“This is a beautiful set,” I told Miranda. “Have you had it long?”
“No. Ellie got it for me last year at an after-Christmas sale. She loves it when she finds a bargain. She gave it to me last January because she said she was afraid if she put it away she’d forget all about it and not be able to find it again this Christmas.”
Ian’s phone buzzed and he glanced at it to see the text message. “It’s Peter,” he said.
I didn’t know if I should believe him, so I kept eating as if news of Peter didn’t interest me.
“Aww, that’s a pity.”
“What is it?” Miranda asked.
Ian scrolled down the screen on his phone. “Molly is running a fever. Peter is staying home with her tonight so that his parents can go to the play. It’s the highlight of their year, he says.”
“I hope Molly is all right,” I said.
“She spikes fevers every now and then,” Ian said. “It’s usually gone by the next day. Of course, they don’t want to take a chance since so many viruses are going around this time of year.”
“How are your dad and Katharine?” I asked. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Katharine is over her cold. She’s feeling fine. My dad never had one. He’s fine.”
“I thought he was sick, too, since he didn’t join in the other night at the Tea Cosy.”
“He was feeling all right but he and Katharine thought it best for both of them to close themselves off upstairs that evening. If he was coming down with the same cold, they didn’t want to expose the entire cast of the play.”
“That was a nice preemptive gesture,” I said.
Ian turned to me. “If you’ve ever heard my dad sneeze, he can raise the roof. He could have taken out the whole cast with a single sneeze that night.”
“It’s too bad that Peter is going to miss tonight,” Miranda said.
“Sometimes I think he’s too good of a son,” Ian said. “It’s not my place to say that, of course.”
“Why do you say that?” Miranda asked.
“I know Molly was a bit of a surprise baby—there’s a big age gap between her and Peter. But I don’t think if I had a sister born with special needs that I’d be as devoted as Peter is to helping care for her.”
“I’m sure his parents appreciate all that he does for them. They’re quite a bit older than your dad and Katharine. It has to be difficult for them.” Miranda got up from the table and returned with a pitcher of water to refill my glass.
“I’ve no doubt they appreciate him. I’m saying as his friend that there has to come a time when he separates his life from theirs and gives himself the freedom to make decisions about his own life apart from Molly’s needs. It’s almost a case of Peter having too much loyalty.”
I absorbed Ian’s and Miranda’s insights about their close friend and at the same time felt that Ian didn’t understand how difficult it is to make independent decisions when you live under the same roof as someone who needs constant care.
“It’s difficult with my grandfather,” I said. “He’s not difficult. What I mean is that it’s difficult when my parents have plans to do something and I announce that I have plans for the same evening. Someone has to give in and be there for Opa. We can’t leave him alone.”
“You probably understand Peter’s situation better than we do,” Ian said.
“What is Molly’s condition?” It felt odd referring to it as a “condition.” When I met her last May, I realized immediately that something was off with her. It wasn’t an obvious situation as with someone who has Down syndrome or something such as cerebral palsy. Molly was able to function. She wore a brace on one of her legs and she could communicate even though it didn’t come out in clear or complete sentences. She was very sweet and affectionate.
Miranda looked at Ian. “I don’t know—do you?”
Ian shook his head. “I know they had her tested last summer and for the second time she hadn’t progressed in her intelligence. Where she’s at now might be as far as she goes in that respect. All I’m saying is that it’s a long time to be devoted to helping raise your little sister. Peter is a better man than most—that’s for certain.”
“No one at this table disagrees with you on that.” Miranda looked at me with a twinkle in her eye.
Ian winked at me.
I kept my head down and finished my plate of pasta.
Chapter Sixteen
We arrived early at the community theater. Miranda and I drove together with plates of intermission goodies stacked in a large box that I balanced on my lap in the cramped sports car. Ian had caught a ride earlier with his father. He was waiting for us when we arrived and helped carry the heavy box.
The walkway to the front door was lined with lanterns hung on shepherd’s hooks. The candles inside the lanterns gave a warm welcome as well as a nod to the ambience we were supposed to feel, which was that we were stepping back into Victorian times.
It seemed to me that the architectural style of the theater was well over a hundred years old but I soon noticed that it had the same sort of double doors as my high school. A plaque at the front main entrance listed May 19, 1987, as the dedication date for the building. It also listed Sir James Whitcombe’s name, so I drew the conclusion that this had been one of his many contributions to the community.
I wondered how Miranda felt when she first came here and was made aware of all the ways that her birth father had been involved with the village of Carlton Heath. It saddened me that he had passed away before she could meet him. Someday I hoped to ask her about that time in her life.
“I should warn you,” Miranda said. “Ellie makes it a practice to always dress in some sort of costume of her own for this special evening. She likes to keep it a surprise. It’s not anything related to Dickens’s era. She just comes up with her own clever creations. The first year I met her she was a sugar plum fairy. I think I still have pink glitter on my coat from when she hugged me that night.”
