Winterfest Finery

By Cindy Rae

"I'm going to have to let that coat out, again. Especially

the shoulders." Mary ran a measuring tape across his
back, from the point of one shoulder to the other. "You
were supposed to stop growing in your twenties," she
chided him, writing the numbers down on a pad.
"I believe I have. Certain things must be conspiring to
keep changing my measurements," Vincent allowed
softly, as the dearest mother figure in his life clucked her
tongue.
"You should have been in here a week ago, Vincent.
You've left me with very little time for this." The formal
coat he wanted to wear to Winterfest hung on a wooden
hanger, on a rod in her sewing room. It would need to be
let out.
Knitting, crocheting, darning, sewing, even macram if
it could be sewed, knotted, tied, stitched, darned, or
hooked into a rug, it came to Mary. There were others as
well, of course, with her talents. Olivia, for instance, had
been making clothes for Luke since the day he was born.

But it had been Mary, for him. Mary, for years.

"I know, Mary. I am sorry for the delay, Vincent
apologized. Truth to tell, I thought it would need nothing
more than a button." He produced it from the pocket of
the wonderful coat. It had fallen off last year, as he'd put
it away. He'd been lucky to find it as it hit the floor. The
button would have taken little time for Mary, so he had
put off asking her to fix his coat. Then he'd tried it on. It
was indeed too tight across his shoulder blades.
"Do you think I'm putting on weight?" he asked.
She scoffed at him. "I think you've been swinging a
sledgehammer for I don't know how many straight weeks,
making things ready.
Making things ready? Did she know about the surprise
he'd been preparing for Catherine?
"Perhaps it is just my climbing to Catherine's balcony,
which has done it."
She nodded, but only just to humor him. The leaps he'd
made between buildings tended to build up his thighs,
not his arms. Climbing was mostly a leg thing, as well,
if you were talking about a ladder. Plus, he'd been seeing
her for nearly three years. The coat had fit, before.
"Let me see your arms. I have a feeling." She ran the
tape around a bicep. Yes, it was bigger.
"I could still fit my arms through, Mary."
She wound up a music box she kept on a side table. The
one all tunnel children first learned to waltz to. "Hmph.
Waltz with me," she ordered. She stood in the dancer's

position, hands upraised. He stepped across from her,

bowed slightly, and complied.
"Lovely as this is, I meant with the coat on, Vincent." She
knew when he held his hands up and bent the elbow, his
bicep would flex, and it would strain the fabric of the
coat. She only hoped she didn't have to remake the
thing, entirely.
The smile became conspiratorial. "Can't a man take a
lady around the room?"
She relaxed a bit in his embrace, remembering distant
times.
"This reminds me of
"When you first taught me to dance. I know, Mary."
She smiled then, just the vaguest tear in her eyes. "You
were light on your feet."
"I was light on yours. And you wouldn't let me get left
behind." His voice was full of memory.
"You always loved music. Of course you should dance,"
she chided, as if there had never been a question of it.
"With Rebecca. And you. And Ellen. Olivia, once she was
old enough," Vincent remembered.
"And Lisa," Mary finished for him. He frowned a little.
"It's all right to say her name, Vincent."
"I don't think I ever thanked you for helping me, that
night."
Mary had covered Lisa with her shawl, so that no one else
might see her bleeding shoulder. Taken her to the

hospital chamber. Calmed her. Helped her pack. Jacob

had taken him. Mary had taken her. Two parents,
dividing the chores.
"There was no need to thank me. There was nothing to
thank."
Vincent knew that wasnt true. He also knew better than
to argue. He moved them closer to the tinkling sound
and gave her a slight turn, then deftly changed the
subject.
"Rebecca wore a pink dress to her first dance. Did you
help her make it?" he asked, stopping to wind up her
music box again.
He seemed to want to walk down memory lane (or at
least waltz down it), when she had much to do. The
music started again, and he took her in his huge arms.
"I did. She wanted pink, and no other color. With Brooke,
it was always green. Blue, with you. It brought out your
eyes."
Only Mary would see the thing that he was, and decide
blue for a formal coat, because of his eyes.
"I still have the one you made me when I was a teenager.
It's put away, in my trunk. I know I should have let
someone else have it, but I I never wanted to give it
up."
He hadn't. A deep navy color, trimmed with yellow
cording and brass buttons, it looked vaguely nautical in
theme. Mary declared him handsome, in it, and he had
danced with each one of the girls, just like the other boys
had done. Mary's instructions had been strict. Each boy

