glimmer of mischief in her eyes. Then, in an instant, the joy was replaced with traces of sadness.
“The day of the gift exchange, Betsy arranged things so her and I went last. She dragged me, and the rest of the class, out of the student lounge where the party was to the theater, two buildings away. We filed in there and she made us all sit. The curtain rose and, there, on the stage in full costume and standing in front of an elaborately decorated set, the lead soprano from the New York Metropolitan Opera came out and sang 'Angels We Have Heard On High', accompanied by a string quartet composed of reserve players from the New York Philharmonic.”
Brian stared at Honey in utter disbelief.
“I know.” Honey bit her lip. “This is one of the reasons why I don’t tell many boarding school stories.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t even… I mean, how…”
“Betsy's father had a friend who had a client who was the soprano’s booking agent’s brother. And then he had some of his other clients from the philharmonic come. He being the booking agent, not the booking agent’s brother. I think the brother was some sort of real estate investor. Anyway, the point is, she arranged a private concert for me with the best opera singer in the country and I got her a goat and a cow for somebody else.”
“Your gift was better.” Brian's sincerity was evident in his gentle brown gaze. “But I’m guessing Betsy didn’t think so.”
“Not at all. In fact, she thought it was a joke at first. When she found out it wasn’t, she was mad, so she turned everyone against me. The whole class called me 'goat girl' for the rest of the year, or, at least, until I got sick and left in March. I remember rushing out of the theater to my room in tears. I was so upset, I even called my mother. Oh-” Honey stopped and put her hand over her mouth, her cheeks turning pink. “I know that sounds terrible. But, you know, Mother and I weren’t terribly close back then.” She looked around the cozy living room and dropped her head as if ashamed of the fact.
“I understand, Honey.” He reached for her hand again, this time squeezing it gently. After a couple minutes he said, “I just thought of another reason why your gift was perfect.”
“Really?” Her eyes brightened. “Why?”
“Because a gift like that is worthwhile regardless of whether the recipient likes it or not. Think of it this way; no one’s repossessing that family’s cow because Betsy was disappointed.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past Betsy.” Then she giggled. “I can see her, hoping on a plane to South Sudan, tearing through a village in her Prada and Michael Kors trying to steal a cow for spite.”
Brian laughed. “Not a very Christmas-like image, but funny nonetheless.”
“I know it doesn’t sound like a very Christmas-y story, but it really is. Because when I called Mother and told her about it, something wonderful happened. I was afraid she would laugh at me, too, or tell me I was making a big deal about nothing, but this time, she actually seemed to understand. I guess she was having similar experiences with her own social circle. We ended up having a real, actual conversation, one of our very first. And then do you know what she did?”
“No, what?”
“She told me that just because Betsy had bad taste didn’t mean that my gift idea was a bad one. Celia had just finished setting up our Nativity scene on the mantle in our penthouse and she had been looking at it when I called. Besides the cow and the goat, ours had two sheep, a donkey and three camels for the wise men. She asked me if I could bring the catalog home and we could go through it together and order an animal for each piece of our Nativity set. She said that way we could make sure Christmas came to the people who needed it and not just the people who expected it.”
“That… wow.” Brian said. “That’s a really good idea.”
“I thought so, too.” Honey agreed. “And it was good for me too. Planning, choosing and ordering the animals with her really made my Christmas that year.” Honey’s expressive eyes welled up. “Mother and I have been doing it every year since. About three years ago, Dad caught on. He keeps ordering more animals from the company that made our Nativity set and sneaking them onto the mantle. Now we have three goats and four sheep and last night Jim and I caught him sneaking a second cow in. I know,” Honey paused and looked at the Belden’s tree, filled with handmade ornaments passed down from generation to generation, “that Christmas at our house can look somewhat manufactured, because all our balls are the same color and our trees are professionally decorated, which is part of why I’m happy to be down here tonight, decorating with you, but we do have some little traditions of our own. Maybe they’re not a hundred years old, but-”
“They don’t have to be,” Brian said. “Christmas isn’t doing the same thing your ancestors did just because they did it or putting ornaments on the tree because those are the ornaments you happen to have. Christmas isn’t about customs and conformity. Christmas is about generosity, spreading love and celebrating the gift of grace. There are as many different ways to do that as there are people on the earth.”
Honey looked at Brian, then across the living room at Di and Mart, working together to nestle a strand of garland into the tree’s boughs and at Jim and Dan, tidying the tissue paper and replacing the lids of the empty boxes. Bobby had appeared in the hall doorway to see the tree, Mr. and Mrs. Belden stood behind him with their arms around each other’s waists.
“You’re right, Brian,” Honey said. “It doesn't matter if some people celebrate it differently, or call it something different or don’t call it anything at all. Christmas is for everyone.”
From the driveway came the crunch of tires on gravel and a flash of headlights flickered through the bay window behind the tree.
Trixie was home.