December 6, 1914
My Beloved One,
I stopped. I have never been one to revel in the intrusion of another’s privacy, much less inclined to read someone else’s correspondence. Why then I was unable to resist reading the letter is as much a mystery to me as was the parchment itself. So strong was the compulsion that I finished the letter without so much as a second thought into the matter:
How cold the Christmas snows seem this year without you. Even the warmth of the fire does little but remind me of how I wish you were again by my side. I love you. How I love you.
I did not know why the letter beckoned me or even what significance it carried. Who was this Beloved One? Was this Mary’s writing? It had been written nearly twenty years before her husband had passed away. I set the letter back in the box and shut the lid. The music did not start up again. I left the attic and returned to my bed pondering the contents of the letter. The mystery as to why the Christmas Box had started playing music, even how it had played music, remained, for the night, unanswered.
The next morning I explained the episode to an only slightly interested wife.
“So you didn’t hear anything last night?” I asked. “No music?”
“No,” Keri answered, “but you know I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.”
“This is really strange,” I said, shaking my head.
“So you heard a music box. What’s so strange about that?”
“It was more than that,” I explained. “Music boxes don’t work that way. Music boxes play when you open them. This one stopped playing when I opened it. And the strangest part is that there didn’t appear to be any mechanism to it.”
“Maybe it was your angel making the music,” she teased.
“Maybe it was,” I said eerily. “Maybe this is one of those mystical experiences.”
“How do you even know the music was coming from the box?” she asked skeptically.
“I’m sure of it,” I said. I looked up and noticed the time. “Darn, I’m going to be late and I’m opening up today.” I threw on my overcoat and started for the door.
Keri stopped me. “Aren’t you going to kiss Jenna good-bye?” she asked incredulously. I ran back to the nursery to give Jenna a kiss.
I found her sitting in a pile of shredded paper with a pair of round-edged children’s scissors in hand.
“Dad, can you help me cut these?” she asked.
“Not now, honey, I’m late for work.”
The corners of her mouth pulled downward in disappointment.
“When I get home,” I hastily promised. She sat quietly as I kissed her on the head.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight.” I dashed out of the room, nearly forgetting the lunch which Keri had set by the door, and made my way through the gray, slushy streets to the formal-wear shop.
Each day, as the first streaks of dawn spread across the blue winter morning sky, Mary could be found in the front parlor, sitting comfortably in a posh, overstuffed Turkish chair, warming her feet in front of the fireplace. In her lap lay the third Bible. The one that she had kept. This morning ritual dated decades back but Mary could tell you the exact day it had begun. It was her “morning constitutional for the spirit,” she had told Keri.
During the Christmas season she would read at length the Christmas stories of the Gospels, and it was here that she welcomed the small, uninvited guest.
“Well, good morning, Jenna,” Mary said.
Jenna stood at the doorway, still clothed in the red-flannel nightshirt in which she almost always slept. She looked around the room then ran to Mary. Mary hugged her tightly.
“What are you reading? A story?” Jenna asked.
“A Christmas story,” Mary said. Jenna’s eyes lit up. She crawled onto Mary’s lap and looked for pictures of reindeer and Santa Claus.
“Where are the pictures?” she asked. “Where’s Santa Claus?”
Mary smiled. “This is a different kind of Christmas story. This is the first Christmas story. It’s about the baby Jesus.”
Jenna smiled. She knew about Jesus.
“Mary?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Will Daddy be here at Christmas?”
“Why of course, dear,” she assured. She brushed the hair back from Jenna’s face and kissed her forehead. “You miss him, don’t you?”
“He’s gone a lot.”
“Starting a new business takes a lot of work and a lot of time.”
Jenna looked up sadly. “Is work better than here?”
“No. No place is better than home.”
“Then why does Daddy want to be there instead of here?”
Mary paused thoughtfully. “I guess sometimes we forget,” she answered and pulled the little girl close.