“I'm thankful for the power of the wind, which blows through our lives and changes its direction, grateful that it dropped me in Linden Corners and at the base of the windmill. I'm thankful for the time I shared with Annie Sullivan, and mostly I'm thankful for her beautiful daughter, Janey, who, even when the sun doesn't come up, brings rays of light to my life.”
“That was very nice, Brian, very, uh . . . heartfelt and poetic,” my mother stated. “Now, who wants pie? I've got apple, cherry, even a peach pieâat Brian's request . . . oh yes, Jane, what is it?”
Janey interrupted my mother by raising her hand. “Don't I get a turn, you know, to say what I'm thankful for?”
“You did, dear, you were thankful for dessert. So, peach pie? I heard it's your favorite.”
“Mom, let her speak.”
The room again quieted down as Janey found all eyes cast upon her. Her eyes flashed at me, uncertainty written in those irises. I gave her my hand in support, which she gratefully accepted. I squeezed once in another gesture of love. “I shouldn't really have any reason to be thankful, not this year. Awful things happened, terrible things that took from me the person I most loved, the only person I thought I could depend on. But maybe that was selfish thinking, because I know now that I'm really lucky, because I've got Brian, and even if he's not my real father, well, he's someone very special. He's my best friend, and I'm thankful that I get to share his . . .” She paused, looking at me, watching tears fall from my eyes as she smiled and said, “I'm just thankful I get to share his traditions and his family.”
As we all settled in for pie and coffee, an enlivened, truly thankful gathering of people began anew. Because in that moment, a brand-new tradition began, a kinder, warmer Duncan Thanksgiving was born. The child among us had taught us a lesson we'd not soon forget.
C
HAPTER
3
Janey was long asleep when eleven o'clock rolled around, exhausted from the emotion of the holiday, and stuffed, too, from a second helping of peach pie. I, too, was ready to turn in, since she and I planned to leave first thing in the morning. Good rest for a long drive. Though my place of employ in Linden Corners, George's Tavern, had been closed for the holiday, the weekend was understandably our busy time and I needed to be there for my customers. Yet there remained one more act of the performance that was the Duncans' celebration, and I found my parents asking me into the living room.
“Can't this wait?” I asked.
“We wanted to talk with youâa serious conversation, dear,” my mother said, exchanging nervous glances with my father. “Please, have a seat.”
I had been headed up the stairs already, but the look on their faces had me retreating back, and again I found myself pulled into the living room, like a lamb to slaughter. Or turkey, considering the holiday. The fire had died down to embers.
“Okay, what's up?” I asked, rubbing my hands together. Not because I was cold.
“Brian,” my mother began, “I have to confess, when you first told us what had happened up there in that town, and about that storm and that poor woman . . .”
“Annie, whom I planned to marry.”
“Yes, sweet Annie,” she said, as though she knew her, had met her, and had come to welcome her as part of the family. “We were worried about Annie having left the care of her precious daughter in your hands. After all, Brian, you became a city kid, a New Yorker who knows only about things like take-out meals and late nights out with your friends. What could you possibly know about raising kids? But seeing you with Jane today, how remarkable the two of you are together, I suppose we don't have to worry so much. I know I don't express my emotions very easily, I'm the first to admit that, but you're very good with Jane, patient and understanding.”
“You listen to her,” my father interjected. “That's important.”
“Thank you, that means a lot,” I said.
“Yes, well, given that, it only makes what we're about to tell you a bit easier,” she said. “I know tradition is an important thing for you, that's why you were here today. Believe us, Brian, we know it and we appreciate it; so does Rebecca in her own uncommon way. We all remember . . . the family we once were. We also recognize that Jane must have her own way of doing things, and since Christmas is coming up . . .”
