The housekeeper had stepped aside when he had entered the room, and in his presence, she seemed far less frightening. “Yes, Father. Mrs. Keenan was just telling me how much she enjoyed my coffee cake.”
He looked anxiously at the remaining pieces on the dessert plate. “You’ll stay, Holly, and help us with the decorations. My mother left me the most exquisite glass ornaments from the old country. Been in the family over one hundred years.”
“I couldn’t—”
“But I insist,” said the priest. “We can continue our little talk while we trim the tree.”
“No, I really must be going. Last-minute shopping, I’m afraid.”
Fiddling with the thick buttons of his sweater, the priest looked as crestfallen as a schoolboy. “Perhaps the tree can wait.”
“Not on account of me. Thank you for your hospitality, but I’ve got to run.”
The priest and the housekeeper took a step toward her, but it was not till she had breezed between them that she realized they had only wanted to shake her hand. The antiseptic aroma of a pine forest drenched the front hall, and she burst out of the house, wiggling into her coat, glad to breathe in the fresh cold air. Safely in her car, she looked back at the rectory, and on the front steps stood the priest and his housekeeper, refugees from a gothic fairy tale, waving good-bye. She ripped the gearshift into reverse and gunned her way out of there.
Rather than heading straight into town for shopping, she drove along the shoreline and stopped at an overlook and parked the car. The engine ticked like a bomb when she pulled the key from the ignition. Christ, one more thing, she thought, and then it purred to silence. The gray Atlantic pushed its waves against the rocks below the cliffs, and the clouds dumped snow far out at sea. Yurei, ghosts of the drowned. She shook her head in disbelief. Her hands trembled as she stepped out into the cold, and she longed for a brandy. The wind pressed against her body. Mother of that boy. That boy. She longed for some way to force a good cry, but it was too cold for that now. There were gifts to buy, an alibi for her deceit, and so much to do before the holidays.
ii.
Tim skinned an orange for the boy and poured himself another cup of coffee. No reason not to take it easy for a while. Holly would be gone for hours, granting them a reprieve. The oatmeal bowls soaked in the sink. The list of chores on the fridge was an artifact from a distant age. A lazy Saturday morning stretched out before them, promising idleness. Padding in his slippers to his easy chair, Tim wrapped his robe tightly against the cold and settled in with the crossword from the newspaper. He scanned the clues, filling in those boxes with words readily known or deduced. On the carpet by the Christmas tree, Jip curled like a cat in his old favorite threadbare pajamas, frayed at the cuffs and outgrown by two sizes. Intent at his drawing, he hummed softly to himself, and only when Tim listened closely could he make out the tune his son was singing. “Little Drummer Boy.” Stray flurries wandered across the picture window. He thought for a moment of turning on the Christmas lights against the dismal morning, but he had settled in too deeply to move his bones. Stuck at his puzzle, Tim leaned back in the chair, nestled his head against the cushion, and closed his eyes.
In what seemed mere seconds, his son appeared at his side and was softly smacking him on the cheek. He opened his eyes to the sight of the boy hovering above him, bouncing on the balls of his feet, mouthing a silent admonition to wake up, wake up. The newspaper had fallen from his lap, though he still held the pen in his clenched fist.
“What is it, Jip?”
“Someone at the door.”
“I’m awake, I was never asleep. Why didn’t you just answer?” he asked, realizing at once his mistake. Jip would never risk bringing the outside in. Rousing himself from the chair, Tim gathered his robe together as he marched to the front door. Standing on the stoop were Nell Weller and her son, flakes of wet snow melting in their hair.
“Nick, you little ray of sunshine. Were we expecting you this morning?”
Cupping her hand around the back of his head, Nell guided the boy inside with a gentle nudge. As he was taking off his coat, Nick sneezed, covering his mouth with the lining. Nell followed her reluctant son, taking in the scene of the Keenan men in their robes, the room in quiet disarray.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Not a cold, I don’t think. Allergies. We had to put up a fake tree this year, took Fred all day to figure out the branches. You don’t seem to be prepared for visitors at all. Is Holly home?”