That Christmas Feeling

by Catherine Palmer

  “Then why don’t you sell some of it, Aunt Flossie? You could take the money and move into a nice—”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you’d inherit the rest of my treasures when I’m dead and gone.” Flossie glared at her niece. “Well, you can’t have them! They’re mine! Hans gave them to me. They were his, and I mean to protect them.”

  “Protect them? Aunt Flossie, you’ve let everything deteriorate so much that most of it is probably worthless. The clock is covered with soot. Your music box is…well, it’s been buried under all those damp newspapers so long…”

  Claire stretched out her hand and tugged the crusty box off the table. When she turned it upside down, she could see that the key was still in place. She tried to give it a twist, but the key wouldn’t budge.

  “Stuck. See? It’s all worthless,” Flossie said. “Just a pile of sorry old junk. And when I die, it’ll all be just as worthless as I was. As Hans was. As empty and hopeless as everything in this God-forsaken world.”

  Claire ran a fingernail along the dirt-encrusted seam around the box’s lid as she spoke. “God hasn’t forsaken the world, Aunt Flossie. He’s here with you. And He’s with me, too.”

  “You think so, do you? Fool!”

  “If God had abandoned you, would He have sent me here? We have each other now, Aunt Flossie. My fiancé left me feeling just as empty and hopeless as Hans left you. I never even had the chance to get married before he abandoned me. He found himself another woman—someone prettier, maybe, or smarter. Certainly she was more adoring. I don’t really understand what happened. All I know is he canceled the wedding, and for a while I thought I had nothing and no one.”

  “You don’t have anyone, girl. Don’t kid yourself! You’re alone in this world, and nobody gives two hoots about—”

  The tinkling sound of the music box silenced the woman. The key had been wound to its tightest point, Claire discovered, and when she lifted the old wooden lid, it began to play. Flossie knelt at her side, and together they gazed in awe at the majestic miniature scene that unfolded before them.

  Set on snowy white velvet, a group of enameled porcelain figures clustered around a tiny baby lying in a manger. On either side of the Christ child stood Mary and Joseph, clothed in brilliant blue robes and crowned with halos of clustered diamonds. As the familiar song played, a group of onlookers slowly circled the Holy Family. Shepherds knelt with heads bowed. And the magi, three of them, presented gifts—a cube of solid gold, a teardrop-shaped ruby and a square green emerald. Inside the box lid, painted angels raised their hands as they worshiped amid an array of tiny starlike diamonds embedded in the wood.

  “‘Stille Nacht,’” Flossie sang softly, her voice quavering. “‘Heilige Nacht. Alles schläft, einsam wacht…’”

  “‘Round yon Virgin Mother and child,’” Claire joined in. “‘Holy infant so tender and—’”

  “Who’s here?” Flossie broke in.

  As red lights flashed on and off, Claire imagined for a moment that somehow a Christmas tree had magically appeared outside the mansion. But the heavy footsteps on the porch told her it was Rob, and the light came from his squad car.

  “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas,” he called out, knocking on the heavy wooden door. Before Claire could respond, he appeared in the foyer and poked his head into the parlor. “Hey, Miss Ross. Afternoon, Claire. I saw your car here and thought I’d check on your progress.”

  Her heart beating far too heavily over the mere sight of Buffalo’s police chief, Claire gave an exaggerated shrug. “We’re fine, thanks. Aren’t we, Aunt Flossie?”

  “Better than you, you ol’ scalawag!” Flossie shook her fist at Rob. “You’re the scoundrel who stole my guns! Took away my cats—”

  Before the old woman could scramble to her feet, Claire caught her arm. “Unless you’ve come here to help out, Rob West, you can just get your sorry hide back to chasing drug runners. My aunt and I are too busy to chat.”

  Rob’s dark brows rose a fraction as his mouth curved into a smile. “As a matter of fact, I did come here to help out. Along with a few other good folks.”