“What your mother is attempting to say, Brian, is this: We're suddenly faced with the idea of having our first Christmas without any of our childrenâwe assume you'll be busy with Janey. Christmas is an important event in a child's life. As for Rebecca, well, who knows what crazy plan she'll come up with this year. Perhaps she'll buy Rex a doghouseâhe certainly belongs in one.” He paused, cleared his throat when he realized no one was laughing. “So, rather than spend a quiet and possibly remorseful holiday, we've decided not to be home for Christmas this year. We've scheduled a Caribbean cruise with the Hendersons. And though we were nervous about changing things up, I think maybe it's been a good decision. Now Janey can enjoy the holiday in her own home, with no pressure for you to join us for our way of celebrating Christmas. We hope you're okay with this.”
I had said nothing during this exchange, letting them both speak their minds, prepared for the worst, comforted and soothed by their words, surprised, too. All day long I had worried that my parents had become fixated on the lessimportant parts of life, their money and their home, forgetting the wonderful things in life that you
could
take with you. Though no doubt they would spoil themselves on this upcoming cruise, the idea behind it, the selflessness surrounding their gesture warmed me. I found myself embracing them both, a scene as unlikely as any you'd find inside these historic walls. In a way, this new house of theirs became a home for me, too.
As we parted, I discovered the night wasn't over yet.
“We have something for you,” my mother said.
Two more gifts awaited me, one I took with pleasure, the other with great reluctance. My mother had dug through the boxes of Christmas decorations and handed over a small, square box. Inside it was a shiny blue ornament, my name written across it in silver, glittery lettering. When I held it in my hands, a lump lodged in my throat. In my need to take care of Janey, I had forgotten about this lovely holiday trinket and a feeling of guilt washed over me.
“Thank you, thank you for remembering to give this to me,” I said. “It means . . . so much. I will, of course, put it on the tree Janey and I decorate.”
Nothing further needed to be said. Everyone in the family had one of these name ornaments, and every year I had hung mine on my parents' tree.
“Take a picture, please, and send it to us,” my mother said.
Afterward, sniffling slightly, she excused herself on the pretense of finishing up the kitchen work, leaving me alone with my father. He resumed his role as stalwart businessman as he proceeded to hand me a thin white envelope. “Raising a child is an expensive proposition, Brian, and last I knew you didn't really have a dependable job. Oh, I know, you're running that tavern, but surely that's not enough, can't be nearly enough. Probably your savings are shaved down to the bone. And before you refuse our help out of some sense of pride or whatever, think about what matters most. Think of whom this money will benefit most.”
I didn't protest, not then. I just slipped the envelope into my pocket without opening it, without looking at whatever amount my father thought overrode pride. Our meeting was over, and at last I went to bed, checking first on Janey, who was fast asleep in the room of photographs. My old high school self hovering above, a kid unsuspecting of the direction his life would take. I looked, too, at the graduation pictures of Rebecca and Philip, and then I gazed one last time at Janey. Then I went to my room. Only when I was behind closed doors did I open the envelope and look at the check my father had presented me with. I shook my head. I knew thoughts of what to do with the check would interrupt my sleep, and I was right. I slept fitfully that night, pretty much waking every hour on the hour.
When we said our good-byes the next morning, my father swung Janey around in his arms until she was laughing uncontrollably, my mother then pecking her cheek, saying, “Good-bye, Janey.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Duncan. I had a very nice time.”
My father pecked her on the cheek and finally released her.
I think it was a difficult thing for him to do.
Despite the generous check from my father, I think the richness of the holiday was left behind inside that town house. My parents waited on the top step of their porch as we made our way down the ice-encrusted sidewalk to my car. I brushed any lingering snow from my windshield, tossing a small snowball Janey's way.
“Hey, not fair!” she said, but she laughed.
Then, as she piled into the car, I put the suitcases in the trunk. But one package I kept with me was the precious box with my family Christmas ornament inside it. I set it on the backseat for safekeeping. Janey grew curious about it and so I told her she could take it out of the box, but carefully.
“It's very valuable,” I said.
