An otherwise calm Tuesday night was given a solemn soundtrack by the steady drumming of a chilly December rain against the kitchen window pane. The front door suddenly slammed open as I stood at the stove, deep in the quiet, contemplative process of stirring a pot of vegetable soup, and I jumped. Arthur, my husband, stood in the doorway, shivering against the snoopy draft and wearing a soaked overcoat. Arthur was usually the epitome of consistency, but tonight’s expression was a startling blend of physical tiredness and a nagging worry that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
With a strained and slightly breathless voice, he said, “Sarah, you won’t believe the day I’ve had.” He pointed to the porch’s dark corners. “Someone is outside.” Eleanor was an elderly woman. I couldn’t simply abandon her there.
I put down my ladle and felt that usual flutter in my chest, a little nervous. Arthur was an incredibly kind man who “collected” the souls of those in need, whether they were injured birds or, as it seemed today, stranded tourists. He gave a brief explanation of the situation, saying that the airport was in a state of chaotic suffering due to a series of airline delays and cancellations. Amid the aggravation, he had noticed Eleanor, a small, weak woman sitting by herself on a rough plastic bench, appearing completely disconnected from the outside world. Her phone had died, her connecting flight to Massachusetts had been canceled, and the airline’s only option was a hotel voucher miles away that needed a shuttle that she was too tired to utilize.
Arthur’s eyes met me with an unmistakable earnestness as he said, “She’s traveling to see her granddaughter for the holidays.” “Sarah, she simply seemed so exposed. The idea of her sitting by herself in a strange hotel lobby or a chilly terminal was too much for me to handle. It’s only for tonight.
My trepidation vanished as I saw the rain beating down on the glass and the sincere compassion in my husband’s eyes. It was the week leading up to Christmas, a season of openness and hospitality. I nodded slightly, and Arthur vanished into the night again, only to reappear a few moments later with a petite woman weighing heavily on his arm.
Eleanor was a delicate resilience case study. Her eyes were a sharp, compassionate blue, and her wispy white hair framed a face marked with the lines of a long, illustrious life. She held a tattered leather luggage as though it held her entire existence, and she wore a wool coat that appeared thin and out of date for the cold winter. As I assisted her in removing her wet garments, she mustered a feeble, shaky smile despite being physically exhausted.
Her voice sounded like the gentle rustle of tissue paper as she spoke, “Mrs. Davies.” “You and your spouse are angels in every way.” I have no words to express how much this means to me.
As the warmth gradually returned to her hands, I put her by the fireplace and gave her a steaming mug of tea. She primarily listened, exuding a calm, dignified demeanor, even as we talked in hushed tones about the turmoil of travel and the unpredictability of the weather. After a while, Arthur led her to the guest room and made sure she had everything she needed, including additional blankets. Arthur and I exchanged a silent sigh of joy as she clicked the door shut. We had offered a haven in a world that frequently seems uncaring.
The next morning dawned with a clear, white light. The smell of strong coffee and toasted bread quickly filled the place. Eleanor’s motions were quiet and precise, and she looked pleasantly revived when she entered the kitchen. She related tidbits of her life over breakfast, including her late husband’s love of repairing old clocks and her granddaughter’s aspirations to become a veterinarian. She spoke of her family with such devotion that it seemed as though they were the sun that her universe revolved around.
The rain had subsided to a light mist by seven o’clock, and Arthur was getting ready to take her back to the airport. The skies were clearing and her flight was confirmed. Eleanor turned to face me as they stood beside the car and drew me in with an unexpectedly tight hug. She whispered in my ear, “Thank you for the peace, dear.” “You have no idea how much I needed it.”
I felt lighter as soon as the automobile left the driveway. My initial thought was to clean the guest room and get ready for our next round of holiday guests. Anticipating the typical chaos of a visitor’s stay, I carried a laundry basket down the hall. Rather, the space was spotless. To greet the morning, the curtains were drawn back, the pillows were fluffed, and the duvet was straightened.
But just as I was about to strip the bed with the covers, my heart stopped. A tiny, deep-blue velvet jewelry box lay perfectly in the middle of the white pillowcase. I felt its surprising weight as I picked it up. There was a diamond necklace inside that was so brilliant it seemed to light up the whole space, resting on a bed of white satin. A complex, flowing lace of smaller diamonds around the enormous central stone, catching the light with each movement. It was obvious to my inexperienced eye that this was an extremely valuable antique rather than a costume piece.
My thoughts were racing. Was it something she had forgotten? How could someone who was traveling on a tight budget and wearing a thin coat own something like this? I discovered a tiny piece of folded paper next to the lamp on the nightstand. With shaking fingers, I opened it to reveal one line of tasteful, if a little wobbly, handwriting: Tell Arthur his mother would have been proud.
The room seemed to lose its air. Patricia, Arthur’s mother, had died twenty years prior. Arthur was her only child, and she had been a quiet, reclusive woman. This was nonsensical. Arthur was just as confused when he got back from the airport. He informed me that Eleanor, or whatever she was, had used a clean $100 bill to pay for her taxi ride, and that her suitcase had felt strangely light, as though it were largely empty. He had heard the gate agent confirm her reservation using a different name, Patricia, which was the most disconcerting of all.
We were engrossed in the mystery for weeks. We got in touch with the airline and the police, but “Eleanor” had disappeared into the holiday crowds, leaving only the glittering gem in our safe. The last piece of the puzzle didn’t fit together until the day after Christmas. A Boston law company called Arthur about the inheritance of his mother’s estranged elder sister, Aunt Penelope.
Decades prior, Penelope and Patricia had experienced a sour argument over a family treasure that had never been resolved. Penelope had been overcome with a need to atone as she faced her last days. In order to test Arthur’s character before delivering the gift, she had chosen to have a trusted, lifelong friend personally bring the very necklace that had sparked the argument. The bequest was unlocked by Arthur’s innate benevolence, but the “stranding” at the airport had been a coincidence.
The woman was a messenger of reconciliation, not merely a tourist. The necklace served as a link between two decades of stillness, and the empty suitcase represented a history that had finally been let go. Arthur was given a link to a family history he believed was lost forever, not just a piece of jewelry. It dawned on us then that sometimes you are welcome destiny itself when you open your door to a stranger, not simply a bed.