  He turned his head, put his fingers to his lips and blew a piercing whistle. As the foyer filled with people, he continued. “After the parade, the mayor and I got to talking. It’s not too cold this afternoon, and we decided that since the fire truck was already out, maybe we could put it to good use. Several firemen, three of my patrolmen, Jane Henderson and quite a few others have come over to see what we can do for our good neighbor.”

  As Rob spoke, the mayor took up a position on the third step of the long staircase in the foyer and began to supervise the work. Bellowing instructions, Jane Henderson directed the cleaning crew, ordering those with brooms to start at one end of the marble floor and those with mops and buckets to follow along behind them. Two of the firemen began to work on the fireplace in the adjoining second parlor—a more formal room kept closed behind pocket doors—which primarily had been used by the Ross family for wakes. A group of women wearing rubber gloves rolled up their sleeves and began dumping into heavy-duty garbage bags the mounds of reeking newspapers that covered nearly every surface. Outside, the rest of the firemen hooked up their hoses and started spraying down the old house, washing away the accumulated grime from roof to basement.

  Aunt Flossie flew into a rage. “You people get out of here!” she screeched, leaping to her feet and dancing around in a state of near hysteria. “This is my house! These are my things. You can’t have ’em. Get out! Help! Where’s my gun?”

  Desperate to ease her aunt’s panic, Claire put an arm around the old woman’s shoulder and drew her close. To Claire’s surprise, Flossie sagged suddenly, burying her face in her niece’s embrace. “Oh, help me. Somebody please save me,” she wailed.

  “I’m right here,” Claire murmured, leaning her cheek against the puff of fluffy white hair. “No one will hurt anything that belonged to Hans. I’ll make sure of that. No one will steal it. No one wants to take your things, Aunt Flossie. I don’t want anything in this house. It’s all yours. Yours and your husband’s.”

  Flossie nodded as tears rolled down her cheeks. Torn between slapping Rob and hugging him, Claire led her aunt toward the kitchen. When she pushed open the swinging door, another surprise awaited her. Expecting the large room to be filled with trash, she discovered that it must not have been occupied in years. The counters were clean, the long wood table was bare and the 1930s vintage refrigerator was still humming. Though the room was chilly and the stench from the rest of the house had permeated it, the kitchen clearly remained locked in a time capsule. After seating her aunt at the table, Claire was preparing to rummage around for tea or coffee when Rob tromped into the room bearing a large thermos.

  “Hot coffee, Miss Ross?” he asked. “We’ve brought enough to float everybody clear to China and back. Here you go.”

  He set a foam cup on the table before Flossie and then faced her niece. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, pouring a cup for Claire.

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, now’s a fine time to ask,” she retorted, taking the offered coffee. “You might have checked with us before you came barging in.”

  “Us?”

  “This is our project. Aunt Flossie’s and mine.”

  “I hate to disagree, but I’m the one who got the ball rolling. I look at it like our Buffalo history project. It’s just you and me, Clarence. And Aunt Flossie, of course.”

  “Just you and me? Then what are all those people doing here?”

  “I brought them. Fulfilling my part of the project—like I always do.”

  Claire glanced down at her aunt, who was sipping gingerly at her coffee. The minute the invasion had begun, Homer and Virgil had hightailed it out to the kitchen, and both cats were now curled up at her feet. Despite the chilly room and the noise and confusion outside, it was a pleasant scene.

  “You come with me,” Claire said, grabbing Rob’s arm and pulling him toward the door
that led to the backyard. They crossed the kitchen to the darkened corner beside the old refrigerator. Claire leaned close enough that he could hear as she spoke just above a whisper.

  “I’m talking to you now as the chief of police, Rob,” she began. “I’ve just found out from Aunt Flossie that this house is filled with treasures from Austria. Most of what you see was sent here right after World War II, and its worth is probably…well, it’s priceless. I’m a historian, Rob, and I’m telling you right now that nothing better disappear from this house. Your cleaning crew is not to touch one painting—not even the frames. If lemon-spray polish landed on that fragile artwork, it would—”

  “Calm down, Claire.”

