Dan Chabot

And so on Christmas Eve, four relative strangers gathered at the big house at 401 Barnhill Road to say goodbye to an old mutual friend. Each had arrived with their own emotional and financial baggage:

 

♦Sister Theresa Renwick, 90, in the twilight of her life, was there to renourish delicious memories of when both she and the house were new, of her glorious childhood there with brother Ethan. But especially her life-changing encounter with Sister Genevieve, how she came to God and her vocation after wandering in the wilderness for years, her profound regret over her teenage promiscuity. What a fitting place to be right now, she thought, to look back down the long, tumultuous road that had brought her to this point in her life. She was not really sure if there would be any future to go back to at her financially-strapped convent.
♦Nick MacAlinden, on his last financial and emotional legs and contemplating suicide, came for one last look at the house that had given him such refuge and enjoyment as a boy, where his youthful obsession with baseball had propelled him to a major league career. In his will he has specified that his ashes be strewn at the site.
♦Willow Summerhaven returned with bittersweet memories of a teenage love affair with Craig Guilfoyle, and the tragic consequences that had estranged her from his family. Now the Guilfoyles were gone, but she was thankful that at least she had finally reconciled with them before they died. She dreaded going back to the new financial struggles that awaited her family.
♦Nettie Tannehill, facing an uncertain future herself, presided over the house's final years, and had come to terms with its inevitable fate. Most old houses are doomed to the wrecking ball, sooner or later, she reckoned.

None of her three guests had ever dreamed of the lives that awaited them after they left this charmed, safe haven as young adults.

"Life is what happens while you're making other plans," Nettie mused while she waited for her guests to arrive. "Whoever said that sure had it right."

Nettie had pulled out all the stops for this fond farewell to the house they all had loved and cherished, each for their own reasons, but also each for very shared reasons.

It was decorated for Christmas the way Nettie imagined it must have always looked down through the years, going back to the 1920s. The familiar lights were glowing from each window, the Christmas tree was back in its familiar place at the end of the living room, in front of the big window facing the street. Holly and ivy and mistletoe were everywhere, Bing Crosby crooned Christmas carols softly in the background. And to complete the Christmas card picture, a light snow began to fall.

Nettie had worked hard to create the perfect Christmas atmosphere. There was an air of excitement, of expectancy, of waiting for things to happen. Even the caterers, applying finishing touches to the arrangements, sensed the anticipation.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

In the foyer, introductions and re-introductions were the first order of business for four people who had this grand old house in common. Nick's Priscilla was there, too, and Willow's daughter Lynn. Lynn's husband and Ben had stayed behind with little Craig.

"This is your moment," Ben said, kissing her as she left. "Go home again."

They all hit it off from the start, mingling in the foyer, sipping wine and nibbling munchies, glancing around to see what had changed, and not changed. Soon they were trading stories about their favorite things about the house. It was the beginning of a festive evening, the guests exchanging banter and touching personal episodes of the house and town, the others listening and laughing in turn.

"We have a special guest," Nettie interrupted. She opened the French doors a crack and Merle slipped into the room with an embarrassed and self-conscious gap-toothed smile.

"I know you!" Theresa said loudly. "You're little Merle, who lived over in the next block. I'd recognize that bashful smile anywhere."

Merle blushed and grinned another bashful gap-tooth smile as Theresa embraced him.

Nettie explained why he was there. "He's what connects all of us to this house. Over the years he probably spent as much time here as anyone."

Nick and Willow hugged him tightly. "How perfect," Willow said. "This was really your house, too." Nick slapped him on the back so hard that Merle almost coughed up his dentures.

"Why are the French doors closed?" Willow wondered aloud. "Can we look?" She moved toward them, but Nettie put up a hand.

"Wait," she said, smiling broadly. "I want to surprise you, all of you. What do you mostly remember about these doors?"

Each told an identical Christmas morning story about the magical French doors, of sitting at the top of the stairs waiting impatiently for the word that it was okay to finally go down.

"We sat there squirming in our pajamas, staring at those doors, at the twinkling lights and the brightly wrapped presents beyond, and there was pixie dust in our eyes," Nick said. "Beyond those French doors was a magic land, like Brigadoon."

The others nodded in unison.

"My mother insisted on those French doors," Theresa said. "She told me if she couldn't have a fireplace, she was damn well sure she was going to get something else she liked."

The others, startled at the salty language from a nun, glanced sideways at each other. Theresa noticed their reaction.

"Hey, listen," she said. "I spent some time in the Navy. I know a lot of ah, interesting words." The others laughed as she added, "Don't get me started."

Theresa fingered the glass panes lovingly, running her hands along the mullions of doors she had not seen in some 70 years. They were white, with five rows of three panes each. Some of the panes had been replaced over the years, casualties of households teeming with rambunctious youngsters. The wood was scarred in places, but several coats of paint had obscured most of the damage.

"I put that one there," Willow said, winking at Lynn and pointing to a gash at the bottom of one door. "I ran my trike into it."

Nick put his hand lovingly on a pane in the middle of the left door.

"Ken and I put a baseball through this one. That was the last time we ever were allowed to throw a ball inside."

Nettie figured she had delayed the first big surprise of the evening long enough.

"Gather 'round," she said, taking up a position before the foyer set of doors. She slowly opened them, swept her hand dramatically toward the room and stepped aside.

Beyond the doors was the centerpiece of Nettie's Christmas decorations: A cardboard fireplace stood again against the wall where it had presided over the Christmases of four families. Kathleen Renwick's beloved cardboard fireplace, lovingly preserved for all these years by the succession of owners.

Nettie's guests gasped as they recognized this icon from their childhood.

"Dear God!" Theresa cried, going over to it and running her fingers lovingly over the mantel and the imitation bricks. "This is my mom's old fireplace!"