was to dance with each girl, at least once. They'd all

been practicing for over a month. Mary would have no
wallflowers. Of either sex.
"Did you like those dances, Vincent? You always seemed
to," Mary asked her behemoth of a son.
He nodded. "I liked the companionship of them. Rebecca
always laughed with me, and told some story while we
danced. Olivia always told me she was afraid she'd trip.
Ellen was shy, and when she talked, it was always a
whisper, like a secret. And Lisa... " He let the ghost of the
past go. "Lisa was difficult to lead. She was lighter on
her feet, and danced just a little faster than I did."
"And Jamie? You danced with her a few years ago. Her
first dance, as I recall."
"Jamie is fearless. He grinned. But she'd rather be
playing the violin than dancing to it."
"Perhaps she just likes to hold a bow, no matter what kind
it is," Mary acknowledged with a smile.
Vincent chuckled at that. She knew Jamie was a tomboy,
and that she loved her crossbow.
"How do you do that?" he asked her, slowing their steps.
"Do what?" Mary asked.
"Do that. Be that. Be exactly what it is that we need.
Rebecca wanted a pink gown, so she'd feel pretty, like a
princess. The boys all had a coat, so I had one too, even
though it meant extra sewing for you. Ellen needed a
high neck, and long hem. Jamie is happier climbing on

top of the furniture than sitting on it. How did you always
know that, always keep up with it?"
Mary dipped her head a little, still smiling at him. "Oh, I
don't know. It just comes from knowing all of you, I
guess. You were always afraid of being left out, more
than anything else. Ellen was afraid of being stared at, of
attracting attention, while Lisa couldn't get enough of it.
Devin was afraid he'd be here all his life, and miss his
chance. Laura, well. Laura was afraid that because she
couldn't hear, she'd stumble and fall, embarrass herself.
Everyone has fears, Vincent."
"Do you have any?" he asked.
She didnt pause so much as a songbeat before she
answered him.
"That any of my children will be unhappy. Alone. That
because they can't ... dance, they'll miss some sort of
chance, Vincent."
She said it without hesitation, and so surely, he knew she
was telling him the absolute truth. Mary had one fear.
And it wasn't for herself.
The music box wound down, and this time, she did insist
he put on the coat. It was as she thought. The top of the
sleeve would have to be let out, as well.
"I'll try to find the time to alter it, but it might be good for
you to have a backup plan, just in case. Perhaps your
brown vest? Can't have you bursting at the seams, when
you lift the beam off that door," Mary told him, a loving
look on her face. He'd cost her some sleep, but she was

used to that, with her children. Which gloves will you

wear? He did not have a blue pair.
The red. I think they will be fine, and Catherine asked if I
would. May I help?" He handed her back the coat.
"You may not. You're fine to put on a button, Vincent, but
this is re-making a seam on each sleeve. The stitches
have to be tight and even, and I don't trust that old
machine to do it. It's hard to get the brocade on the cuff
through, without it getting raveled and torn. I've barely
got enough material here to work with, as it is."
Vincent inclined his head, and watched as she sat down
and hunted for a seam ripper from her basket of sewing
things. He still stood there.
After a moment, she realized he wasn't leaving.
She looked up. The look of love he was giving her caused
a small somersault of answering love in her heart. When
had her little boy grown up? She was aware it was a
while ago, of course, but in the flurry of years, he'd been
just Vincent (rather than Little Vincent) for a very
long time. Just Vincent. Just her Vincent. Another
one of her special children, who needed her special brand
of love. Like Devin, or Zack, or Pascal... but now there
was something expectant about him. Like he was
thinking of something that needed to be done, and he
needed the coat to do it.
He crouched by her chair, and kissed her cheek.
"Do you think it can be done in time? I can wear my
cape, I suppose, if it's a bother."

"But you'd rather be wearing this?" she guessed.

Something was afoot.
"If I could. I want to look my best, and not like I'm in my
regular clothes." He stroked the fine fabric as it lay across
the table. The rich blue brocade always reminded him of
something royal, something that bespoke a regal
presence.
"I'm going to ask Catherine to marry me, Mary."
He stroked the cloth, and stopped when he reached her
hand. She reached for his, and squeezed it.
"Oh, Vincent..."
"It's why I've been working so hard. The area behind my
window... a chamber. Something for us. Some...
someplace I can offer her. An office, for now, if she wants
it for that. And someday... maybe someday. His voice
became the lowest whisper.
"A nursery?" Mary said the word so he wouldn't have to
admit a dream he could barely form. He nodded, keeping
hold of the coat, as if by the wearing of the special
garment, he could make all the other dreams start to
come true.
"Well, then. Well," she said, collecting herself, and wiping
her eyes a little. "I'll find the time. I'll make it. You
should have your coat, Vincent. It may be that you even
want to become a bridegroom in it."
He pulled her forward in the chair for a tight hug. That
she would use that word with him, just the same as she'd
use it with anybody else. Devin was not the only one who

