An Irish Christmas Read online

  An

  IRISH

  CHRISTMAS

  M E L O D Y

  C A R L S O N

  Grand Rapids, Michigan

  © 2007 by Melody Carlson

  Published by Fleming H. Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Carlson, Melody.

  An Irish Christmas / Melody Carlson.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 10: 0-8007-1880-1 (cloth)

  ISBN 978-0-8007-1880-0 (cloth)

  1. Ireland—Fiction. 2. Christmas stories. I. Title.

  PS3553.A73257I75 2007

  813.54—dc22 2007015221

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  To my son Lucas Andrew …

  whose piano skills inspired the idea

  for this story while we were touring

  in Ireland a few years ago.

  Love,

  Mom

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  1

  COLLEEN MAY FREDERICK

  SPRING OF 1963

  I felt certain I was losing my son. Or perhaps I’d already lost him and just hadn’t noticed. So many things had slipped my attention this past year, ever since Hal’s death. But lately it seemed I was losing everything. Not just those insignificant items like my car keys, which I eventually found in the deep freeze beneath a carton of Green Giant mixed vegetables, or my favorite pair of calfskin gloves, which I still hadn’t located. But it seemed I was losing important things as well. Or maybe I was just losing my grip.

  I studied the piles of financial papers that I had neatly arranged across the surface of Hal’s old rolltop desk, the one his grandfather had had before him. I restraightened my already tidy stacks of unpaid bills, insurance papers, and miscellaneous mishmash, hoping that would help create a sense of order from what felt more like chaos. But I was still overwhelmed. So much I didn’t understand. So much that Hal had handled, always somewhat mysteriously—or mysteriously to me.

  Oh, I could run a household like clockwork. And I even helped out at the shoe store when needed, as long as it didn’t involve keeping the books or ordering merchandise or anything terribly technical. The truth was, other than helping customers find the right shoes, ringing up sales, smiling, chatting, inquiring about an aging grandmother or a child who’d had a reaction to a vaccination, I was not terribly useful. And more and more I was feeling useless. And overwhelmed.

  I hadn’t heard from my son Jamie in weeks, even with college graduation right around the corner, not a word. I finally resorted to calling his dorm, but even then only received vague and unhelpful answers from a guy named Gary. I wondered what Hal would do if he were still alive. Of course, I knew what he’d say. He’d tell me not to worry so much. He’d say that I should pray instead. Easier said than done.

  It had been Hal’s idea that Jamie attend his alma mater, an expensive private business college in the Bay Area. And Jamie had been thrilled at the prospects of living in San Francisco, several hours away from us. He longed for independence and freedom. But after a few semesters, Jamie grew disenchanted with the small college and wanted to switch schools to Berkeley, in particular to their school of music. Jamie honestly believed that he could make it as a musician. Naturally, this seemed perfectly ridiculous to both Hal and me. So Hal encouraged our dreamer son to stick it out and get his business degree first. Hal told Jamie that music was perfectly fine—for fun and recreation—but it would never pay the rent or put food on the table. I had to agree

  The plan was for Jamie to take over the family business eventually. Frederick’s Fine Footwear was a successful and established business in our hometown of Pasadena. It was well respected and had been in Hal’s family for more than sixty years. We felt that Jamie should be honored that he was next in line for the shoe throne. As it turned out, he didn’t feel quite the same. Oh, I wasn’t privy to all of those “father-son” discussions that year, but it seemed they had reached an agreement of sorts, and Jamie had given up the idea of Berkeley and returned to the business college.

  Then, about a year ago, it came to a head once again. At the beginning of last summer, Jamie announced that he never planned to go into the shoe business at all—period—end of discussion. Well, I know this broke Hal’s heart, and I secretly believe that it contributed to the heart attack that killed him in July. Of course, I never told Jamie my suspicion. Although I know that he felt guilty enough. The poor boy blamed himself for most of the summer, even giving up a summer trip to work in the shoe store to make up for things, although I know he hated being there. Still, I reassured my son that Hal’s faulty heart had nothing to do with Jamie and that his Grandfather Frederick had suffered the same ailment at about the same age.

  At summer’s end, I had encouraged Jamie to return to college for his senior year. The most important thing seemed to be that he would complete his education and get his business degree. What he did after that would be up to him. My son had a definite stubborn streak, and I knew that no one could force him into the shoe business. Especially not me!

  And so on that warm day in May, less than a year since my husband’s death, I reached for the sales contract that dominated the piles of paperwork on his neatly cluttered desk. I had decided the time had come to sell the shoe store, and under these circumstances, I felt Hal would agree. Still, it was terribly hard to sign the papers. My fountain pen weighed ten pounds as I scratched my name across those lines. I wished there were another way—or that I was made of stronger stuff. But I felt so terribly overwhelmed . . . as if I were losing everything. Maybe that’s why I decided that since I was losing the shoe store, I might as well sell my house too. It was far too large for me, and expensive to maintain, what with the pool and the grounds and everything. Besides, if Jamie wasn’t going to be part of my life, what would be the point? Especially when it seemed that Jamie had always been the reason for everything.

