“Slow down!” Maybe her words had come too late. Maybe he’d ignored them, driven by the need to win a no-win contest. There had been no judges. No finish line. Just the rush of hitting a snow-covered rock that launched them into the air, a slow motion flight, rewarding him with a broken arm—and the scare of his life at seeing Tracy’s limp form at the base of a tree.
“Oh, God, please . . .” he begged, after crawling over to her. “Please be all right.”
Her cloudy breaths kept him from breaking down until they reached the hospital, where a doctor diagnosed her fractured pelvis.
“My horse,” she’d said groggily once she was told the news.
At her bedside, Reece gingerly squeezed her hand. “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry,” he told her. “And I swear, Tracy, I’ll never hurt you again.”
Out of fear now of breaking that promise, something inside him was looking for a way out. That had to be it. That’s where all these doubts were coming from. Any fascination with another woman had no place in his life. The time had come to take the leap, to ask the big, looming, inevitable question.
But to do that properly, there was one thing Reece needed: a special heirloom with a history he hoped to repeat.
Chapter 6
Jenna sat up on her white leather couch, reading it once again. Ad copy for the estate sale shouldn’t have been this difficult to proof. Terrence had penned a fabulous write-up, as he always did. Wisely, this time he mentioned the family’s name. Mr. Porter’s former status as the president of a local college could attract more buyers. Even small-celebrity interest helped.
She leafed through her folder, moving on to her task sheet. The meeting with Sally hadn’t gone as she’d hoped, most of the items not appraising for more than Jenna guessed. “Let me keep checking on these,” Sally had told her, regarding the last two uncertainties.
A slow economy wasn’t helping Jenna’s cause. The fifteen percent increase she’d promised, and thus her partnership, were slipping from her grasp. Squashing the prospect, she racked her brain for any collectors she’d forgotten to contact. Not a single one emerged. Granted, her resources weren’t the problem. It was her thoughts, which kept floating back to Estelle. And her box. And her alluring grandson.
Business and pleasure don’t mix, she reminded herself, citing her boss’s basic rule. A clichéd concept, but valid nonetheless. In fact, it was one her father had bulldozed right through, leaving Jenna and her mother in his trampled wake.
She shut the file, tossed it aside. From the end table she snagged the remote. She reclined on the couch and flew from one channel to the next. A cheesy talk show. A political debate. An endless slew of reality shows. She kept flipping until she landed on a movie featuring stars she recognized. Cuba Gooding Jr. and Ben Affleck, in Pearl Harbor.
The connection to Estelle screamed as loud as the bombs dropping onto the navy ships before her.
Jenna resumed her channel surfing. Eventually she stopped on an infomercial. She treated TV ads and pawning programs like a game, challenging herself to guess the price. Make that two prices: first, the product’s worth; second, what it would sell for. She was seldom off by much.
In this one, a bearded man demonstrated a cabinet with a zillion compartments. All silver and glass, it matched everything in Jenna’s condo. Of course, she didn’t own enough to fill half the thing. Nor did she have anything left to tidy.
The infomercial broke for a commercial—a great irony in that. Black-and-white footage of Nat King Cole filled the screen. He crooned “For Sentimental Reasons” into an oversized microphone. As song titles scrolled upward, the shot changed to another man singing “I’m in the Mood for Love.” It was a CD collection of nostalgic songs, ballads from the 1940s.
The war years.
Jenna arched a brow. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
She shut the TV off.
From the beginning, Jenna had made a habit of giving clients their space. Anything unrelated to their houses and furnishings was their own business. At the end of the day, it was all about the sale. But . . . never before had she felt stalked by a person’s history. By the likes of a shoe box, stored in her car trunk. Something in it kept on prodding.
If only she could identify the source, like locating a pebble in her shoe, she could shake the problem away. A little digging around wouldn’t hurt anyone. Not an intrusive investigation, by any means. Just a quick online search. A few public records. Available to anyone.
Before she could change her mind, she dragged her soft briefcase closer and pulled out her laptop. As it warmed up, the rumble of a passing truck rose from three floors below. The motion rattled her large windows. She typed the keywords: Estelle Porter Oregon.
An obituary for the woman’s husband, Walter, gave a brief summary of his life. No military service, which aligned with Sandy’s claim. It mentioned his surviving widow, Estelle Agnes Martin. Besides her maiden name, there was nothing of note.
Jenna skimmed through several other entries, using the name Martin as well. But most of the links pertained to a beer company, specializing in porters, and some PTA president in Oregon, Wisconsin. No info about the right Estelle.
Probably a good thing.
Jenna tried to end the search, yet couldn’t. She despised giving up on anything so easily. She stared at the blinking cursor, considering options, and tried: Estelle Martin military WWII Pacific.
The page refreshed with all new listings. It took Jenna a mere second to see that the fifth one down contained every one of the keywords. Anticipation flowed through her as she clicked on the link and discovered a site honoring the Women’s Army Corps, called WACs, of World War II. She picked up speed, reviewing the pages, searching for Estelle’s name.
At last, in an album of photographs, she found it in a caption:
(From left to right) Pvt. Betty Cordell, Pvt. Shirley
Davidson, PFC Rosalyn “Roz” Taylor, and
Pvt. Estelle Martin.
