A Hamilton Family Christmas - Donna Kauffman Page 0,61
guess it’s just that part that attracts me. And what’s downstairs, it’s…well, it’s either a symbol of it or a reminder of it. Whimsical or spiritual. I like it all. Can’t help it.”
“You know what’s ironic?” she said, and for the first time, put into words everything she’d always felt about that day.
“No, what would that be?”
“That my parents—well, my mother, but my father doted on her, so for him, too—loved, obviously, that season, so much so that they embraced the ideal of it and incorporated it into their way of thinking, all year-round. And though it was a pure and honest affection, they also made a business out of it, so, though not grossly commercialized, it was still defined by more than just a love for whimsy and the spiritual connection of it all. It was a hectic time of year, always, when sales were brisk and my mother was exhausted. I lived in a home that was a tribute to that holiday the way Graceland is a tribute to Elvis. We had tours, singing, parties…all to celebrate this amazingly, supposedly fun wonderland of a season. For me? I’d have killed to just have had my mother and father on Christmas Eve, or morning, or both, all to myself, to just celebrate in peace and quiet and just…be.” She looked him in the eye. “I love what you describe and can see why it brings you joy, both at the memory and the reality. But for me? I never had any of that, despite, supposedly, living in the center of everything it symbolized my whole life. I ended up hating it. All of it.”
To his credit, he didn’t bat an eye, and more important, he didn’t look at her like she was emotionally bankrupt, or the poor cinder girl who needed a hug. Which is mostly why she’d never, past adolescence anyway, confided her feelings on the subject to anyone.
“When you lived in London…you didn’t try and create your own version of what you wanted it to be? With new friends, cohorts, compatriots?”
She shook her head. “I came back for Thanksgiving, which we did celebrate as a family, usually one of the last times either of my parents were coherent before plunging into the chaos of the big sales season and end of year tax season for my dad. So, there were good memories tied to that day, at least comparatively speaking. At Christmas-time, I’d take the rest of my vacation leave and…”
“What, go lie on a beach somewhere and work on your tan? I could understand that.”
She was tempted to just nod and say yes. It would have been easy enough. But she felt, considering it all, that he deserved all of the truth. “No, I’d get a rail pass and travel around Europe with a sketch pad, pencils, and paint. Different destinations, different years. But that’s what always brought me comfort, growing up in this world of Santa on steroids, so I clung to that. I reveled in it, to be honest. I wasn’t hiding, I was celebrating the thing I loved most. So, maybe that is my Christmas spirit.”
“Why don’t you pursue that? Your art. Clearly it’s your passion.” His lips quirked a little then, and a tiny bit of that twinkle surfaced again in his eyes. “Or are you not good enough?” A bit of the brogue snuck into his voice, and she couldn’t help it, she smiled, too.
“I don’t know. I just know I enjoy expressing myself that way. But I don’t know that it would be a wise move, to try and figure out how to earn a living at it. Easier said than done. I can wield a pen and brush more effectively in the advertising world. Still art, still creative, but with a more clearly defined career path.”
“And paint, then, simply as a hobby?”
She folded her arms over her clipboard. “Seems like a wise, healthy way to approach matters, yes.”
“Hmm.” He folded his arms, too. And leaned against the wall. “Are you happy with that arrangement? Does it feed your soul? Are you fulfilled?”
“I—I think it just is what it is.”
“You said you were leasing this building, but not all the contents. What are you going to do with it? With all the things down there?”
“Sell them. And before you ask, yes, my mother knows. Or will, as soon as she gets back from cruising the Mediterranean.” But she’d given her blessing. Even Mrs. Gillespie seemed to think her mother had