“Oh, wow, Brian, it's so pretty,” she said, her eyes sparkling against the blue glass as the ball twinkled and twirled in the sunlight. I let her admire its beauty, but when I put the car in gear, she knew to put it back in the box. “I'll take good care of this, Brian, your own ornament for our tree. Right, we will be having Christmas in Linden Corners?”
Through the rearview mirror my eyes settled once again on the ornament. Memories of Christmases past flooded my mind. “Yes, Janey, a snowy Christmas filled with wonderful new traditions.”
C
HAPTER
4
“Okay, Cyn, I'll see you in about an hour, thanks.”
I set the cordless phone back on the counter, glancing at the clock as I did so. It was two thirty in the afternoon and Janey would be home from school within the hour, coinciding with the time when I would need to leave to set up George's Tavern for the long night. This was the Thursday following our Thanksgiving visit, usually not my night to work, but the relief bartender I'd hired was running late and wouldn't arrive until around six. Not opening until then would cut into my reliable happy hour business. So I'd asked my neighbor and friend Cynthia Knight if she wouldn't mind coming over to the farmhouse to stay with Janey for a couple of hours; she'd readily accepted, as she so often did. Cynthia had been Annie's best friend and could always be counted on in a pinch.
In fact, without Cynthia and her husband, Bradley, this new life of mine, caring for Janey, might never have been possible. Since the time of the terrible summer storm that had claimed our precious Annie, the Knights had been invaluable. Bradley, though he practiced tax law, had recommended an associate from his firm who handled family court issues, and a few weeks after Janey's eighth birthday, guardianship of her had been granted to me by the Columbia County Family Court down in the city of Hudson. It had been quick and surprisingly effortless. A short hearing, testimony from several of the residents of Linden CornersâCynthia, Gerta, the gang at the Five O'Clock Diner, even Father Eldreth Burton over at St. Matthew'sâhad helped in my endeavor to keep Janey living at the farmhouse, inside the only home she knew, and not be forced to live in foster care. Annie had also left instructions behind, words that proved to be the most powerful testimony in our petition. The courts couldn't ignore the overwhelming evidence set before them, that Janey Sullivan and Brian Duncan were the perfect match of child and guardian. All of our friends had promised to help out, and all had more than lived up to their part of the bargain.
But the legal issue was only one matter, and a technical one, because the actual daily caring for Janey was an even bigger one. Eight-year-old girls were fickle. It had been frightening and rewarding all at the same time, and while I knew Janey was as happy as she could be, there were times that challenged us. Because life handed you curves. Because life never went as planned. Since September, I had been trying to establish a set routine for me and Janey, knowing how important it was for me to be around as much as possible. I was awake each morning to get Janey ready for school, and on the weekends I was around all day, especially Sunday, which was the one day the tavern was closed, one of the many traditions I'd held on to after the death of its former owner, George Connors, who had also been Gerta's husband. When I worked the late hours on Mondays and Fridays, Cynthia came over in the afternoons and stayed with Janey, and on Tuesdays and Saturdays, Gerta came over and did the same. Wednesday and Thursday represented my time with Janey, days I made certain to be home, morning, afternoon, and night, believing an uninterrupted two-day stretch would give us some needed level of consistency. Today was the first day that our regular routine would be broken, and I had to hope Janey wouldn't object too much. She was usually good about change, usually so adaptable.
After my quick call to Cynthia, I hopped in the shower, since I was all sweaty from yard work. Early snow and late falling leaves made for a messy combination out back, and so while I worked and while the windmill spun, I felt anxious for Janey's return from school. Maybe we could get started on some Christmas decorating. Now, dressed and refreshed, all of our plans would have to wait. I stepped off the porch at three in the afternoon, the cool afternoon air invigorating me as I walked to the edge of the long driveway. I saw that the yellow school bus was just coming to a halt in front of the mailbox. Janey hopped off, as did her friend Ashley, a classmate who lived across Linden Corners. Oh no. I suddenly remembered Janey's request this morning, asking if her friend could visit today.
