Christmas at Whisper Beach Read online

  She turned slightly, watched his back rise and fall with sleep. Studied the moonlight glancing off his dark hair. She wanted to grab hold of him and all the Enthorpes and beg them not to let her go. At the same time she wanted to run until . . . until what?

  She’d run once before. It had worked out in the end, but there had been some scary, awful times. She didn’t want to be like that. She didn’t want to lose her father again after just getting to know him. She’d never known him before. The father of her childhood had been a nasty drunk. Now he was the man he was supposed to be, should have been: sober, an artist, a compassionate human being. A father who loved her and whom she could love.

  What on earth was she supposed to do?

  She turned over, away from the window and the moonlight and away from Joe. She heard a sound, held still, and listened.

  An animal call?

  She sat up. It was coming from inside the house. One of the kids.

  She slipped out of bed, hurried to the bedroom door and opened it a crack. She could hear crying coming from down the hall. She recognized that sound. Recognized and relived it as she stood in the doorway, indecisive, waiting for the whimpering to turn to full-fledged terror.

  “What are you doing?”

  Van whirled around. Joe was propped up on one elbow and squinting at her.

  “One of the kids is crying,” she said.

  “Oh.” He pushed the covers back, grabbed his jeans off the back of the chair and grabbed his tee-shirt as he headed for the door. “Go back to sleep. I’ll take care of it.” He brushed past Van and met his mother coming down the hall in the opposite direction.

  How had she managed to hear the crying from the other side of the house?

  Joe and his mother didn’t have to exchange words, they simply opened the door to the girls’ bedroom just as a scream erupted from the room.

  Van grasped the doorjamb, her own remembered terror holding her there.

  Joe and his mother went inside, shutting the door behind them. The screaming finally tapered down to exhausted sobs.

  Van turned from the door and got back into bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, her knees to her chest, and lay there shaking. From cold, she told herself. But she knew it was really from inside, the cold dread of memory that still overtook her even in the best of times.

  The nights when her father was drunk and angry, the terror of living with strangers in Manhattan, other runaways and immigrants who worked for the cleaning service where she’d found work. The terror of knowing she was going to die when she began to lose the baby she’d made with a stranger because she’d been so betrayed by Joe and life.

  Oh, she recognized the terror in that little girl. She’d wanted to reach out to her, tell her she was safe here.

  She’d wanted to comfort them, tell them that everything would be fine. But even if she’d gone instead of Joe and his mother, she couldn’t have told them that. No one knew what would happen in their lives. They could only hope. Small comfort to a terrified child . . . or adult for that matter.

  She couldn’t even convince herself, so she’d let Joe go instead.

  From down the hall, she heard a door open and shut, Joe and his mother talking in low tones as they walked back down the hall. And as selfish as it was, Van felt her own shortcomings more than ever.

  And when the bedroom door opened, and Joe came back to bed, Van pretended to be asleep.

  Chapter 5

  It was almost nine when Van awoke the next morning. It had taken a long time for her to fall asleep after the crying in the night. And then she’d slept like the dead. She didn’t hear Joe leave, but when she got out of the shower, she heard voices from the kitchen.

  She meant to get a cup of coffee and take it out to the gift shop to do some work. When she looked into the kitchen, Haley and Kayla were sitting at the table. Mom was at the sink drying dishes.

  “Morning,” Mom said. “There’s a plate of pancakes warming in the oven for you.”

  “Sorry, I overslept.”

  “Did you have plans for today?”

  “Just . . . working on the gift shop.” Van poured a cup of coffee. “I finished stocking Elite yesterday. Now I just have to hire and train some staff and I’m ready to go.”

  “Then sit down and have a nice leisurely breakfast.” Mom Enthorpe reached into the oven.

  “Where are Joe and the guys?”

