“Mrs. Wilkinson?”
“Yes, dear, are you Ms. Rainer?”
“Nora Rainer, yes,” she said, and then turned to Brian. “My associate, Brian Duncan.”
“Ma'am,” he said with a polite nod.
“He does the heavy lifting,” Nora said by way of explanation, with a wink at him.
He didn't comment, merely accepted his role as the hired help. Not that his body was built that way, but being a laborer with a lot of land to tend in Linden Corners had hardened this one-time city boy. They were ushered inside a musty home that felt like it hadn't been aired out in months. Brian looked around for a cat or four, but so far stumbled over none. Into the living room they went, settling onto a pair of fabric-worn chairs. On the table before them was a silver tray, again in need of a polish, like much about this house. A pot of tea and two cups were set out. Thick, voluminous draperies hung over the windows, keeping sunlight at bay. There was a gloomy sense not just to this room but the whole house, matched only by a detached sadness in the old woman's eyes.
“I apologize for only setting out two cups for tea, but I wasn't expecting a third person,” Mrs. Wilkinson said.
“No problem,” Brian said. “Perhaps you'll allow me to serve then?”
She nodded once, looking approvingly over at Nora. “A gentleman, how very nice. He's a keeper,” she said with a sudden faraway look that gave light to her otherwise gray eyes. Like her comment had sparked an old memory. “Young man, if you go down the long hallway to the kitchen, you'll find another cup in the cupboard. Oh, and maybe you could bring in that box of chocolate cookies. I couldn't carry everything and then suddenly . . . here you were. I heard your car pull up. Thankfully I've still got all my senses working.”
Brian accepted his task, returning only to find Nora and Mrs. Wilkinson already engaged in conversation. Nora said something about how glad she was to have called her store, asked how she had heard about A Doll's Attic.
“Oh, I've known Elsie Masters for years, she helped my husband furnish this house,” she said. “When I phoned her a few weeks ago, she informed me she had sold her business, that the new owner was changing its focus a bit. So I was curious, and waited a week or so before calling, give you a chance to settle in. But always I thought you were the right person to handle my needs.”
“A Doll's Attic is all about the past, Mrs. Wilkinson, it's about keeping memories alive.”
“Call me Katherine,” the old lady said.
“And please, I'm Nora. So, how can we help you?”
For the first time, Nora had included Brian with her use of the word
we,
busy as he was serving tea and chocolate biscuits. He looked up, noting her inclusion.
Katherine Wilkinson, seemingly glad to have an audience, launched into her tale, sipping at her tea only when she needed to collect her thoughts. Turned out, she had lived in this once-heralded home for nearly four decades with her husband, a noted area writer named Chester Wilkinson. They had moved up here from the cityâwhich to everyone in Upstate New York was code for Manhattan. “Our only daughter, Mary, had just left for college and Chester and I were looking for a life change, and that's when we stumbled upon this house, quite luckily I might add, and of course my husband was not one to dawdle. Before I knew it, papers were signed and we were moving in, lock, stock, and memories . . . but no Mary. She had grander ideas than living in a big house in a small town. So we lived our lives, Chester became a bit of a local celebrity in Hudson's literary circles, always hanging at the bar at the Saint Charles with his pal, Elliot, who runs the antiquarian bookstore on Warrant Street. Yes, he'd be inventing tales, all while I tended to the house. Admittedly I did a better job back then, now it's just gotten too hard. I may have my mind, but not always my body.”
“Do you have help?”
“Some,” she said. “But I have my memories and they keep me comfortable.”
Brian felt a crush of sadness, because not only did this kindly old soul no longer have her husband, whom she said passed away quietly in his sleep six years ago, but the daughter she had mentioned was gone too, wasn't that what had brought Nora here? There was too much loss just in this overstuffed room, not just for her but for Brian, too, and Janey and Gerta, Nora, and . . . he had to stop himself, this wasn't the time or place for regrets. He was just Nora's handyman, just playing the strong, silent role. He wondered, though, could he actually take away this woman's possessions, load them into the back of the truck and transport them to the store, only to have strangers poring over them and dickering over the price, as though they were mere objects, not cherished mementos of a person's life? It wasn't his call, but how he wished it was. Like the boxes stored upstairs in the farmhouse's attic, they were a treasure trove of Sullivan family memorabilia, a history of the life Janey had been denied.
