all I want for Christmas...is something real

Christmas fills me with longing—a melancholy desire for something undefined—something that can’t be packaged, purchased or put on a tree. Something so unique and personal, it fulfills only me.

And sometimes I think that yearning for something undefined may be a longing for someone to love.

I know one particular beauty I could easily fall for—her name is Beth Browning. Beth has long honey hair and a lovely smile, but we’re from different worlds.

Her parents are well off and live in a manse, and frankly, they make me feel quite uncomfortable.

I’m a Bay Street bond salesman, not earning enough to keep head above water, especially in exclusive resorts where Browning’s are likely to be found.

So, all things considered, my dates with Beth are becoming more an obligation than a joy and I’m beginning to envy my unattached friends.

I’d suggest we go separate ways, but the problem is, it’s just before Christmas—Christmas Eve in fact, and although I’ve been planning to break up for months, there never seems to be a good time.

And of course, there’s the little matter of the gift I’ve already bought—a set of sterling silver Tower Earrings from Tiffany’s Ziegfeld Collection, already ensconced in an expensive blue box.

It seems an expensive lesson to learn, and my apprenticeship is ongoing it seems—case in point, our date tonight.

Beth volunteers at Stickley House, a country museum, where she busies herself in the way rich heiresses do in order to justify their lives. I’ve offered to drive out in a snowstorm to chauffer her to her family ‘at home’—whatever that is.

Well, since I can’t break up at Christmas, or on New Year’s Eve, it seems Beth Browning’s name will be the first to be crossed off my list in the year ahead.

I’m fuming as I drive to Stickley House. The snow’s coming down heavily and the roads are nearly impassable. I’m angry that I’m risking getting marooned simply because Beth allowed a co-volunteer to go home early.

The girl claimed to be ill and since they both car-pooled, Beth had no ride—but, why not close early? Why not? Well, that’s Beth—she has this strange loyalty to duty.

Surely with the bad weather there couldn’t be that many visitors to the museum, but Beth said they planned all year for a Victorian Christmas, and the show must go on, stiff upper lip and all that rot.

I’m so annoyed and distracted I miss my turn and have to back up on a snowy road. Of course, I end up getting stuck in a drift and begin to panic, worrying I’ll be snowbound.

My cell phone’s not receiving signals, so I can’t call a tow truck. Must be a power outage or a relay tower down.

Great—just great!

I redouble my efforts, rocking the car, until finally the wheels spin and I fishtail off the shoulder, managing to stay on the road.

I can’t see lane markings let alone the edges of the road, but I’m able to spot my turnoff and am relieved to see someone’s been down the lane with a sled. All I have to do is stay in the runner tracks and pray the driver followed the road.

It’s past four and already getting dark, but I can see a faint glow ahead. Beth mentioned they were having a candle-lit feast and she must have left a few lanterns lit on the porch or candles in the window.

Lucky me.

I pull up in the parking lot and beep the horn, but she pops her head out the door and cheerily waves me in.

My spirits sink, but there’s not much I can do—I have to go in. Still, I’m worried about the long drive back.

I shut off the car and slip and slide my way to the huge wooden porch. I stomp snow off my Rockport’s, mentally calculating the cost of replacing them. I stomp a little harder for emphasis, and then push through the door out of the maelstrom outside.

Inside, is a sea of tranquility.

Ruddy flames from the fireplace illumine the room, and although I feel transported back in time, I’m miffed she hasn’t doused the fire or gotten ready

“You’re here!” she smiles, hair backlit by the flames. She really is beautiful and the fire dancing in her eyes takes my breath away.

Maybe there’s a reason I’m here with her.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asks shyly, disarming my protest.

“Sure—anything alcoholic?”

“You’re driving,” she frowns. “How about a rum hot chocolate?”

“Hmm, that sounds good.”

She pours the drink and ladles on a spoon of real whipped cream. “It’s rum flavoring, I’m afraid.”

“Hey, they didn’t have that back in Dicken’s day.”

She tweaks my nose playfully, “No, they didn’t, Smarty, but some of our patrons don’t drink and we stock it for them.”

“Yeah, everybody had a drop or two back in Victorian times,” I grouse, “they even gave it to kids as medicine.”

She comes up behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders, and begins kneading away knots.

“Other things can relax you,” she whispers.

I grab her wrist and pull her onto my lap, but she resists. “Please Spence! This is my workplace after all.”

“Oh really? I mistook it for a candle-lit retreat from the storm—and quite romantic, I must admit.”

The fire’s back in her eyes, but she wisely steps back. “Just finish your hot chocolate,” she smiles, “and then help me close up—it’s nearly five.”

“Such a slave-driver,” I grumble.

“Poor boy, but you’re wrong when you called me a slave driver. I wouldn’t have been a slave owner back in Dicken’s time—maybe, an abolitionist.” She frowns thinking about it, “Yes, definitely an abolitionist.”

I look at her in her long dress thinking more of Emily Pankhurst, but quickly suppress the thought.

“I’m going to take these parcels out to the car,” she calls out, “and then, we’ll put out the candles and the fire.”

