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Charles Cooke ran his
long, slender fingers
through his chestnut hair
and closed his eyes.
It was a gesture he
absently reverted to
whenever he was lost in
thought. Despite the
warm lights in the room,
the images that danced
through Charlie’s
head were of a cold,
distant prairie almost a
half century ago.
He heard the deep, stern
voice of his mother rise
an octave in fear as she
frantically ran through
the snow looking for her
three-year-old son. Kate
had been baking in the
kitchen, when she noticed
that Charlie was not on
the floor playing with his
toys. She called his
name loudly and flung open
the back door, racing down
the steps and into the
small, fenced yard.
But the boy was nowhere to
be seen. She hurried
back into the house,
striding through the
kitchen and hallway
calling his name. There
was still no answer, but
as she rounded the turn
into the living room,
there, tucked away in the
corner, sat Charlie
on an, old, battered
Windsor chair, legs folded
beneath him, elbows
resting on his knees, head
in hand, and staring
wonder-eyed and mesmerized
at the twinkling lights of
the Christmas tree as it
revolved round and round.
“Charles
Cooke!! You will
give me gray hair
yet! What are you
doing on your naughty
chair, and why
didn’t you answer
when I called!” Kate
sputtered.
The boy looked up and
smiled sweetly, his thin
bow shaped lips widening
into a huge smile.
“I wanted to watch
the lights. This is
the best place, Mommy.
It’s like
magic.”
In Charlie’s
reverie, Kate sighed a
deep sigh of relief. And
he, Charles Cooke,
exhaled, as well, and
opened his eyes. He
was standing in one of
their upstairs bedrooms
– “the
Princess Room” as
they dubbed it –
enjoying a quiet moment
among the holiday
decorations that were his
and Martin’s
handiwork. Before
him stood the Disney
Princess Tree, one of his
elaborate Christmas
designs. The
two-tier base with small
diorama settings for each
of the Disney heroines
rotated slowly, while on
the tree the delicate
Victorian ornaments
complemented the vintage
beauty of the room. He had
designed this tree and the
entire installation in
this and every one of the
other twenty rooms in the
stately Lancaster home he
shared with his husband,
Martin Rosen. He had
a passion for design, for
making every inch of
living space beautiful and
meaningful in a personal
way and for sharing that
beauty with those he
loved. In fact,
tonight’s party to
which Charlie had invited
all his and Martin’s
theatre friends –
fellow actors, producers,
directors, dancers –
was Charlie’s way of
sharing the magic of the
season with those closest
to him. Nothing made
him happier than to create
a palpable sense of joy in
those around him.
Charlie glanced at his
watch, ran his fingers
through his hair once
again, straightened his
bow tie, and smoothed his
tuxedo jacket. He
turned to go when Martin
entered the room.
“Hey, sweetheart, we
better go down. The guests
are starting to arrive and
the photographer from Interior Design Magazine is here.”
The couple descended
the stairs. Martin
stood at the door
welcoming their friends,
while Charlie introduced
himself to the
photographer and offered
to give him as quick tour
and then let him explore
on his own. They
paused in the parlor to
take in the silver and
white splendor of the tall
tree commanding the room.
“This is our Silver
Symphony,” Charlie
commented, as he indicated
the mantle decked with
fresh white peonies in cut
glass vases interspersed
with crystal pine trees.
They moved into the dining
room with its magnificent
Victorian Suite of trees
laden with red and gold,
ribbons, feathers,
traditional ornaments, and
a profusion of angels.
Crossing the hall they
lingered a moment in the
vast, wood-paneled library
to enjoy the trees and
corners of the room
dedicated to the Nutcracker and the Wizard
of Oz with figurines from every part of the globe. And nestled among these two iconic stories, Charlie and Martin had secreted a little vitrine dedicated to Treasure Island,
the subject of their
musical which they had
written together and had
produced last
season.
As the guests continued to
pour in, the pair passed
through the foyer with its
elegant Golden Rod tree
stretching up to the
ceiling and plethora of
poinsettias. On the second
floor Charlie quickly
guided the photographer
through the bedrooms,
where in the King Bedroom
the Peacock Tree with its
brilliant azure feathers,
birds nestled in the
branches complemented the
blue and white of the
companion Wedgewood Tree,
while in the adjoining
Queen Bedroom Waterford
shimmered on the
centerpiece tree. A
symphony of angels, harps,
and period ornaments
outfitted the Abundant
Angels Tree in the Prince
Bedroom, while the stark,
white walled office came
to life with Teddy Bears
and Disney
characters. Charlie
pointed out the bathrooms-
also decorated each with
an individual theme - as
they passed and whisked
the photographer through
the Princess Bedroom and
up to his and
Martin’s third floor
Master Bedroom Suite where
white and gold of the tree
complemented the ivory,
crème, and beige of the
décor.
Hastening down the stairs
to the foyer, Charlie
directed the photographer:
“There’s more
in the basement, too
– four more rooms
with lots of fun trees and
themes…so feel free
to start there, perhaps,
and work your way
up. I am going to
greet our guests, but
don’t hesitate to
find me or Martin if you
need anything. And
be sure to have some
champagne and something to
eat. We really
appreciate your doing
this.” He
clapped the man on the
shoulder, gave him one of
his irresistible smiles
and swung into the throng
of guests.
As he made his way into
the living room, he spied
his mother, ensconced in
an armchair near the
fireplace, sipping her tea
and talking animatedly to
a small group of neighbors
she knew well from her
visits. She was
revelling in the
opportunity the evening
gave her to reminisce.
