Chapter 12 – December 1909

(AN: My headcanon here is that the town Christmas Eve feast was put in place after the men died, for a sense of togetherness, and before that they would do traditional family dinners.)

"I've invited Mr. Gowen for Christmas Eve dinner," Noah said in between bites of breakfast two weeks later.

Abigail stopped the fork that had been on its way to her mouth. "Oh? He has no family in Hamilton to visit?"

"I don't know if he has, but he's not visiting them if he does. We got to talking about traditions around here and he mentioned a quiet night at home, so I thought I'd invite him. You always like having more people around."

She guessed that was true, and there were a couple of weeks still until Christmas, so it wasn't like she couldn't plan for the additional guest. With the big order keeping everyone busy, she hadn't seen much of Henry either, otherwise she surely would have offered to host him just as Noah had. Indeed, there was no reason not to, especially if he would otherwise be without company. Yes, naturally, he should come join them.

"That was nice of you. Of course he's welcome," she smiled. "I wonder if he was alone for the holidays before he moved here also. Maybe his family is further out."

Noah shrugged and turned back to his paper. Abigail sighed.

"Peter, your shirt is pressed for church. It's there with the others near the stove."

Her son nodded and swallowed his eggs before answering. "Thanks, Mom."

There had been more occasions recently where Abigail had noticed Peter was particularly quiet. It wasn't all the time, but there was enough regularity in it that it concerned her. She often put it off to exhaustion though, or normal teenage withdrawal. Or maybe it was simply that he was in that stage of his life where she was becoming less important. They had no homework or school events to discuss, and he was too young to be involved in any work that might benefit from her advice. And if there were any girls who had caught his interest, she had no hint of it.

When Peter stood to grab his shirt, Abigail stood as well, beginning to clear the table around her husband. She caught her son's arm as he passed by her again.

"Hey," she said, leaning up to give him a quick kiss on the temple. "I love you."

"Yeah, Mom, I know, I love you too," he squirmed. "I have to get ready."

She let out another sigh as she watched him retreat upstairs. At a loss, she returned to collecting the breakfast plates, clattering them together loudly.

"So how is Peter doing at the mine?" she asked her husband. "He seems out of sorts this morning."

"He's doing fine, working as hard as any of the men." Noah was distracted as he answered, still scanning the news and sipping coffee.

"Is he getting along with Mr. Gowen? Maybe he doesn't want him here for Christmas."

"I don't think that's it."

"It's so strange he doesn't mention any family," Abigail remarked, bustling about the kitchen. "Has he said anything about being widowed?"

The paper flapped noisily. "Jesus, Abigail, I didn't ask for his life story, I asked about dinner."

Abigail tensed up, freezing in place at the basin with a plate clutched in her hand. Behind her, she could hear Noah stop and loudly exhale, the paper rustling as he folded it up. She could picture him in his chair, running a hand through the long dark fringe to push it out of his weary eyes. It was a play they seemed to perform more and more often.

"I'm sorry. It's been so busy at work and I just wanted to relax today, and now you've made me feel like I did something wrong."

The irritation did not leave Abigail's body so quickly, but she took a deep breath and tried to be understanding. "You're right. It was a very kind gesture, and I'm sure he'll appreciate the company. I truly don't have a problem with it, and I'm sorry if it seemed that way."

Noah took her hand, coaxing her gently to face him. "And I think Peter is just tired from hustling so hard this week himself. He's had to make more supply runs recently, then come back to working at top speed. I wouldn't read much more into it."

Conceding the point, Abigail nodded and gave his hand a light squeeze, but turned back to the stove to hide the frown that still marked her face. She began fiddling and shuffling the pans into new positions for no reason, her desire for conversation having now sharply turned to wanting to be alone.

"Go up and get ready. I'll visit with Cat after church so you can have some quiet."

She heard the chair creak behind her as Noah rose from it. His arm came around her waist and he bent his head to her shoulder, nuzzling it sadly. She made no move to relax into him, and he finally pressed a rough kiss to her collar before letting her go and heading upstairs.

ooo


Abigail's mood improved greatly in the weeks leading up to Christmas. It was her favorite holiday, and she tried to see it as an opportunity to reconnect and have fun as a family. By the time Christmas Eve arrived, she had become energized by the prospect of having a more crowded table again, and had even treated herself to a new face cream and powder.