“Sounds good,” I sigh, warming my feet at the hearth.

Baby, it’s cold outside. I really don’t want to face that drive.

I hear the door slam and Beth’s back and looking panicked. “Have you seen the snow out there? I can’t even see the road.”

“Not to worry,” I yawn, we’ll just follow the sled’s tracks out to the main road.”

“Oh really?” she smiles sweetly, “and what tracks do you mean?”

I get up, pull the window lace aside and peer out—the woods are blanked out by streamers of snow and the yard, parking lot and field are buried beneath an avalanche of white.

“I don’t believe it—how could that happen so fast?”

She looks at me like I’m new. “C’mon Slick, we’re in the country—wide open spaces—country breezes.”

I look glumly out at the swirling flakes.

“Some breezes—more a blizzard. So what do we do now?”

She shakes her head slowly, “Wait it out,” she whispers.

There’s a strange tone in her voice, a timbre I haven’t heard before, and it makes me a little uneasy. It crosses my mind she’s less than delighted at spending the night with me.

I push the thought aside, but am surprised—it’s an eventuality I didn’t consider. Why is that?

It occurs to me I’ve been pushing ahead, pursuing my agenda, my wants and needs, without referencing hers.

Have I ever once stopped to consider her needs? What if being Mrs. Spencer Sloane was not on her radar?

Have I even really looked at her, or, is the way it’s always been—all about me?

“I’m really sorry, Spence—making you drive all the way out here—and now we’re stuck.”

She looks really vulnerable and I feel a selfish heel.

“Hey, don’t look at it like that—we’re not stuck—this is an adventure.”

“An adventure?” she smiles quizzically.

“Yes, an opportunity to really talk—to really get to know each other.”

“That’s an interesting point of view,” she laughs, “as if the past few months didn’t really mean very much.”

I grab her hand and look deeply into her eyes, “maybe they didn’t, Beth—I mean, I was so busy taking you places, doing things, I don’t recall one time we actually sat down to talk.”

“Oh, sure we did,” she protests, “I told you all about me—my plans to take history courses in the fall, and I told you about my volunteering.”

“Yes, you told me about those things, but you didn’t tell me why. For example, why do you volunteer here—are you bored?”

“Bored? No, Silly. I love working here. I’m fascinated by the past—I’ve always been. For as long as I remember I’ve had this yearning for a simpler way of life—like the kind the Victorians lived.”

“Really? I can’t imagine you and your family without modern conveniences, living like this.” I sweep my hand around the room.

“What’s wrong with living like this?”

“You’re kidding, right? Take these decorations, for instance,” I laugh, pointing to the Christmas tree. “Popcorn strung on the tree—paper cut-out decorations, and in place of scented candles, a few cloves stuck into an orange?”

She goes sullen and quiet, and then, says in a voice so low, I can hardly hear, “at least it’s real.”

I feel as if shot through by an arrow.

Her eyes grow huge when she sees my face. “Oh no, Spence—I didn’t mean you—I meant my parents, my brother Trent—they mock my views.”

“They do?”

She nods and bows her head, “Just this morning they laughed at me coming here today—they said it was a waste of time.”

I felt guilty for what I had been thinking. “Why would they say that, Beth?”

She shrugs, “I suppose because I was asking them to make a donation to keep the museum open. Our number of patrons has been declining—that’s why I made a special effort to come out today—to give back to the few who have given so much.”

“That seems a good cause—why would they be so opposed?”

Her eyes flash. “Because I asked them to make a donation to Stickley House this year in lieu of presents they usually give. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it’s such an extravagant waste. I mean it’s gotten to the point where I just loathe opening their designer wrapped presents and seeing those little blue boxes.”

My hand instinctively goes to my jacket pocket where the Tiffany jewel box is safely tucked.

“Tell me Spence, what’s your vision—do you want the good life?”

At this moment, I just want to put my arms around this girl and never let go—but she’s opened herself to me and deserves an answer.

“If by ‘good life’ you mean the pursuit of wealth, well I’d have to say, count me out. I’m like you, Beth—and now that I know how you feel about gifts, I’d like to be added to your list,” I blushed, “ of donors, that is.”

She throws her arms around me and surprises me with a huge kiss.

Before I can recover, there’s a knock on the door.

“Who could be out in this storm?” she mutters, as she hurries off to see. I trail behind.

An OPP officer is waiting on the porch, and behind him a huge snowplow idling, its blue lights flashing.

“Good evening, Miss—we’ve been patrolling the roads looking for stranded motorists—we saw your lights and came to check. Do you need an escort to the main road?”

She looks forlornly at me and I stare helplessly back at her.

Needless to say, we were both reluctant to leave, but Beth was concerned of course with propriety—and equally needless to say, we didn’t make it to the Browning’s at home that evening. Beth phoned to say we’d been delayed.

We did, however, spend the evening talking in a local McDonald’s, getting to know each other for the first time.

That Christmas was the first Christmas my desires were met and my deepest longings fulfilled.

It wasn’t with something packaged, purchased or put on a tree, but by someone so unique and personal, she fulfills only me.