Christmas at the Hummingbird House by Donna Ball

other.”
    Angela drew in a sharp breath for a reply, and released it unspoken.  They faced each other across the desk, and across a wall of tension so thick it seemed to dim the light in the room.  “Why?” she said at last.
    Angela and Bryce Phipps lived in a two-story condo in one of the most prestigious buildings in Seattle, complete with views of the water and the Space Needle. The interior was tastefully decorated with collectibles from trips they had taken to Africa, India and China, although they had not actually taken any of those trips together.  Their dinner parties were elegant and sophisticated, and invitations to them were highly sought after.  In public they were a warm and charming couple, schooled in the art of conversation and in making others feel important.  In private, they rarely spoke at all.  It wasn’t that there was any particular unresolved animosity between them.  It was simply that they had nothing to say.
    Bryce actually seemed to consider her question.  “I’m not sure, really,” he said in a moment. Then he shrugged.  “Perhaps you’re right.  I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll cancel.”
    Angela turned to leave, satisfied, but paused when the photograph on the brochure caught her eye.  It was of a rustic-looking lodge in the snow at twilight.  Golden light shone from the windows, and along the long front porch was a series of quirky-looking doors, each one painted a different color.  While the snow was clearly Photo-Shopped, something about the light in the windows, those peculiar painted doors, reminded her of Christmases from her childhood.  Her father had been mad for Christmas, and always found a way to make each one more fun, more exciting and filled with playful adventure, than the last.  Looking at the picture of the lodge in the snow, she suddenly missed him intensely.
    It has been said that a woman with a good father will marry a good man.  Angela Phipps had married a good man, and she had proceeded to destroy him.  Would it be such a terrible thing to accept his gesture at face value, just once?  After all, it might be the last one he made.
    She released a soft breath and spun the brochure around toward him with the tip of one exquisitely manicured finger.  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said.  “I suppose I can bear one weekend in the woods.  Of course, it will mean canceling the theater on the twenty-third, and the hospital dinner on the twenty-second, and I’m not at all sure what kind of message it will send to the Disadvantaged Children’s Fundraising Committee when their chairperson doesn’t show up for their gala event, but if this is what you’re set on doing for the holidays …”
    He said, “I am, actually.”  He wasn’t smiling any longer.  He just looked tired.
    “Well then,” she said.  “I suppose I’d better start making phone calls.  And Bryce.”  Suddenly she felt as tired as he looked.  Tired of pretending, tired of trying, tired of going on.  “No gifts.  Whatever you’ve locked in your drawer, take it back.  I don’t want it.”
    When she was gone, Bryce sat down heavily in his chair and, after a moment, unlocked the desk drawer.  He looked at the wrapped box inside, but did not take it out.  “Oh, my dear,” he said softly, “I think you do.”

 
     
     
     
     
    SIX
     
    O Christmas Tree
     
    A s it turned out, cutting down one’s own Christmas tree was not nearly as challenging a task as Paul and Derrick had expected, particularly when they discovered they didn’t actually have to handle any sharp implements—or, perhaps more importantly, scuff their suede Mark McNairy boots by trudging all over the mountainside searching out the perfect tree.  The Christmas tree farm to which Purline directed them actually had golf carts with a driver assigned to each one. All they had to do was ride in the back while the vehicle cruised up and down the rows of spruce and fir, directing it to stop when