  I picked up the family photo that Hal faithfully kept on top of his desk—the three of us, our happy little family. Jamie was about eleven at the time, still the little boy on the brink of adolescence. Still willing to hold my hand as we walked through town together—unless he spotted a schoolmate, then he’d let go. His dark brown hair curled around his high forehead and those brilliant blue eyes just gleamed with mischief and adventure. I studied my face next to his, the high cheekbones and pixie nose framed in dark hair. I was surprised at how young I looked back then, although it was less than ten years ago, but then again I was barely thirty. That seemed so very young now.

  I pulled the picture in for a closer look. Although I had been smiling, there was sadness in my eyes. Had that always been there? Did anyone else ever notice it? Hal wore his usual cheerful grin. He had just started to bald back then, and his paunch was p
erfect for playing Santa, which he loved to do at the shoe store during the holidays.

  Setting the frame back down on the desk, I looked at the image now blurred as tears welled up in my eyes. There we all stood, smiling midgets beneath our enormous Christmas tree, oblivious to the fact that life would be vastly different ten years later. Jamie had always insisted that the gilded star on the treetop must touch the ceiling, but our home had vaulted ceilings that stretched more than fifteen feet tall. Hal never once complained about how much trouble it had been to unearth a tree that size down here in Southern California, although one year he drove six hours to get just the right tree. Consequently Jamie had never been disappointed. Spoiled a bit, perhaps, but then he’d been our only child and such a good boy. He always made us happy to be his parents, always made us proud.

  Until recently anyway.

  And, in all fairness, just because a grown son hadn’t bothered to call his mother in several weeks, well, I supposed that didn’t make him a bad boy. Just neglectful. After all, he had his own life.

  2

  James William Frederick (Jamie)

  I’d kept a secret from my parents for a couple of years now. It had started out to be a temporary thing—a quick fix. But when Dad died unexpectedly last summer, I thought that would end my little game. I’d planned to make a clean break of it with Mom—and I figured she’d forgive me, eventually anyway. But she seemed so fragile over losing Dad, and the shoe store needed attention, and life just got busy. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, another year had passed and I still hadn’t made my disclosure. And I discovered there was something about secrets . . . the longer you keep them, the bigger they grow.

  My life of deception began when I dropped out of college. It had been winter term of my junior year when I decided to call it quits. My main reason for giving up had been to pursue my music—well, that combined with a slightly broken heart, something that, unlike my music, I eventually got over—or mostly. To me, music was my life (as well as a form of therapy) and I believed I could make it into my livelihood. But my dad didn’t agree. He felt that music was something to play at, but selling shoes was a real job. And, after my futile attempt to discuss my musician’s dreams with him during Christmas break of 1961, I decided to take my future into my own hands and quietly dropped out of school without bothering to mention this minor fact to either of my unsuspecting parents.

  After all, I’d convinced myself, it was my life. And it hadn’t helped matters that I’d missed a lot of classes as a result of getting dumped by my girlfriend that winter. The choice was pretty obvious, and I’d figure out a way to break this news to my parents . . . when the time was right. My thinking was that when my music made me rich and famous, which I felt was inevitable, the truth would be much sweeter. In the meantime, thanks to my friend the dorm manager, I continued to live on campus, and I continued to collect my parents’ monthly support checks as well as their tuition payments for the classes I wasn’t taking. This benefit was accompanied with a fair amount of guilt, although I did my part to justify things. And I blamed my dad for trusting me. It had been his idea from the beginning that part of growing up and becoming a man would be for me to manage my own finances during college. I was managing them, all right.

  When alleviating my guilt, I would remind myself that it had never been my choice to go to that college in the first place. Sure, it had been fine for Dad, back in the Dark Ages when a guy was considered fortunate to attend college at all. But I would’ve preferred attending Berkeley, specifically the school of music. And so I convinced myself that my parents’ financial support was “my due pay.” It wasn’t easy to support a fledgling band back in the early sixties, so I figured it was an investment in my future. And it was my compensation for my hard work—my work that included writing music; purchasing, maintaining, and practicing my instruments; and performing with my newly created band, Jamie and the Muskrats. Thanks to twenty-twenty hindsight, I can now admit that our band’s name didn’t boost our career much, but on second thought it was just the beginning of the rock and roll era, and even the Beatles had a few kinks to work out.