“When did Charlie
become so fascinated with
Christmas, Mrs.
Cooke?” Rosemary
asked.
“Ever since he was a
toddler. If I was
looking for him, I always
knew I could find him in
front of the Christmas
tree. When he was
three, he gave me such a
scare. I thought he
had gone outside in the
cold and then I found him
tucked away in his naughty
chair….”
“Not that story
again, Mother,”
Charlie protested, as he
paused among her listeners.
“Why was it his naughty chair?” Deb persisted.
“Because whenever he
needed a time out we would
tell him to go sit there
and think about what he
had done. But what I
didn’t
realize,” Kate
continued, “was that
at Christmas the chair had
the best view of our tree,
so Charlie loved sitting
there. It
wasn’t a punishment
at all!”
“And did you always
love angels and
nutcrackers and all these
beautiful ornaments,
Charles,” Michael
asked. But before
Charlie could answer, Kate
replied, “No, as a
boy, his favorite toys
were Johnny West
dolls. Mostly the
horses, cowboys and
Indians. He would
come downstairs on
Christmas morning and head
right to his
presents. We
didn’t wrap them, so
he knew right away which
were his. Go
downstairs, Michael, and
have a look. They
are all down there in the
Poker Room.”
Charles tried to
extricate himself from the
group. He hated when
his mother told childhood
stories, and it
embarrassed him to have
his colleagues and
friends seem to hang
on her every word.
Nothing extraordinary
about those
holidays. He
was just a boy who loved
Christmas…
He made his way over to
Martin on the fringe of
the conversation and
whispered in his ear.
Martin smiled, excused
himself, and went over to
the grand piano. He sat
down and began to play
from memory, his fingers
fleetly caressing the
keys. He played a
few carols, and as he did,
the conversation slowly
came to a hush and
everyone began to
congregate around the
piano.
“Sing something,
Charlie,” a guest
called out. Martin
nodded in encouragement
and began “I’m
Dreaming of a White
Christmas.” Charlie
set down his champagne and
leaned into the curve of
the piano. His rich
tenor filled the room in
lilting phrases. He
spun the lyrics with a
warmth and tenderness that
seemed to embrace the
entire room. He
finished with a flourish
and Martin neatly segued
into “O
Tannenbaum.” Charlie
joined him first in German
and then in English.
As the guests applauded,
Kate lifted her voice
again. “When
Charlie was a freshman, he
had a solo in the school
concert. It was
“O Tannenbaum.
“ But when he
stepped out to do the
first verse, he blanked
out, so he very calmly
stepped back into the
chorus and let his mates
sing the verse. Then
on the second verse, he
stepped out and finished
the solo.”
“Mom, you’re embarrassing me,” Charlie forced a smile.
“But you did!
I was proud of you!!
How many kids would have
had that presence of
mind?”
Sensing Charlie’s
discomfort, Martin
suddenly launched into
another composition
– something he and
Charlie were working
on. His fingers
raced lightly over the
keys in the haunting
pizzicato of the overture
to Sarah, the new
musical they were creating
about the strange life of
Sarah Winchester. Then he
began the introduction of
the father’s song,
“The Music
Box.” Without a word
Charlie seamlessly joined
him, his voice plaintively
soaring as the father
urged his daughter to open
herself to the music and
rhythm of her life with
love. Applause
greeted the big finish,
and as Martin glanced
around, he saw Sean
Stevens had joined the
group who had been
listening. Sean gave
him the thumbs up sign and
quickly vanished into the
other room. Martin
turned to share the
exchange
with Charlie, who was
once again doing his best
to extricate himself from
the little group still
paying court to Kate.
But no sooner had the song
finished than Kate resumed
her storytelling.
“We always told the
four kids that Drew and I
believed in Santa Claus
and they all had to
believe, too, or there
wouldn’t be any
Christmas gifts. The older
kids were pretty good
about playing along. They
were teenagers when
Charlie was a little kid,
but they kept the
story. And Charlie
was good about the
tradition, too. If he knew
it wasn’t true, he
never let on.”
“I wanted those
Johnny West toys,”
Charlie chuckled, as he
left the parlor to start
saying goodbye to the
guests who had begun to
leave. One by one
Charlie and Martin hugged
and kissed their friends
and thanked them for
coming. The
photographer shook hands
with both of them.
“I think I got
everything I need,”
he said.
“Thank you for
letting us cover this
story. What
you’ve created here
is truly unique!”
Among the last to go was
Sean Stevens. He
shook Charlie’s
hand, thanking him, and as
he did he pressed his card
into Charlie’s
palm. “Be in
touch, my friend,”
he said heartily.
Charlie hugged the last of
their friends and then
closing the door, glanced
down at Stevens’
business card. On the
back, the producer had
scrawled: “Sarah intrigues me. Come see me next week in New York. I’d like to talk about it.”
Charlie turned on his heel
and went back into the
parlor. Kate was
still in her chair, her
eyes bright with
tears. An evening
filled with so many
memories had overwhelmed
the elderly woman.
She just smiled at her
son, who put his arm
around Martin and handed
him the note from Stevens.
As Martin’s faced
beamed with a hopeful
smile, Charlie’s
smile broadened into a
grin. “Hey,
Mom,” he sang out.
“You know I still do
believe in Santa
Claus!”
For Curt and Marc, who are masters of the magic of Christmas,
and to Kaye for sharing her memories….
-Brunswick, Maine 2023
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