Miranda looked at me as if trying to decide if she wanted to believe me or not.
“We’re good chums,” I said a little too brightly. “I’m fine with that. I didn’t come here looking for love.”
I wasn’t sure if I agreed with my own statement. I definitely didn’t want to read in Miranda’s inquisitive eyes whether she was buying it. My eyes lowered to my lap where the purple notebook was awaiting my attention.
“You know, I’ve wondered how it was for you when you moved here. Did you feel at home right away?”
The best thing about Miranda, I decided just then, was her calm way of understanding how to shift topics and make others feel comfortable in the midst of it. She started telling me the whole story of how she found her way into the Whitcombe family. She had come to England a couple years ago in search of her birth father, whom she’d never met. Miranda never imagined her father would be Sir James. Happenstance, as my cousin Ian had called it, led her to the Tea Cosy where she was soon enveloped into the Whitcombe family at Christmas.
“It took Edward a while before he accepted me as his half sister. Now that he has, I feel at home here in every way.”
Miranda slowly plunged down the stopper on her glass French press. She looked out the window and added, “Now that the paparazzi have moved on to other, more interesting women, I feel that I’m accepted by all the members of the Whitcombe family. Edward’s mother, Margaret, was especially gracious to me, considering all the circumstances. You haven’t met her yet and you probably won’t. When Ian and I got engaged last Christmas, she announced two days later that she was going to live with her daughter in Bedford. No one could believe she’d move out of the manor, but she did. She said it was because Bedford is closer to her doctors in Cambridge. I still feel that in spite of her kindness in welcoming me into the family, she prefers to not be around me.”
“Why?”
“I’m the constant reminder that her husband was unfaithful.”
“But you had nothing to do with that.”
“I know. But the media had a field day when they found out and security had to be hired to keep the photographers from intruding into the lives of the family. As I said, it all died down. Ian and I chose to make our home here, so I think that’s why Margaret chose to make her home elsewhere.”
“But you said she was kind to you and welcomed you here.”
“She did. And grace offered in words can be very healing, but actions are the true expression of love. I want to believe that Margaret left Whitcombe Manor as a gesture of love to Ian and me as well as a way of finding her own sort of comfort in the face of a difficult family situation.”
I nodded my understanding. “That’s similar to what I’ve seen in my mother. She’s given full-time care to her father-in-law, my Opa. He’s been an invalid for almost six years now and lives at my parents’ home.”
I realized that all the unbending, methodical, and cautious traits I’d recently come to dislike in my mother had been the exact qualities that allowed her the strength and steady peace necessary to provide the intensive, ongoing care my Opa needed.
A burst of appreciation for my mother, just the way she was, came over me. I was the one who needed to extend more grace. More love.
Miranda brought over my requested cup of dark coffee in a Christmas mug, of course. That prompted us to slip into a less intense discussion of our favorite Christmas movies and favorite Christmas carols. She told me about the woman she lived with after her mother passed away and how the Santa Cruz cat-loving woman was fond of tofu.
“She gave me my first pair of Birkenstocks,” Miranda said. “And she loved God. It was the most peculiar combination. Every morning as I ate my bowl of granola with chia seeds and acai berries, long before that combination was popular, she read to me from the Psalms.”
Miranda put the pan of brownies in the oven, removed her kitchen mitts, and joined me by the fire. “Two years ago when I first came here, it felt as if God was close to me in this place. It was the first time since the granola years that I’d felt that way. I came here on a search for my birth father. But at the Christmas Eve service I felt as if I’d found my Heavenly Father.”
Miranda took a sip of coffee from her snowflake-pattern mug. “In a way, I think my Heavenly Father was the one I’d really been searching for all along.”
“I came to Christ in a similar way. It was at a Christmas Eve candlelight service at my grandmother’s big church in Minneapolis. I don’t know what it was, exactly. The music, perhaps. Or maybe it was the profound meaning in the Scripture passages that were read during the church service. All I know is that when my grandmother turned to light my candle from hers, I whispered a childlike prayer and told Jesus I wanted to give Him my heart.”
Miranda nodded as if she understood exactly.
“Have you heard the Christina Rossetti poem? The children recited it at the Christmas Eve service two years ago.” Miranda reached for a small red book on the coffee table. The title was Best Loved Christmas Poems. The cover had a Victorian look and it fit in perfectly with Miranda’s other careful design choices.
“Here it is. ‘In the Bleak Midwinter.’ It’s the last stanza. ‘What can I give Him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; Yet what can I give Him: Give my heart.’”
“I love that. I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s also a song that’s popular here around Christmastime with the children’s choir.”
“That’s exactly how I felt. I wanted to give my heart and life to God for Christmas.”
Both of us seemed to find great joy in the way our conversation flowed effortlessly like spring snowmelt on a sunny Minnesota morning. I had always followed my dad’s advice to never talk to anyone about religion or politics. But this didn’t feel like we were talking about religion. We were talking about a relationship and the way we had each come into a loving, growing relationship with the One who became a baby on that first Christmas so long ago.
