One More for Christmas(82)
She put a foot on the stairs and heard her name.
“Gayle!” Mary’s voice came from behind her, low and lilting, full of warmth. “I’ve just made tea and baked cookies. Would you come and sample it?”
The sanctuary of her bedroom lay round two turns of the wide staircase. There was a lock on the door. A view of the mountains. She could use the space to recalibrate and figure out how to handle this latest setback.
Was this it? Had she ruined everything before it had properly begun?
“Gayle? Is everything all right?” The kindness in Mary’s voice was more appealing than the judgmental silence of her room.
Right now, she didn’t like herself very much. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone.
She blinked several times and then turned. “Did you say cookies?”
Mary McIntyre wore an apron tied around her broad waist, and there was a dusting of flour on the sleeve of her sweater.
This was the mother she should have been, Gayle thought. This was the mother her girls had deserved. Soft and rounded, radiating warmth like a blazing log fire. Instead they’d had Gayle, whose softness had been worn away by life.
Feeling weak and tired, she walked with Mary, following the delicious smells of baking. The kitchen was at the back of the house. It was a large room with windows overlooking the mountains. A room filled with sunlight, heat and family history. There were coats hanging on pegs, and boots lined up by the door. The large stove kicked out warmth. Everything about the place was comforting, from the herbs on the windowsill to the stack of neatly folded tea towels on the freshly scrubbed countertop.
One glance told Gayle that this place was a haven, the very heart of the home.
Every available surface was covered. Pies lay cooling on wire racks, the pastry thick and golden. Muffins, their domed tops studded with berries, were lined up alongside slabs of sugar-dusted shortbread. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and chocolate, of warmth and love.
“You’ve been busy. Are you expecting extra guests?”
“No. I may have overdone it, but baking helps me.” Mary opened a cupboard and pulled out cake tins and freezer containers. “After Cameron died, the neighbors brought food every day. They thought I wouldn’t want to be cooking. What they didn’t know is that I find cooking to be the best therapy. Not that I’ve ever had any other type.” She gave a tired smile and waved a hand. “Sit down, Gayle. It’s good to have company. I’ve been feeling a little—wobbly today.”
So not just her, then.
Gayle settled herself down at the large table and ran her hand over the surface. Little cracks and tiny dents spoke of years of use and a lifetime of family meals. Gayle thought of the table in her Manhattan apartment. Glass. It had no history, but she hadn’t wanted to bring anything from the past with her.
To Gayle, the kitchen had always been a practical place. Somewhere to prepare food with as little fuss and bother as possible. A necessary task, one of many to be ticked off a long list. In order to manage everything, she was ruthless about deleting unnecessary tasks. If she’d had the choice, she would have deleted eating. The kitchen had never been somewhere to linger, and never a source of comfort. Both would have been an indulgence. She certainly wouldn’t have considered cooking to be therapy.
Mary put a mug of tea in front of her and lifted a few of the warm cookies onto a plate.
“You’ve been out with the reindeer?”
“Yes.” How much should she say?
“Judging from your expression, you didn’t have a good time.”
“I—made a mess of things.”
“With the girls?”
Gayle stared at the cookies. She’d never been the type to gossip with anyone. She didn’t chat. She didn’t confide. So why did she find it so easy to talk to Mary? “I’ve always struggled with the whole concept of Santa. Is it right to encourage children to believe in a mythical, magical being who delivers gifts down the chimney?”
“I suppose most people don’t even think about it. It’s something fun and joyful. We just go along with it.”
“And that’s what I should have done. I’ve been trying hard to get it right, to say the right thing—”
“No one can say the right thing all the time—we’ve already agreed on that. And what the ‘right thing’ is changes according to the day and the person. It’s subjective.” Mary offered no advice, and no judgment. Just understanding.
“This wasn’t subjective. I messed it up. When Tab asked me about Santa I said he didn’t exist—” She shook her head. “There is no excuse. I see now that the decision on how to handle Christmas should be my daughter and son-in-law’s. It’s not my place to decide something like that. Ella was furious—”
“Oh you poor thing. No wonder you seemed so upset when you walked through the door.”
“I don’t blame her. The irony is that I used to praise myself for being such a great mother in what seemed like dire circumstances. There were so many times when I doubted my ability to carry on. I talked to myself. I waited until the girls were asleep and then I’d stand there, lecturing that pale frightened young woman I saw in that mirror. I reminded her that big goals are achieved through numerous tiny steps.” It was something she’d never told anyone. Never revealed to anyone. “I was basically doing for myself what I try and do for people now, in my work. I encourage them to look inside themselves and bring out the best. I tell them that we can almost always do more than we think we can. And all these words, everything I say to people now when I’m asked to speak, they were all things I said to myself.” She sniffed. “I suppose you could say I turned misfortune into fortune.”