Page 92 of Theo of Golden

He chuckled at the thought.

In a nod to the holiday, he had turned on his radio to the annual broadcast of “A Service in Carols and Readings” from King’s College in Cambridge.

Outside, the rain continued. The Promenade was empty and quiet.

“In the Bleak Midwinter.”

He used a tiny pocket knife to ease the ribbon and paper off the package. He was in no hurry whatsoever.

Inside the box were two smaller boxes, both wrapped. Tony opened one and lifted the lid of a wooden box.

It held a bottle of port, bearing the authenticity seal from Porto. And a note:

To your health and our friendship, both of which are gifts to me.

Gratefully,

Theo

Tony whispered an affectionate profanity, and then, only slightly louder, “You good old man. You dear old soul. Merry Christmas, Theo.”

He held the bottle out to examine it.

Vintage 1968.

A choice neither accidental nor random.

1968.

His last combat in Vietnam. Tet. The best cup of coffee he ever drank.

“… The roots can only grow in stony, difficult ground. The pruner’s shears cut deeply. The grapes are crushed and kept in the dark for decades. For the sake of the sweetness. For this moment.”

Tony stood, retrieved a wine glass from his desk, returned to his chair, opened the bottle as slowly as he had opened the box, and poured a glass of the garnet liquid. He held it up for a few thoughtful seconds before drinking.

Rain continued to fall heavily and noisily on the sidewalk in front of the store.

The confluence of stillness, kindness, memory, port, and Christmas hymns brought a wave of tenderness to the bookseller’s state of mind, and glimmers of something like hope to a heart that had become almost unbreakable.

He finished the glass of port in no hurry and poured another to sip while he opened the remaining gift.

It was a book. A signed first edition. Ernest Hemingway. An extravagance. With a note.

If all else fails, and you have no choice, sell this for cash to keep the doors open just one more week.

Christmas wishes,

The Godfather

For the weeks following Christmas, the apartment atop Ponder House remained dark. But it was not unnoticed. Many were the ones who walked by, glanced up, and looked forward to the day the old man would return.

CHAPTER 50

December 25

Dear Asher,

It is a dreary, blustery day - a White Christmas - here in New York City. If I were surrounded by field and forest, instead of concrete and steel, the holiday would look like all the ones beautifully pictured on the greeting cards. But thankfully, even here, the Hudson River and a generous population of trees give nature a strong presence. So strong, in fact, that, an hour ago, I was tempted to risk the slippery sidewalks for a stroll outdoors. Instead, I have chosen a safer alternative and am very happy to spend time, pen in hand, with ones like you and Brooke “if only in my dreams.”