  “I’ll calm down when you assure me that everything here will be treated with the utmost care and respect.”

  “Okay, okay.” He set his hands on her shoulders. “Relax.”

  “Historically this is so important, Rob. Not just for my aunt and our family. It’s important to Buffalo. Maybe even to the world. I don’t know what she has in this house. It could be very significant. The furniture needs to be professionally restored, if at all possible. The lamps have to be taken down, and each crystal removed and washed separately. The rugs that are totally ruined can be tossed, but if there are just a few holes—”

  “A few holes? The rugs are shredded and soaked in cat urine. You can smell it all the way in here! Claire, this place is a disaster. I was hoping to get those fire hoses inside and just spray everything right out the door and into a Dumpster.”

  “What? Are you nuts? There’s a clock in the parlor that is amazing…and a music box filled with jewels…and no telling what else. It’s all hers, too. It belonged to her husband—to Hans Schmidt and my aunt.”

  “Flossie Ross had a husband?”

  “Don’t call her that. We hate that dumb name.”

  Rob stared at her. “Claire—”

  “Just don’t let anything happen, Robert West. I’m counting on you to protect those valuable possessions out there.”

  His blue eyes searched her face. “Claire, what’s going on? Do you honestly think it’s worth trying to save all the junk in this house?”

  “It’s not junk. Not under the mess. These are my aunt’s treasures. They belong to her.” She took a breath, trying to collect herself. “Something happened to Aunt Flossie years ago—a terrible tragedy and loss. Her husband’s death started her down this long road of mental illness, Rob.”

  “I told you she hadn’t been born bitter.”

  “That’s right, and I’m going to see that my aunt gets help now. If she wants to keep these things, I’m going to make sure she has them. If she chooses to sell the contents of the house, fine. I want her to be able to live in comfort and health for the rest of her life. Our family should have been caring for her all along, and from this day forward, that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Why, Claire? Are you doing this out of guilt? Because you don’t owe—”

  “No!” Claire protested vigorously. “That’s not it at all. I love my aunt. I love the adventurous girl she used to be. I mourn what she could have been. And I care about who she is now. In some strange way, I see myself in her.” She looked away from him. “Rob, if I keep going the way I am—refusing to share myself with people, hiding in my safe little world—I’m afraid I could become bitter and hateful just like Aunt Flossie.”

  “You would never—”

  “You might, too, Rob.” Cutting off his denial, she met his blue eyes. “I know things didn’t turn out right in your marriage. I’m not sure if that’s why you’ve changed, but I’ve known you long enough to see a big difference. You never used to keep people at bay. You always spoke your mind. You weren’t afraid to talk about your feelings.”

  “I talked to you about how I felt. Not to everybody.”

  “But these days, you won’t reveal your true emotions even to me. You’re locked away like Rapunzel in a tower.”

  “Whoa, now. Wasn’t Rapunzel a girl? She was the one with all that long hair, and the prince had to—”

  “Robert West! Don’t try to change the subject.” Claire jabbed her finger at his chest. “I am being deadly serious here. My aunt got hurt, so she turned her back on people, and look what happened to her. I’ve been heading right down that same road…”

  “Yeah, you’ve got your first cat already.”

  “This is not about cats!” she said hotly. “Quit making jokes and listen to me! You are the police chief, and you’re not too dumb to hear what I’m saying. I don’t want you to turn out like my aunt and me. You’d better stop pushing people away.”

  “All right,” he said, taking her arms and pulling her close. “Is this better?”

  She caught her breath as his hand slid down her back, drawing her against his chest. “Rob, I didn’t mean…”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No, I…”

  “I think you meant this,” he said, brushing his lips across hers. “And this.” He kissed her again, taking time to fold her in his arms and teach her lips the extent of his feelings.

  Then he drew back. “Mmm, I wanted to do that again,” he murmured. “Claire, listen to me.”