dared to dream dreams that included him. He'd been

wrong to think that he was.
Mary had done that, too. Mary had done that, always.
She still was.
Unashamed tears tracked down his cheeks. He'd been
guilty of the same hubris all children were. He'd failed to
see how much, just how very much, and how very often,
his mother had thought of him, how much she'd worried
for his happiness.
"I don't mean to give you extra work." His voice was
rough. He truly didn't. But he now also knew that when
he asked Catherine to be his wife, and when he made her
that, he'd be wearing a fine coat that Mary had repaired,
and remade for him. She'd pulled it from a trunk, years
ago, and declared it should be only for him. She'd put
new buttons on it, from placket to cuffs, and she'd
repaired the small damages done by pests to the lining.
She'd mended it where and when it needed it, over the
years, and helped it become something he treasured.
"I don't mind. Oh, I don't mind, Vincent." Her voice was
as choked as his was.
"Forgive me, he asked of her. I think I spent too many
years wondering about my mother, and never calling you
by that name, instead. And I should have."
Now it was her turn for the tears to flow. "Oh, Vincent.
You never needed to say it. None of you did. I always
knew you felt it, in here." She indicated her heart. And
she reached across the table for a delicately embroidered
handkerchief, to dab her eyes.

"It's all right that I was just Mary to all of you. That was
enough. I promise it was, and I never felt the lack."
She pressed the soft, sky blue fabric to her eyes, blotting
the tracks of tears. Mary was not one given to crying. As
a midwife, she understood what pain was, and was
accustomed to dealing with her own, as she helped
others deal with theirs.
"You always carried a handkerchief, he marveled. For
every child's tear, or scraped knee, or runny nose. I
swear, you must have a pile of these." He took it from
her and helped her dab her eyes, as she smiled up at
him, both of them trying to get their emotions under
some sort of control. She took it back from him and
dabbed his face, as well, and they both laughed a little at
the gesture.
"Well. You try raising a hundred children and more, and
see how many handkerchiefs you have to carry over the
years," she said, pretending to scold. He eyed the
pattern she'd embroidered on it. Tiny vines and leaves.
A petite red rose at each of the four corners. Lace,
around the edges.
"This is lovely. You always take something plain and
make it beautiful, Mary."
Not always. Sometimes it wasn't possible. Mitch wasn't
possible. Some few others. The day she'd buried her
son, his shroud had been plain. She couldn't bear to
touch it, in her grief.
"Not all the time," she replied softly, and he knew she
was thinking of past sorrows.

"Mary, may I carry this, that night? Winterfest? Tucked in

my pocket, or up my sleeve? Catherine might cry, and I
might want to offer it to her...."
"Why, of course. Of course you can, Vincent. You should
let me stitch another rose to it. A white one, like the one
you carry in that pouch around your neck."
A red rose and a white one. Like the bush on her balcony.
Of course.
"Now I'm asking you to do even more."
"Faddle. It's a tiny design, and I could do it in my sleep.
It's deconstructing that jacket at the sleeves that will take
me time. This won't be fifteen minutes of work, start to
finish."
She was already picking through her sewing basket for
her white embroidery thread.
"So. You'll carry it up your sleeve, yes? Or in your
pocket?" she confirmed.
He nodded as he watched her prepare.
"This is an old piece of satin. Come to think of it, I think it
came off an old christening gown we found in one of
those ancient trunks. The moths had taken most of the
rest of it, of course, but I always liked this little square of
cloth," she said, already beginning to make the first white
rose, at the first corner.
He nodded, watching her work. Her fingers were arthritic,
but fast and capable. He remembered them from his
childhood -- less bent, and just as competent.

She always seemed to bring that feeling into a room with

her. That quiet, sure sense of ability - that everything
would be all right, that she would help to make it so. She
was right about this being a quick chore. After what
seemed like moments, she was nearly done with the first
rose.
"We all ask too much of you. And we don't appreciate
you enough," he said, moving off to bring over her pot of
tea. It had a tea cozy, one she'd knitted. The pot was
still warm. He freshened her cup.
"Nonsense. No one here ever asked anything of me I
wasn't more than willing to give, and no one ever said
anything less than thank you. That's what it's like, when
you're a parent, Vincent. You'll see."
"We may be putting the cart before the horse. She hasn't
even accepted me, yet." He still smiled at her words.
That she could include him in such thoughts
Mary cut the thread, and moved on to the next corner.
"Well. She's a fool if she refuses you, I'll tell you that,"
Mary declared with the surety of a mother sticking up for
her son. It was the same thing she would have said if he
were Devin. Or any one of the other bachelors she
considered "her boys." Rosebud number two bloomed
into existence. It looked so easy, when she did it. Just a
few lines of stitching that shouldn't have looked like
anything, but always did. Amazing.
"We will have to hope, and see. I haven't told anyone
else about this, Mary." His voice held caution.

