He forced down another sip of his spiked cider. Beside him, Tracy fidgeted with the handle on her mug. Noise from the house lightened along with the rain, amplifying their exchange of quiet.
At last, she angled her body toward him. “Reece . . . I think it’s time we talked. About our relationship.”
He replied with forged levity. “What’s on your mind?”
“The thing is, I’ve been giving my life a lot of thought while you were away. I’m almost thirty, and every time I try to envision us five or ten years down the road, nothing seems clear.”
Without her saying it, he knew the source of the haze. It was him. What he didn’t know was which obstacle continued to hold him back. From skydiving to bungee jumping, he used to be the type to literally plunge headfirst without a thought.
In a single day, all that had changed.
“I can’t help but wonder,” she went on, “if you’re still with me just because—”
“Tracy!” a voice hollered from behind. Her mother had reopened the sliding glass door. “Heidi and Marco have been looking for you.”
“They’re not leaving yet, are they?”
“Marco said he wants to get up before dawn. He’s already warming up the car.”
Tracy let out a heavy breath. Apparently, she’d agreed to watch their toddler, freeing the couple for the Black Friday stampede. Not even pregnancy could deter shoppers on a mission.
She looked at Reece, clearly torn.
“Come on, come on,” Tracy’s mother urged. “They’re waiting.”
Reece gave Tracy’s hand a tender squeeze. “Go ahead,” he assured her. “We’ll talk later.”
Though hesitant, she nodded her agreement. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips, brief enough for a parental audience, and watched Tracy step inside. Her mother sent him an approving wave.
Alone again, he realized he, too, would be free to leave. The idea of settling into his apartment, giving himself a chance to think, to better prepare for the rest of their discussion, sounded awfully appealing.
Before he could stand, his cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He answered and found relief at the absence of urgency in his mother’s tone.
“Honey, I’m sorry we didn’t call you back earlier. Dinner had me going a bit crazy.”
“How’d it turn out?”
“Not the best,” she admitted wearily. “I tried to deep fry the turkey this year, and it was a total disaster. While I was dealing with that mess, half of the side dishes ended up overcooked.”
The kitchen always tended to be this chaotic when, on the alternate years, his grandmother didn’t run the show. But usually his sister provided damage control.
“Wasn’t Lisa there to help?”
“She got stuck in terrible traffic in Seattle, so she didn’t get here till late.”
Reece felt a tug of regret for not joining them. Last year, he and Tracy had split time between both families, and ended up not enjoying either one on a tight schedule. Now, at his mother’s recap, he was struck by the family traditions he had missed out on, burnt food or not. Thankfully, Tracy had agreed to spend Christmas Eve at his grandmother’s house. He could already smell the glazed ham and hot chocolate; could hear Bing Crosby’s velvety voice lined with a soft crackle from their record player. No modern CD or iPod. Always a real thirty-three LP, same one since his childhood. Speaking of—
“Do you want me to pick up a tree tomorrow, or is Dad doing that? For Grandma, I mean.”
“For Grandma . . .” she repeated in a pondering tone. “Um, well. That’s something we haven’t had a chance to discuss with you, since you’ve been gone.”
“I don’t understand.”
A pause fell over the line.
“Mom?”
“Why don’t you come over tomorrow and your father can explain.”
“Explain what?”
Muffled, she spoke to someone off the handset, then finally returned. “Honey, I’ve gotta help clean up. We’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”
Reece’s jaw tightened. He was about to demand she fill him in, but recalled the strain her evening had been. Relenting, he simply said good night. After all, if it was anything critical, his mother would have told him.
Wouldn’t she?
Chapter 3
Jenna steered through the swampy fog, pulse quickening. Her smearing wipers only worsened the view. Experimenting with the headlights didn’t help. Six in the morning, but not a slit of light. Well, except for the blinding beams from passing commuters coasting downward.
She reduced her speed, eyes trained on the solid white line running parallel to the guardrail. In the tree-laden hills overlooking Portland, the Skyline neighborhood was considered one of the most affluent, but come January, their snaking boulevard would turn slick enough for a luge.
