Christmas at the Hummingbird House Read online

  CHRISTMAS AT THE

  HUMMINGBIRD HOUSE

  by

  Donna Ball

  Copyright 2015 by Donna Ball, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any fashion except by the express consent of the author.

  Published by Blue Merle Publishing

  Drawer H

  Mountain City, Georgia 30562

  www.bluemerlepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and places in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and no effort should be made to construe them as real. Any resemblance to any actual people, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  Cover art: www.bigstock.com

  ONE

  Ghosts of Christmas Past

  Chicago, 1965

  Andrew Norton was one of those people who liked to wait until the last minute to do his Christmas shopping. He insisted that it wasn’t Christmas until you’d been caught in the mad gaiety of Marshall Fields half an hour before closing on Christmas Eve, been pushed along by the tidal wave of other last minute shoppers on Michigan Avenue, had dashed into shops ten minutes before closing or reached the checkout line at the mall just as the lights were flickering off. His wife had despaired of ever changing his habits, despite the fact that his Christmas Eve shopping adventures met with inconsistent success. A lighted umbrella from the hardware store had been the best he could do for his mother-in-law one memorable Christmas, and the battery-operated pineapple peeler he’d gotten from a street vendor for his sister was still talked about over holiday dinners twelve years later. In good years, however, his last-minute impulses yielded treasures that were as memorable as his failures: cashmere scarves at seventy percent off, a cameo broach that had unexpectedly been spotted in an antique store window, silk pajamas, sapphire earrings, even a set of Craftsman tools for his do-it-yourself dad, half off at Sears at 11:45 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

  This was a good year, mostly because it was the first time his daughter, now age seven, had been old enough to go with him. And because, while they both agreed that seven was an age of great distinction, she still had to be in bed by nine o’clock, the shopping wasn’t quite as last-minute as it had been on previous occasions, and most of the better stores were still open. They had a magical visit with Santa followed by hot chocolate topped with melting marshmallows, and there was still time to join the crush at Marshall Fields where Angela chose a plush toy for her baby cousin and a jar of bath salts topped with a pink bow for her mother. They went back out into the blur of colored lights and bustling people, delighting in pointing out window displays and catching snowflakes on their tongues for a block or two. Andrew ducked into a crowded bookstore where he found a book on container gardening with gorgeous glossy photos for his mother-in-law, who liked that kind of thing, and a book on the history of aviation for his father-in-law, a retired airline pilot. He was on a roll.

  They crossed the park at Water Tower Street, where the snow-covered trees were all decorated with twinkling white lights and carolers were singing “Silver Bells” on the corner. The air was crisp and cold with just enough snow to tickle the cheeks, and it smelled like the steamy hot dogs from the cart just ahead. It was close to eight o’clock and Andrew had promised his wife to have Angela home before bedtime, but he was half inclined to join the line that had formed in front of that hot dog cart. He knew, because he had so many wonderful memories of growing up himself, the value of moments like this. Angela skipped along beside him in her blue coat and matching hat, her mittened hand tucked securely into his, her cheeks apple-red with excitement and cold.

  “Daddy,” she said, eyes dancing and breath steaming as she looked up at him. “This is the best Christmas Eve ever! Can we go for a horse ride?”

  He laughed and decided that bedtime came every night, but the best Christmas Eve ever came only once. “You bet, sweetheart.” He changed direction toward the north corner, where they could cross the street and head toward the horse-drawn carriage stand. He hesitated when a block of golden light coming from a narrow street that ran beside the park caught his eye. He had never explored that particular street before, and though most of the few shops that lined it were already closed, the one from which the light spilled had a charming, Dickensonian look and an even more inviting name. Keepsakes and Treasures was written above the door in a Victorian font, and the display window was filled with the kind of tschotskes and collectibles his wife adored.

  He said, “Angel, honey, what do you say we stop in there and see if we can find a present for Mommy?” He pointed. “Horse ride right after, I promise.”

  She agreed cheerfully, “Okay, Daddy. Make sure they put a pink bow on it. Mommy loves pink.”

  An old-fashioned bell clattered over the door when they entered, and a man in a red plaid shirt smiled at them across the counter. A kind of cottony stillness descended when the door closed behind them, sealing out the clatter of the outside world and enfolding them in a cozy warmth that smelled of apple cider and fine old things.

  “Merry Christmas, sir, young lady,” the man greeted them. “What can I help you find this good evening?”

  Andrew said, “I’m looking for something for my wife.”

  Angela wandered away as the two adults talked, exploring the treasures with eyes that darted from one lovely object to the next. The little shop was Aladdin’s cave for a child, shelves and cabinets crowded with shiny things and pretty things: pictures in silver frames, tiny clocks, glass bottles, polished stones. She heard her daddy say, “Be careful, honey. Don’t break anything.”

  She called back, “Okay, I won’t.” But even as she said it she was reaching for a snow globe on the shelf in front of her.