“Oh, but my Mary was a wonderful girl, not unlike her father with her sense of adventure. But while he saw the images in his mind and put them down on the page, she wanted to see the real world, and she did. Girl couldn't even sit still as a child, so it was hardly a surprise that she grew up so free-spirited. First Europe, then the Far East and Australia and other places whose names keep changing with every government coup, or so it seems. No matter where she went she sent back so many tchotchkes her room looked like a map of the world. One of her favorites was to experience Christmas in other parts of the world, to learn and partake in their traditions. Our family is part Dutch, so of course when she went to the Netherlands it was with the intent to celebrate their holiday of
sinterklass
âwhich happens not on Christmas Day but on the fifth of December. Sitting in my chair and reading her postcards, I think I learned more about the world from her than from any map.”
“Sounds like she was unstoppable.”
“Oh, that was Mary all right, small town life wasn't for her.”
“May I ask what happened to her? If it's not too painful . . .”
“Oh, it always hurts, it always will, even though she's been gone for over ten years.”
“Oh Katherine . . . and then to lose your husband.”
“I think her loss exacerbated hisâhe wrote a novel about her, but wouldn't allow it be published. It sits in a drawer, still. Anyway, Mary . . . it was when she was in the Netherlands, just a horrible turn of events. A car accident, came out of nowhere, one of those dumb accidents. December sixth it happened, the day after a celebration in the town square of the village she was visiting. She'd gotten off one last postcard before it happened.”
Brian felt a chill rip through his spine. He thought of Annie, again, and he thought about accidents, which some would call the hand of fate, and in his mind he saw the turning sails of the windmill. But instead of images of Linden Corners he was swept across the ocean to the tulip-rich countryside of the Netherlands, and he saw not one but a series of stunning windmills, all of them suddenly quieted. Mary Wilkinson, Annie Sullivan, lives cut short, lives blurring right now, like his eyes.
Nora shot him a curious look. He just turned back toward Katherine, waiting for more of her story.
“Oh, her death crushed us both, surely. But before that accident . . . Oh, you should have seen the way Chester's smile would brighten whenever one of those brown parcels from overseas arrived, always with the same unmistakable handwriting: âFrom Mary,' it would simply say. And she would send not just the usual gifts like coffee cups with city names and their landmarks on them, not only key chains and magnets. Mary knew how to find those special, handcrafted gifts, silks from Asia, painstakingly created ornaments that would decorate our Christmas tree every year. We would send her pictures, which of course only encouraged her to seek out more and more. The last one we received, sent from Holland, was a glass ornament with a lit windmill inside it, and, oh my . . . it was just beautiful.”
Brian was shaken all over again, her heartfelt story filled with too many coincidences to sit comfortably within him. Yet he was alone in his thoughts, Katherine's story was reaching its zenith.
“We collected so many of those ornaments over the years, we would need a twelve-foot tree to fit them all, and even then there would be leftovers. Oh, and rare artifacts from expeditions she would find herself on, how she got hold of them I still don't know. I've got boxes and boxes upstairs in the attic, all marked âMary.' Except those we marked âChristmas.' It's been years since I've opened those.” She paused, then said, “So, Nora, are Mary's treasures anything of interest to you?”
“They sound fascinating, Katherine. I would love the chance to look them over. But, are you sureâ”
“Oh, thank you, that pleases me very much,” she said, without addressing the word she had interrupted. “Would you like to see them now, dear, or perhaps schedule another time?”
Brian noticed how the woman's formal address had lessened as the morning had worn on. From Ms. Rainer to Nora, now to the sweetly enveloping “dear.” Here was a woman who desired company, companionship, a chance to talk about the past and her daughter in the reverential tones she deserved. And Nora was picking up on that vibe, that much Brian could tell.
