Home for the Holidays Page 4

Chapter Three

  Louise left Grace Chapel Inn early the next morning to drive into town and meet the five visitors for the first part of the tour. A call from her daughter Cynthia the night before had helped lift her spirits and even made her laugh at herself.

  “You’re going to be a tour guide, Mother?” Her daughter had laughed. “I could see you showing people around a concert hall or an art museum, but country homes?”

  “I am full of hidden depths that you don’t know about, my dear,” Louise had said firmly. “I only wish I could be spending the time with you.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it there for the holidays, but you know how publishing is. Christmas is a madhouse for us.” Cynthia had sighed. “I promise, next year I’m taking two weeks off.”

  Louise still felt somewhat resentful about the task of supervising the tour group, particularly on a day when she had planned to sleep in a little and do nothing more strenuous than hang some tree ornaments and tie ribbons around gift boxes.

  The Bible does not say how much work it is to be a Good Samaritan, she thought as she turned off Chapel Road onto Hill Street. Or how early one must get up to serve as one.

  Louise had arranged to meet the tour group and their driver in front of Town Hall, and she saw them as she drove into the back parking lot. The five visitors looked a little happier this morning, with the exception of Max Ziglar, who appeared as happy as a man being sent to his own execution. He was puffing on a large cigar and sending out white clouds of smoke all around him.

  As Louise walked around the building to join the group, she tried to set her thoughts in order. The Bible does not say anything about a grumpy Good Samaritan, either. I willingly agreed to do this. I will do my part cheerfully. The pungent smell of Max’s cigar reached her sensitive nose. But those cigars will have to go.

  “Good morning, everyone.” She took a moment to introduce herself to the driver, the pleasant middle-aged man they had seen the day before, and then she addressed the group. “As we discussed at the Coffee Shop, today we will be touring a Queen Anne Victorian house owned by Viola Reed, and a German Inglenook house owned by Joseph and Rachel Holzmann.”

  “How much do you know about historic architecture, Mrs. Smith?” Laura Lattimer asked.

  This interior decorator had a catty way of speaking that made the most innocent question sound snide, Louise decided. It was fortunate that her years in the academic world had taught her how to deal with such passive-aggressive tactics.

  “Please, call me Louise. I know more than the average person, I believe. My husband and I bought a nineteenth-century Greek revival home in Philadelphia when we were married. We spent many happy months researching the period so that we could correctly restore the original floors and interior woodwork.”

  Louise nearly smiled at the interior decorator’s visible surprise, but the smell of Max’s cigar commanded her immediate attention.

  Now to deal with this once and for all. Louise did not like confronting people about their personal habits, but this one was too intrusive and unhealthy to ignore.

  “Max, I would appreciate it if you would put that out and refrain from smoking anything for the remainder of the tour,” she said, keeping her tone polite but firm.

  “Why?”

  “All of the homes we will be visiting belong to non-smokers. Also, cigar smoke has a pervasive odor that is very offensive to people who do not smoke.” Like me. She met his gaze. “It will also be a kindness to your lungs and ours.”

  “You sound like my secretary,” he grumbled, but obliged her by turning away to discard the cigar in a nearby ashstand.

  When Max’s back was turned, Edwina gave Louise a wide smile and silently mouthed the words thank you so much.

  The group piled back into the van and the driver followed Louise as she drove her car to Viola Reed’s home. Once the group had disembarked, the driver told her that he would return within the hour.

  The five visitors were already examining the exterior of Viola’s home with great interest.

  “According to the literature your tour company provided for us, I am supposed to recite some facts about Queen Anne style homes, which are probably the most familiar examples of Victorian architecture,” Louise said as she set down the basket she had brought from the car on the porch step. “But I would much rather tell you about Miss Reed’s home in my own words.”

  “Please do, Louise,” Allan Hansford said.

  “My friend Viola Reed is a very well-read, practical woman and, shall we say, has very little patience with the realm of fantasy and nonsense. A house like this”—she lifted a hand to point out the ornate white gingerbread trim above the porch—“seemed to me far too fanciful to suit her down-to-earth nature.”