  “I sent Joe and Owen to the store and the other two decided that they had to go along. They said they had a few things to do. I’d like to think they’re getting haircuts, but since it’s Sunday, I know the barber isn’t open. Maybe last-minute Christmas shopping.”

  She placed a plate of pancakes in front of Van, followed by butter and syrup.

  “These look delicious.”

  “Well enjoy, and if you can spare the time, we’re making Christmas cookies this morning. We could use another pair of ‘big’ hands.”

  Cookies? “I . . .”

  “We’re so excited, aren’t we, girls?”

  “I don’t know much about making cookies.” Cookies were about as far out of her résumé as they could be.

  “We don’t either,” Kayla said. “But it’s fun.” She smiled.

  And Van thought, She has such tiny teeth.

  Haley nodded but didn’t add her opinion.

  Van studied both girls, trying to discern which one had been so upset during the night. She couldn’t tell since they were both a little puffy from sleep. Their hair had been combed. By Mom Enthorpe? Or had they already learned to take care of themselves? Joe said their mother worked two jobs. What on earth would they do if she was incapacitated for any length of time?

  Mom was smiling at her and Van realized the two girls were looking at her, too. They were all waiting for a response.

  “I bet it’s fun.”

  “Good. The more the merrier.” Mom handed Van an apron. “It could get messy.”

  Messy. Van tied the apron around her waist and spread it over her lap. Van hated messy. A few months ago, she would have already reorganized the kitchen, refolded the dish towels and rearranged the shelves in the pantry. She’d recently revamped Dorie’s whole restaurant.

  Over the summer, she’d gotten used to Suze, the quintessential absentminded professor, spilling food down her front. At Dorie’s, she’d stopped rearranging toiletries in the shared bathroom.

  Then she’d moved in with the Enthorpes who could leave tornado devastation in their wake. It hadn’t been easy at first, but she found herself not cringing when a newspaper fell off the chair arm onto the floor. Or bags of groceries sat on the table for hours. Of course, she’d learned that Mom had her own system, and that all the unpacked bags contained nonperishables that she could unpack at her leisure.

  But cookies? Cookies were what housewives made. Mothers. Grandmothers. Where did that leave Van? Here in the Enthorpe’s kitchen where food and eating was not just a necessary habit but a communal sharing. It was hard to get used to at first. As the only child of a drunk and nurse who worked odd hours, she’d never known familial togetherness, or much about sharing.

  She poured more syrup on her pancakes. “Great, cookies.” Everybody could make cookies. You just followed the recipe.

  She’d made cookies before. Nobody grew to be thirty without ever making cookies. The memory came with her last bite of pancake. She’d made cookies, or at least helped, in this very kitchen. Maddy and Elizabeth and Mom and her.

  They’d worn aprons and laughed and eaten the cookie dough until Mom ordered them to stop. She could barely swallow her food as the memory invaded her. Happy times, happy times again, if she let them be.

  Mom Enthorpe cleared the girls’ plates; outfitted them in aprons that she had to roll up several times to keep the kids from tripping on them; got out bowls, utensils, flour, sugar, eggs, butter, cans and boxes until Van and her plate were a little oasis of sanity in a sea of . . . She gulped. Chaos.

  Van got up and carried her plate
to the sink, washed it and put it away.

  “Ready,” she said. “Where do we start?”

  “We’re starting with sugar cookies,” Mom said.

  “We’re going to decorate them,” Kayla volunteered.

  Haley hadn’t said anything since Van had joined them. Was she upset? Or shy? Or angry? Maybe Van was just reading her own experience into Haley’s expression, but she didn’t think so.

  Mom and Kayla measured and poured, and Haley and Van mixed the ingredients together. By the time the first batch of Christmas-tree-and Santa-shaped cookies were put in the oven, the table, the floor, the chairs and the bakers were covered in flour.

  “Should we do a little cleanup?” Van asked, running her hands under the spigot.

  “Heavens no,” Mom said. “We’re just getting started.”