“You know, I think another time would benefit us both, Katherine. It would give me a chance to really assess what you've got, especially those Christmas ornaments you spoke ofâmaybe they intrigue me because the holiday is right around the corner,” she said. “Perhaps I could bring lunch with me next time, we could sit and get to know one another better before I get started. So you make sure your daughter's gifts are placed in the right hands.”
“Oh Nora, that sounds lovely,” she said with an easy clasp of her hand.
“Perhaps next Monday? My store is closed that day, so that leaves me free.”
“That's perfect. Mr. Duncan, will you be joining us?”
“I think that's one date tailor-made for the two of you,” he said.
As they said their good-byes, Katherine embraced them both, thanked them for their time.
Soon they were back in the truck, making their way back toward downtown Hudson.
Brian was quiet, but found Nora gazing over at him.
“Something on your mind?” he asked.
“You like that word, don't you?”
“What word?”
“Date,” she said.
Brian felt his face burn with sudden embarrassment, and it wasn't because of the rays of warm sunshine beaming through the windshield. Still, that didn't stop him from shifting the visor above the dashboard, partially blocking her view . . . of him.
C
HAPTER
9
N
ORA
N
ora wasn't going to be the first to admit it, but she was having fun today, perhaps for the first time since she'd arrived back home in Linden Corners. Even if at the moment she was outside its borders, still down in Hudson and still in the company of the erstwhile Brian Duncan. In the back of her mind she still heard that dangerous thing called a date, and as they were escorted to their table at the Harbor View Restaurant, she had the sense that the other diners in the restaurant agreed with her assessment: It looked like a date. She then stole a furtive glance at Brian, who appeared nonplussed by the envious looks they were receiving.
Soon they were seated by the hostess at a corner table with a beautiful view of the Hudson River, and, as befit the restaurant's obvious name, one of the harbor, where boats were currently in dry dock; in the summer season, she imagined tables outside and the squawking of gulls as boaters enjoyed the pleasures of the water. For the cooler months, only the inside was available. Still, they had a prime table, and Nora knew it was because Brian had a connection here.
Glasses of ice water filled, Nora busied herself by studying the menu. Brian was doing the same, the silence between them more evident than the clang of dishes as they were tossed into a plastic bin by the busboy. Not able to concentrate on the lunch specials, Nora finally put her menu down and said, “Uh, Brian, you do realize . . .”
He looked up. “I know, it's not a date.”
“It can't be.... I'm a married woman.”
“So what you're saying is that if you weren't married, this would be a date?”
“Huh? No, not at all. Look, Brian . . .”
“Relax, Nora, please, it was just a slip of the tongue on my part this morning. I certainly didn't expect that this was anything more than a business arrangement, with me the driver,” he said, then, attempting a bit of levity, added, “It's been so long since I've been on an actual dateâmuch less asked for oneâthat my brain didn't even know what it was telling my mouth to say. So, let's forget the word and just enjoy ourselves.”
“Thanks, you make it easy,” she said. “Besides, aren't I older than you?”
“Now who's trying to entice me?”
She had no choice, she laughed, and the gentle sound brought her shoulders down. This day, it was so different from what she was used to back in her old life. On the rare occasions she did take a lunch, with a client or a partner or even a rival attorney, it was all business: note-taking as an appetizer, one-upmanship as an entree, and of course billable hours for dessert. Sitting at a table opposite someone she barely knew, in the middle of the day and on a Monday to boot, she couldn't ever remember an indulgence so decadent. Nora Rainer, who could be spontaneous so long as it was written ahead of time on the calendar, was actually smiling.
“That looks good on you,” Brian said.
A slight frown hit her, the compliment unnecessary.
“That's not an improvement.”
“You want to comment on beauty, look out the window.”
Fortunately they were spared any additional volleying, as their affable waiter approached the round table, calling Brian by name. Nora gazed up to see a handsome, though scruffy dark-haired young man who couldn't have been more than twenty-four or -five. He looked familiar, but she couldn't exactly remember where she might have seen him. It wasn't until he asked to take their drink order that she recalled.
“Oh wait, you're the bartender from the tavern . . . Halloween night,” she said.
