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“Cara likes to do things her way,” Alec said, taking charge of the conversation. “But I do like the idea of reading a story or a poem. We all knowA Christmas Carolprobably a little too well—”
“Yes, yes,” Frederick said. “Never liked that story. I don’t know why it’s been turned into one hundred different plays andmovies. Didn’t like it as a story, didn’t like it as a play, did not like it as a movie.”
“But it has such a good lesson,” Dorothy said. “I think the moral of the story, that’s really the important thing.”
“Huh. Dickens was full of morals and opinions, but it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy them,” Frederick said.
“I think I know what you need. I’m going to see if I can find it. I’ll be right back.” Emma rose and disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a slim book.
She looked very pleased with herself as she settled back into her armchair. “Uncle Frederick, I am sure you will remember this. Alec, dear, I am not sure the stories will be familiar to you. You were not read the stories, but I was. Father loved Saki, especially the irreverent Christmas stories. All the stories in this collection are very brief, and not at all sentimental, but you’ll see as I’ll read one to you now.”
Alec exchanged glances with Cara as if to say, now look what you have done, but Cara didn’t think he seemed too displeased. If anything, he seemed amused and curious.
She was curious, too. She wasn’t familiar with a writer name Saki. It sounded as if he might be a writer from Japan. Either way, she was happy to just relax and listen.
Emma opened the slim volume and read aloud the title, “Reginald’s Christmas,” and then paused a moment, smiled a little to herself and began to read the first paragraph. The story was different than the usual Christmas fare, and the character Reginald, was not a classic fictional hero. Saki was a little droll, and quite sardonic. The story made Cara smile and then she laughed out loud once, her eye catching Alec’s. He too was smiling. It seemed a very British sort of Christmas story. Not emotional, but nonetheless entertaining and by the time Emma finished the story, everyone was smiling and murmuring little things.
Frederick was the first to speak. “I don’t remember those stories. By Saki, you said?”
“Also known as Henry Monroe,” Emma said closing the cover of the little volume. “These were favorites of my father. No sentimental Christmas stories for him.”
Dorothy wandered into the library to see if she could find a Christmas story, and Uncle Frederick put his glasses on top of his head and rested his eyes. Emma finally changed the thread on her needle and got back to work.
Cara excused herself to call her family, but once upstairs couldn’t get through, getting a strange beeping sound with a robotic voice saying the call couldn’t be completed and to try again later.
Going to the window she looked out through the thick leaded glass. The snow was still falling and she felt an odd pang but she didn’t know what it was for, or what it was about. She’d been having a good time at Langley. She wasn’t lonely, wasn’t depressed or blue. She wasn’t exactly anxious, but she was full of emotions, almost too full of feelings.
In her mind, she was a risk-taker. She was strong and independent, good at charging ahead and tackling projects. But she wasn’t confident of herself in relationships, and the last time she’d let herself love someone, it had gone south. It had gone from good to bad so quickly, and it seemed like she’d been the last to know. Cara didn’t want to feel that way again. She didn’t want to feel bad about herself again.
Restless, Cara left her room, wandered through the corridors and halls, turned on lights and passed through the ballroom, wondering what it would be like to have a party so big you’d need a ballroom for a dance floor.
She exited at the other end of the ballroom, went across the landing to the other side to the portrait gallery. She walked upand down the gallery, looking at each of the portraits again, but then stopping at Alec’s, and comparing it to his father’s.
*
Alec found Caraupstairs in the portrait gallery. He’d just seen Uncle Frederick to his room, made sure he had everything he needed for the night, and was on the way to find Cara when he spotted her silhouette in the long gallery.
She was standing in front of his father’s portrait, studying it intently. She hadn’t heard him approach and he watched her a moment before clearing his throat.
She turned quickly, caught off guard. “Oh, hi.” Her voice was breathless, and she put a hand to her chest. “Didn’t hear you.”
“Next time I’ll shout.”
“Yes, please.” She flashed him a smile before turning back to the portraits. “Your father is very handsome. He has quite a distinguished air, doesn’t he?”
Alec looked at the huge oil painting and nodded. “My father didn’t suffer fools.” His lip curled, remembering some of the fights he and his father had had over the years. Alec didn’t think his father would have ever handed over control of the company, if it weren’t for his memory loss. “He still has a full head of hair,” he added, keeping his tone light, “it’s all silver now, of course.”
She glanced at him, her gaze searching his. “You’d said he has dementia.”
“Advanced, yes. He’s in the final stages now.”
“I had a grandfather with Alzheimer’s. It’s a terrible disease.”
“My father has Lewy body dementia, not sure if you’re familiar with it.”
Cara shook her head and Alec studied his father’s face. It was an astonishing likeness. The artist had captured his father’s intelligence and stern reserve perfectly. The portraithad been painted while Alec and Madeleine had been on their honeymoon. He’d come home to find it on the wall in the gallery, and his father having moved from his spacious suite to a smaller suite elsewhere, giving his rooms—the best rooms in Langley Park—to Alec and Madeleine. “Lewy body dementia destroys everything—the physical and mental health, and it overtook my father quickly. Within just a couple of years he went from being him,” Alec pointed at the portrait, “to—” He broke off, unable to complete the sentence. After a moment he added, “My father and I were never close, but I thought I’d have him far longer.”
“These diseases steal so much, robbing us of the people we love. My grandfather was my person. He never missed a soccer game, or volleyball game—never missed anything I did. He was my champion—” She broke off, swallowed hard. “Oh, I can’t do this right now. I don’t want to be sad.”