  Joe and Owen sat in the backseat of the farm truck. His father was driving and Granddad was riding shotgun. They were on their way to the original Enthorpe farmhouse, down the road a half mile from the current house.

  Thank God his granddad had refused to let them sell the house when they’d had to sell off acreage several years before. Joe loved the old house, everyone did. Even though now they were all too busy to do more than basic maintenance.

  Joe had never really broached the idea of him and Van moving into the old house. He didn’t know what his granddad’s reaction would be. He’d lived with his wife and children in that house for over fifty years. He might not want anyone else to live in it.

  He hadn’t even mentioned the possibility to Van. Her Manhattan apartment was sleek—to Joe’s mind, downright cold—and he wasn’t sure that the farmhouse would hold any appeal for her.

  Maybe it was a stupid idea. But this morning when his granddad suggested they take a ride over and see “what was what” after the last storm, Joe thought maybe today was the day. So right after breakfast, they’d all piled into the truck.

  The house stood behind a copse of trees, the branches barren now, and Joe could just catch glimpses of it as they turned into the drive. He leaned forward to see through the front windshield.

  Funny, how the memory plays tricks on you, he thought. In his mind’s eye he saw white clapboard and dark green shutters. At Christmas the eaves over the porch would be draped with pine boughs and white lights. The fir tree in the yard would be covered with red bows and suet balls for the birds. Like his parents’ house was now.

  So it was a shock to see it looking untended and uncared for. One of the shutters on an upstairs window had pulled off its hinges. The whole house needed painting. In the ten years his grandmother had been gone, the house had aged a hundred.

  His father stopped the truck at the front of the house and they all got out.

  “When did that happen?” his granddad asked, pointing up to the hanging shutter.

  “Probably in that big storm we had a few weeks ago,” Joe Jr. said. “I should’ve come over and made sure everything was okay.”

  “Naw. You and Joe have been busy with the vineyard. I shoulda come before now. Should keep a better eye on things.”

  They all looked up at the house, and Joe saw his opening.

  “Since we’re here,” he said. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

  Both Joes—and Owen—turned to look at him.

  “What’s that?” Granddad asked. “You’re not thinking of razing the place to put in more vines.” It was a statement not a question, and the way his granddad’s chin was jutting said if that’s what Joe was thinking he could just think again.

  “No. Nothing like that. I was just thinking ahead, you know of the future . . .” He swallowed. He should have discussed this with his father before even broaching the subject, but suddenly with Christmas coming on and the children in the house and Van and him living together in all the hoopla. . . .

  “I was going to ask you what you thought about maybe if Van and I moved in here. We could fix the place up—not changing anything or anything.” God he was tongue-tied.

  “You asked that girl to marry you yet?” his granddad asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  His father and grandfather exchanged looks. Then like two mechanical toys, they turned their heads simultaneously to look at Joe.

  “It’s complicated,” Joe said.

  “No it isn’t.” His grandfather shook his head, exasperated. “Only takes four little words. Will you marry me? Count ’em.”

  Owen’s eyes had rounded, now his mouth followed suit.

  “I’m not sure she’ll say yes.”

  “Hell, she’s living with you under our roof. That’s as near to married as you can get without the preacher pronouncing it.”

  “That was hard enough.”

  “You using the house as incentive to seal the deal?”

  “No,” Joe said. He wasn’t. He just thought if they could be truly alone, have their own place to start building a family, or maybe not a family, but spending the rest of their lives together.

  “It was just a thought,” Joe said.

  “Well, we’d best go take a look and see what needs to be done.”

  Joe had already turned to go back to the truck, but his granddad’s sentence made him stop.

  “Come on then.” Joe Sr. started toward the house. Joe’s dad put his hand on Joe’s shoulder and gave him a short nod.

  “Wow,” Owen said and hurried after Joe Sr.

  Joe and his father followed.