Miranda leaned back in her wingback chair. “Your powers of concentration impress me. You’ve been drawing the whole time we’ve been talking.”
“I’m on a Christmas deadline. I’m making a princess coloring book for Julia.”
“You are?”
I handed her the book so she could see the first two completed illustrations.
“Anna, this is so cute. Julia is going to love it.” She looked over at me and gave me a look of amazement. It was the way I felt when I walked into her beautifully, artistically decorated home.
“The next one I’m going to draw is Princess Julia with her tiara in the backseat of a London taxi with stacks and stacks of pink macaroons. Well, actually, they’ll be stacks of macaroons. She can color them anything she wants. Pink, green, purple.”
“You are so gifted, Anna. I can’t believe you haven’t done more illustrations for children’s books. Would you like to do more?”
I nodded. “I’m just beginning to figure out how to write and illustrate my own books and have them printed as well.”
“Sounds like a huge endeavor.”
“It was.”
“Does that mean you’ve already published your own children’s book?”
I hesitated. Prudence told me to keep my secret to myself. This could turn out to be quite embarrassing.
In my shoulder bag was a wrapped Christmas gift that I’d brought with me. I hadn’t told anyone about it. No one had seen it yet, except for the printer in Pennsylvania that I paid in order to have three copies made. The other two copies were hidden in my room at home.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound pushy,” Miranda said.
“No. I didn’t take it as pushy. I hesitated because I do have a children’s book that I wrote. I have it with me. It’s just that I haven’t shown it to anyone yet.”
Miranda’s eyes gave me a tender, pleading sort of look. “I would love to see it. I really would. If you don’t feel
comfortable showing me because it’s a gift, I understand. I’ll see it after you give it to Julia.”
I shifted in my chair, feeling uncomfortable and yet so eager to connect with Miranda. We’d been honest and open and vulnerable in our conversation ever since I entered this cottage of comfort and joy. It seemed stingy of me to hold back from showing her the gift.
With a deep breath for courage, I told Prudence to take a hike.
Miranda will understand. And if seeing the book prompts her to ask a lot more questions, so be it.
I pulled the bubble-wrapped gift from my bag and gingerly handed it to her with my telltale confession.
“The book isn’t for Julia.”
Chapter Fourteen
Miranda received the wrapped book with a grateful look. She carefully undid the wrapping and held the book in her hands. As she studied the cover, a knowing look dawned on her. The illustration was of a sweet-faced lamb with a tiny pink triangle of a nose and very short legs.
“Molly the Little Lamb.” She read the title with the same conviction as she’d read the Christina Rossetti poem.
Somehow that small gesture made me feel as if she viewed my handiwork as a real book. An artistic accomplishment that deserved to be treated with honor and appreciation. It was the kind of affirmation I’d never received at home.
“You wrote this and illustrated this for Molly.”
I nodded. My shyness gauge jumped ten points.
“Peter is going to be so surprised. He adores his little sister.” Miranda carefully turned to the first page, smiling.
“The story is about Pete, the loyal sheepdog,” I explained. “He’s responsible to herd all the little lambs in the meadow and he does so by riding his shiny bicycle around and gathering the flock.”
Miranda turned the pages as I told her the story.
“Pete the loyal sheepdog gets all of the little lambs rounded up except for Molly. You see, her legs are too short for her to keep up with all the other lambs. So Pete comes up with a solution and, well, you’ll see his invention there on the last page.”
Miranda broke into a wide grin as she turned to the last page. “It’s just like the wagon-style seat that Peter made for Molly on the front of his bike.”
I nodded, feeling my nervousness dissipate. “That way Pete the sheepdog can keep Molly with him on his bike while he pedals around the pasture and herds all the other sheep.”
“Anna, this is adorable. I love these darling red shoes you drew on Molly’s short little legs. And the illustration of this sheepdog with all the shaggy hair flipping in front of his eyes. This is really wonderful.” She closed the book and ran her fingers over the cover. “Where can I get a copy?”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“That’s one of three copies. I had it specially done through one of those places that can print a few books at a time.”
“You need to make more. I want a copy and I’m sure Ellie and Julia will. And Andrew and Katharine. Katharine will want to sell them in the Tea Cosy. Why don’t you send it to a publisher? It’s so good.”
I brushed off Miranda’s comment. I could see lots of flaws with the book. According to the printer, I hadn’t prepared the standard number of pages and the words would have been easier to read if I’d selected a different font. Plus, the watercolor illustrations should have been transferred through a different format before I sent the files in to be printed. I tried to explain all the beginner foibles to Miranda but she was undaunted in her enthusiasm.
“Seriously, Anna. This book is wonderful.” She flipped through the pages again. “I love it. Peter will love it, too. And of course, Molly will be elated.” Miranda carefully returned it to the bubble wrapping. “I spoiled the gift wrap, but I have lots of wrapping paper. When are you going to give it to Peter?”
“That’s a good question. I was actually thinking that maybe you or Ian could slip it to Peter tonight at the play or maybe drop it by his parents’ house tomorrow night, on Christmas Eve.”
