An Island Christmas (3 page)

A week later, George trudged up the stairs with a wicker basket of fresh laundry in his arms. He found Jilly in the guest bedroom. “Here you go, Lady Gordon, one clean set of snowman-covered sheets and a reindeer-patterned duvet.”

“Help me make the bed, will you please, George?” Jilly asked. “My back is starting to ache.”

“I’m not surprised,” George said as he flapped out the bottom sheet and helped Jilly spread it on the mattress. “You’ve been working like a crazy woman on the house.”

“We’ll never have another Christmas like this one. I want it to be perfect,” said Jilly. “Anyway, I have most of it done. Lauren and Porter will be in Lauren’s old bedroom with air mattresses on the floor for Portia and Lawrence. Felicia and Archie will have her old bedroom. Pat Galloway could have the guest room but she prefers staying in a hotel. I’ve put on Christmas sheets and quilts anyway.”

“I noticed,” George told his wife. “Looks great. And I’m sure that now that the kids are older, nothing will get broken.”

Jilly was quiet as she helped George finish making the bed. She plumped up the pillows in their Christmas shams and smoothed out a few tiny wrinkles on the duvet.

“We don’t have any little-boy toys in the house, but I bought a few “Meg Mackintosh” mystery books I think Lawrence will like and I’ve put them on the bedside table. As for Portia, I left Lauren’s old doll carriage and baby doll in the room for her to play with.”

Suddenly Jilly collapsed on the bed, dropped her face into her hands, and began to cry.

Alarmed, George sat down, put his arm around his wife, and asked, “Hey, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, George,” cried Jilly, “when I got out the baby carriage, it made me remember when Lauren’s children were babies and slept in our daughters’ crib. There it was, up in the attic, all folded up, with a mattress wrapped in plastic, and the soft baby sheets and blankets and bumpers tucked away in a plastic box. And we’ll never use any of it again.”

“How can you say that?” George asked. “Felicia’s getting married. I’m sure she’ll have kids someday.”

“Yes, and she’ll probably give birth in a yurt in the Gobi Desert, attended by two Mongolians and a goat.”

George threw back his head and laughed, hugging Jilly to him. “You have quite an imagination.”

“I don’t need an imagination when I have a daughter like Felicia,” Jilly said glumly.

“You really have been working too hard,” George said soothingly. “You’re upset over nothing. Listen, it’s Stroll
weekend. What are we doing sitting inside? Let’s go for a walk and then I’ll take you out to lunch.”

“George, what a great idea.” Jilly wiped tears from her eyes and stood up. “I’ll change clothes and put on some lipstick.”

In a flash, Jilly’s mood brightened. The Nantucket Christmas Stroll took place the first weekend after Thanksgiving weekend. This annual occasion became more exciting every year, as islanders and tourists alike entered into a shimmering bubble of holiday magic with the sweet salt air glittering like fairy dust over their heads. The town blocked the use of cars on Main Street so that the hundreds of strollers could amble along, pausing to listen to the Victorian carolers in cloaks and bonnets singing to the crowds, or to watch Santa and Mrs. Claus arrive on the Coast Guard boat down at Straight Wharf.

The stores were filled with luxurious and delectable gifts, their windows decorated with artistic flair. Mermaids and snowmen, reindeer and ice skaters, gingerbread sailboats and candy canes twinkled behind the glass. The town crier strode through the town, welcoming people and announcing the beginnings of pageants, fairs, and readings.

The crowds themselves decorated the streets; it had become a custom to dress with dash for the Stroll. Women wore red velvet cloaks and wide picture hats with feathers or faux fur coats and earmuffs. Some men and women wore hats with reindeer antlers, or red and white Santa hats, or
green elf caps with golden bells jingling from the pointed tip.

Jilly put on warm wool slacks and her green cashmere sweater, topped with her green wool coat. She added her special Christmas earrings, one red, one green, which flashed on and off, because she’d remembered to put the new batteries in. She added a bright crimson slash of lipstick and smiled at herself in the mirror. She felt better already.

Hurrying down the stairs, she caught up her purse and her leather gloves.