She stood back and admired the trimming of their tree, aluminum tinsel and candy canes scattered around ornaments that had been accumulated over the years. She was particularly fond of the hardened handprint of a one-year-old Peter, tinier than even seemed possible now. Near it was a small angel that Noah had given her on their first Christmas together, just after they married, before their losses. To her it still represented what came after, but she held onto it with love, as a means of honoring the children she might have had.

She gave the ornament a brief tender touch, then shook off the somber thought. This wasn't the day for it.

She returned to busying herself, arranging the small pile of wrapped gifts under the tree. An old red train sat behind them, suspended on its route around the trunk, its next stop a hand-carved nativity scene that Noah had crafted many years ago. When Peter was eight, a stray baseball had knocked the roof off the stable and cost one of the wise men an arm. Abigail laughed to see it now – the lopsided shelter and globs of glue that still showed from where Peter had tried to fix it before anyone noticed – but she had been mad as anything at the time. One week without dessert! she had proclaimed to be his punishment. It had lasted three days.

A knock at the door interrupted her as she was about to return to the kitchen. She smoothed her dress and cast a surveying glance over all of her preparations one last time before going over to answer.

"Is that Gowen?" Noah called from upstairs as she took hold of the doorknob. Did he want her to yell back with a guest standing just outside? She huffed out a breath and ignored the question, pulling the door open instead. Outside was indeed Henry Gowen, the only guest they'd been expecting. Her face instantly fell into a welcoming smile.

"Hello, Henry. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," he said in return. "Thank you for letting me intrude."

She waved him in. "It's no intrusion at all. I'm glad you could join us."

He stood in the living room and looked at her for a minute, not saying anything, then remembered the bottle of wine in his hand. He awkwardly thrust it forward, and she pursed her lips to stifle her reaction, a twinkle of affection still obvious in her eyes.

Taking his coat, she gestured for him to have a seat at the dining table. She smoothed her hand down the heavy garment as she hung it in the hall, the scent of cold weather and cologne still embedded in the fabric. It was maddening how much she wanted to ask why he had no other plans, an important and successful man such as he was. The questions poked pins and needles in her skin, but she squeezed them down. Though at this point she believed she could consider Henry a friend, she was far too gracious to interrogate him on what was perhaps a lonely day.

Back in the kitchen she laid the bottle down on the small square of counter space that wasn't covered in serving dishes or cutting boards. He'd tied a red ribbon around the neck of it, a sloppy bow at the front. It looked like an expensive wine, though she wasn't sure she'd know the difference.

She stirred a pot of mashed potatoes as they waited, fluffing it up to be served. In her periphery Henry sat, gazing at nothing and making none of the usual attempts at conversation one might make upon entering a hosted dinner. It was unnerving.

"So it must be a very big contract the men have been working on, I've hardly seen you all," she prodded. "Is Santa expecting a lot of bad children this year?"

"Well, Mr. Lansing has the fur and the pipe, but he's a little light on the jolly, I'm afraid." He was smiling now at least, but she'd spent enough time observing him to know that it was his public smile.

"He's a friend though," Henry continued, "and was good to give us the business. Noah's done a fine job of managing toward the deadline."

"He's been fairly preoccupied by it," she agreed. "But I'm glad to hear it's going well."

They fell silent again, and it frustrated her that their usual natural rapport was now stilted. She had to admit that it did feel a little strange having him back in their house, though she didn't know why that would be. Henry seemed to feel the same way though, repeatedly fidgeting with his place setting. Maybe she was just overthinking it. Or maybe it was frustration at being kept waiting, something she was sure didn't happen to him often. Why hadn't her family come downstairs yet?

"I meant to say happy birthday," he said suddenly. "I hadn't seen you since."

She felt herself blush. "Oh, thank you! How did you know about that?"

"Noah mentioned it in passing a couple weeks ago. I hope you were able to enjoy it."

