A Christmas Hope by Joseph Pittman Page B

she said.
    â€œThen it’s not truly memorable,” Thomas said, with a weary shake of his head.
    Was that disapproval over her reluctance to play along, or the result of some condition he was suffering from? Nora was not having an easy time getting a read on her curious customer, he was all wisdom and age, with a certain air of mystery, a rare case of intimidation insinuating itself into her soul.
    â€œMrs. Rainer, the kind of moment I’m talking about should pop into your mind instantly. It should be ingrained like knots in wood, part of its fabric.”
    â€œI’m sorry, it’s just . . . you surprised me. We only just got through Halloween and already you’re putting visions of sugar plums dancing into my head. Like a department store eager to get the holiday shopping season going.”
    â€œSugar plums,” he said. “Is that a memory?”
    â€œNo, just a cliché.”
    â€œOh Mrs. Rainer, we’ll have to do better than that if we’re to find what I wish.”
    She looked away, red-faced at her lack of professionalism. This would take some getting used to, controlling her tongue. When she had composed herself, reminding herself this was business, a retail one, and part of its success would lie with her interaction—and indulgences—with her customers. She dropped the defense she’d raised when the word Christmas was floated in the air and said, “Please, call me Nora.”
    â€œI could call you stalling.”
    At Nora’s suggestion, they were sitting in a pair of wicker rockers, soft cushions helping to relax them, or at least, him. Situated by the large bay window that looked out over Main Street, she saw snow covering the ground and folks walking by all bundled up against the cold. Because of the weather, this talk of Christmas seemed wholly appropriate, even if it was only November first. All Saints’ Day, a holy day of obligation in the Connors family, her mother had always insisted they go to church before coming home for a tasty feast. She could smell the pot roast in her mind.
    â€œBaked Virginia ham,” Nora suddenly said, her body leaning forward eagerly, as though ready to pop out of her seat. “I’m thinking of those meals my mother made every Christmas, we could smell it cooking all day long while we played with our new toys, Dad sitting in his chair smoking his pipe, the burning tobacco melding well with the smoky flavors coming from the kitchen. It was the one day of the year he wasn’t telling us girls to quiet down. He just let us play. With our dolls and their houses.”
    Nora paused, looking over at Thomas. He just nodded politely.
    â€œWow, you’re good,” she said. “I haven’t thought about that stuff in years.”
    â€œYou’re home now, it’s only natural such memories will come to you.”
    â€œAnd you, Mr. Van Diver? Are you home?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I am,” he said. “And what brings me here—because I know that will be your next question—has everything to do with home and with memories, with Christmases past and, God willing, Christmases present and future.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind my forthrightness, you mentioned ‘final days,’ ” Nora said, feeling like she was intruding even as she posed the question. “Are you sick, Mr. Van Diver?”
    â€œNot that kind of sick, no. It’s just . . . well, let’s say I am a long way from my youth.”
    â€œWith each passing day, even today’s youth can say that.”
    He nodded again. “Very astute, Nora. You have an appreciation for the past.”
    She gazed around at her new store, a mix of the old junk that Elsie’s Antiques still called inventory and ethereal ideas that existed in her mind of what she wanted to sell. “So, Mr. Van Diver, tell me about this past you wish me to find for you.”
    â€œIt’s appropriate that your