Poor woman. Missing out on the trip they’d worked so hard for because of their own willingness to take their kin in. Clearly I wasn’t the only one thrown by surprises on this grand getaway.
My phone rings on the wingback chair, no doubt Elodie too worked up by my texts to simply text back, and as I look inside my suite with its snapping fire and cozy bed, I see the room with fresh eyes.
Fresh, stinging eyes.
It must be done though.
It must.
With an almighty mental push, I clear my throat as I step quickly toward the group. “Mr.Jenkins... sir...”
Chapter4
Here We Come A-Wassailing
It takes a full fifteen minutes of standing awkwardly in the aisle, convincing first a very hesitant Jenkins, then the very hesitant interim guardian parents, but after repeating myself at least thirty times, they all finally take my offer. Plus, a few timely infant screams help move things along.
All during this time passengers openly looked on, which now that I was in the spotlight, helped me understand why exactly Jenkins had more than one bead of sweat trembling on his temples.
There was one passenger in particular whom Jenkins seemed particularly aware of through the exchange, to the point that I wanted to ask why. Why does Jenkins keep an eye on the older gentleman in the seat opposite the couples? Why does he care what the single passenger who keeps hisown gaze out the window, hands resting on his cane, thinks? Of all the passengers who were irritated by the noise or looked like they were stringing up complaint emails in their minds, the older man looked the least concerned or offended by the situation—not to mention this suggested arrangement would benefit him most. So why does Jenkins dart his eyes continuously his way?
“And are you really sure, MissFairbanks?” Jenkins says one last time as the couple gathers up their belongings.
“Really.”Hoping to truly and finally convince him, I reach out and give his arm a light squeeze. “Really. The place was much too big for me anyway. Besides, the ambiance out here looks like a lot more fun.”
And to some extent, I’m not just saying it to get him to stop saying, “But, MissFairbanks... the company truly will be unable to refund you...”
It really does look cheerier out here, among the hustle and bustle and mingling of a hundred jovial smells and words and songs. The suite was lovely, but to be perfectly honest, it already had started to feel a little isolating.
Perfect, I hope, for a baby and a celebrating couple. Not quite so perfect for the girl who gets a little too inside her own head when left alone for long periods.
“But, MissFairbanks—” Jenkins begins again.
“Henry,” interjects the older gentleman in the corner, looking away from the window at last. He levels his gaze on Jenkins, his voice gentle but with quiet authority. “The young lady has graciously offered to give up her suite to the coupleand the baby. Let the young lady partake in such seasonal goodwill.”
This, at last, shuts Jenkins up.
And after several handshakes, and one surprising hug from the grateful couple, they are whisked off and all my belongings aside from luggage—which evidently will head to a new sleeping quarter somewhere else on the train—are brought to me.
“So, I guess I’ll take one of these.” I shuffle into my new little compartment where the older man sits. Of the two pairs of seats facing each other, it’s just the two of us, and as I settle into a seat opposite him, I take him in.
He looks to be in his seventies, with puffs of cloud-white hair curling over his ears and down a trailing beard. Though the seats are roomy enough for me to sit crisscross should I choose, I notice he’s filled his in, the buttons on his crimson sweater vest straining as they fight to stay closed. His eyes are baby blue. The only thing keeping me from calling him Santa right now is the fact that there is no rosy hue to his cheeks.
In fact, he looks downright pale.
From habit I glance down to his right hip and, sure enough, spot the bulge of the small black box tucked away.
“Hi.” I lean forward in my seat with my hand extended. “I’m Willow. And... I couldn’t help noticing how Mr.Jenkins wanted your approval back there.”
The Almost Santa releases his cane to take my hand, and despite the paleness of his face, he gives a whisper of a smile. “Yes, Henry has always been a bit on the nervous side. You get the company into one lawsuit over chestnuts over an openfire ten years ago . . .” His words trail off, but in his face and eyes is a twinkle. “I’m Clarence.”
I laugh, while at the same time noting the way his hand shakes ever so slightly as it leaves mine and returns to grip his cane. I want to ask more of this man who so obviously has a history here, but first things first.
“Would you like some almonds?” I say, all the while plopping my purse on the seat next to me and beginning to dig. It only takes a moment to find the Ziploc bag of snacks. I spot the containers of apple juice and reach for them. “Oh! I have an apple juice too,” I say brightly, then hold it up for him to see.
As I do so, he regards me.
“Both would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.”
