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  Acclaim for Christmas at Grey Sage

  by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  “This charming tale will sharpen your appetite for the true spirit of Christmas!”

  —Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author

  Christmas at Grey Sage by Phyllis Clark Nichols is a heartwarming, comical frolic from the first page. I fell in love with Maude and Silas and the Unlikely Christmas Party entourage. Forced to stay together at the Grey Sage Inn in New Mexico one snowy Christmas, a band of eclectic travelers trying to escape Christmas find the joy and peace of the season once again and help inn-owners Maude and Silas heal from a long-ago tragedy.

  This book is what Christmas is all about. I didn’t want to leave the inn. But the recipes included at the end of this story will make me feel as if I’m there once again, sitting by the fire on a snowy night. Curl up with some hot chocolate and enjoy your stay at the Grey Sage Inn. You will have a blast!

  —Lenora Worth, NY Times, USA Today and PW Bestselling Author

  Christmas at Grey Sage is a beautifully gentle story about grief, friendship, and the unlikely companionship of strangers that will leave you smiling and singing carols as you close its pages. Phyllis Nichols has a knack of creating an enchanting storyworld, populated by diverse and quirky characters you can’t help but root for. A satisfying and fun holiday read.

  —Mary DeMuth, author of over 30 books, including The Muir House

  Phyllis Clark Nichols has done it once more! In this new book, she deals again, masterfully, with the topic of Christmas. In an accessible but deep way, her narrative connects the readers with a collective human wealth of experiences, feelings, senses, symbols, and relationships, inviting them to reflect on their own wounds, in order to emerge with a new sense of joy and hope, not only for Christmas, but for life.

  —Nora O. Lozano, PhD

  Executive Director, Latina Leadership Institute

  Professor of Theological Studies, Baptist University of the Américas

  Also by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  The Christmas Portrait

  Christmas at Grey Sage

  The Rockwater Suite

  Return of the Song (book 1)

  Silent Days, Holy Night

  Copyright © 2018 by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Published by Gilead Publishing, LLC,

  Wheaton, Illinois, USA.

  www.gileadpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Gilead Publishing, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-68370-149-1 (printed softcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-68370-150-7 (ebook)

  Cover design by thedugandesigngroup.com

  Interior design by Jennifer Crosswhite, Tandem Services

  Ebook production by Book Genesis, Inc.

  For Janie J, my gentle friend who always has been there with an encouraging word

  Don’t tell me. You’re what?” I hit the brake, and the car skids a bit but stays on the ice-covered lane before coming to a stop. “But, Piper, you are coming, aren’t you? For the Christmas opening, I mean?”

  “Well, I … and …” Her voice crackles and then trails off midsentence.

  “Piper! Piper? Can you hear me?” I wait. Oh, rats! No signal. I’ll call her back on the landline when I get there. Just a few more turns, then I’ll be at the top. What a scene!

  I put the Jeep in park and grab my phone. If someone comes up the lane, sorry. Better hold on to this moment. Moments come and go quickly. This just might be next year’s Christmas card from Emerald Crest.

  The melting ice drips from the naked limbs of the beech trees, but the boughs of the white pines still nestle last night’s snow. The powder dusts my shoulder when I brush a pine limb, so I step into the ruts away from the trees and walk up the lane about ten yards for the very best shot.

  There. The image. “Emerald Crest, enthroned on a snow-covered peak like a beryl palace against a cloudless blue topaz sky.” Those are the words of the advertising executive who just finished printing our winter brochures. Perfect description of this morning.

  I trudge through the ruts up the hill to the west to get Red Spruce Knob in the background. It wears a fresh white blanket this morning. Thank you, Father, for providing that early morning sun like a spotlight on that old mansion. Click. Click. Got it. This moment may never come again, but I can hang on to it now.