“That's me, Mark Ravens.”
“I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you with your shirt on,” she said.
“That was Sara's doing,” he said, with a slight blush.
“Remind me to thank Sara.”
“She's my fiancée,” he said.
“Ah, well then, I'll take whatever's available. A glass of wine?”
“Red or white?”
“Red. Merlot?”
“We've got a fab Cab.”
“Fab. I'll have the Cab.”
“Brian?”
He exchanged confused looks with them both, pausing before saying, “Oh, is it my turn? Didn't want to interrupt the oenophiles,” he said. “You know my order, Mark, seltzer, lime.”
“Right, gotcha,” he said. “I'll be right back with drinks, and uh, hey, Bri? Do you think you've got a second to talk? I mean, since we're away from Linden Corners I can kind of speak freely.”
“Sure. You don't mind, do you, Nora?”
“I could always go powder my nose.”
“No, no, I'm not chasing you away. In fact, I wouldn't mind a woman's take.”
“On what?”
“Let me get those drinks and I'll be back.”
So Mark went off to the bar with a fresh spring to his step, Nora watching happily as he did. When she gazed back, she found Brian staring at her, an amused expression on his face. She nervously pushed her hair over her ear.
“What was that?” he asked.
“What?”
“For a married woman, you sure didn't mind flirting.”
“Oh please, it was harmless, and besides, he's just a boy,” she said, with a lingering gaze toward the bar, where he was chatting with a woman bartender likely around his own age. She appeared to not mind his company either. “Though a very attractive one.”
Brian just shook his head, leaving Nora without conversation until their drinks arrived.
“So is it?” Mark asked expectantly.
Sipping at her wine, Nora feigned ignorance. “Is it what?”
“Fab?”
She just smiled his way. “Perfect.”
A few minutes later, with their lunch order placed, Mark Ravens joined them by grabbing an extra chair from a nearby empty table, turning it backward and resting his arms against the back. He had asked his boss for a break, stating he just needed a few minutes to confer with his friends. Nora could see that Mark was nervous, though why was beyond her. He needed a woman's help, that's what he'd claimed, so she had to figure it had something to do with Sara. Hadn't he'd already done the hard part, though, asked the girl of his dreams to marry him and received back a yes? What could be the problem?
“You know, it's been nearly a year since I asked Sara to marry me,” he said, “and while everything is great between us, really great, I'm mean, never better in fact, she's been dropping less than subtle hints about finalizing a date.”
Seemed to be the word of the day. The use of it here made Nora sit up straighter, eyeing Brian carefully. He just painted on a wider grin that was clearly just directed at her. She had the urge to stick her tongue out at him, decided that would be childish . . . like she was Janey's age or something. Instead, she chose to concentrate on Mark's dilemma.
“See, I wanted to have everything perfectâa better-paying job, out of debt, so she and I could start fresh, right? Except nothing has changed, we're still both in the same jobs we were a year ago, me splitting time between the resort and the tavern up in Linden Cornersâdon't get me wrong, Bri, I appreciate all the extra nights you can give meâand with Sara working double shifts at the Five O', it seems like we hardly have time for each other.”
“So why do you think getting married will help matters?”
“No, see, that's the thing I've come to realize,” he said. “Our lives are never gonna be perfect, but they'll be as perfect as they can be if we just pick a date and get it over with.”
Brian was about to speak when Nora felt she had to jump inâhe'd asked for a woman's perspective and he was going to get it . . . he needed it. Inwardly she was lambasting herself, here she was, a separated woman with divorce looming on the horizon, now suddenly offering up marriage advice. Like throwing a rock at your own glass house. She reached out and placed her hand on Mark's, said with knowing comfort, “Mark, you almost had it right when you said it would be as perfect as it could be, words like that would melt a girl's heart.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“I sense a âbut' coming,” Brian said.
Nora ignored him, her focus still on Mark. “But . . . never tell a girl you're getting married just to get it over with. Makes it sound like a visit to the dentist.”
