Page 93 of Theo of Golden

I checked the weather report for Golden a short while ago, and it appears to be as sunless there as it is in the Northeast today. Against that bleak backdrop, I picture you and Brooke, and possibly a newly engaged Samantha, enjoying the same warmth that filled Glissen House at Thanksgiving.

By now, late afternoon, I’m certain Mrs. Gidley has received her portrait. Can you imagine the expression on her face when she answered the doorbell, looked down, and saw dear Lamisha standing there, package in hand? I have to believe that the exquisite gift was made doubly so by the manner in which it was delivered. I hope so.

Thank you for doing the portrait on such short notice and at such a busy time. And again, my gratitude for making the bestowals possible these past months. Every portrait has been, in a very real sense, an Advent, a Christmas, a giving of life.

Speaking of portraits. I heard a lovely homily about “faces” this morning. The pastor offered the opinion that, when we are born, our first instinct — “far deeper than intention” — is to find a face. Our weak and blurry little eyes, wide open but not yet trained to see, search for something, someone, with which to bond. I am inclined to agree with him. You?

Do you recall the first time you leaned in close to look at your newborn daughter? Did you have a sense that you and she were both reaching toward each other somehow, to speak a language too deep for words?

Didn’t it seem that your Samantha (and my Tita) were trying somehow to recognize and understand our faces when they first looked at us?

I have a close friend who is an eye doctor and a man of great depth. He holds firmly to the belief that the most important (and formative and effortless) thing a parent can do for a baby is to gaze into his or her face, to hold him or her close and engage the eyes. Could anything be simpler? Is anything more profound? Does anything more deeply change parent and child?

I wonder if, like newborn children, we go through our entire lives looking for a face, longing for a particular gaze that calms and fills us, that loves and welcomes us, that recognizes and runs to greet us. Is that perhaps what this day, Christmas, is all about?

It is an imponderable thought that the Giver of Faces, the face of heaven itself, the face for which every heart yearns, became a wee babe, misty eyed and helpless, looking Himself for the tender face of His mother on the night of the angels.

Might that blessed face find you and Brooke in good health and glad spirits today.

I look forward to seeing you soon. Till then, every good thing, and Merry Christmas,

Theo

P.S. If you see Ellen, please tell her I saw a blue jay this past week in Central Park. From what I could tell, it seemed to be missing a tail feather!

There was no return address on the letter or the envelope.

CHAPTER 51

Theo slipped quietly back into Golden. He had not told anyone when he might return and, by mid-January, it was not unusual for conversations along the Promenade to begin with questions, “Have you heard anything from Theo? Do you know when he’s coming back?”

He arrived in Golden near the end of the month. His first stroll down Broadway was punctuated by enthusiastic hugs and greetings that carried the distinct feel of a homecoming.

For him, the mild weather of Golden was a respite from the snow and cold of New York City. Daffodils and crocuses were already visible in the lawns of the Boughery. A spate of warm days, not at all uncommon to southern winters, had seduced flowers and shrubs into early blooms. Soon, a hard freeze, also not uncommon, would chasten those tender buds for their impatience.

But no complaints from Theo. Not that day. It was a day of welcome.

In short order, he had spoken with most of his inner circle.

Shep and Addie were doing a brisk business. Even the mild southern version of “cold weather” was good for sales at the Chalice.

Asher had added six portraits to the gallery while Theo was gone. A half dozen new bestowals.

Tony was still begging for book buyers and predicting the imminent failure of the Verbivore.

Simone was preparing with admirable diligence for his upcoming recital, still fighting headwinds with the hockey player on his back, but now with a Werner Pernambuco bow in hand.

Lamisha had written and illustrated her very first story, about a little girl with blue shoes who convinced her classmates to wear different colors.

Kendrick was still working the night shift at the college. Sometimes he sang loudly when the halls were empty.

Ellen still rode the Noble Invention up and down the Promenade, but she spent more time indoors at the Mission, especially on cold days. She had been perfecting her featherwood design and making good use of her Christmas gifts. In doing so, she was being changed somehow by ownership of those simple tools and the prospect of having a business, rising in the world by having something that she could nurture and call her own, even if it was only sticks and feathers. She was excited to show Theo her works in progress, almost as excited as he was to see them.

Theo stopped by Mr. Ponder’s office and delivered a folder of documents for safekeeping until further notice.

And with that, he settled into the fickle weeks of winter that would make up February and March. He renewed his routine of walking, reading, sitting at the river, and chatting with friends. The cold was hardly a bother.

He visited the Chalice most days.