  “It doesn’t look very practical,” Laura murmured.

  “The first time Viola invited me to her home, I thought I had arrived at the wrong house. In fact, I checked the address twice before I went up to knock on the door.” Louise gazed up at the two-story turret, which had three long, oval-topped windows. “Even then, I almost expected someone else to answer it.”

  Everyone chuckled at that.

  “It’s rather like a little castle, isn’t it?” Edwina commented. “You almost expect to see a princess standing in one of those upper windows and a prince wandering around down here calling, ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel!’”

  “Very true, Edwina. As I visited a few more times, I began to see the warmth and grace in the design,” Louise continued. “In a sense, houses are like people. There are some that have qualities that are not readily apparent on the surface. You have to get to know them before you can properly appreciate them.”

  “That’s a lovely analogy,” Allan said. “If I were still teaching design seminars, I’d steal it.”

  “I’m curious about something, Louise,” Edwina said. “I’ve seen other Queen Anne houses and they are always painted in pastel and white colors, even if the surrounding houses are not. Why is that?”

  “Light colors are traditional, as they best show the uniqueness of the carved trims and other structural detailing,” Allan said, and then gave Louise an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to butt in.”

  “Please don’t apologize,” she told him. “I appreciate your expertise, especially since I couldn’t have answered that question.” Louise picked up her basket and escorted the group up the short, wide set of stairs onto the generous, open, wrap-around porch.

  “Viola Reed also owns and operates the Nine Lives Bookstore in town.” Louise stopped as a thought occurred to her and she turned toward the group. “Does anyone have an allergy to cats?” After receiving negative responses all around, she smiled. “I ask because Viola is very fond of them, as you will discover shortly.” She went up and rang the doorbell.

  Viola opened the door a moment later. A gentle waft of warm air scented with cinnamon and evergreen greeted the visitors.

  “Good morning, Louise. I’ve been expecting you. Oh, you brought me a present.” She gave her a brief hug as she accepted the sisters’ gift basket of cookies and treats, and then nodded to the group. “Welcome to my home.”

  They filed into the front foyer, where Viola showed them the old-fashioned oak coat shelf with turned pegs from which they could hang their hats, scarves and coats. The bookshop owner was wearing a dull-gold, knit pant-suit with one of her trademark scarves, this one with a delightful pattern of old-fashioned Christmas ornaments embroidered in gold thread on white satin, with a tinsel-like, hand-knotted, metallic gold fringe.

  “Smile, Louise,” Ted said as he raised his camera to snap a shot of her beside Viola.

  Louise held up her hand. “Please, Ted, I would rather you not take photos of me, if you don’t mind. I am the least photogenic person I know, and even with your skill you would not enjoy the result.”

  Rather than being offended, he chuckled and nodded. “I understand. My wife claims that she would never have married me if she had seen a picture of me fir
st.”

  “What a big foyer!” Laura said, looking toward the wide, oak staircase with its elegantly turned newels and solid balustrade. “You could park a bedroom or sitting room right in here.”

  “Yes, but why would you want to?” Ted said, earning a glare from the interior decorator.

  “The large entry hall is a typical feature of a Queen Anne home,” Allan said. “It’s supposed to give a grand first impression and symbolize the owner’s prosperity.”

  Laura seemed to like that answer, for she took out a handheld device and wrote something with a stylus on its small screen.

  “It also comes in handy when you have six people visit at the same time.” Viola bent to pick up one of her cats who had come to investigate, and scratched around the black-and-white spotted feline’s neck. “Come into the parlor for a minute. I want to put this basket by the tree.”

  On the way there, Louise pointed out the swags made of living holly and ivy grown in Viola’s garden, to which she had tied bundles of real cinnamon sticks with gilt ribbons to the greenery.

