A Christmas Escape Read Free Page A

But she wouldn’t have been satisfied unless it erupted, sent fire and boiling rocks all over the place. Not hurt anybody, of course. But…but made an exhibition of itself! Really…blew a hole in the sky!”
    Charles liked her analogy. It was melodramatic but full of hope, excitement, and hunger for life. These were all the things he had stopped feeling a long time ago. An outrageous thought occurred to him.
    “What do you suppose is on the other side of the sky?” he asked her, then instantly wished he had not. It was stupid, and would confuse her. She would think he was not taking her seriously, and—for all her imaginings—she was very serious, as only those at the beginning of life can be.
    She stared at him. “What a wonderful thing to say!” she exclaimed. “You’re not really old at all, are you!” Her smile was beautiful. “I never thought of that. The other side of the sky. One day I’ll write a book and that is what I’ll call it. I’ll go around the world looking for the answer, like Lucy in Mr. Quinn’s book. I’ll never stop looking, just as she didn’t. Do you think that if you spend all your life looking for answers, when you die then you find them?”
    “It’s as good a description of heaven as any I’ve heard,” he admitted. “Better than angels sitting on a cloud playing a harp, anyway.”
    “Oh, that would be terrible!” she exclaimed in horror. “I don’t like harps all that much. Couldn’t I have a trumpet? Or drums? I like drums.”
    This time he laughed outright, picturing her sitting on a cloud with a full set of kettledrums, and all the other angels with their hands over their ears.
    “You think I’m silly…” She was uncertain of herself now, watching for his reaction.
    “Not at all,” he denied. “If you are good enough to get to heaven, then you should be able to play any kind of music you want to. Your cloud sounds like a lot more fun than one with only harps. Aren’t you hungry?”
    “No. I had breakfast an hour ago. Didn’t you? Oh! Of course not. You’ve just got up. I’m sorry. Now it’s too late.” She looked crestfallen. “But I’ll take you to the kitchen. I’m sure Stefano will get you something really good. He makes the best bread in the world.”
    “I think I would like the best bread in the world,” Charles accepted. “In fact I would accept even the second best.”
    She turned and gave him a hard, sober stare. “He doesn’t have that,” she said, then burst into laughter.

    C harles did indeed have an excellent breakfast of fresh crusty bread, slightly salty butter, and thick dollops of homemade apricot jam. Stefano watched him eat it with almost as much relish as Charles actually eating it.
    When he had finished, he stayed to watch Stefano preparing luncheon. Stefano took his choice of tomatoes, some fresh green leaves, and other vegetables Charles was not familiar with. As he watched the Italian consider each leaf, each herb, before accepting or rejecting it, he began to appreciate how much Stefano enjoyed creating dishes that would dazzle all the senses. The meal was designed to please the eye with its riot of color: reds and greens, yellows, oranges, and pale greeny-white. There was a variety of shapes and textures. Every so often Stefano would pop something into his mouth to make sure the taste was the best he could find.
    “There!” he said eventually, looking at Charles and beaming with satisfaction. “They will like, yes?”
    “It’s beautiful,” Charles said honestly. “I hope we deserve it.”
    Stefano shrugged his plump shoulders. “Not matter,” he said happily. “Is good. Is enough. Not taste it properly is a shame, but their shame, not mine. I try something else next time, maybe.” He laughed. “Maybe not. Is good for you. Vegetable is also good for you.” He moved over to a wide porcelain tub with a wooden lid. From inside he took some very large, already cooked prawns. “You like?” he asked