It took a little patting to find the defrost button by feel. The second she turned it on she realized her grave mistake. Warm air flooded the windshield and thickened the haze. Resisting panic, she scrambled for the knob to shut it off. In the process she hit the radio button, launching “Carol of the Bells” through the airwaves.
Deeeng . . . donnng . . . deeeeng . . . donnng . . .
The monotonous loop intensified as she rolled down the window. She poked her head out to see the road. A wall of cold shivered her skin.
Deeeng . . . donnng . . . deeeeng . . . donnng . . .
What the heck was she doing, risking her life to save a measly shoe box? Trading in her nice sedan for this two-door tin can should have reinforced her need to say no. Her first mistake had been to let her old boyfriend talk her into buying a condo together. “A good investment,” he’d called it. Of course, she hadn’t counted on him losing his job, or the realty bubble bursting. And when they split up, she didn’t have much of a choice but to purchase his half.
This, she reminded herself, was the greatest reason for her drive through the misty blackness, her nose threatened by frostbite. Because there just might be a gem in that box Terrence found. He’d mentioned a container inside that appeared to hold jewelry. Clients often didn’t realize what they owned. Like exploring a sunken ship, she simply needed to look under the right plank. A single treasure could seal the deal with her boss: “You get me a fifteen percent increase over the last estate, and I’ll make you a partner.” That’s what he’d agreed to after months of Jenna’s requests, all posed as a win-win; her boss could focus on other ventures and Jenna, his top employee, would earn them even more if she was personally invested. Her goal finally had clarity, same as the view now through the windshield.
She pulled her head back inside. Teeth chattering, she closed the window and silenced the radio in the midst of “Santa Baby.” The lyrics were but a wish list of materialism. Further support that the holiday came once a year too often.
Two turns and a sharp curve later, Jenna parked at the base of the sloped driveway. Its steepness, she’d been told, was part of the rationale behind selling. With Mrs. Porter now living in her son’s family home, her large Victorian house loomed dark and still.
At the curb stood a lineup of four garbage bins, each so packed that the lids gapped by a foot. Her crew would be filling many more of those before they were done. The thought made her happy; the idea of scrounging through them made her cringe.
She would check inside the home first.
The keys on her loop were labeled by house number, organized numerically. A good system in daylight. Prior to dawn, not so much. Judging by the keys’ shapes, she went with her first guess. No luck. A second one glided easily into the lock, but wouldn’t turn. When she tried to slide it out, the key’s metal teeth clenched and held, refusing to budge.
A squeak of brakes spun her around. A van rolled past. She still had time before the trash pickup. But how much?
Just then, the front door flew open. Her keys broke free and dropped to the ground. Fear of an intruder stalled her heart. Then the silhouette gained definition, and Jenna recognized
the person she had met briefly in passing.
“Mrs. Porter,” she said with a sigh. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“I gathered as much.”
Jenna recalled the early hour. “Sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all. I was up doing my Pilates.”
At her age? She had to be in her late eighties, and wearing a pink frilly bathrobe, a scarf around her curlers.
“Wow, that’s amazing. Really?”
The woman peered over her cat-eye glasses. “No, dear.”
At first taken aback, Jenna smiled.
“Well, I suspect you’re here to work. So have at it.” Mrs. Porter shuffled toward the kitchen, flipping lights on as she went. Word had it, as the widow of a local college president, she was rarely seen in anything but her Sunday best. Predawn clearly afforded an exception.
“I’ll be right here in the den,” Jenna called out.
Mrs. Porter didn’t respond.
Jenna shut the front door and hurried into the study. She yanked the chain of a desk lamp, illuminating the ceiling-high bookshelves. A layer of dust further aged the antique book collection. The room’s paisley trim, burgundy curtains, and leather wingbacks were straight out of Masterpiece Theater—but surrounded by junk.