“Don’t you want to give it to him?”
I gave a shy shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I should save it and mail it to Molly for her birthday. Do you know when her birthday is?”
“No, I don’t.” Miranda got up and reached for her cell phone on the counter. She started tapping a text message. “Ian and Peter are over at the theater helping Edward get everything set up for tonight. If you like, I could ask if Peter wants to stop by here when they’re finished. You could give it to him then.”
Just then the front door opened and Ian bounded inside.
My heart did a funny arabesque spin and landed in a flop.
Ian was alone.
“I was just going to send you a message and see how things were going.”
Ian untied his boots and left them by the door. “Many hands make light work. We finished early.” He sniffed the air. “Did they send me home here to the biscuit factory just in time to make sure you didn’t burn the cottage down?”
“The brownies!” Miranda slipped into her mitts and opened the oven. She pulled out the pan and gave the center a spongy poke. “They look perfect. I don’t know why the timer didn’t go off, though. This oven is so fickle.”
Ian looked my direction and seemed surprised to see me. “Oh, hallo, Anna. I thought you might still be sleeping.”
“I’m not that jet-lagged.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Oh, yeah? What did you hear?”
“Peter said you fell asleep on the train ride back last night.”
“That’s true. I did.”
Ian stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for Miranda to look away before he cut himself a nice-sized piece of gingerbread.
“Ian! Those are for our family and friends and for the play tonight.”
He gave her a look of mock offense. Putting on a Scottish brogue that sounded just like his father, he said, “What are you sayin’, woman? Are you daft? Am I not your family? Am I not your friend? Have I not just come from doing the labor of an honest man so that you and your family and your friends might have the privilege of sitting in comfort as you enjoy the play tonight?”
Miranda was laughing before he even got to the “daft” line. She went over and wrapped her arms around Ian’s middle giving him a hug with her face resting on his puffed-out chest. Her undying affection for him showed all over her face.
“That’s more like it,” Ian said, concluding his spot-on imitation of his father.
I’d only seen my Uncle Andrew go into one of his playful bellowing moments once before. It was at the wedding when he danced with me and couldn’t contain the sheer joy of being a man who had lived to see the day that his son was married. It was the purest sort of happiness and I’d thought of that moment often whenever I felt something strongly but held back or withdrew my true feelings and replaced my reaction with a more sedate, acceptable response.
Miranda went back to the oven, still glowing. She put in the next pan of gingerbread and started getting the frosting ready. I returned to my drawing of Princess Julia in the taxi. Ian helped himself to another slice of gingerbread and came over to sit across from me by the fire.
“Peter told me something else.”
“Oh?” I tried to play it coy but one of the downsides of never hanging out with the popular girls was that I’d missed out on learning how to be charming on demand.
Ian leaned back with his hands folded behind his neck. “He told me that the two of you had a divine evening together.”
“Divine?” Miranda repeated from the kitchen.
Ian put up his hand in defense. “His words, not mine. Divine is what he said. Something about the Christmas tree in Trafalgar and the choir at Saint Martin-in-the-Fields.”
I felt my face warming at the memory.
“Look at that,” Ian said to Miranda, grinning at my reaction. “I’d say Peter wasn’t the only one who would use the word divine to describe last night.”
“It was holy,” I said firmly, as if I had any possibility of changing the direction my cousin’s mind had gone. “We stood on the steps of a church by the huge tree and listened to the choir sing ‘O Holy Night.’ It was…”
I gave up and decided it didn’t matter if Ian wanted to tease me. What mattered is that Peter had told him that our time together had been “divine.” That was something. I wasn’t sure what, but it was something.
Ian hopped up and reached for the poker to stoke the fire. “Like I said, Peter thought you and your evening with him were both divine.”
I noticed how he added the you to the divine comment this time but I decided to do my best to ignore Ian. It was not likely that I’d be able to discern if the added part about Peter thinking that I was divine as well had truly come from Peter’s lips or if my rowdy cousin had decided to add it in to see how many shades of red he could get my face to turn.
I hoped when I saw Peter tonight at the play that I’d be able to pick up something that would give me a hint of his true feelings. The way he treated me around his family and friends in a public setting would tell me a whole lot more than any mirthful statements Ian tossed around. I didn’t dare let my imagination wander off into fairy-tale land. Not without more evidence directly from Peter that he was truly interested in me as more than a friend.
Miranda’s statement about Margaret flashed in my thoughts.
Grace offered in words can be very healing, but actions are the true expression of love.
Chapter Fifteen
I lingered at Rose Cottage for the rest of the afternoon and felt, truly, like family with Miranda and Ian.
Miranda completed her baking and frosting. I focused on finishing the coloring book and Ian kept the fire going and did his bit of sketching on a project he’d brought home from the architecture firm where he and Peter worked.
All teasing and taunting about Peter had subsided.
Twilight was coming on and Miranda had prepared a simple supper for us of pasta and salad. The three of us tucked in, as Ian liked to say, around the small kitchen table with the nativity scene taking up the center space.