I remembered how Ellie had been the most colorfully dressed woman at Ian and Miranda’s wedding. At the time I thought it was because she liked wide-brimmed hats with audacious poppies and sunflowers. I never guessed how much she adored dressing up every day in her own style of happiness.
Tonight, when she opened the doors and let us inside the theater, she was wearing a beanie that had a whimsical star attached to the top. Around her neck and waist and hips were long strands of tiny Christmas lights that lit up and flashed on and off at different moments. The rest of her costume was green. All green. Even her hair was green. Pinned all over her in no particular order were ornaments. Lots of ornaments. I now understood why she wanted to buy so many tiny ornaments at Harrods the other day.
“O, Christmas tree, O, Christmas tree!” Ian sang as if recognizing her costume and singing about it was the secret password that opened the door.
“Yes, yes! Come in, come in.” Ellie motioned for us to close the door behind us. To her dismay, guests were already coming up the walkway behind us. “We’ve an hour and a half till showtime. I don’t know why people are arriving now.”
One of the women in the group tapped on the door. She was wearing a costume that looked like what a Christmas caroler would wear during Dickens’s time. Ian explained that we weren’t ready to open the doors for at least another hour.
“We’re here to help,” the woman said. “We’re the Rochester Carolers. We’ve come to sing.”
“I didn’t know we were expecting singers,” Ellie said.
“Andrew MacGregor gave us a call this week. We’re to sing as the guests arrive.”
“Oh, yes!” The star attached to the top of Ellie’s cap bobbed as she nodded. “The singers! Andrew told me. I’d completely forgotten.”
“Where would you like us? Inside or out?”
“If you don’t mind the chill, I think outside would be best. It’s a mild evening, isn’t it? But do stay inside and keep yourselves warm at least the next half an hour or
so.”
Ellie scurried off, her ornaments shimmering and her lights twinkling. “Edward?” She called out for him. “Edward? Can you see to the thermostat? I don’t think it was turned on when we were here earlier today.”
The bustling began and Miranda and I went to work, side by side, as we had the other night at the Tea Cosy. The theater had a convenient kitchen area with a refrigerator. Both the refrigerator and all the counter space were taken up with treats for the refreshment table.
We readied the beverages, decorated the refreshment table, and spread all the treats out in a festive manner with red cocktail napkins sprinkled throughout.
Julia came up behind us and let out a squeak. Miranda and I turned to see her in a darling mouse costume. She had news about the actors backstage. One of them had torn her costume and Ellie was doing a last-minute stitch up.
“Mrs. Roberts told me she was afraid she might forget her lines, so I practiced them with her.” Julia beamed. “She only has two lines. But I know how stressful it can be when you’re about to go onstage. Well, bye!”
“You definitely are part of a theatrical family,” I said to Miranda.
“Yes. I am.”
“Do you like to act?”
“No. Not at all. I know a lot of lines from a lot of plays, though. More Shakespeare than anything. I used to run around backstage the way Julia is. Never in a mouse costume, though.”
We finished laying out the tea service on the table, using all the teaspoons available in the kitchen. The harmonizing carolers echoed in the foyer as they warmed up their voices before heading outside to add a merry welcoming touch for the arrival of the first guests.
The doors opened.
Ushers were in their places and Julia, the most convivial mouse that ever scampered around in a theater, was in high spirits. She received endless pats on the head as she expertly wove her way through the throng of people of all ages. I’d never been to the opening night of a play, so I didn’t know if there was always this much merriment or if this was a British distinction. Or maybe it was characteristic of only this play, performed only on this night, with only this community.
Whatever the factors were, it made for a delightful time before the play even began. Ellie came to us with programs in her hand. “Miranda, why don’t you and Anna find your seats and save a place for Ian? Go down the left side. Markie will show you where we’ve saved your places.”
Tall Mark, wearing an impressive-looking suit for such a young man, proudly ushered us to the fourth row from the front. Ian was already seated. Miranda slid in next to him and I took the aisle seat.
The inside of the theater was as lush as the outside. The curtain was made of a deep blue–colored velvet and when it was drawn back by invisible cords, the lights dimmed and an impressive hush fell over the audience.
On center stage was my uncle Andrew, dressed in the most magnificent Father Christmas costume I’d ever seen. It was, as Miranda had said, very much like the one on the antique postcard hanging on the wall in her bathroom. I glanced over at Ian and saw the look of a son’s great pride as he focused on his dad.
The spotlight warmed on Uncle Andrew’s impressive figure. He turned to the audience and with the great rolling of the r’s with his Scottish accent he quoted the first line of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.
“Marley was dead. As dead as a doornail.”
Chapter Seventeen
I settled back in my plush seat and watched as the thoroughly enjoyable, impressive, and heartwarming play unfurled through the interpretation of the senior citizen actors. Each of them seemed to take their role quite seriously and played every scene with dramatic flair.
Petite Julia the mouse had joined us and was taking turns standing and sitting on Miranda’s lap and then on my lap. She clapped softly with simple joy when she heard the line, “For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself.”