  “That accounts for the lovely scent in the air,” Edwina said. She paused to look up at the double-hooped swag hanging directly over the entrance to the parlor. “Oh my goodness. That’s beautiful.”

  Made of evergreens entwined with spiky-leafed holly, this swag was much more lavishly decorated. Among the greenery were faux fruit, golden miniature ornaments, green satin ribbons and tiny electric candles. The lavish swag also supported a small cluster of dark-green leaves and waxy white berries hanging from the center.

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s mistletoe, isn’t it?” Edwina said. “I’ve never seen it displayed with such grandeur.”

  “You’re admiring my Kissing Bough,” Viola told her. “Hanging it over a doorway is a very old English custom that predates the Christmas tree.”

  “I assume anyone caught standing beneath it must still pay the time-honored penalty?” Allan asked as he joined Edwina under the bough. When Viola nodded, the retired architect grinned. “I love old traditions.”

  He gave the schoolteacher a friendly kiss on the cheek and made her blush and laugh.

  The way Max Ziglar quickly stepped around the mistletoe so as not to pass under it amused Louise. Apparently not everyone loves old traditions.

  The average-sized room seemed much bigger, thanks to Viola’s decor, which was classic French provincial in pale pink, blue and white tones. The furnishings were dainty without being fussy, and the eggshell-colored wallpaper with a tiny embossed fleur-de-lis pattern lent a delicate touch.

  This was the sort of room in which one played Chopin, or Debussy, Louise had always thought. It was a shame that Viola did not have a piano.

  The bookshop owner had carried over the dainty, year-round decor in her holiday decorations, which were all in shades of white, silver and gold, including those on the Christmas tree, which was crowned with a gold star. White satin ribbons chased with metallic gold and silver threads cascaded from the star and were woven around the simple, glass silver and gold balls and crocheted white snowflakes adorning the branches.

  “I keep this parlor for company, as the windows provide a lovely view of the flower garden in the spring.” Viola placed Louise’s gift basket on a table by the bay windows. “You’ll see the glass is the same throughout the house, with the large solid pane in the lower sash and the smaller panes in the upper.”

  “Are they the original windows, Miss Reed?” Allan asked.

  “Some are. This one here is.” She tucked the cat in one arm so she could point to one of the small glass squares. “The rippling effect is natural. Some say glass distorts from weather changes and heat. Others say it’s due to flaws in the glass when it was made.”

  “It’s not weather or heat, it’s manufacturing flaws,” Allan said. “Prior to the 1920s, plate glass was made by casting, rolling, and even handblowing cylinders that were cut and spread flat. Unfortunately, all these methods created inherent flaws in the glass, which rippled it and made variants in thickness.”

  Viola’s eyebrows arched. “So all those stained glass windows with the rippled glass in them—”

  “Were rippled when they were originally installed,” Allan finished, giving her a grin. “As were your windows, Miss Reed.”

  Edwina went over to the fireplace mantel, where Viola had hung more than a dozen stockings knitted out of red, white and green wool. “What nice handiwork. How many little ones do you have, Miss Reed?”

  “Fourteen at present, but I wouldn’t call them all little ones.” She placed the black-and-white cat on a tufted footstool. “Gatsby here, for example, weighs at least seventeen pounds.”

  Laura pressed a hand against her chest. “I thought you meant you had fourteen children.”

  “I do. Furry, four-legged children.”

  Max snorted. “Seems like a lot of fuss to make over some animals.”

  “Being kind to animals is a way to honor the season,” Viola said, rather pointedly. “Remember that the lowly animals were the ones who shared their stable and provided a manger on the night Christ was born.”

  “I think it’s a wonderful way to show affection for your pets,” Edwina said firmly. “My husband and I have two dogs, and I’m going to make them stockings as soon as I get home.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. We can never do enough for our animal friends. Now, if you’re all up to a little climbing, I’ll show you the bedrooms and bath upstairs,” Viola said.

  On the way to the second floor, the group passed a large assortment of colorful masks adorning the length of the long wall by the stairs.

