Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“Yeah, right,” I muttered, wondering how far I could stretch three Cornish game hens.

As we passed the mouth of the drive leading to Anscombe Manor, a line of vehicles came into view, parked end to end along the lane leading to the cottage—the Hodges’ farm truck, the Pym sisters’ antiquated “motor,” Nell’s sleigh, Mr. Barlow’s snowplow, and at least ten out-of-county cars that had somehow made it through the storm intact. Someone had had the foresight to leave enough room in my driveway for the limo, but no one had prepared me for the sight that met my eyes when Paul turned into the drive.

It was as if the cottage had collided with a gaudy carnival ride. A manically blinking rainbow of lights outlined the slate roof, the chimney, and the windows; tinselly garlands dripped from the lilacs’ bare branches; and a flock of mutant papier-mâché robins had come to roost on the trellis framing the front door. A pair of the Peacocks’ glowing choirboys flanked the living room’s bow window, and a row of their three-foot plastic candy-canes stood like a striped stockade just inside the beech hedge. Sally Pyne’s disembodied Santa heads leered from every window, and a sinister snowman stood beside the flagstone path, wearing a bicycle helmet, a pair of wraparound sunglasses, and a wicked grin of coal. The display was garish, tasteless, as far from perfect as it could ever hope to be—and absolutely glorious.

The windows were ablaze with light, and the stone walls seemed to vibrate with the rumble of a dozen conversations. As I emerged from the limo, the front door flew open and people streamed out into the snow. First came Emma Harris, then Derek, Nell, and—

“Peter!” I exclaimed, as Derek’s elusive eighteen-year-old son approached me. “I thought you were paddling up the Amazon.”

“I paddled home for the holidays instead,” he told me. “Shocked the socks off Dad.”

“I’ll bet you did,” I said, giving him a hug.

After that, I lost track of the hugs given and received. Bill’s English relatives had driven in from all corners of the sceptered isle, Miss Kingsley had come up from London, Luke Boswell had made the trip from Oxford, and when I heard a booming voice call out “Merry frigging Christmas, Shepherd!” I knew that at least one plane from America had landed safely at Heathrow.

“Stan!” I cried, as I spotted Dr. Stanford J. Finderman, my plainspoken former boss, standing in the doorway. “You made it!”

“Think I’d miss a free meal?” Stan thundered.

“A m-meal?” I stammered, blushing.

“Get inside, will ya, Shepherd?” Stan bellowed. “I’m freezing my heinie off.”

Helpful hands pulled me through the doorway, tugged Kit’s carryall from my grasp and the coat from my shoulders, and pushed me into the dining room, where I saw, to my utter amazement, a buffet meal lavish enough to keep a minor nation going for a month.

The table trembled beneath the weight of roast turkey and goose, smoked ham and fine fat sausages, relishes and vegetables, mince pies, and an enormous cut-glass bowl of potent-looking punch. As I stood there, too stunned to think of anything to say, Bill’s aunt Anthea thrust a wedge of fruitcake into my hand—not the dry-as-dust variety with the nasty Day-Glo fruit, but the mouthwatering, ninety-proof real thing, aged in stout and chockablock with plump sultanas.

“Either close your mouth or fill it,” Anthea ordered.

I chose the latter course, and was still relishing my first bite when Sally Pyne emerged from the kitchen, wrapped in a red apron and carrying a gravy boat.

“Welcome home,” she called, setting the gravy boat beside the turkey. “I hope you don’t mind me working in your kitchen, Lori,” she added, elbowing her way across the room. “When I saw your pantry the other day, I thought what a shame it would be to let such a lovely lot of good food go to waste.”

“When did you see my pantry?” I asked, mystified.

“The other day, when you were off in Oxford,” Sally replied. “I closed the tea shop and came out here to lend William a hand. You don’t think I’d leave him to look after the twins on his own, do you?”

I shot a glance at my father-in-law, who was innocently employing a nutcracker over a mound of filberts, and thought, You sneaky devil. I’d often wondered how he managed to look so dapper after a day with Will and Rob. Now I knew.

“Where are my boys?” I shouted above the dining room’s din.

“In here, Lori,” called a voice from the hallway.

“Francesca?” I dropped the wedge of fruitcake on the table and fought my way to the hall. “Is that you?”

“Adrian seems to think so,” my nanny replied.

“I’m sure of it,” added her fiancé. “Francesca couldn’t possibly be anyone but herself.”

I gazed in jubilation at the pair, who were holding a twin apiece, and tried to seize both of my sons at once, putting a severe strain on my back muscles as well as the boys’ patience. Will and Rob were happy to see their long-lost mummy, but not happy enough to put up with being crushed.

“When did you get back from Italy?” I asked, letting Will return to Adrian’s arms.

“Yesterday afternoon, before the snowstorm hit,” said Adrian. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to me. “When we got here we found Sally Pyne waiting on William hand and foot, while two other local widows were in the kitchen, feeding your sons and ransacking your scullery.”

“Three widows at his beck and call,” I muttered. “The sly old fox.”

“Lori,” Emma said excitedly, grabbing me by the arm. “I’ve finished the computer search on the military decorations. You won’t believe the name that came up.”

“Yes, Emma, I will.” I handed Rob back to Francesca and pulled Emma aside, but before I could tell her about my journey to London, someone took me by the shoulders, turned me around, and planted a hearty kiss directly on my lips.

“G-Gerald,” I managed, somewhat breathlessly, falling back a step to gaze up at Bill’s devastatingly handsome English cousin.

“Merry Christmas, Lori,” said Gerald, grinning broadly. “Kind of you to be so generous with the mistletoe. Lucy and I have been putting it to good use.”

“Marriage suits you,” I said, my lips still tingling. “Where is Lucy, anyway?”

“In the living room, keeping an eye on Uncle Willis-ton,” Gerald told me.

“Uncle Williston’s here?” I said, clapping my hands in delight. Uncle Williston was the most eccentric member of the Willis clan by a factor beyond calculation. “What’s he wearing?”

“See for yourself.” Gerald stood aside and motioned for me to proceed him into the living room.

The living room was as congested as the dining room, but Uncle Williston stood out in any crowd. He occupied Bill’s favorite armchair, splendidly arrayed in a green brocade tailcoat, green satin breeches, white stockings, and gold-buckled, square-toed shoes. Nell Harris sat on a footstool beside him, with Bertie on her knee, surveying Uncle Williston’s lacy shirtfront with a look of profound satisfaction.

To one side of the hearth stood Luke Boswell, his thumbs hooked in a pair of neon-red suspenders, and Stan Finderman, red-faced and quaffing a cup of punch. Stan had no trouble making himself heard above the clamor: the subject of their animated discussion was, predictably, rare books.

Everywhere I looked, I saw familiar faces: Theodore and Lilian Bunting, Chris and Dick Peacock, Peggy Kitchen and Jasper Taxman, George Wetherhead and Able Farnham, Mr. Barlow and Miranda Morrow, the Hodges and the Pyms, talking, laughing, eating, and sipping punch.

One face eluded me, however: the face belonging to the man in the Father Christmas suit, who stooped before the listing Christmas tree, arranging beautifully wrapped packages. Was it Aunt Anthea’s husband, I wondered, eyeing the broad shoulders, or had Willis, Sr., hired a professional to stand in for Bill? I edged closer to him, exchanging greetings with all and sundry as I went, and as I came within arm’s reach, he straightened from his crouch.