At one point Miranda turned to me and whispered, “My mother would have loved this. I think of her every year when I see the play.”
I gave her arm a squeeze.
In that moment, I felt as if I was a world away from my mother and father and the rest of my Minnesota relatives. While I didn’t miss them necessarily, I did feel a fondness when I thought of them. I didn’t think that my mother or any of my relatives would “love” the play as Miranda said her mother would have. They would enjoy it, no doubt. But the theater fell into the category of all things fanciful and frivolous.
As did my love of art and drawing.
Miranda tapped my arm and whispered. “That’s our cue. We need to slide out before intermission and help at the refreshment table.”
We left Julia with Ian and took our places behind the bountiful spread.
The guests of all ages were fun to watch and chat with. I especially enjoyed the enthusiastic comments from the younger theatergoers who proudly wanted me to know which one of the actors was their grandmother or great uncle.
I thought of Peter the most during intermission and wondered which one of the older couples was his parents. Some wistful part of me kept hoping he’d been able to slip away and would come striding up to the table at any moment and catch me by surprise.
But that didn’t happen.
On this night, the Christmas wishes that were coming true were those wished by the cast. This was their night in the spotlight and they were giving such commendable performances. The most notable was the man who was playing the role of Scrooge. He was leading all of us to believe that he truly was being transformed that night.
When we returned to our seats, the curtains were drawn for the third and final act. Scrooge, still in his nightgown and nightcap, stepped onto the stage and the lights shone on a large, festively decorated Christmas tree. Mounds of wrapped gifts surrounded the tree and in the midst of it all was the imposing figure of my uncle in his Father Christmas costume.
“Come in, come in, and know me better, man.” I loved the way Uncle Andrew belted out the line in his most jovial voice.
I glanced at Miranda and she was crying.
None of the scenes in the play affected me the same way as that one moment affected Miranda. That is, until Scrooge was being whisked away by the Spirit of Christmas Future. Julia was on my lap and her mouse tail was draped over the armrest and hanging in the aisle. Scrooge was shown the tiny crutches beside an empty stool by the fire and concluded that Tiny Tim had departed this earth.
Scrooge clutched his chest and cried out to the Spirit of Christmas Future, “I am not the man I was! Assure me that I may yet change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life.”
I wasn’t sure why that got to me but it did. I teared up and wished that Peter were beside me. Instead, I had Julia balanced on my lap, so I reached for one of the ears and blotted my tears.
Scrooge played out his transformation fabulously and delivered his well-known declaration, “I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.” I felt a lump in my throat and lowered Julia on her feet so that we could stand together the moment the curtains began to close and be among the first to offer our wild applause.
“We need to get back to the table,” Miranda whispered.
Reluctantly, this time, I slid out the back of the darkened theater. The applause broke out just as we entered the brightly lit lobby.
“Just a minute,” I told Miranda. I rushed back in and stood at the back, offering my applause. It seemed the right thing to do as the stage filled with the endearing cast. They received the hearty affirmation with many bows and grins and bobbing heads. I thought there might be some shenanigans with waves and kisses blown out to friends and family members. Not so. To the last, each of them maintained their role with dignity and reserved pride.
I hurried back to help Miranda tidy up. The packed playhouse let out a few minutes later and the slow stream of pleased guests made their way out the door where the Rochester Carolers we
re giving it their all once again. Some of the guests stopped by the refreshment table for one last tartlet or a bite of fudge. Most of the food had been enjoyed during the intermission. During the third act Ellie had consolidated what was left down to four small platters.
“We estimated quite well on the food this year,” Ellie commented. She stood beside me behind the refreshment table. “I had my doubts earlier this week. But as usual, it all shifted out nicely.”
An older couple wearing coats and matching red scarfs came over to the table. The man reached for a coconut macaroon, examining it before taking a bite.
“Oh! Hallo!” Ellie said. “How’s Molly doing? I heard she’s home with a fever. I hope that won’t change your plans to come for Christmas.”
I perked up, catching on that these were Peter’s parents. I smiled politely, hoping to be introduced.
“We’ll see how she does and ring you tomorrow. Would that be all right?” Peter’s mother had a soft expression but a surprisingly wrinkled and weary-looking face. She gave the impression of being a very private person who had more than a few significant ailments of her own but none that she would ever complain about to others.
“Yes, give me a call once you know. We are all looking forward to having you join us.”
Peter’s father wore glasses and a hearing aid. His white hair was yellowed on the ends and looked scruffy, as if he was overdue for a haircut.
“Have you met Anna?” Ellie asked enthusiastically. “This is Andrew’s niece. She’s staying with us. She and her mother came from America last May for Ian and Miranda’s wedding.”
Peter’s mother glanced at me and gave a polite nod. “We understand you are an artist.”
“Yes.” I wasn’t used to being called that, but yes seemed to be the correct answer.
“Peter said you are making sketches of Whitcombe Manor.”
I nodded again.
“How lovely.”