  The two men started talking again, and she heard the cash register ring as she held the glass globe in both of her plump hands. She turned it upside down and watched the snow swirl around a log house in the mountains. Her lips curved upward in a smile of delight as the snow cleared and settled on the roof, revealing a long porch with doors painted in happy colors, and light spilling out of the windows. There were Christmas wreaths on the doors, and she could see a Christmas tree inside one of the windows. Her smile widened as she wiped a smudge off the globe and found that she could actually see through the window and into the room. She brought the globe closer, squinting to see more.

  There were people inside the room. There was a tall man with silver hair and another man wearing a purple jacket. They were smiling and talking. The tall man was standing in front of a Christmas tree that was decorated with silver and blue bows and covered with hundreds of tiny glass birds. There was a fire in the fireplace and the mantelpiece above it was all decorated with gold and silver branches. A woman sat in a chair beside the fireplace and a man stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder. She had pretty blond hair and a face that was tired and sad even when she smiled. There were other people in the room too, moving around, drinking and eating and talking, but Angela couldn’t hear what they said. It was like watching television with the sound turned off. Her mother did that sometimes, when she was balancing her checkbook.

  Someone handed the sad-faced woman a present wrapped in shiny blue paper with a silver bow. She smiled in a way that pretended she was happy and opened the package. Her face went very still as she looked inside, and then began to change. First she looked shocked, almost frightened, and Angela wondered if there was a spider or a toad in the box. And then the most amazing joy flooded the woman’s face, and her eyes were filled with wonder. Her skin seemed almost to glow. Everyone turned to watch as she reached inside the box.

  “Come on,
sweetheart.” Her daddy placed his hand on Angela’s shoulder. “Let’s go before all the horse rides are taken.”

  “Daddy!” Angela whirled, clutching the snow globe to her chest. “Daddy, can I have this, please? Can I? I won’t ask for anything else for Christmas, I promise, and Santa can take back the Barbie Dream House, but please, can I have it?”

  “I’m sorry, Angel.” The man from the counter knelt beside her and smiled gently as he took the globe from her hands. “It’s not for sale.”

  “But …” She looked imploringly at her father as the man put the snow globe back on the shelf. “Daddy, there were people inside! They were laughing and talking and having a party! It was magic!”

  The two men exchanged an indulgent look over her head, and the man from behind the counter said to her, “It certainly is, which is why it’s not for sale.” He had kind eyes, even though he had taken the snow globe from her. “We have to save some magic for the other boys and girls, don’t we?”

  She thought about that, and agreed reluctantly, “I guess so.” Then, “What will happen to all the people living inside the ball?”

  The kind man regarded her thoughtfully. “Why, they’ll go on living their lives,” he said, “just like you and I will.”

  Angela said, remembering the woman with the sad eyes, “I hope they have a happy Christmas.”

  The man smiled the kind of smile that made his whole face seem bigger. “Oh, I think they will,” he said. “And I think you will too.”

  He looked again over her head to her father, still smiling, and the two men shook hands and wished each other Merry Christmas. Angela slipped her hand into her father’s and the bell jangled again as they left the shop.

  “Daddy,” she said, glancing back at the golden square of light the window cast on the snow outside the shop, “how did that man know my name?”

  Andrew glanced down at his daughter. “Your name?”

  She nodded. “He called me Angel.”

  Andrew suppressed a smile. He might have told her that “angel” was a common nickname for sweet little girls like her, or that the clerk had probably heard Andrew call her that in the store. Instead he said easily, “Oh, I imagine that was just more magic.”

  She looked up at him, big eyed. “Like the people in the glass?”

  He nodded somberly. “Exactly like that.”

  She said happily, “I love you, Daddy.”

  It was the best Christmas ever.

  The Shenandoah Valley

  2015

  ~*~

  You Are Cordially Invited to

  Christmas at the Hummingbird House

  Nestled in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley is the historic Hummingbird House Bed and Breakfast, your gateway to a fantasy Christmas that combines old-fashioned charm with modern elegance. Don't miss a holiday celebration you'll never forget!

  The Hummingbird House is known for its attention to detail and creative approach to hospitality. Every guest is a treasure to us, and no effort is too great to assure that your stay at the Hummingbird House is a memorable one. Special events planned for the holiday weekend include:

  *Wassail reception accompanied by the Dickens Christmas Carolers

  *Evening sleigh ride and champagne supper under the stars

  *Christmas tour of lights

  *Reading and book signing by Geoffery Allen Windsor, author of Miracles for the Modern Age

  *Tour of a local artisanal winery, including a tasting and a bottle of complimentary wine

  *Holiday cooking class with Bridget Tindale, owner of the Tasting Table Restaurant

  *A private Christmas Day concert by the Killian Hills Boys Choir

  *A special Christmas Eve chamber music performance by the Shenandoah Chamber Group

  *Spa treatments including therapeutic wheatgrass wrap and couples massage

  *A gala Christmas dinner prepared by one of the region's most acclaimed chefs [see menu online], accompanied by a selection of fine wines from our cellar.

  Give yourself the gift of memories that will last a lifetime this holiday season. All inclusive Christmas packages begin at $3289 per couple for the weekend.

