“Aren’t they lovely!” She picked up a small white bisque angel with the faintest blush to its cheeks, and gilded wings. And here was the most beautiful detailed little Father Christmas, a tiny china doll dressed in real red velvet. “Oh, they’re exquisite. Wherever did they come from?” She lifted the golden apple, and a lovely five-pointed star.
“Oh, I’ve had them for years. I was a college kid when I started collecting them. I never knew they were for this tree and this room, but they were. Here, you choose the first one. I’ve been waiting for you. I thought we’d do it together.”
“The angel,” she said. She lifted it by the hook and brought it close to the tree, the better to see it in the soft light. It held a tiny gilded harp in its hands, and even its little face was correctly painted with a fine reddened mouth and blue eyes. She lifted it as high as she could reach and slipped the curved hook over the thick part of the shivering branch. The angel quivered, the hook nearly invisible in the darkness, and hung suspended, as if poised like a hummingbird in flight.
“Do you think they do that, angels, they stop in midair like hummingbirds?” she asked in a whisper.
“Yeah, probably,” he said. “You know angels. They’re probably show-offs, and they can do anything they want.” He stood behind her, kissing her hair.
“What did I ever do without you here?” she said. As his arms went around her waist she clasped them with her hands, loving the sinewy muscles, the large strong fingers holding her so tight.
For a moment the fullness of the tree and the lovely play of twinkling light in the deep shadowy green branches utterly filled her vision. And the sad music of the carol filled her ears. The moment was suspended, like the delicate angel. There was no future, no past.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispered closing her eyes.
“It was unbearable here without you. Nothing makes any sense without you. I never want to be without you again.” A deep throb of pain passed through her-a fierce terrible quaking that she locked inside her, as she turned to lay her head once more on his chest.
Forty-six
DECEMBER 23. HARD freeze tonight. Lovely, when all the Mayfairs were expected for cocktails and carol singing. Think of all those cars sliding on the icy streets. But it was wonderful to have this clean cold weather for Christmas. And they were predicting snow.
“A white Christmas, can you imagine?” he said to her. He was looking out of the front bedroom window as he put on his sweater and his leather jacket. “It might even snow tonight.”
“That would be wonderful for the party,” she said, “wonderful for Christmas.”
She was snuggled up in the chair by the gas fire, a quilt over her shoulders, and her cheeks were ruddy and she was just a little bit softer and rounder all over. You could see it, a woman with a baby inside her, positively radiant, as if she’d absorbed the glow of the fire.
She had never seemed more relaxed and cheerful. “It would be another gift to us, Michael,” she said.
“Yes, another gift,” he said, looking out the window. “And you know they’re saying it’s going to happen. And I’ll tell you something else, Rowan. It was a white Christmas the year I left.”
He took the wool scarf out of the dresser drawer and fitted it inside his coat collar. Then he picked up the thick, wool-lined gloves.
“I’ll never forget it,” he said. “It was the first time I ever saw snow. And I went walking right down here, on First Street, and when I got home I found out my dad was dead.”
“How did it happen?” How sympathetic she looked, eyes puckering slightly. Her face was so smooth that when the slightest distress came, it fell like a shadow over her.
“A warehouse fire on Tchoupitoulas,” he said. “I never did know the details. Seems the chief had told them to get clear of the roof, that it was about to go. One guy fell down or something and my dad doubled back to get him, and that’s when the roof began to buckle. They said it just rolled like an ocean wave, and then it fell in. Whole place just exploded. They lost three fire fighters that day, actually, and I was walking out there in the Garden District, just enjoying the snow. That’s why we went out to California. All the Currys were gone-all those aunts and uncles. Everyone buried out in St. Joseph’s Cemetery. All buried from Lonigan and Sons. Every one.”
“That must have been so awful for you.”
He shook his head. “The awful part was being so glad we were going to California, and knowing that we’d never have been able to go if he hadn’t died.”
“Here, come sit down and drink your chocolate, it’s getting cold. Bea and Cecilia will be here any minute.”
“I have to get on the road. Too many errands. Got to get to the shop, see if the boxes have arrived. Oh, I have to confirm with the caterers … I forgot to call them.”
“No need. Ryan’s taken care of it. He says you do too many things for yourself. He says he would have sent a plumber to wrap all the pipes.”
“I like doing those things,” he said. “Those pipes are going to freeze anyway. Hell. This is supposed to be the worst winter in a hundred years.”
“Ryan says you have to think of him more as a personal manager. He told the caterers to come at six. That way if anyone is early … ”
“Good idea. I’ll be back before then. OK. I’ll call you later from the store sometime. If you need me to pick up anything … ”
“Hey, you can’t walk out of this room without kissing me.”
“ ’Course not.” He bent down and smothered her in kisses, roughly and hastily, making her laugh softly, and then he kissed her belly. “Good-bye, Little Chris,” he whispered. “It’s almost Christmas, Little Chris.”
At the door, he stopped to pull on his heavy gloves, and then he blew her another kiss.
Like a picture “she looked in the high-back wing chair, with her feet tucked under her. Even her lips had a soft rich color to them. And when she smiled he saw the dimples in her cheeks.
His breath made steam in the air when he stepped outside. It was years since he’d felt cold like this, so crisp. And the sky was such a shining blue. They were going to lose the banana trees and he hated it, but the beautiful camellias and azaleas were holding their own. The gardeners had put in winter grass, and the lawn looked like velvet.
He stared at the barren crepe myrtle for a moment. Was he hearing those Mardi Gras drums again in his ears?
He let the van warm up for a couple of minutes before he started. Then he headed straight for the bridge. It would take him forty-five minutes to reach Oak Haven if he could make good time on the river road.
Forty-seven
“WHAT WAS THE pact and the promise?” she asked.
She stood in the attic bedroom, so clean and sterile with its white walls, its windows looking out on the rooftops. No trace of Julien anymore. All the old books gone.
“Those things are not important now,” he answered her. “The prophecy is on the verge of fulfillment and you are the door.”
“I want to know. What was the pact?”
“These are words passed on from human lips through generation after generation.”
“Yes, but what do they mean?”
“It was the covenant between me and my witch-that I should obey her smallest command if she should but bear a female child to inherit her power and the power to command and see me. I should bring all riches to her; I should grant all favors. I should look into the future so she might know the future. I should avenge all slights and injuries. And in exchange the witch would strive to bear a female child whom I might love and serve as I had the witch, and that child would love and see me.”