the doctor wasn’t from the wrong side of the tracks.
Standing there in the cold outside the phone booth, it became very clear to Ryder that he and Emma had something in common.
They both longed for a Christmas that could never happen.
His hopes destroyed by death.
Hers just plain unrealistic.
But at least he’d known what it was to be surrounded by a family’s love at Christmas.
That’s what it was all about for Emma, he realized. All the decorations, all the holiday happenings, all the Christmas Day Dream.
She still hoped.
Despite life giving her all kinds of evidence to the contrary, Emma stubbornly clung to a belief that life was good, people were good, that given enough chances they would eventually do the right thing.
Believe.
And he wondered if he could be the man his sister-in-law had thought he was, a man he had once been. A man who believed, when all was said and done, in himself. It was not the immature belief that he could just use his strength and his will to create the world he wanted, but the deeper belief that when life didn’t go his way and didn’t give him what he wanted, he could count on himself to be strong enough, and to forgive himself when he wasn’t.
If he was such a man, he would go back there, and turn hope into belief, then he would be the man he had once been. Better, maybe. A man worthy of Emma.
But that was one big if.
It was nearly ten o’clock, the night before Christmas Eve. Emma could finally abandon her post by the parking lot where she had been collecting admission and stamping hands.
She hurried to the warming shed, where Mona gave her a frazzled look.
“Emma, could you go to the house and see if there are any more of the chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies in the freezer? I sold out the last of them that we had here. And if you could put a few more of the wreaths out, that would be great.”
Emma hiked up to the house, and looked at the long line of cars parked all the way down the driveway. For hours, people had been walking up from the main road, the closest parking, carrying brand-new toys and teddy bears, paying the admission happily.
“Where did you hear about it?” she asked the first family to arrive, the first night Holiday Happenings had finally opened, after they told her they had driven up from Ontario just for this.
“Oh, it’s on the radio.” And then they’d given her an extra twenty to help with expenses for the Christmas Day Dream. They actually called it by name!
“Lovely idea,” the mother had said. “Exactly what I want my kids to know about Christmas.” And then, “Would you mind if I peeked around inside the house? We’re always looking for these charming little out-of-the-way places to spend a few days in during the summer.”
They heard it on the radio? Emma hadn’t been able to afford a radio ad. She’d put up some posters and run a few ads in the classified sections of a few New Brunswick papers. Her budget had not allowed for more than that, certainly not for Ontario.
And who was telling them to bring an unwrapped gift for the Christmas Day Dream?
How did they even know about the Christmas Day Dream?
Now, the day before Christmas Eve, they had gone through all four thousand hot dogs and run out to buy more twice. When she checked the freezer, she found there were no chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies left, and there were no wreaths stored on the back porch.
Emma delivered the bad news to the warming shed, where Mona was being rushed off her feet selling a dwindling supply of crafts and cookies. She had long since given up on selling hot dogs. All the supplies were out with a cup beside them and a sign that said By Donation. The donation cup was overflowing.
My cup is overflowing, Emma said to herself, watching the skaters skim across the pond, hearing the jingle of the horse bells as they pulled the big sled around the torch-lit trail that circled the pond.
But, looking at her pond, it was as if all the skaters disappeared and she could just see two, herself and Ryder.
If her cup was overflowing, why did she feel so empty? This was her dream come true. The fortunes of the White Christmas Inn had been turned around. Her bills were paid. The storeroom off the front hall was filled to bursting with toys and gifts.
The chartered bus to bring people for the Christmas Day Dream was paid for, Emma had enough money to get each family a supermarket certificate for a month’s worth of groceries after Christmas was over. Three huge turkeys were thawing for the feast, Mona had volunteers making pies.
Holiday Happenings had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Tonight a news crew had come from Fredericton, which meant tomorrow, Christmas Eve, could be the inn’s biggest night so far.
Her success didn’t feel the way she thought it would at all. She felt oddly hollow, empty despite the fact Holiday Happenings had succeeded beyond what she had ever dared to dream for it.
Maybe the truth about all her ruined Christmases was that no matter what happened, they could never meet her expectations.
What she really wanted was not Christmas. Not skaters on ponds and perfect gifts piled high under the tree, not turkey and stuffing and carols sung around a crackling fire.
Maybe what she really wanted was what Christmas had stood for a long time ago, before trees and packages and music and trinkets had all cluttered the message.
Love.
And that was what had eluded her again and again.
After everyone had gone home, Emma wearily climbed the stairs, and went down the hall to her room, feeling so alone.
She hesitated and opened the door to the green room, ready for her mother’s arrival tomorrow night on the eight o’clock bus.
Emma went in and sat down on the bed. The little ghost of the girl she used to be came and sat down beside her.
“We’re going to have a good Christmas,” she promised her. “Finally.”
And in the quiet of that moment, without the crush of skaters and the gallons of hot chocolate, she was amazed that she believed it.
Suddenly, she knew that’s what it was all about, Holiday Happenings, the Christmas Day Dream—it hadn’t been about giving to others, though that’s what it looked like from the outside.
Inside herself, Emma knew the truth. It was really all about her. Every single thing she had done, including insisting her mother come, had been about her, about her trying to be good enough, trying to shore up that terribly shaky self-esteem.
She had been trying desperately to create something that never was with all the Christmas hoopla, with taking on the house, with creating that perfect room for her mother. She had been looking to repair what was inside herself by making a perfect picture