Both her birthday and their twentieth anniversary had passed without much fanfare earlier in the month. It had always been difficult having multiple celebrations in December when they were saving for Christmas, and Abigail usually told Noah not to bother with anything special for her so that Peter could receive more. This year they were in a better position, and the Stanton men (as that's what they both were now) had snuck away early one day to treat her to a lovely supper at the café. Noah had also gifted her a beautiful necklace with a copper pendant, with the promise she could wear it when they had their proper date night, after the order was completed and the holidays had passed.

"When is yours?" she asked.

"Hmm?" He turned to her.

"Your birthday," she clarified, beginning to transfer some of the potatoes to plates.

"Oh." He was blushing now too, which surprised her. Though he was sometimes self-conscious or guarded, she had rarely seen him overtly bashful. It was kind of sweet.

"I haven't done much for it in a while," he deflected.

She was about to playfully insist on an answer when Noah finally appeared, freshly shaved, his hair still damp.

"Mr. Gowen," he extended a firm hand. "Good to have you."

Henry stood to reciprocate, adding a hearty pat on the back. "Much appreciated. Pleasure's all mine."

Noah walked Henry back into the living room, letting him compliment the décor and talking him through some of the traditions at their house. They were allowed to open one gift a piece, Noah told him, while they had dessert, and that dessert was always Abigail's special Christmas red and white velvet cake, which she was only occasionally persuaded to make at other times of the year. Henry was quiet about his own traditions, but Noah didn't seem especially interested anyway.

Peter joined them soon after, handsome in a brown sweater vest over a dress shirt and slacks, and polite as always, but distant. She watched the scene unfold, something about it upsetting her. Maybe it was how the men seemed to get along superficially, even Noah and Peter. Or the way Noah showed Henry the tree she'd decorated, and pointed out the damaged nativity. Or maybe it was the way he seemed to be uncomfortable here and she honestly didn't know why he had come. There was a way she'd expected this to go, a feeling of closeness and companionship that she'd pictured flooding the scene, and this just… wasn't it. She threw the plates together quickly, calling them all back to the dinner table.

They took the same seats they had when Henry had first come to dinner – Noah to her right and Henry to her left, Peter opposite. Their chairs scraped against the floor as they pulled themselves toward the steaming plates. Henry, now more accustomed to family meals in Coal Valley, waited for Noah to bow his head, and at this cue, took Abigail's hand to say grace.

The two of them held loosely to each other as they prayed, her thumb pressing against his upper knuckles, his nails curled into her palm. The feel of him had changed since that first time, or maybe she was only just taking notice of it now. The side of his hand, where the worn pads of her fingers rested, was chapped from weather, but his grip was soft, just grazing her skin. He was cold from outside where she was warm from the kitchen, and she found something satisfying about the complement of it, how one made its impression on the other.

She lost track of Noah's voice leading the prayer until she heard him say Amen, and felt both hands slip from hers.

Noah and Henry began to trade chitchat and work talk across the table, and Abigail tried to put herself back into a joyous holiday spirit. She focused her attention on Peter, noting how this type of serious male conversation was growing more familiar to him, his attention genuine but his contributions still unsure. She wanted to reach across and squeeze his hand, but dared not embarrass him in front of his boss. She would get her hugs and kisses in later. She was simply grateful they were all together.

"The men really appreciated the gifts too, and the time off," Noah was pointing out. "You're the first to give everyone a Christmas gift, like I said, and it was a real surprise for them."

Henry was modest. "It was your good idea, I just picked them out."

This was the first Abigail was hearing of gifts for the miners. "What did you give them?" she asked as she lifted her glass for a drink.

Henry played with his food, hiding an impish look.

"Thermoses."

Abigail sputtered around her mouthful of water, bringing her napkin up quickly to hold in her laugh. Henry's winter beard and moustache were far more useful in covering his smirk.

Noah and Peter looked between the two, then at each other. "I don't get it," Peter said.

Her smile faltered, delight replaced with self-consciousness. She didn't see a way to explain her reaction other than to tell the story about Paul. As she was considering how to explain it, Henry jumped in for her.