George was waiting in the front hall, looking quite handsome in his black wool dress coat, even though the buttons strained over his belly; he’d worn this coat for years. Jilly picked up the new headgear she’d purchased for him this year, a red felt stocking cap with miniature green felt Christmas trees bobbling above each ear.

“Not a chance,” George said, stepping backward.

“It’s specially for the Stroll,” cajoled Jilly. She took the red and white candy-cane-striped muffler she had knit for him and wrapped it around his neck, kissing his cheek as she did. “Try it on. Show some Christmas spirit.”

“Fine, but I refuse to wear it in the restaurant,” George grumbled.

Jilly put her Santa hat on, adjusting it so that the fat white pom-pom at the end fell over her shoulder. Taking George’s arm, she twinkled up at him. “Let’s go!”

As they walked into town, the Gordons began to turn up their coat collars and pull their mufflers tighter around
their necks. No snow had fallen yet, but the day was unseasonably cold, and when they reached Main Street, they saw that the other strollers already had rosy cheeks. They encountered some acquaintances who had their matching corgis on red and green leashes. The dogs and owners alike wore blinking Christmas lights around their necks. The Gordons patted the dogs, greeted the humans, and continued their walk.

“I’d forgotten that this has really become a dog holiday,” said George.

“Well, this is a dog island, after all. And the dogs seem happy to be decked out.”

Jilly pointed at a large yellow Lab wearing reindeer ears. Farther down the street, an elegant white poodle sported a glamorous headband with several sequined white snowflakes attached by springs. And trotting along happily like a well-fed pig, a very fat pug paraded down the street wearing a red satin bow around her neck.

“What a sweet little puppy,” Jilly cried. “May I pet her?” she asked the owner, who rather resembled a pug herself.

“Of course,” the owner said. “Her name is Poppy.”

Jilly knelt and reached out a hand to the pug. Poppy stuck out a peppermint pink tongue and licked Jilly’s hand.

“Hello, sweetie,” Jilly greeted the puppy. She looked up at her husband. “I wish we had a little dog like this.”

“Have you ever had a dog?” the pug owner inquired.

“No,” Jilly answered briefly, not wanting to admit what a neat freak she was. “But maybe …”

The pug owner continued, “Not to be a Grinch, I only ask because I’d forgotten how much work dogs are. They have to be walked several times a day, and it’s holy murder crawling out of bed early on a dark winter morning to take Poppy out. But she yips and yaps and scratches at the bed until I do. Then there’s the matter of chewing. I can’t tell you how many leather shoes Poppy’s ruined. And she’s not even a big dog, certainly not one of those eternally hungry dogs like yellow Labs who will eat anything, even the contents of wastebaskets, no matter how much you feed them.”

“Goodness!” Jilly stood up. “I appreciate you warning us about all this.”

The pug owner replied, “Of course I’m crazy about Poppy, and I won’t give her up. Anyway, Merry Christmas!” With that, the fat little pug and her owner waddled away.

The Gordons strolled on, crisscrossing the cobblestone streets, stopping to watch Joe Zito and his puppet, Grunge, entertain a flock of children, pausing farther up the street to listen to the Victorian carolers.

“My stomach’s growling,” George mumbled as “Come All Ye Faithful” ended. “Let’s go eat lunch before the restaurants are too crowded.”

He steered Jilly toward the Brotherhood, a historic pub with fireplaces, juicy hamburgers, and a full list of wine and beers. He knew what he wanted, but Jilly stared at the menu for so long he thought she’d slipped into a coma.

“Jilly?”

“Oh … I guess I’ll have a salad.” Listlessly, she let the menu fall from her hand.

“You’re kidding. No one eats a salad when it’s so cold. Don’t tell me you’re trying to lose weight over Christmas!” Now he was worried.

“I’m not hungry, George.” Jilly gazed out the window, idly watching the crowds pass by.

George stared at his wife. How could he help her? They were too old to have another baby, which was no doubt what she secretly wanted. Lauren and Porter wouldn’t have another child; they’d confessed that Porter had had a vasectomy, considering two children enough. Felicia might have a child someday, but until then would Jilly remain so downhearted? His wife was an odd mixture of perfectionism and softheartedness.