  By the time his granddad had unlocked the door, Joe’s heart was hammering. He hoped he wasn’t jumping the gun on this. What if Van said no? To the house and to him?

  Owen slipped past Granddad and went inside and the three Joes followed after. It was cold inside. For several years after his grandmother died, they’d kept the utilities paid up, but gradually they’d drained the pipes and let the electricity and heat go.

  The four of them stood in the archway, looking into the “parlor” as it had been called when Joe was a boy. Most of the furniture had been claimed by those who wanted it or been carted off to the Vets. A few pieces were still sitting in awkward disarrangement in the abandoned rooms. Two armchairs faced the fireplace, probably the home of mice now.

  What his father or grandfather was thinking, Joe couldn’t begin to guess. Were they reliving the good old days? He knew he was. Imagining the Christmas tree twice as large as the one they had at the farmhouse. The ceilings here were a good twelve feet high. Those had been incredible days, when Great Uncle Jessup had played Santa and none of the kids, at least not Joe, ever guessed he wasn’t.

  By tacit agreement, no one had ratted him out, teased the younger kids about him not really being Santa. Until they day he died, no one had ever breathed a word that the real Santa had never appeared. To them Uncle Jess was the real deal.

  And Joe wanted that. His brothers and sisters were moving away. They still mostly made it back for holidays, but soon they’d have their own families and would be too busy to keep the family tradition alive.

  They would make their own traditions in their new homes in their new towns. And he would make his, hopefully with Van, and with their children, even if those children were adopted. Would it be enough for him? For her?

  They moved on to the kitchen, another large farmhouse room. The wallpaper was faded and curling along the seams in places, but the heavy wooden oak table that no one had room for still stood in the center of the room.

  Joe placed his palms on the surface, pushed it back and forth to see if it wobbled. But it was steady as a rock.

  The appliances had been removed, but they would have to be replaced anyway. Was he totally off the mark to think that Van would even want to live here?

  “Are you sure Van wouldn’t rather live in a one of those nice modern condos down the road?” asked his father, reading his thoughts.

  Joe shrugged. He didn’t really know what Van wanted. He wasn’t sure that Van knew what she wanted. But they couldn’t muddle around not knowing forever. It was time t
o take a stand. Maybe.

  They left the kitchen and moved to the back of the house where a more modern bathroom had been installed when his grandparents had moved downstairs. The dining room had been converted into a spacious bedroom. It would do as a master suite until they could tackle the upstairs.

  There were four more bedrooms and a bath upstairs. And another two overflow rooms in the attic above.

  “It’s a lot of house,” said Joe’s father.

  “Take a lot of work,” added his granddad.

  “I thought we could just fix up the downstairs first, then do the upstairs later. As time went on.”

  “For kids,” Owen said. “I would so live here.”

  Joe’s breath stuttered. He was aware of his father and grandfather preternaturally quiet beside him.

  “I mean . . . some other kid. Your kids.”

  “We know what you mean,” Granddad said. “And if Joe fixes up the place you and your sister and momma will have to come visit.”

  Owen frowned. “Yeah.”

  For one selfish moment, Joe had agreed with him. But Owen had a family who loved him. And hopefully his mother would get well soon and could find a better paying job. Maybe they’d even find something here at the winery for her. He’d have to ask Van.

  It wasn’t really Owen’s future he was worried about. It was his and Van’s.

  “Well, we’d better get going before Alice thinks we’ve absconded with the condensed milk and slivered almonds.” His father herded Owen downstairs.

  “Get Ollie Leesom to come over and inspect the structure and wiring,” Granddad said. He took a final look around. “It would be nice to have someone in the house again. It would be nice to have you and Van.”

  Joe followed him downstairs. He’d seen the mist in his granddad’s eyes and he was feeling a little teary himself.

  They all climbed back into the truck.

  “Don’t mention this to Van,” Joe told them. “I want it to be a surprise.”

  “No problem, son, none of us will breathe a word.”