  “I see you two over there!” Flossie’s high voice carried across the kitchen. “I know what you’re up to!”

  “Aunt Flossie, it’s not what you think.” Claire pulled away from Rob, eager to reassure her aunt that she had no intention of plotting with him to steal the Austrian treasures. “We were just—”

  “Spoonin’! I saw the two of you. I may be a little teched in the head, but I’m not blind. Somebody fetch me some sugar and milk. This coffee is for the dogs.”

  Laughing, Rob nudged Claire as he passed her on his way back to the cleaning crew. “Keep on preaching at me, Clarence,” he said. “I think I’m finally beginning to get your message.”

  Chapter Five

  The moment Claire stepped out of her car she noticed the large pine wreath centered on the moonlit front door of Ross Mansion. Though its ribbon bore traces of mud, the branches were still green, and the silver bells twinkled. No tree lights glittered inside the parlor’s bay window and no mistletoe hung over the door, but at least the wreath stood as a symbol of warm wishes to all who might visit the house on this chilly Christmas Eve.

  Carrying the large gift she had wrapped in shiny gold paper and tied with a red satin bow, Claire stepped onto the porch. School was over for the holidays, and the townsfolk were preparing their own celebrations, yet she had no doubt many people had dropped by the mansion earlier in the day. In the past week, volunteers had repaired the steps, the porch railings and the porch floor. They had replaced broken windows, hosed down every outside wall and thoroughly scrubbed the parlor and foyer where Florence Ross Schmidt had lived out more than fifty long and lonely years. Every afternoon that she could spare, Claire had joined the work crew, though her job had consisted primarily of calming her agitated great-aunt.

  “Who is it? I hope you aren’t here to sing carols at me again!” The door opened a crack, and Flossie’s face appeared in the silvery light. “I’ve had about enough caroling to choke on, and as for fruitcake, well…. Oh, it’s you. What are you doing out on a night like this, girl? Get inside quick, before you freeze to death.”

  Claire cast a glance at the greenery as she entered the foyer. “I see you decided to use the wreath I gave you, Aunt Flossie,” she said as she made an unsuccessful attempt to hug the elderly woman. “It looks pretty.”

  “I’d tell you one of the other ladies hung it out there, but that’d be a lie. I did it myself. Saw it sitting over there on that table and figured I might as well put it up.” She tottered toward the parlor, her cats following the hem of their owner’s ratty pink bathrobe. “Bunch of old pine branches…I never did understand the point of such nonsense. But I guess it’s all right. Got the fool thing out of the house, anyhow. It stank to high heaven.”

  “You thought the wreath smelled bad? Aunt Flossie,
your house still reeks after all those cats. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever get rid of the odor. I imagine the curtains will have to go. And certainly what’s left of the wallpaper has to come down.”

  “Sure, take everything. Leave me with nothing. I know that’s what you want anyhow.”

  Smiling at the now familiar refrain, Claire set the gold-wrapped gift on a lovely mahogany table with a polished marble top. One of the volunteers had taken on the table as a special project, and tonight it fairly gleamed in the firelight that warmed the room with a golden glow. Homer and Virgil resumed their positions on a new rug that someone had bought at the local discount store, and Flossie settled into a chair that had been draped with a thick wool bedspread.

  “Well, sit down, girl,” the woman said. “What are you planning to do, stand there all night?”

  “I just wanted to absorb everything for a moment,” Claire explained as she seated herself on the edge of a settee that still needed to be reupholstered. “People have worked so hard here, Aunt Flossie. Your house is really beginning to look like a home again.”

  “I guess so. It’s a bother, though, folks dropping by morning and night. People hammering and sawing. And you—you’re the one who took away all my paintings! Why’d you do that? I liked those pictures! They’re mine, and I don’t want anyone to—”

  “I already told you, Aunt Flossie,” Claire cut in, taking her gift from the table and handing it to her aunt. “I’ve sent them to a preservation service for analysis. We need to find out who the artists are, when the pictures were painted and whether they’re salvageable.”