  ~*~

  TWO

  Full House

  At the Hummingbird House Bed And Breakfast the first flake of snow had yet to fall, the first carol had yet to be sung, but the merry chaos of the upcoming Christmas extravaganza was everywhere. Paul Slater and Derrick Anderson, owners and proprietors of the Hummingbird House for almost six months now, had never done anything halfway in their lives, and their first Christmas in their new home was not to be the exception.

  Their cozy office, designed to be a showcase for their collection of primitive antiques, was cluttered with boxes marked “fragile” and “perishable”; some going out, some coming in, some painstakingly transported from their storage unit just outside of DC where, upon selling both their in-town condo and their suburban Baltimore home, Paul and Derrick had consigned the boxes of Christmas ornaments they had collected over their thirty years together. Packing confetti escaped some of these boxes and littered the floor, brightly colored glass ornaments spilled from others.

  A massive partners desk dominated the room, and it was strewn with catalogues and design magazines, swatches of fabric and scraps of ribbon. Derrick’s sketches for Christmas trees, holiday wreaths and seasonal mantel decor were scattered on both sides of the desk, along with design boards and sample books. The Hummingbird House had seven guest rooms, each with its own fireplace and private exterior door. Each room would have its own holiday theme, with a Christmas tree, mantel display, and two holiday wreaths—one for the door that opened onto the wraparound porch, and another for the door that opened into the hallway. There would be a communal tree in the gathering parlor, and one for the reception desk, and another in the dining room. The gardens would be decorated as well, so that guests could enjoy the twinkling lights from the glassed-in dining room—which, in the summer also served as a screened porch—or stroll the meandering paths at twilight with a glass of sherry or a cup of mulled wine. All of this required planning, preparation and design. They had been working on it since August.

  It was now December tenth. Of course, all of the elaborate plans and decor would take some time to execute, and the first event of their holiday fantasy weekend—the wassail reception with costumed carolers— was scheduled to begin promptly at eight on December twenty-first. Unfortunately, the shortness of the approaching deadline had not yet occurred to either of the proprietors.

  “Safe journey, Mrs. Feringer.” Derrick air kissed each of the plump woman’s powdered cheeks and beamed his good-bye as the last of their guests checked out that Monday morning. “Come again soon.”

  She sighed and gazed out the window where her husband waited in the Lexus, engine running, with the vista of neat winter lawn and big blue mountains in the background. “I wish we didn’t have to leave. It’s so peaceful here. Everything has been just perfect.”

  “Always a pleasure when the guests are as lovely as you,” he assured her, squeezing her gloved hands with genuine sincerity. “What a shame you won’t be with us for Christmas!”

  “Well, the season is fast upon us, isn’t it?” she agreed. “I’m sure you have an absolute wonderland planned, but family, you know. So many commitments.”

  “Maybe next year,” Derrick suggested, and her eyes lit up with the possibility.

  “Wouldn’t that be a treat? I’ll talk to Charles, I really will. Ta-ta, now!” The middle-aged woman was smiling in anticipation as she turned up her fur collar and went out into the cold bright morning.

  Derrick was a man who truly loved his job—most of the time, anyway—and the only thing that gave him more pleasure than greeting the guests was seeing that blissful look in their eyes after they had enjoyed the hospitality of the Hummingbird House. He had owned a successful art gallery in Washington, DC, before retiring to the country with his partner Paul, although neither of them had any intention at th
e time of opening a bed and breakfast. They had more or less stumbled upon the Hummingbird House, made an impulsive decision, and were learning the business of inn-keeping as they went along. There had been a few rough moments to start, but now everything seemed to be falling into place. And just in time for the holiday season.

  Derrick was still smiling as he turned back to the reception desk, where he noticed their housekeeper Purline had left the morning’s mail. He had asked her repeatedly to take the mail to the office, patiently explaining that leaving stacks of business mail out for guests to see completely destroyed the atmosphere of refined elegance they were trying to create, and for a while she had seemed to understand. Now it appeared she was slipping back into old habits. He sighed, picked up the stack, and started to call to her when the sound of the vacuum cleaner whined to life down the hall. Check-out was at 11:00 a.m. At precisely 11:05, Purline switched on the vacuum cleaner and kept it going without interruption for the next hour and a half. It would be pointless to try to talk to her now.

  He glanced through the envelopes on his way to the office, and stopped when the return address on one of them caught his eye. “Oh my goodness,” he whispered. “It’s here.” He slit open the envelope with his thumbnail, which only illustrated his excitement since he had a perfectly good ivory-handled letter opener with mother-of pearl inserts in his desk cubby, and he believed in doing things right. He pulled out the contents of the envelope, examined it with wondering, delighted eyes, and cried again, more loudly, “It’s here!”

  “It’s here!” exclaimed Paul at the same time, coming around the corner with a large box in his arms.

  And Harmony called from the office, “Gentlemen, it’s here!” She came out of the office, beaming as she waved a sheet of paper fresh from the printer. “Our final reservation! We are officially booked for Christmas weekend!”