He could buy her a puppy, but that meant newspapers on the floor, toilet training, long nights interrupted by pitiful howling, and eventually, as the pug owner had said, chewed shoes.

Suddenly, he had an inspiration.

“Jilly!” Reaching over, he took her hand, indicating his desire for her full attention.

“Yes, dear?”

“I’m going to buy you a kitten!”

“A kitten?” Jilly was puzzled, looking for a moment as if she had no idea what the word meant. Then she smiled, her big, happy, generous smile. “A kitten! Oh, George, what a wonderful idea! This is going to be the best Christmas
ever!” Jilly declared. “Oh, George, let’s order clam chowder and cheeseburgers! No, I can’t wait to drive out to the animal hospital. Oh, should we choose an all black kitten? I’ve always fancied those, wanted to name one Salem or Midnight. Or an all white one? We could call her Snow!” Jilly nearly clapped her hands with joy at the thought. She was out the door before George had even pulled on his coat.

4
 

By ten
A.M.
, Felicia and Archie had finished a lazy breakfast of pancakes and bacon, following an energetic session under the bedcovers. Now they were showering, dressing, and preparing for the arrival of friends for the Sunday NFL game between the New England Patriots and the Buffalo Bills.

“Archie,” said Felicia in her sweetest voice, “I have a few early Christmas presents for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Archie came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist.

Felicia gestured toward the bed. “I bought you some things. Would you try one of the shirts on to be sure they’re big enough?”

Archie stomped over toward the bed—he wasn’t angry, he always sounded like he was stomping—and stared down at the pile of new clothes as if they were rattlesnakes. “What the heck?”

“For our trip to Nantucket,” Felicia explained.

Archie looked wary. “I have clothes.”

“I know you do, but we’re going to be on Nantucket for two weeks. It’s winter and it’s cold. I know we’ll spend most of the time hiking around the island, but some evenings Mom and Dad will want us to eat out. They’ll want us to join them at Christmas cocktail parties, and I’m sure they have a Christmas party planned, as well. They want to show you off, and you can’t be wearing a torn T-shirt that says
Take a Hike
.”

Archie made a face. “Come on, honey, give me a break. I’ve already packed my kilt, isn’t that enough?”

“Do you want to wear your kilt to every cocktail party?” Felicia asked mildly. “Look, Archie, these are from Lands’ End. They’re not dressy, they won’t scratch your neck—”

“Anything with a collar scratches my neck,” Archie argued.

“—and you’ll look like the handsome gentleman I know you can be.”

“I don’t want to be a gentleman. I never have wanted to. Where did you ever get that idea?” Archie dropped his towel and pulled on clean briefs.

“I don’t want you to be a gentleman, either, but I want you to look like one for my parents. I don’t think it’s too much to ask. You and I have talked about this, Archie. You said your mother has never cared about appearances, but my mom’s a nut job about them. Remember when she and Dad came out here, you looked a bit—um, caveman?”

Archie swooped Felicia up in his arms, threw her on the bed, and fell next to her, tugging on her hair. “As I recall, that’s a look you like.”

Felicia grinned. “True.”

“And as much as I like your mother, she’s not the one I’m marrying.” Archie nuzzled Felicia’s neck, kissing her ear, her cheek, her lips …

“Stop that!” Felicia demanded, rolling away from her gorgeous fiancé. “I’m trying to talk about our wedding. Who knows when we’ll see my parents again? It will be years, probably, before you have to put on a button-down shirt.” She sat up. “We are going to settle this matter before the football game starts.”

“You really ask a lot of a guy,” Archie muttered. “All right, which shirt do you want me to try on?”

Felicia handed him a navy-blue-and-white-checked flannel shirt that she knew would bring out the solar flare blue of his eyes. She had already unbuttoned it for him; Archie hated fumbling with tiny things like buttons.

Archie put on the shirt. He surveyed himself in the mirror. “It fits,” he admitted grudgingly.