― Sarah Winter
It's Christmas and I'm in a grumpy mood mainly because I'm stuck chauffeuring Beth Browning to her family's 'at home'.
I have no idea what that is, but it's obviously something rich people do at Christmas and has not been part of my experience.
My idea of a family Christmas is sitting down to a turkey dinner and trying hard to entertain relatives who are droning on, telling the same boring stories, while drinking one too many glasses of egg nog and brandy.
Yeah, it's not exactly pheasant under glass or whatever exotic culinary treats are offered at the Browning household—not that I'd ever be invited.
I hear the door slam and Beth’s back from putting her things in my car and she looks panicked.
“Have you seen the snow out there? I can’t even see the road.”
“Not to worry,” I yawn, we’ll just follow the sled’s tracks out to the main road.”
“Oh really?” she smiles sweetly, “and what tracks do you mean?"
I get up, pull the window lace aside and peer out—the woods are blanked out by streamers of snow and the yard, parking lot and field are buried beneath an avalanche of white.
“I don’t believe it—how could that happen so fast?”
She looks at me like I’m new. “C’mon Slick, we’re in the country—wide open spaces—country breezes.”
I look glumly out at the swirling flakes.
“Some breezes—more a blizzard. So what do we do now?”
She shakes her head slowly, “Wait it out,” she whispers.
There’s a strange tone in her voice, a timbre I haven’t heard before, and it makes me a little uneasy. It crosses my mind she’s less than delighted at spending the night with me.
I push the thought aside, but am surprised—it’s an eventuality I didn’t consider. Why is that?
It occurs to me I’ve been pushing ahead, pursuing my agenda, my wants and needs, without referencing hers.
Have I ever once stopped to consider her needs? What if being Mrs. Spencer Sloane was not on her radar?
Have I even really looked at her, or, is the way it’s always been—all about me?
Beth looks really contrite.
“I’m really sorry, Spence—making you drive all the way out here—and now we’re stuck.”
She looks vulnerable and I feel a selfish heel.
“Hey, don’t look at it like that—we’re not stuck—this is an adventure.”
“An adventure?” she smiles quizzically.
“Yes, an opportunity to really talk—to really get to know each other.”
“That’s an interesting point of view,” she laughs, “as if the past few months didn’t really mean very much.”
I grab her hand and look deeply into her eyes, “maybe they didn’t, Beth—I mean, I was so busy taking you places, doing things, I don’t recall one time we actually sat down to talk.”
“Oh, sure we did,” she protests, “I told you all about me—my plans to take history courses in the fall, and I told you about my volunteering.”
“Yes, you told me about those things, but you didn’t tell me why. For example, why do you volunteer here—are you bored?”
“Bored? No, Silly. I love working here. I’m fascinated by the past—I’ve always been. For as long as I remember I’ve had this yearning for a simpler way of life—like the kind the Victorians lived.”
“Really? I can’t imagine you and your family without modern conveniences, living like this.” I sweep my hand around the room.
She stares at me defensively.
“What’s wrong with living like this?”
“You’re kidding, right? Take these decorations, for instance,” I laugh, pointing to the Christmas tree. “Popcorn strung on the tree—paper cut-out decorations, and in place of scented candles, a few cloves stuck into an orange?”
She goes sullen and quiet, and then, says in a voice so low, I can hardly hear, “at least it’s real.”
I feel as if shot through by an arrow.
It never dawned on me that Beth was helplessly born to wealth as I was born into middle-class society.
Maybe I'm the one who's been faking things—trying to be someone I'm not.
Thank you!