"Of course you haven't. But it was a secret you were

dying to share, and so you couldnt keep it secret another
minute," she said as she worked. "I'll treasure your
confidence, Vincent. And I won't tell a soul."
And she wouldn't. As she stitched her way through the
second rosebud, Vincent wondered how many secrets,
how many thousands of secrets, Mary had been entrusted
with, over the years. His. Stevie's. Zacks, and Kippers
and Devin's. Brookes and Michaels and Ellies and
Erics. How many, many little secrets had been
whispered in her ear, or sobbed at her breast. How she'd
kept them all, and loved every secret-giver, and made
them feel like theirs was the most important one.
She snipped the thread and began on the third corner.
"The night Devin left He told you, didn't he?" Vincent
asked, realizing it for the first time. Her brown eyes came
up a moment, and held his, and he knew it was true.
"I knew he was unhappy, that he wanted to leave, she
evaded. He couldn't stay, Vincent. Fighting with Jacob
was tearing him to pieces. I told him he had to say
goodbye to you, if he left. Did he?"
"Not in so many words. He left his copy of Huckleberry
Finn on my bed. The one we always used when we were
playing. I think I knew, the minute I saw it there, that he
was gone."
Mary nodded, decorating the third corner.
"Nothing you could have said would have held him here,
Vincent. If you, or I, or even Jacob had guilted him into it,
it might have bought us a few more days or weeks. But

in the end, he had to go. Had to climb the mountains."

Mary was reflective, as her fingers did things almost
automatically.
"You never told Jacob."
"It wouldn't have changed anything for the better if I had.
They'd have just argued some more. Learning when to
let you all go that's the hardest part of being a mother.
If you want to know what it is, it's right there."
"And Lisa? And Mitch?"
"This place wasn't going to hold them, either. Lisa
wanted to dance more than anything, and Mitch hated
the rules. This was a safe place, Vincent, but it wasn't
going to be home, to them. The sad thing about both
of them is, I don't think either of them ever found a
different one, after they left this one."
"But you knew I'd never leave," he told her.
"I knew no such thing, and I still dont. I just know that if
you do, you'll likely come back.
Her voice was firm, yet soft. He realized how often that
was true about her.
This is your home, Vincent. Not because it has to be,
and not because you have no other choice. She stopped
sewing and touched his cheek, gently, for a moment,
before she resumed her chore.
But because the love that's in your heart feels fullest
when its here or near here, she included Catherines
balcony in the sentence. She finished the third rose, and
moved on to the fourth one.

"The night you found Catherine, you could have taken her
back up to the road, put her where a car might find her.
Carried her to one of the paths near where one of the
policemen patrol. Even carried her straight to a hospital,
or to a building where she'd be found."
"There was no time... she was--"
"Bleeding. I know." Mary did know. Mary had helped him
and Jacob with Catherine, the night Vincent had brought
her down. Mary had dressed her in the warm tunnel
gown she'd worn, among other things.
"But the thing is, you didn't take her there. You brought
her here. You brought her to us. You offered to share
your home with her, Vincent. On the first night you met
her. So of course it's only fitting, that you should bring
her here to offer her that, forever."
The needle went in and out. Sewing a little piece of his
and Catherines history, with her skill. Vincent suddenly
had the idea that this little scrap of satin and lace just
might be more than that.
"Mary. This handkerchief. May I offer it to Catherine?
To... carry? On our wedding day?"
Mary smiled softly.
"Why, of course. If you like, it can be her 'something
blue or something borrowed. Or if you like, she can
keep it, and it can be 'something old.'"
Vincent's eyes grew warm. Something old. A bit like the
woman who had decorated it. Something very old, by the
time his daughter perhaps carried it, on her own wedding
day. Or his son.