I waved to the regular bus driver, and she waved back before driving off to her next stop.
“Hi, Brian,” Janey said.
“Hi. Hello, Ashley.”
“Hi, Mr. Duncan,” she replied, her brown pigtails bobbing from the bounce in her step.
“So, what are you girls planning to do today?”
“It's a secret,” Janey said.
“Yeah, secret,” Ashley said in an annoying singsong copycat voice.
“Oh, so no boys allowed, huh?”
“Definitely not,” Ashley commented, looking to Janey for confirmation. She nodded.
“Then you won't mind if Cynthia comes over for a couple of hours? Mark's going to be late for work, and I need to get the tavern set up.”
Janey shrugged with uncharacteristic indifference. “Okay, no big deal,” she said. She followed it up with a scrunch on her face. I knew what that meant. She had a question to ask.
“What is it, Janey?”
“How do you do that? Can you read my mind?”
I laughed. “If only. So, what's your question?”
“Can I show your pretty blue ornament to Ashley? I was telling her about it and how I wished that I . . .” She didn't finish her statement. “Can I?”
I said okay, but reminded her . . .
“I know, I know, be careful. I will, thanks. Bye.”
And then she and her pigtailed friend went dashing up the driveway, where on the front lawn they saw one of the giant piles of leaves I'd worked so hard to gather. The two of them leaped into one of them, spewing crisp yellow leaves all over the lawn. I informed them that when they were finished they could find the rakes in the barn. Ashley stuck her tongue out at me. Gee, sweet kid. I hoped she wasn't too bad an influence on Janey.
Cynthia Knight arrived a few minutes later, walking over the hill that separated her farm from the Sullivan farmhouse, bringing with her a fresh bag of apples. As the local purveyor of quality fruits and vegetables, Cynthia managed a little stand on the outskirts of town, while her husband, Bradley, worked as a lawyer up in Albany. The two of them were a nice couple in their early thirties. I couldn't imagine my life without either of them.
“Thanks, Cyn, I owe you one.”
“No debts here, remember?” Cynthia had an easy smile, which today highlighted her apple cheeks. Her long mane of blond hair was covered with a knit hat, and her entire body was wrapped in a warm jacket. Even still, nothing could cover up her big heart.
“Sure, right,” I said. I'd heard it before. “If I'm going to be later than seven, I'll call.”
As I hopped into my car, I called over to Janey.
“What's up?” she asked, breathless from her quick dash.
“Did you just say âWhat's up'?”
“Ashley says it all the time,” she informed me.
“Well, how about next time you try, âYes, what is it, Brian?'” Annie had been a stickler for Janey speaking properly, full sentences and polite demeanor, and usually that's just what you got. Not so today. I was trying to keep alive the same rules. “So, you okay with this? With me going to the tavern? This is usually our time.”
“It's okay, Brian, I understand that you have your life, too,” she said; then, without knowing if she was dismissed, she bounded off to the backyard, Ashley chasing after her but unable to catch up. It was amazing how quickly Janey could run from things, the distance between us so far, so fast, maybe more than I realized.
Since returning from the visit to my parents', I had begun to notice a slight change in Janey's behavior. Nothing drastic, just little actions or phrases or turns of the head that if you wanted to scrutinize could indicate a slight crack in our delicate foundation. Picking out her own clothes, wanting to fix her own breakfast in the morning, refusing help on her math homework, and now a noticeable indifference to my breaking our well-established routine. Maybe it was just the giddy excitement of having her friend over, but I was left with a feeling that Janey was somehow trying to assert her independence. As though my presence wasn't always needed. The idea that the sweet and innocent Janey Sullivan might outgrow me, tire of my care, hit me like a stake to the heart. Usually those sorts of paranoid fantasies tended only to penetrate my thoughts in the late hours, and here they were, coming to me during the daylight, creeping ever closer.
I headed to town, my stomach nervous and unsettled.
Worrying could come later. For now, as Janey had said, I had my own life to lead.