Page 38 of The Gift of Seeds
Now, what will I do?
For weeks, she’d looked forward to going to church tonight. She’d always loved the Christmas Eve service. Candles glowing in the darkened church. The congregation in their finery. Singing carols—her favorite hymns of the year. The scent of the evergreen boughs lining the windows and the altar.
Suddenly tired, Hester glanced out the front window.
Like her spirits, the sun was sinking, shading the bright blue sky with gray.I should get dressed for church.But she didn’t move, unable to find any enthusiasm within herself for the evening.
Guilt weighed heavily. She had never missed a Christmas service in her life. Doing so seemed almost sacrilegious. But Hester couldn’t seem to muster the energy to care.
No one will even notice if I’m not there.
CHAPTER 12
After Andre Bellaire and Rose Collier left, restlessness made Dale reluctant to sit again in the chair and try to get lost between the pages of a book. Thoughts of his conversation with Miss Collier intertwined with those of his next-door neighbor. He wondered if Miss Smith was going to church tonight.Should I offer to escort her?
Maybe if he started by leaving a little gift, he could watch and see if she opened her door to go to church. If she picked up the gift and read the note and smiled, he’d step forward and offer to walk with her. Walking in the dark, even with partial moonlight and carrying a lantern, would be frightening to a lady unaccustomed to nighttime in Sweetwater Springs. Well, probably any lady, even those born in town, would feel uneasy.
Regardless, then, I should escort her. I can offer to carry a lantern, so she doesn’t have to.
A gift might ease his way. If Miss Smith still objected, he’d tell her he’d walk fifty feet behind, both close enough to watch over her and far enough that she should feel safe. After all, they were going to the same place.
What kind of gift?
Something appropriate for a lady. One of his gardening books, maybe.But what if she already possesses that particular volume?He remembered her expression of wonder, when she looked at his purple mums, and the answer came to him.Seeds, of course!
He could put them in an envelope and include a note. Find something nice to wrap it into. He strode from the kitchen and down the hall to the parlor, thinking.
Dale always had an embarrassment of riches when it came to Christmas presents. Even though he lived estranged from his family, they didn’t really believe he was estranged from them. So, his mother and his sisters, cousins, and aunts sent him gifts. He received a plethora of handkerchiefs, stockings, gloves, scarves, and, sometimes, hats.
In the parlor, the cloth-wrapped gifts, tied with fancy ribbon, sat on one of the marble end tables, with a couple situated on the floor. All except for the one from Clarise, who always wrapped her present in a brown paper bag secured with twine.
Dale refused to have a tree. Growing up—the Christmas tree laden with glass ornaments from Germany, tiny presents, angels, tinsel, marzipan, and candles—he’d wished for many years that the holiday would be as perfect as the tree. But the reality was far from his vision of a merry family Christmas.
If one of the others received a gift that was better or prettier or more expensive than hers, his sisters and cousins bickered and sulked. His mother soon developed a headache, or claimed to, and grew testy. His two aunts fled from the children into their rooms with a book and spiced apple cider. His grandmother drank too much of the mulled wine and passed out, snoring in her chair.
Dale had no idea what holidays were like in his family now. He knew from letters that they all gathered on ChristmasEve. But that told him nothing about thetypeof holiday they experienced.
He looked through the present pile, discarding the one from his mother, and setting it unopened on the floor. She seemed to believe he was still living the life of a gentleman and would send new shirts or sometimes a new vest, cufflinks, and, over the years, enough watch fobs to make him jingle if he wore them all at once. Not that he wore the ostentatious bits of jewelry.
He’d put a stop to new suits by informing her his size had changed—even though he was still as thin as ever—and refusing to divulge any different measurements. Although last year, she’d sent him a heavy coat.
Just like every year on his birthday, his mother sent him a bank note, more than enough for a first-class train ticket home. Until she’d passed away, his grandmother also sent him money.
The first year they did that, he gave back the funds with a polite thank-you and mentioned that he didn’t need anything and wouldn’t be traveling. Then his mom and grandma returned the money. After bouncing the money back-and-forth for almost a year, he gave up.
Dale didn’t know nor particularly care whether they sent gifts because they had some shreds of remorse for how they’d treated him. Or maybe his mother pretended to all her acquaintances that she was “mother bountiful” to her undutiful son. He did not return the favor by sending presents to his family. They were all financially well-off and didn’t need anything from him.
Instead, he mailed polite thank you-notes and deposited half the gift money in his bank account. The other half he gave to the Nortons to use in their various charities. He usually kept one shirt or whatever other clothing item he might need and donated the rest to the Nortons to give away.
He liked to think of something good coming from his horrible family to help those in need. Canny Mrs. Norton, with hersweet demeanor and gentle smile, could make the impoverished people who were most adamant against receiving charity, no matter how much in need of clothing or food they were, by patting their arms and saying, “Someday, when you’re in a better position, you’ll be able to give to others when they are in need.”
He picked up the brown paper parcel from Clarise. She tended to send him expensive gifts sheknewhe wouldn’t want. Last year, she’d sent a hideous yellow-and-orange-plaid scarf made of beautiful soft wool.Maybe this year she sent one in pink. That would suit Miss Smith beautifully.
But when he opened the package, he saw another scarf—a tan one, which wouldn’t be bad if it wasn’t plaid, with lines of rust, gold, and forest green crossing through it.
Actually, not a bad look—foranotherman. But certainly not for a lady.
But he lucked out with Annabelle’s gift, a dusty blue scarf made of fine wool, anddefinitelynot plaid. Perfect for anyone with blue eyes, such as his neighbor. He hoped she’d like it.