When Jenna started a week ago, the stacks of decades-old magazines had been the first to go. Paper grocery bags and used gift wrap, even saved aluminum squares, had filled two whole recycle bins. Typical of Great Depression survivors, the woman “didn’t like to waste.”
Jenna’s mother used to lean on the phrase when her so-called collecting began. She had never gotten as bad as those hoarders on TV; reality programs preyed on extremes. There had been no mold covering her floors. No cause for asthma or scabies. Although maybe, if the woman had continued denying help, that ultimately would have been her. She had certainly accumulated enough for Jenna to keep visitors away. Box after box of unopened items. Many purchases identical. The problem had grown steadily, ignited by Jenna’s father. Or rather the day he ran off with a young coworker. As a salesman who’d traveled most of his daughter’s life, he rarely reached out afterward. So the morning he called with news, Jenna had steeled herself: He was getting remarried. What she hadn’t prepared for was the full impact that hit on Christmas Day, when the presents her mother had bought formed a blockade of half the tree.
Shoving down the memory, Jenna focused on the only boxes that mattered: the moving boxes in Mrs. Porter’s study. One after the other she peeked beneath the unsealed flaps.
“Terrence, where’d you put it?” she muttered. She hated to call him this early in the morning.
A packing popcorn crunched beneath her sneaker. She reached down to pick it up, and noticed a shoe box on the floor nearby. She lifted the lid. A small handful of black-and-white snapshots lay in disarray. In the top one, a mix of male and female soldiers posed in a group. Their smiles shone bright, yet their faces appeared as worn as their khaki uniforms. Palm trees framed the backdrop of a pole tent marked with a thick red cross. It was a hospital, based somewhere tropical. World War II, Jenna would guess, though she knew little about the era beyond a few episodes of Band of Brothers.
She continued to rummage, and retrieved a hardback copy of Jane Eyre. Worn edges, not an early edition. Nothing worth a price tag. Beneath the book was a velvety, hinged container. The last thing in the shoe box, it spurred a flicker of hope. She imagined a diamond bracelet tucked neatly inside. Ten carats. Perfectly cut. Rather, she discovered a Bronze Star.
“Damn.”
Plenty of buyers would pay a nice penny for this, re-enactors in particular. And technically the piece was fair game, since Mrs. Porter hadn’t removed it from inventory. Regardless, not even Jenna could discount the importance it would hold for any client.
She took the shoe box down the hall, toward the whistle of a kettle. By the time she reached the kitchen, the steam was screaming at full volume.
“Excuse me. Mrs. Porter?”
The woman was on a step stool in her slippers. Her pale skin curved gently over thin cheeks. She opened one cupboard, then the next.
“Mrs. Porter,” Jenna boomed, to no avail. Was she hard of hearing?
The kettle refused to relent.
“Here, I’ll get that for you!” Jenna removed it from the stove and clicked off the burner.
The woman kept on searching.
Maintaining her volume, Jenna asked, “Could I help you with something?”
“You could stop hollering, for one. Gracious, I’m standing right here.”
“Sorry, I thought . . .”
“My teapot.”
“Pardon?”
Again, Mrs. Porter looked over the glasses perched on the tip of her narrow nose. “I would like to use my little Chinese teapot.”
Jenna knew the item immediately. She’d found it in a hodgepodge of tea sets they would soon be displaying for sale. “My friend Sally has that one.” At Mrs. Porter’s furrowed brow, she explained, “She’s a broker of collectibles, so she’s just helping appraise some things.”
Jenna prided herself on her own assessment skills. However, a unique stamp on the base of the pot, suggesting the possibility of a higher price, called for a second opinion. “I assure you, she’ll take very good care of it.”
Mrs. Porter took this in, her frown slackening.
This was exactly the reason Jenna hated it when a client remained in the house. How do you handle a person’s things—dumping worthless mementos, price tagging their aged furnishings—while the owner hovered in the next room? Chattiness, too, never increased efficiency: My goodness, was that in there? Where did you find that? Oh, you have to hear the funniest story about the day we bought that.