Mark nodded, understanding. “Okay, sure, I see your point, Nora. But here's what I'm thinking. I do want to pick a date, but I don't want to wait around until June or something, and I don't think Sara wants to wait that long either. So, Brian, I was wondering, are you planning to host the annual Christmas party again at the tavern, you know, like you did last year?” He turned to Nora to give her the back story. “See, that's where I proposed to Sara, and Brian here was a big help, even going so far as to quote me a good rent on the upstairs apartment. That's where Sara and I have been living for the past year. Wouldn't that be great, if she and I got married on the same day as my asking her, exactly a year later?”
“Not a bad idea,” Brian said. “And, yeah, I'm sure we'll have the party, it was George's tradition . . . and with his daughter Nora here back in town, how could we not continue to honor him? What do you say, Nora, are you game for the annual Christmas party at the tavern? Bet your mom has already started planning the menu, picking out fresh ingredients for her pies from Cynthia's fruit stand. You should have been there last year, there were so many friends of mine who unexpectedly showed up, no reason why we can't ratchet things up and toss in a wedding.”
“Oh my God, really?” Mark said.
“Why not, it'll give our big holiday party a nice kick in the pants,” Brian said. “Though I don't suggest you make the wedding itself a surprise like you did the engagement. Girl like Sara will probably want a hand in helping with the arrangements.”
“A hand? Try hands, legs, heart, and soul,” Nora said with a laugh. “When I got married, I told Dave his only responsibility was to show up. And thankfully he did . . . until he decided not to.”
The moment she said it she wanted to take it back. There was no place for bitter remarks about her own troubled marriage when this idealistic young man was through the moon in love with his girl, wanting to plan an extra-special wedding day for her like a true romantic. In a way, Nora felt the string of jealousy, not because Mark seemed so earnest and she so jaded, it was that they were just starting out and the eventual baggage had not yet begun to accumulate, much less be unpacked. She was about to apologize when a bell rang from the kitchen, Mark's signal that his break was over, their food ready. He thanked them both as he retreated to the kitchen, came back not only with turkey clubs with generous helpings of fries, he set a fresh glass of Cabernet before Nora.
“Hopefully we can raise a glass together at my wedding,” he said.
“I'd be honored, thanks, Mark.”
“Thank you, Nora. You, too, Brian buddy. I don't know what I'd do without you. Nora, it's all 'cause of this guy that I met Sara, when I got that gig down at the tavern. Hey, who knows what next year will bring, you two look great together.”
Mark departed, again with that eager spring in his step, not even noticing that both Brian and Nora had gone the shade of her fab Cab.
Â
Turned out, all the drinks were on the house and the food came with a discount, so Nora insisted on leaving the tip, a larger percentage than the going rate. The two of them headed out of The RiverFront Resort & Spa's restaurant and into the bright sunshine of the mild afternoon. As they drove back up Warren Street, Nora reminded Brian of the bookstore Katherine Wilkinson had mentioned, asking him if he wouldn't mind one last stop. It was too good to pass up, perhaps she could kill two birds with one trip, that's what she said as they approached the store, located just across the street from the historical Saint Charles Hotel; the sign in the window stated N
EW AND
U
SED
B
OOKS
, R
ARE
E
DITIONS
.
“Are you sure you have time?”
Brian double-checked his watch. “It's only two thirty or so, I've still got two hours before I need to open the tavern,” he said, nodding his approval. “Sure, let's see what we can find out. Think you'll just magically find Thomas's book on the shelves?”
“This is Hudson, it's reality.”
“Meaning Linden Corners is fantasy?”
“Some days, I think so. Come on, let's go see about Saint Nick.”
Brian pulled against the curb in an empty spot, the two of them then making their way toward the Antiquarian Book Shop, Christmas on her mind once again. It was a recurring theme, she thought, having first discussed Christmas with Mrs. Wilkinson and just a short while ago with Mark Ravens's wedding plans, and now here she was engaging in the next, unexpected chapter in the hunt for Mr. Van Diver's elusive holiday book. Not that she figured to find his exact edition, despite Brian's sarcasm, but it was as good a place as any to inquire. Perhaps the proprietor would offer up some leads for her.