"Mrs. Stanton was kind enough to share with me after the town council meeting why the Blakeleys were so adamant about the light…"

She watched Henry relate the brief tale, her husband and son now joining in on the laughter as Noah segued into stories about other comical council meeting moments. Henry added wry commentary here and there, mostly listening and attending to his meal. She laughed along with them all, content to let Noah hold court once more. For those fleeting moments, she understood that this was what she had wanted – to fall back into the ease of it, to feel the intimacy of loved ones next to her, to be surrounded by happiness.

When it came time for cake and presents, Henry tried to excuse himself, saying this was their family time. However, Noah insisted to him that he could not leave without having dessert. Giving his belly a few hearty pats on the way, her husband led the other men into the living room, where he settled into his armchair. This led Henry to choose a seat at the end of the sofa nearest him. Peter, as he did throughout his childhood, sat on the floor near his father.

"Oh, I must be taking up your seat, young man," Henry said when he noticed, moving to stand up again.

"No, please," Peter stopped him. "This is where I always am. You should sit, Mr. Gowen."

Henry caught her eye where she stood behind Noah, and she gave him a reassuring nod. He reluctantly eased back into the cushions.

Abigail doled out plates of the red and white cake to each of them, then came to sit on the sofa as well, briefly indecisive as she approached. Sitting at the completely opposite edge from Henry would be over-reactive and unfriendly, and she didn't find it necessary since he was a welcome guest in their home after all, but there was no reason to huddle too near to him either. Ultimately she decided to perch an inch or two in from the edge, only a little further than she might have had Henry been one of her girlfriends.

As they usually did, Noah and Abigail both chose to open a gift from Peter first. He often made his presents for them, or saved some allowance money. But his first Christmas with a paycheck was special to him, he'd told his mother, who had been thrilled when he'd come to her asking about gift ideas for Noah. They'd settled on a fine fountain pen, though the one Peter preferred was slightly more than he'd budgeted. She had offered to add a few cents but he'd refused.

"It's one of those that fills and cleans itself when you turn it," Peter explained when his father unwrapped the present.

"Yes, I know, I'm always trying to steal the one in the office, aren't I, Gowen?" Noah laughed. "Thank you, son. I'll put it to good use," he added, affectionately shaking Peter's shoulder.

Abigail turned her attention to the wrapped rectangular package in her lap. She opened it with dainty movements, not wanting to tear the neatly lined paper. "What beautiful wrapping. Did you do this yourself?"

Peter didn't answer. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say, implying he was still a sticky-fingered child who would make a mess of things. She looked down at the gift and didn't prompt him again.

"A Room with a View," she read off the cover of the book.

"I don't know much about it," Peter shrugged, "but it seems to be pretty popular out in the city when I go on supply runs. I hear a lot of women are reading it."

"Uh oh, maybe we should take it away," Noah nudged his son with a rough elbow, giving Abigail an exaggerated wink.

She gave an equally conspicuous side-eye to her husband over Henry's shoulder before turning back to her son. "I'm sure it will be a good story. Thank you very much, sweetheart."

Peter opened one of her gifts, a travel bag, "for all those trips you've been taking," she said with bright eyes. Peter came over to hug her, and she lovingly rubbed his back.

When Peter had replaced himself on the floor and Abigail began to tidy up the paper, Henry –who had been quiet up to now – set his cake plate down on the coffee table.

"This was a fine evening. Thank you for including me." He stood, holding out his hand to Noah, who rose to meet it.

"You won't stay for a drink?"

Henry shook his head, but offered a grateful smile. "It's getting late, and I ought not take advantage of your hospitality any longer."

Abigail was looking up at them from the sofa, startled by the abruptness of the exit, but Noah, for once, didn't push the issue. Peter picked himself up from the floor to accept his boss' extended hand, and while he did so, Abigail inexplicably decided to carry their dessert plates to the kitchen before saying goodbye. She felt the men had somehow blindsided her, and she needed a minute of transition, to understand the evening was coming to an end in this disjointed and unsatisfactory way.