  “Those look almost like carnival masks,” Ted commented as he paused and lifted his camera to take several shots of the collection.

  “Miss Reed’s family immigrated to the United States from England, and like most Europeans, they brought their unique holiday traditions with them.” Louise smiled at her friend. “However, as I’m not familiar with the custom, I’ll have to impose on her to explain the customs behind the masks.”

  “Female frippery, most likely,” Max muttered.

  “Those are mummers’ masks that are typical of costumes worn in England centuries ago,” Viola said as she reached the second-floor landing. “Every year for the last one hundred years, the Mummers Parade has been held on New Year’s Day in Philadelphia, where my family originally settled. These masks are part of the elaborate costumes worn by those who march in that festive event.”

  As they toured the bedrooms on the second floor, Viola mentioned other English holiday customs, such as hanging mistletoe, burning the Yule log and celebrating Boxing Day.

  “Since the thirteenth century, the twenty-sixth of December has been a national holiday in England,” Viola said as she led them into what had once been a child’s nursery. When she refurnished it as a guest room, Viola had preserved the green and yellow color scheme, and had a small collection of children’s books displayed in an ark-shaped shelving unit, lending a delightful air to the room. “The name ‘Boxing Day’ is believed to have originated from the churches’ tradition of distributing the contents of their poor boxes on that day.”

  “Oh, I thought it meant the day you had to clean up all the gift boxes,” Ted said after he had taken several photos. “Why do they celebrate it after Christmas instead of before, Miss Reed?”

  “My father told me it might have been because servants were required to work on Christmas Day, but were allowed to spend the following day with their own families.” Viola went over to the bookcase and absently straightened a few of the slim volumes. “The gentry were said to have boxed up their leftover food and presented it along with gifts to their servants before they left, which may also have contributed to the holiday’s name.”

  “Boxing Day is also known as St. Stephen’s Day,” Louise said. “Stephen happens to be the first man in the Bible to be killed for following the teachings of Christ.”

  Edwina came over to admire the books. “I’ve notic
ed that you have bookcases in all the bedrooms. Is your personal library very large?”

  “Probably more so than the average person’s. I use the back parlor downstairs as my reading room, but I like to have books around me, wherever I am in the house.” Viola removed a red, leather-bound volume with a knight in armor riding a horse from a castle and the title Book Trails embossed in Gothic lettering on the front cover. “My mother gave me this set when I was a girl. They were my first hardcover books.”

  “How many books do you think you’ve read in your lifetime, Miss Reed?” Ted asked.

  “I don’t know, I’m not dead yet,” Viola said, then smiled at his expression. “What I mean to say is, I don’t keep count, young man. I read a great deal, so I would imagine it is somewhere in the tens of thousands.”

  Gatsby, who had followed them upstairs, went over to a wooden toy chest and began pawing at the front panel. His plaintive meows made Viola chuckle.

  “Someone wants one of his toys.” She went over, opened the chest and took out a small, furry object.

  Laura gasped. “Please tell me that’s not a mouse.”

  “Never fear, it’s just a toy.” Viola turned a small key on the side of the mouse several times and then released it on the floor, where it began scurrying about just as a real mouse would.

  Gatsby immediately tried to pounce on the scampering toy, leaping and swatting at it with his paws. Everyone chuckled at his antics, with the exception of Max, who stepped away from the excited feline.

  Louise looked down as another of Viola’s cats, a beautiful ivory Siamese with dark brown ears and muzzle, slipped into the room. It crept silently across the floor, its light blue eyes intent on the toy mouse. Max took another step backward just as it rushed forward and the Siamese barely avoided getting stepped on.

  “Hey now!” The businessman grabbed the corner of a nearby dresser to keep his balance. “Where did that one come from?”

  “Oh, Anna, come here.” As Gatsby caught the toy mouse and rolled over onto his back as if wrestling it, Viola bent over and swept the Siamese up in her arms. “You always have to make a grand entrance, don’t you, pretty girl?”