Hopefully, Mrs. Porter didn’t plan to stay long.
“So, I was wondering . . .” Jenna hid her earnestness. “Since I really hate to be in your way, do you happen to know when you’ll be going back to your family’s?”
Mrs. Porter snagged a ceramic mug and inspected it for cleanliness. “Not anytime soon from the looks of things.”
“I . . . don’t understand.”
“The bedroom they stuck me in, down in the basement, it flooded in the middle of the night.” She descended onto the linoleum. “While they’re replacing the carpet, I’m not about to stay in a Holiday Inn when my real home is right here. For the time being, at any rate.”
Repairs during the holidays were bad news—for all of them.
Mrs. Porter jerked her chin upward. “What have you got there, dear?”
Jenna suddenly remembered the shoe box tucked against her hip. If the two of them were going to be sharing space for a while, winning the woman over would be wiser than making her an enemy.
Smile in place, Jenna set the box on the nearest counter. “Terrence stumbled across these when he was sorting. We figured you’d like to save them.”
Mrs. Porter put down her cup, a question on her face. She raised the lid and picked up a photo. Within seconds, her squinting turned wide-eyed. A small gasp slipped from her wrinkled lips. As her fingertips traced the picture, an invisible shell seemed to melt from her body. Her eyes, brown as bark, turned moist and soft with memories. Even the air in the room seemed to warm.
Jenna couldn’t resist a closer look. A serviceman was holding a tiny branch, in the manner of mistletoe, over the nurse’s head. His gaze was a combination of mischief and adoration, and despite the snapshot’s lack of color, the young woman appeared to be blushing.
“Is that you?” Jenna softly asked, drawn in by the moment. “Is that how you and your husband met, during the war?”
At that, Mrs. Porter’s eyes snapped to Jenna. Hand shaking, she dropped the picture. Jenna swiftly reached down for the keepsake, but when she attempted to give it back, Mrs. Porter went steely and cool.
“I’m so sorry,” Jenna said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Throw them away.”
Jenna stared. Mrs. Porter cou
ldn’t possibly mean that. She was just rattled, from recollections of the couple’s youth. No question, the woman would regret the decision later, when it was too late to reverse.
“You know what,” Jenna reasoned, “why don’t I set these aside somewhere. I’m sure once you’ve had a chance to think it over—”
Mrs. Porter broke in loud and firm. “Toss them out, donate them, do as you’d like. But take . . . them . . . away.”
Jenna hesitated, still stunned, before returning the picture to the pile. Stoically, Mrs. Porter turned and left the kitchen. A history unspoken trailed her like crumbs.
Chapter 4
“I can’t believe you’re selling her house,” Reece spat the moment he entered the garage.
At the greeting, his father slid out from under the antique Ford truck. Dabs of oil tinted his thin charcoal hair and an old T-shirt that outlined his slight paunch. His initial look of surprise hardened as Reece’s words set in. He gave his hands a strong wipe with a soiled rag as he rose to his full height of six-two, evening their gazes.
“I take it your mother filled you in.”
“She told me enough.”
“Then you ought to understand why having your grandma here makes sense. Imagine if I hadn’t been there when she tripped and—”
“And she’s fine.”
“This time, yes,” his father pointed out. “But it just proved what I’ve been saying. She needs people around to help her.”
“So hire somebody.”
“It’s more than that. I told you before, the place is too big to take care of by herself.”
“Fine. Then get her a housekeeper.”
The man huffed a laugh that clawed at Reece’s nerves. It was the same reaction from years ago when Reece asked him to cosign for his first car. Or when he asked for help with his college tuition. Looking back, Reece’s decision to drop out might even have been retaliation for that laugh.
His dad hadn’t found the choice quite as amusing.
Frustrating thing was, as a longtime security officer for a prestigious bank, his frugal father always had plenty of funds put away. Eventually, Reece had learned not to ask for a single thing. But this was different.
A Winter Wonderland Page 31