  I head back to the vehicle, grateful for my front-row seat to this December morning’s scene peeking through these trees. West Virginia has welcomed me back home in fine fashion. College in Fort Worth, Texas, behind me and my dream job ahead of me. Oh, these hills and trees … Ah, trees. They call anything that grows above twelve feet tall a tree in Texas because they’ve never seen the chestnuts and maples and beech trees in West Virginia. And color? A cactus is green until it turns brown and dies. But the colors of leaves on sycamore trees? I have a new I’ve-been-away-from-home appreciation for them, scaly bark and all.

  I slog back down the hill, brush the snow off my shoulder, and climb back into the driver’s seat. Another couple of hairpin turns, and I am in the driveway. In front of me, Mrs. Finch, red stilettos firmly planted on the front sidewalk, points to the stone chimney, and Mr. Hornsby watches the snow he’s kicking with his pointed-toed boot. His chin is practically on his chest, and his head moves from side to side. I gather they are having another one of their discussions.

  I park and get out of the Jeep. “Good morning, Mrs. Finch and Mr. Hornsby.”

  She looks at her watch. “It’s about time. Now that you’re here, maybe Edgar will get to work and do what he’s told.”

  Mr. Hornsby never looks up. “Julia’s on time whenever she gets here. We’re both at work, but I’m not a-goin’ to do that, not that thing.”

  I’ve seen Mr. Hornsby with his hands in his pockets before, and this has nothing to do with subfreezing temperatures. It has everything to do with being resolute. “So, tell me, Mr. Hornsby, what is it that you’re not going to do this morning?”

  “Mrs. Finch here wants me to pull down all these ivy vines from the chimney, and I’m not a-doin’ that this mornin’—or any mornin’, for that matter. Mrs. Lafferty planted this ivy decades ago, before either of you were born, and I’m not a-pullin’ it down.”

  Mrs. Finch’s hands are on her hips.

  Not the first time I’ve seen her like this. “So, Mrs. Finch, why is it you want the vines pulled down?”

  “What do you mean why? Don’t you have eyes? Look at it.” She steps closer to the chimney and breaks off a twig. “It’s gnarly and dead, and it really looks deader than it is. Besides, I have ideas about something spectacular to do with this chimney. Something that would dazzle our guests when they drive up to the mansion.”

  Mr. Hornsby stops kicking snow and shaking his head, his hands still in his pockets. “If I pull the vines down, the chimney’s bare forever. So, do you have something spectacular in mind for next spring when the ivy would be turnin’ green and coverin’ this stone chimney? These vines are only bare for about four months, and even then they’re saying somethin’. Even in the winter, they’re a livin’ part of Emerald Crest, and I’m not a-removin’ them.”

  My dream job? For the last two weeks, I’ve done little more than referee the competition between these obstinate two. Our opening is in two days, I remind myself. All this will be over, and my real job begins. “I love that you have spectacular decorating ideas,
Mrs. Finch, and I know that you have envisioned such beautiful things for our gala.” I cross my gloved fingers behind my back. Jesus, forgive me for that fib. I’m just trying to keep peace here. I know that most of her visions and spectacular ideas come from magazines she purchases down at the drugstore.

  “And … Mr. Hornsby, I’m so happy to hear that you revere Emerald Crest’s history. And it would be a bit sad to see the ivy go. Maybe the solution here is to ask Mr. Lafferty what his preference would be.” Mr. Hornsby and I can always play the Mr. Lafferty card. Henrietta Finch can’t.

  Mrs. Finch heads to the front door in one of her snits, mumbling as she goes. “Well, I would have already asked him if I could.”

  Diplomatically, I wait until she disappears inside. “Mr. Hornsby, I think we’ve taken care of that issue. So, since I don’t think you’ll be pulling down ivy vines this morning, would you mind helping me unload these packages and get them inside?”

  Mr. Hornsby is grinning on the inside, and it sneaks out one side of his mouth. He removes his hands from his pockets and grabs a couple of boxes. “Why, I’d just be happy to, Julia. Thank you for rescuin’ me and the ivy vines this mornin’. And for saving the vireos. They like nestin’ in the ivy in the spring.”

