I turn back to Jenkins and clasp my hands together in front of me. “This is absolutelybeautiful.Thank you. I guess I’ll just... start unpacking then.”
“As you wish.” And to my surprise Jenkins seems relieved—as though passengers in the past have actually given him trouble about allthis. “And how about your beverage?” Discreetly he’s already slipped a paper out of his suit jacket and begins to read. “We have a number of options, MissFairbanks, all available with spirits upon request. Mulled cider. Mulled cider with a touch of cinnamon. Mulled cider with a sliver of orange peel. Hot cocoa. Hot cocoa with marshmallows. Hot cocoa with cinnamon marshmallows. Hot cocoa with—”
“A cocoa would be nice.”
“Very good.” Jenkins nods and slips the paper back in his breast pocket as though used to being interrupted around this point. “And for Mr. Yates?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ian’s dimples twitch.
For a long moment there’s silence but for the quiet crackling of the fire.
“Mr.Yates has found himself otherwise occupied,” I say, forcing an air of ease and a flicker Ian’s way. “Permanently. It seems.”
“Ah. I am... sorry.” Jenkins’s eyes drift down to my fingers, which I realize are betraying me by shredding the pine needle into a hundred tiny pieces in my hands. Then to the tree behind me. Then to the basket by the door. No doubt he’s thinking of previous conversations with Jonas. When his gaze returns to me, they are full of compassion. “You know, I—I do believe our baker, Mrs.Byrd, has some fresh cookies coming out of the oven momentarily. Perhaps it’d be a nice complement to your cocoa.” His eyes crinkle lightly as he attempts a smile, like a father trying to do his best to sew up an awkward situation he’d much prefer not to be in.
I nod. “That’d be perfect.”
As they depart, Ian lingers just long enough to break the elf-act and give me a wink. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispers, and then he’s gone.
Five minutes later, Jenkins shows up with a gold tray covered to the brim in gingerbread men and icing-laden sugar cookies in the shapes of snowflakes and Christmas trees and bells.
Poor Jenkins,I think, thanking him repeatedly as I take the tray from him. I overwhelmed the old fellow.
I send an update text to Elodie—who by now I know is knee-deep in the busyness of the bakery—unpack, toss the card while keeping the basket full of bath bombs, and settle into one wingback chair with my mug of hot chocolate just as the train begins to shudder and move.
And here we go.I watch the platform of the train station disappear from view. The cocoa smells deeply of nutmeg and cinnamon, and with the tray of cookies on the ottoman at my side, I watch the scenery change from concrete blocks and tunnel lights to gray skies and graffiti walls to, eventually, the snow-covered forests of Connecticut woodlands.
Two bundles of wood in the stove later, I’m just polishing off my fifth cookie when a knock sounds on the door. More specifically, to the tune of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
As I slide open the door, I’m greeted by an immediate new level of action. Staff are hastening through the aisle carrying clattering trays of this and that. “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” is playing over the speakers, and a hum of chatter resonates as the passengers have seemed to all awaken from the whispered revelry of that first golden hour. Before me stands a rather petite, rather cheerful, female elf.
“Your schedule, Miss Fairbanks.” She hands me a thick card. “You’ll find several elective activities down at the Mistletoe Room; lunch, unfortunately, is running a little behind but should be here soon; and of particular note is that we should be arriving at our evening destination tomorrowby four. We’ve included a suggested list for attire for your first activity . . .”
As my eyes scan the list, I can’t help becoming distracted by one particularly surprising sound rising above the others. It’s a baby. Or possibly a tortured coyote. It’s hard at the moment to tell.
A baby? A baby on this train?
I look toward the source of the noise, and sure enough, two rows up stands one stressed-looking couple holding one very upset infant, and one stressed-looking Jenkins apparently trying to sort the situation out.
His face is as red as the velvet seats, perspiration glistening from his bald head. “But if, perhaps, you could possibly help to quiet the baby down from your quarters,” he says, so gently you practically see his words trying to tiptoe over eggshells.
Clearly this wasn’t the right thing to say, because the woman bouncing the baby in her arms looks at the point of explosion. “I’ve spent the pasttwo hourshiding away in that closet. Surely nobody would expect me to jump back in there the second she cries.”
“It’s just... we have to be mindful of the other passengers...”
The infant arches backward and lets out an almighty cry.
Maybe “feral cat” is a better term to describe the baby. Or “derailing train with wheels screeching desperately.” You know, there are a surprising number of metaphors.
The man checks over his shoulder at all the strained faces and looks on the point of caving, but the woman clutchingthe baby lifts her chin. “Look,” she says, cheeks flaring, “I really am trying to be sensitive to everyone else here. It’s just maybe if I try a new location, she’ll calm down—”
“I understand. But... if we could discuss this in another location...”
And while she continues to stand her ground, it becomes a little clearer what is going on. The couple had purchased their tickets over a year ago, like nearly everyone on the train, but with the emergent placement of the infant as a kinship situation in their hands just five days ago, they found themselves suddenly in a tight corner.
The company had offered an exception to the rule in what sounds like a moment of sympathy, but the reality of the screaming infant—who apparently is both reacting to recent trauma andseverelyresistant to the overexposure of sights and sounds—is throwing a damp rag on the festive cheer of the passengers around them, and apparently the couple themselves.
Eventually, as Jenkins’s soothing words and unyielding logic begin to tip the scales, the woman’s defiance peters out. It’s clear she is closer to tears than anyone.