  “Selling shoes might be your bag,” I had informed my dad when I came home to visit at the beginning of last summer. I’d probably been just a little full of myself since Jamie and the Muskrats had played two high school proms in the Bay Area the previous month, and I felt certain that fame was right around the corner. “But I refuse to spend my entire life handling stinky feet and trying to cram Mrs. Flemming’s puffy size 8½ Ds into 7Bs.” By then I’d spent enough summer “vacations” working in Frederick’s Fine Footwear to know what the shoe business was really like—up close and way too personal—and I had no intention of dedicating my life to shodding the fine but smelly feet of Pasadena.

  “But Frederick’s has been in our family for nearly sixty years,” my dad had protested. “Your grandpa started it before I was even born, and it’s been my dream that you’d take it over after graduation, Jamie. That’s why I wanted you to get your business degree. I expect you to follow in my footsteps.” Then he even chuckled at his weak pun, slapping me on the back as if that was all it took to pull me into the family shoe business.

  “Sorry, Pops,” I told him. “But I’m just not ready to fill those shoes.” When it came to bad puns, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. So it was that we went round and round for about a week that June. And Dad even laid down some tempting offers for me. And when that didn’t work, he actually resorted to some slightly camouflaged threats, like cutting off my spending money, although he’d never been the sort of man to carry out such a thing. But it was all of no use. Neither of us wanted to budge and it finally became a standoff. The shoe business might be fine for Dad and my grandpa before him, but I made myself perfectly clear: Frederick’s Fine Footwear would have to get by without the youngest Frederick. And so I took off on a road trip with my band—my plan was to be gone all summer.

  Then Dad suffered a heart attack in early July. It was only due to Steve, our band’s drummer, that I discovered this since he had called home and heard the news from his mom just one day after Dad died. Thanks to my secret dropout status along with my refusal to play the “good son” by taking over the family business, I felt overwhelmingly responsible for my father’s death. Talk about a guilt trip. Of course, Mom reassured me that it wasn’t my fault at all, and that Dad had been having some “serious heart trouble” for a couple of years already. Still, I felt miserable about the whole thing. Plus, I really missed Dad. I suddenly realized that we don’t really know what we have until it’s gone.

  So here I was stuck in Pasadena and suffering from many layers of guilt, which killed any desire to return to what had turned into a fairly lackluster road trip anyway. To ease my guilt, I volunteered to fill in at the shoe store for the remainder of the summer; it was the least I could do. But then September came and Mom insisted I return to my classes. And, fed up with hot swollen feet and cranky school shoppers, I was more than happy to comply with her wishes. I told myself that I’d write her a nice long letter and confess my lie to her later on—after she’d had more time to recover from losing my dad. There seemed no sense in adding to her load just then.

  “The most important thing, right now,” Mom told me as she handed me clean laundry and I packed my bags, “is for you to graduate. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll handle the store from here on out. You just take care of your education, Jamie. Look toward your future.”

  I couldn’t disagree with her about that either. But I also couldn’t admit that, at the moment, my education and my future was all about music—I couldn’t tell her that everything I wanted to learn either involved a guitar or a piano or my transistor radio and the Top Forty. Nor did I mention that the Muskrats and I had already lined up several more promising gigs for the upcoming fall. Instead, I just kissed her good-bye and said, “See ya at Christmas.”

  But autumn came and went and I had to excuse myself for Christmas b
ecause Jamie and the Muskrats had several good parties to play during the holidays. Naturally, this only added to my growing accumulation of guilt. The truth was, I felt ashamed to go home and face Mom, knowing that I was living such a lie. At the same time, I wasn’t man enough to tell her the truth either. Instead I sent her an expensive hand-carved jewelry box, purchased with some gig money, as if I thought I could buy her off. Then I even called her on Christmas Eve and I told her how much I missed her and how I wished I was home, which was actually the truth. She sounded sad and slightly lost—sort of how I was feeling at the time. But I promised I’d spend next Christmas with her.

  Jamie and the Muskrats got a few more frat parties that winter and a couple of high school dances that spring. But, despite these opportunities, the Muskrats were not making it to the big time like I’d planned. Ed Sullivan had not called, and consequently we knew we could never make ends meet on our musicians’ wages. Plus it seemed that the band’s earlier enthusiasm was definitely flagging. It didn’t help matters when Gordon and Bill, about to graduate, both lined up “real” jobs for the upcoming summer. The Muskrats were about to become a duet with only my drummer buddy Steve Bartowski and me, and as far as I could see, a guitarist and a drummer did not equal a band. Then within that same week, Steve, shocked to hear of his girlfriend’s pregnancy and in need of “some serious dough,” enlisted in the Air Force! I couldn’t believe it. Jamie and the Muskrats had been reduced to just Jamie, and I wasn’t about to take my act out solo.

  “I guess I’ll come home for summer after all,” I told Mom on the same day that Steve dumped me for his girlfriend and the Air Force. I’d called her long-distance—as always, collect.

  “Wonderful,” she said in a flat voice that lacked any genuine enthusiasm and actually sounded pretty depressed, and not a bit like the cheerful little mother I’d grown up with.