  I follow behind him with three bags of tinsel, ribbon, and red Christmas balls. “Just so you know, Mr. Hornsby, I’m not planning to involve Mr. Lafferty in this discussion. We both know what he’d say. I think hanging the sparkling lights in the pines lining the driveway is on this morning’s list. But that was before we got snow. The ice is melting from the tree limbs, and we don’t want you getting electrified this morning. You know that thing about electricity and water. Maybe it’ll warm up and be dry by afternoon. You might want to find something to do out of hearing distance of Mrs. Finch in the meantime, though.” We step through the front door into the foyer.

  “Then I think I’ll split some firewood out behind the shed. Henrietta Finch won’t come lookin’ for me out there. She wouldn’t like gettin’ mud on her red, high-heeled shoes. Where would you like these boxes?”

  “Just put them on the counter in the butler’s pantry. They’re punch cups, and Mrs. Finch likes things out of sight, you know.”

  Mr. Hornsby puts the boxes on the counter and steadies them. “And I’ll be out of her sight for sure. If you’d rather help me split wood than split hairs with Henrietta, you know where I’ll be.”

  “I just might take you up on that. I’m not wearing red, high-heeled shoes. Thanks for your help.” I stuff the three bags beside the two boxes on the counter, reach inside my purse for my cell phone, and dial Piper’s number. She answers right away.

  “Julia! What happened to you?”

  “No, no, I’m fine, Piper. Sorry I frightened you. Signal is spotty out here. Just tell me, will you be here?” I’m prepared to beg, bribe, or belittle to get her here.

  “I’m coming, Julia. Wouldn’t miss it. I have a show tonight, so Mom and I will fly into Bridgeport tomorrow and rent a car.”

  “I’ll come and get you.”

  “No need. You have too much to do, and besides, we’d like to have a car.” She pauses. “Shoot. Gotta go—rehearsal. See you late tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes! You made my day, my Christmas, my year, maybe my whole life. This just wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t here. Later.”

  I disconnect and stare at my phone with a huge smile. She’s coming. Piper—the sister I never had. I remember growing up together, making footprints around this place, and I could not imagine celebrating without her.

  I nearly bump into Mrs. Schumacher on my way into the kitchen. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should be more careful. We seem to be moving around here like bees to a hive lately. I’m sure you’re not used to that.”

  “Yes, we are. Moving around, I mean. And no, I’m not used to it, but I guess I need to get used to it.” She smooths her apron and checks to see if she spilled any of the tea out of the cup she carries. “Hot cinnamon-raisin scones with orange butter are on the counter, and I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “Sounds perfect for a morning like this one. How is Mr. Lafferty? I do hope he’s feeling better.”

  “Yes, he’s much better. Still in his room, though, and I’m not certain he’ll be down today. I’m taking him another cup of my warm potion he thinks is tea. That’s why he’s better, you know. I think he’ll be in great shape for the gala. Let’s allow him to rest and not bother him with any details today, agreed?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Please tell him I’m here, and I’m counting on him. Did he finish it yet?”

  “Not quite. He said it still needs work. But you know how he is: never satisfied. There is always just a bit of something else he thinks he should do.” She heads toward the stairs.

  “I know it will be spectacular. I’ll find Mrs. Finch and offer her a warm scone. Hopefully it’ll sweeten her disposition. Oh, and I just spoke with Piper. She will be here for the gala. I was beginning to think her schedule wouldn’t allow it. Please let Mr. Lafferty know.”

  “Lovely. He’ll be so pleased to see her again.” Mrs. Schumacher turns around and grins at me. “Oh, and I have another special tea for Henrietta’s disposition if you’d like me to brew it.”

  I wink at her and then sit at the breakfast table with my calendar and a warm scone. Normally I would have reached for the apricot preserves, but Mrs. Schumacher’s orange butter is better on this cold morning. I look down my list for today and review the plan for the next couple of days. It’s all coming together finally—food, decorations, speaker, and entertainment, and the RSVP list is growing each day. Now, if Mr. Lafferty could just finish it, then everything would be perfect.