Henry had already taken his coat off the rack when she returned to the hall. The three of them stood waiting for her, exchanging closing pleasantries.

"A delicious meal as always, Mrs. Stanton," Henry said with a polite bow of his head. He offered a general "Merry Christmas" to the assembled group before departing, not allowing her to say much of anything before he was out the door.

Abigail turned to her husband, a little bewildered. "He seemed in a hurry."

Noah crooked the corner of his mouth. "He's an odd one. But I'd take it at face value. I think he was trying to be gracious about leaving us to our family holiday. I reckon he hasn't been invited to many."

Peter and Noah retreated to the living room again, examining their new gifts. Abigail remained by the door, worrying her hands, somewhat for show.

"Oh, his leftovers!" she said, throwing up her hands.

Abigail hurried into the kitchen to retrieve the basket she'd put together. Back at the door, she stopped to throw a shawl over her shoulders, then grabbed a small package she'd laid on the entryway bench that afternoon, slipping it in temporarily with the food. She had an excuse to go outside now, Henry's hasty departure having worked in her favor. She hadn't really figured out what she would do about the gift otherwise.

"I'll be right back in," she assured her husband, walking out into the night.

She found, luckily, that Henry was still out front, having not even gotten into his car yet. His eyes swung up to the door when it opened, his shoes leaving a track in the dirt as they pivoted to a surprised stop.

"You forgot these," she said, raising the basket.

"Oh," he said, reddening just as he had earlier that evening. "Thank you." When she'd made her way down the stairs, he added, "Actually… I forgot to give you something too."

She followed his movements as he opened the car door and pulled out a flat, oddly wrapped gift. It was an unexpected gesture, though perhaps it shouldn't have flustered her quite as much as it did. With a visible curiosity and hesitation, she took the gift from him, handing him the basket in exchange.

"I know you're only supposed to get one tonight," he said, "but I won't tell if you want to open it now."

She held her breath, overcome by a tingling anticipation as she gently pulled at the shiny blue wrapping. Her laugh was deep and knowing when she realized what was inside.

Henry smiled, his eyes squinting with friendly apology. "I know you can't play in the saloon, but I thought maybe you could find time to work on your game at home. I hope it's okay."

Abigail held the dartboard against her chest, touched. "It's wonderful. Thank you."

Henry shuffled his weight and held his free hand out to take the wrapping paper from her, helpfully disposing of it inside the car. She nodded toward the basket still in his other hand.

"I worked on a little something for you too."

"You already made dinner – "

"No, you needed a few things to feel at home here," she shook her head to stop his protest. "I hope this will help."

He shifted the napkin from the top of the basket and pulled out the small present, similarly loose and asymmetrical in its wrapping. Dropping the food inside on the backseat, he devoted both hands to untying the ribbon and removing the paper. When the gift was uncovered, he looked up at her, stunned.

Unsure what to make of the reaction, she rushed to explain. "It's for your war collection. A new one anyway." She tentatively pointed toward the cloth soldier in his hand. "I used to make dolls all the time when I was young, and I thought…"

"No, this is, uh…," he cut in, his voice like gravel. "This is very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Abigail."

Something tender passed between them that made her shiver and she pulled the shawl tighter around her, giving them a reason to break their gaze. They offered each other tentative goodbyes, and she waved as he pulled away, the black car fading into the distance. The sounds of Christmas Eve flowed out from the other rowhomes to take up the dark silence left behind.

She looked down at the dartboard in her hand, then back toward the front door. She could not have articulated why, but she didn't want Noah to see it. The board was lightweight, intended for parlour games, yet it still felt too personal. Rather than bring it inside, she went around to the back of the house, searching its corners and shadows before finally tucking the gift behind the icebox.

The back door opened just as she straightened herself, candlelight reaching out from the kitchen to catch her silhouette.

"Mom? What are you doing out here?"

Abigail hesitated, then brightened. "I thought we should have an extra little treat!" she said, too enthusiastic. "Now that it's just us." She dug into the box for some ice cream and showed it to him. "What do you think?"

Peter nodded in agreement and she followed him back inside, gathering up the bowls and spoons for their second dessert.