Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
FRANK
L ater that night, Frank sat in bed with a copy of the detective novel Black Coffee propped open on his lap. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the page, but he wasn’t focused on the words.
His beautiful wife emerged from the small en suite bathroom in her long flannel nightgown, her shimmering sterling hair in a loose braid down her back.
He readjusted his reading glances, briefly lamenting the slightly fuzzy outline of her slender form. How did he get so lucky to marry such an angel?
He’d been in love one other time, and losing Edith when he went off to war had led to the darkest period in his life. A period when he’d shut himself off from the world, too afraid to feel anything other than his misery and loneliness.
In a way, he admired Private Henderson for emerging from his own “Dark Night of the Soul” to embrace life and experience all the magic and wonder available to him, even if it meant relying on the kindness of strangers. It took courage to accept someone else’s help and hospitality, and the boy did so with an openness and humble gratitude that spoke volumes about his character.
“Nate seems like a lovely young man,” Beverly said as she slipped into bed. Beautiful and a mind reader; he really had hit the jackpot.
“No complaints so far,” Frank offered, not one to be overly verbose with his compliments. He’d appreciated the way Private Henderson had insisted on washing his own dishes after coffee and dessert and how he’d carried in a load of firewood without being asked.
“That’s high praise, coming from you.” Beverly smiled and reached for her worn copy of Wives and Daughters on her nightstand. “I really enjoyed having him around tonight.”
Frank had to admit, he hadn’t begrudged the boy’s company, either. After he fixed the table leg, they watched Miracle on 34th Street . Private Henderson helped Bevy string popcorn and cranberry garlands, and the two chatterboxes took turns sharing tidbits about the historical origins of jolly old St. Nick, which meant Frank could sit and watch the film without participating in all the chitchat his wife usually initiated in the evenings. Not that he didn’t enjoy the occasional conversation, but he typically ran out of words well before she did.
“He’s remarkably well-read,” Beverly noted. “He and Juliet have a love of books in common.”
Uh-oh . Why did she phrase it like that? “You like books, too, you know,” he reminded her.
“Of course, dear. But in case you’ve forgotten, I’m already taken.” The twinkle in her eyes gave him pause.
He didn’t like where this conversation was headed. “Don’t get any cockamamie ideas,” he warned her.
“What’s so foolhardy about helping two people find love? They both live in San Francisco. They both love literature. They’re kind, compassionate, and care about helping others. Plus, they’d make a beautiful couple.”
Frank opened his mouth to object, but Bevy clearly wasn’t finished yet.
“I realize Nate is a little rough around the edges,” she continued, not letting him get a word in edgewise or in between. “And he’s still finding his place in the world. But I’ve always believed a man’s character matters more than his social or financial status.”
Frank didn’t argue. He liked the kid. What little he knew about him, anyway. But Private Henderson could handle his own love life. “I don’t think it’s wise to meddle in these matters.”
“You say meddling. I see it as lending a helping hand.”
“Call it what you want, they didn’t seem all that fond of each other. If you insist on helping , you’ll have your work cut out for you.”
That was putting it mildly. From what he could see, Jules hadn’t been able to escape to the study fast enough, then hadn’t rejoined them for the rest of the evening. And the few moments they had been around each other, they’d appeared uncomfortable, at best.
Bevy waved a dismissive hand. “So they got off on the wrong foot. Nothing a little Christmas magic can’t cure.”
“I don’t know, Bevy. There’s giving someone the cold shoulder, and then there’s whatever those two were doing. It might take a little more than mistletoe to defrost those two icicles.”
“Forgive me, darling, but you took a little warming up yourself.”
She had a point. “Fair enough. If you’re dead set on this matchmaking scheme of yours, I won’t interfere.”
“That’s all I ask.” She unscrewed the top of a plastic prescription bottle and pressed a tiny white pill into his palm.
Frank groaned.
“No grumbling. The doctor said you need to take sleeping pills to help with your insomnia.”
“Can’t I try listening to those library science lectures you showed me on YouTube? That’ll put me to sleep faster than any pill.” He hated taking medication. Pills for blood pressure. Pills for heartburn. Pills for cholesterol. He might as well open his own pharmacy.
“Frank Barrie, those lectures are fascinating,” Bevy scolded. “And no amount of complaining or negotiating is going to change the doctor’s orders.” She handed him a glass of water from her nightstand. “Now, you’re going to swallow that pill on your own or we’re going to do it the hard way.”
Frank’s eyes widened. His sweet, soft-spoken wife could be quite formidable when it came to the welfare of someone she loved. And he didn’t want to know what she meant by “the hard way.” He swallowed the pill.
“There. Was that so difficult?” She put the glass back on the nightstand. “Now you’ll be well rested for our first day of matchmaking tomorrow.”
He still thought the whole idea was a fool’s errand, but if Bevy wanted a Christmas miracle, he’d try his hardest to give her one.
And he knew the perfect person to help.