  Rumbles from the garden room sound like Mrs. Finch is rearranging furniture. That’s not happening even if it means one of Mrs. Schumacher’s special cups of tea. I sip the last drop of my coffee, which also has a sprinkle of cinnamon in it, and put a warm scone on a plate as a peace offering for what might come out of my mouth.

  The garden room is my favorite room in the house. It’s more like a loggia connecting two wings of the mansion. The exterior green granite wall rises from the green marble floor for about three feet. Then the stone becomes the stage for paned glass that rises to a twenty-foot ceiling. Every lead pane sparkles despite the aberrations that hint at its age. And every sill, casing, sash, and muntin are painted a glossy white. It has been like that since the house was built decades ago.

  Beyond those panes are magnificent, manicured gardens. In the spring and summer, smooth brick paths snaking through raised beds of herbs and flowers and trimmed hedges and boxwoods make it feel like a maze. Then there are the fruit trees carefully planted for sun and shade. The limbs are bare now, but they’ll be fruit-filled boughs for nesting birds come April.

  Mr. Hornsby is right. Even in the winter, there is beauty in bare branches, especially these that allow glimpses into the distant mountains.

  And then there is the garden art, mostly made of concrete and natural stone. I know every piece. Grancie is right in saying Mrs. Lafferty had an affinity for all things beautiful, and she must have had an affinity for statues of playful children and animals. They only peek through the garden when it’s in bloom, but they are in full sight in December.

  The real garden is through the window, but framed garden prints and oil paintings of flowers and birds give the appearance of another garden on the back wall of this room. All through the space are multi-patterned, chintz-covered sofas and chairs. Mrs. Lafferty might have been Irish, but this garden room is as English as it gets. Every piece of furniture here hugs me, and there is always a table nearby where I can set my cup of tea or my glass of lemonade.

  But the most comfortable seat in the room for me is the piano bench. That Steinway rosewood grand takes center stage in front of the paned windows looking out on all of West Virginia. Mrs. Lafferty’s needlepoint cushion is still there—another picture of how much she loved birds and flowers. This room is one of
my growing-up places—sitting on the piano bench playing for Mr. Lafferty and learning about patience and perseverance in the garden.

  I enter the garden room from the door to the kitchen wing. Mrs. Finch steps cautiously back from the piano to admire her work. I barely muffle my gasp.

  The piano lid is lowered, and there atop the piano is a heavy drape of green velvet trimmed in gold braid. She steps forward and adjusts the folds in the fabric as it cascades almost to the floor. I don’t want to believe what I’m seeing: atop the velvet drape is a sterling-silver candelabra with several arms holding twelve-inch red tapered candles. Silk holly leaves with red plastic berries appear to be growing out of the green velvet.

  Ghastly.

  As I move closer to the piano, wrestling for ways of telling her that decorating the piano would never do, she steps to a nearby table and reaches for a matching candelabra. Before she can put it next to its mate on the velvet drape, I interrupt her.

  “Mrs. Finch, no. Just plain no. That will not do.” I shock even myself with my bluntness, and shocking myself is a rare occasion. I could not have been less diplomatic, and I am fully aware that Mrs. Finch does not take well to criticism.

  Mrs. Finch’s face looks like she might have just seen the ghost of the original Mrs. Lafferty drift across the room. Her eyes are blaring and stretch almost to the size of her open mouth, all showing unbelievable surprise. “I beg your pardon, Julia?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Finch, but covering the piano and decorating it simply will not do.”

  She puts the silver piece on the piano, ignoring what I said, and her hands move back to her hips. “I do believe I was the one hired to decorate Emerald Crest for the gala. And I don’t believe I was told to take my orders from you, missy. First it was the ivy, and now the piano. Just who do you think you are, Julia Russell?”

  “I apologize, Mrs. Finch. What you say is true. And I think the velvet drape and silver candelabras are lovely, and even the fake holly. And I’m certain you’ll find a perfect place for it all, but it won’t be on the piano.”