He stepped back down to the street. He’d leave the chocolates on the stoop and join the OT men in the hotel dining room.
The blue door flew open, and Charlie grinned at him, wearing a dark gray suit. “Gerrit! Thank you for coming. Where’s Bernardus?”
The decision had been made for him. “I’m afraid he’s ill. He sends his regrets. I brought chocolates from the Netherlands. Happy Christmas.”
“Smashing.” Charlie took the box. “Come on through.”
Behind Charlie, Fern Le Corre greeted Gerrit in a dark red dress and a smile that would liquify the knees of most men.
Gerrit’s knees held firm as he crossed the threshold and removed his cap. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Le Corre. Thank you for inviting me.”
“We’re honored to have a dear friend of Charlie’s in our home. But since we’ll be spending Christmas together, you must call me Fern. And you’re Gerrit, yes?”
“Yes.” Gerrit hung his greatcoat where indicated and followed his hosts past an office, a waiting room, and examination rooms.
Fern led him up a narrow staircase. “The surgery’s on the ground floor. The family quarters are upstairs on the first and second floors.”
“I see.” On the stairway wall hung framed pencil sketches highlighted with splashes of watercolor. Several of Fern and Charlie, of two older adults—their parents, most likely—and of two little boys with Fern’s looks.
“This is Ivy’s art,” Charlie said.
“I thought it might be.” Gerrit smiled at the drawings. Upstairs, more of her art graced the hallway—rabbits and kestrels and toads and wildflowers—as well as family photographs.
The dining room was decorated with conventional oil paintings of seascapes and sailing ships, but Gerrit preferred the intimate charm of Ivy’s art.
At one end of the table, Fern swept her hand to her right, towarda bank of windows overlooking the street. “You’ll sit here, Gerrit. And, Charlie, as the man of the house...” She motioned to the head of the table.
In one instant, Charlie transitioned to that man, standing taller, his chest fuller, and he stroked the back of the dark wood chair.
Gerrit pulled out Fern’s chair for her and took his own seat. One empty chair stood to his right and two across the table. “Who else is coming?”
A soft thud downstairs as the front door shut.
Fern grinned. “That will be them now.”
Charlie chuckled. “Fern won’t tell me who the other guests are.”
“Surprises are such fun.” Fern clasped her hands in front of her chest.
Gerrit murmured his agreement out of politeness, but he’d never been fond of surprises. They were too ... surprising.
Why wasn’t Fern rushing downstairs to greet her guests? Two feminine voices floated up the stairs and down the hall, laughing and familiar.
“Fern!” Charlie glared down the table at his sister. “You told me—”
“Hush, now.” Fern rose and fixed a smile on the door.
Gerrit rose too, even as a dark pit formed in his stomach. What had he done?
Mrs. Galais entered the dining room—with Ivy. “Gerrit!” Mrs. Galais beamed at him. “You darling boy. What a lovely surprise. Ivy didn’t tell me you’d be here.”
Because Ivy didn’t know, but Gerrit wrestled up a smile for the elderly woman. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Galais.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Ivy’s voice wavered, dark and low.
“I’m sorry.” Charlie stretched a hand toward Ivy, his face agitated. “Fern told me to invite Gerrit and Bernardus. I never would have done, but she said you were dining with Mrs. Galais.”
“Dear, oh dear.” Fern pressed a hand to her chest. “I said IvywasbringingMrs. Galais. You must listen with more care. Please have a seat, Mrs. Galais, right here next to me.”