Something old," he decided. Catherine told him she

would wear a red dress to Winterfest, but that the rest
was secret. She seemed very excited. The handkerchief
would look lovely tucked into her sleeve, a little bit of the
red rose showing, perhaps. Vincent was excited, anew.
"I should wash it up for you then. Make sure it's nice and
clean." She finished with the last tiny rosebud, and they
sat back to admire her handiwork. It was beautiful.
"Its already clean. Please don't wash it, Mary." He
picked it up, knowing it held a few of her happy tears in
the folds. Ones she'd wept when he told her he hoped to
be a bridegroom. Ones he had, when she'd accepted all
his plans.
She watched him fold it carefully, and place it inside the
left pocket of the coat. He smoothed the lace over the
pocket, lovingly.
"Catherine is being very mysterious about her dress. She
will say only that it is red, and that she is having it made."
"Ah. Catherine looks lovely in red. Like the painting of
the two of you in your cham---"
And their eyes met at the same time, and they knew it.
Catherine was giddy with excitement because she was
having a dress made that looked like the one she was
wearing in the painting by Kristopher Gentian, so shed
asked him to wear his red gloves. In a strange way, it
would become their engagement portrait.
He would have to take her out for a walk under the
February moon, wrapped in his cape. If it was misty, the
painting would be recreated.

"Oh, Vincent. It all feels like... like so many magical

things are happening at once, for you," Mary enthused.
"It does," he agreed. Almost too much. Almost like it
could all be taken away from -"Don't, Mary interrupted his fears. I know that look.
That's the look you get when you're afraid that the good
won't come for you. When you're afraid it won't be yours.
I've seen that look, Vincent, on your face. Too many
times to count."
She tugged the coat over for re-making. There was no
time like the present to begin a chore.
"Now, you run along. Make sure your boots have a fine
polish, and your shirt is nice and clean. In a few days, it
will be Winterfest, and you'll be on cloud nine by then."
He went to do as she bid him.
--He stopped by Olivia's briefly, and begged her
indulgence.
Then he finished the chores that always seemed to
overwhelm his day, especially this close to the Big Day.
That night, as most of the tunnel world slept, two people
sat in separate chambers, sewing.
Mary, in hers, worked steadily on the regal blue jacket
that Vincent would wear to Winterfest, then after, on his
wedding day. She didn't seem tired. She was excited,
and happy, and stroked the rich fabric lovingly, picturing
how fine her son would look in it. Both when he danced
with Catherine, and when he offered to make her a bride.

They would make a wonderful couple. Mary could hardly

wait to bounce their little ones on her knee. After a
suitable honeymoon, of course. It didn't do to rush such
things.
In his own chambers, Vincent was carefully sewing
something of his own. A spare bit of silk Olivia had left
over from making her wedding dress. A bit of treasure
among the small piles of fabric she'd saved as she made
her child's clothing, and clothing for the other tunnel
children, as well.
The white fabric had been an expensive piece of treasure,
in its day. A bright silk sash for a gown that was
otherwise made of cotton, and trimmed with silk thread.
Vincent was making a handkerchief out of a square scrap
of the silk, to replace the one Mary had given up for
Catherine.
From watching Mary, he thought he knew how to stitch a
rosebud on it. Red embroidery floss went in and out of
the fabric, making a rose for Mary, just as she had made
four for Catherine. It wasn't as good. But the stitches
were tight and even, and after several attempts, he was
content that it was the best he could do.
He began stitching letters in an x pattern that Mary had
shown them all when they were younger, and learning
how to monogram. A tiny series of xs made up each
letter in the word Vincent sewed. It would be Mary's
Winterfest gift from him.
It would be perfect.

After all, she might want to carry it on his wedding day.

She might need to, in case she was moved to tears.
Done after two hours, he very carefully folded the silk
treasure and put it into a decorated box. He labelled the
tag, and set it next to his journal on his writing table.
He would deliver it in the morning. No. Not the morning.
He would make her wait until the day of Winterfest. Or
perhaps when she gave him his coat. Yes. That was it.
When she gave him his altered coat, the one he would
wear when he asked Catherine to marry him, the one he
would wear when he danced with her in a few days, he
would offer Mary his simple gift.
Happy, and too excited to sleep, he got up from bed and
went to check the insides of the box again, to make sure
he'd folded it just right, that it was laying with no
wrinkles, or dangling threads.
It was fine. Inside the study box that had long ago
perhaps held a pair of ladies gloves, sat his gift. A
shimmering white piece of silk with tiny rosebuds at the
corners. It had taken him a lot longer to do that than it
had taken Mary. It gleamed with soft beauty in the candle
light. It would catch a tear, if it needed to.
The fabric felt good under his fingers. Soft. Deceptively
sturdy, in its way, for all its old-world charm. Like Mary.
A single word began at one of the corners, and he'd
folded it so that it would be the first thing she saw. A
simple letter M sat among the snowy folds, making it
look like a monogrammed handkerchief when you first
opened the box.

But when you removed it from the box, the other letters
became apparent as the silk dropped open.
It said, "Mother."
---fin---

For Winterfest, 2015.