The corresponding picture appeared to feature the very faces from those in Estelle Porter’s box. So why would she have hidden this amazing achievement from her family? At least that’s what she seemed to be doing, based on Sandy’s comments.
Jenna scanned the next few pages in search of an answer, and froze. Not at the photo in particular, but its caption. For below the image of Estelle with a handsome soldier, the same one who’d fashioned mistletoe from a branch, was the man’s name: Corporal Tom Redding.
In other words, he wasn’t the late Mr. Porter.
Ideas began to whirl. Perhaps the corporal was an old flame who’d never made it home. It would make sense, why Estelle didn’t want the box. Especially if no one in the family knew of him. Better to rid yourself of objects that tethered you to the past. Jenna understood that firsthand. Plus, given the sparkle in the man’s eyes, the glow in his smile, he would clearly take effort to forget. Almost as difficult as, say . . . Estelle’s grandson.
In fact, both men radiated the same type of charm. There couldn’t be a connection—could there?
“Oh, stop it,” she told herself.
She closed down her computer and set off for bed. Whether possible or not, such theories were none of her business.
Chapter 7
“You don’t have to do this,” Reece insisted.
“What, keep meat on your bones?” his grandma said. “You sure you want to leave that to your mother?” She smirked from her stove, dressed in a pastel yellow sweater and gray woolen pants. Early-afternoon light angled through the window, creating a silvery outline of her soft curls.
Parked in a kitchen chair, Reece folded his arms. “Grandma, you know what I’m talking about.”
More stirring of the chowder. More evading his question.
She scooped a ladleful into a bowl. The aroma of comfort food filled the room, just as it had for as long as Reece could remember. He couldn’t count how many PB&J sandwiches or bowls of goulash he’d enjoyed at this very table. No one in
history could top Grandma Estelle’s zucchini bread or strawberry jam, both made of produce grown in her own backyard.
Reece cringed at the idea of a stranger moving in, tromping through her beloved garden. He tried to keep the frustration from his tone. “Regardless of what the paperwork says, this is your home. Dad has no right to make you move if you want to stay.”
“Well, he hasn’t called in a SWAT team quite yet,” she said, delivering his soup and spoon. Per her usual, she would eat only after everyone else was taken care of. “Eat up, now, before you shrivel away.”
“Grandma, please. I’m being serious.”
She lowered herself into the chair across from him and stifled a cough. With a tissue plucked from her pocket, she dabbed at her nose. Her tired eyes surveyed the room, giving away what she wouldn’t verbalize. No doubt, the wooden shelves of Goebel figurines and decorative plates and Amish carvings carried visions of her and her husband purchasing them together. Items that would soon be hawked off to a herd of bargain seekers.
Her gaze settled back on Reece. “Change is rarely easy, dear. Sometimes we just do what needs to be done.”
“You know that’s not a real answer.”
She gestured to his bowl. “Better eat soon, or I might start feeling insulted.”
Given her spunk, a person might take her for the type to speak her piece without pause. Indeed this applied to day-today minutiae; though ironically, when it came to the most affecting decisions she remained a traditional housewife and mother who dutifully complied. It would take more nudging to uncover what she really wanted. For the moment, Reece would give her room to ponder.
He blew on a spoonful of soup and swallowed it down. His chest warmed from the hearty, perfectly salted chowder. He wondered how often she cooked for others these days, or did anything social that she used to love.
“Have you seen any of your old friends lately?”
“Which ones?” She dabbed at her nose again. “They’re all old.”
“I don’t know. The ones you used to make quilts with.”
“Now, why would I want to spend my Saturdays with blind old biddies, sticking myself with needles?”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” Reece chuckled.
His grandma then veered to a safer realm, a basic catchup on his life. Between sips he filled her in about work, and how his team had managed to salvage an account the day before. In the middle of his logistical recap, his thoughts looped back to the photo on his desk. Suddenly he recalled the second reason he’d come here today.
Yet, unsure how to ask, he detoured to highlights of his recent travels. He described the weather, landscape, and culture in London and Seoul. “Did you and Grandpa ever visit Asia together?”
“No, no,” she said. “We talked about taking a vacation there, but just never got around to it.”
Reece nodded, remembering how he and his sister used to gobble up popcorn while admiring the couple’s travel photos, compliments of a white wall and a projector that tended to stick every ten slides.
At the silent lull, his grandmother tilted her head at him. “Dear, is there something else on your mind?”
No reason to stall.
He cleared the nerves from his throat. “I was wondering if . . . well, do you remember my girlfriend, Tracy?”
His grandma scrunched her brow.
Dumb question. As a longtime hospice volunteer, his grandmother had given him plenty of helpful tips about Tracy’s daily care—sponge baths around her bandages, helping her out of bed.
“My point is . . . we’ve been dating for more than two years, and . . . she’s amazing. Her family’s great and . . .”
“And,” his grandmother finished slowly, “you’re going to propose.”
Embarrassed yet relieved she had said it for him, Reece explained, “You and Grandpa had such a great marriage. Guess I was hoping I could borrow your ring for good luck.”
She gazed down at her vacant wedding finger, then rubbed at the loose skin that had prompted her to retire the ring into a jewelry box. “One thing I’ve learned, you don’t need luck for a happy marriage. It’s something you work at every day.”
Reece didn’t know how to respond. Maybe he should have waited. She was already losing so many belongings she valued. “If you’d prefer to keep it, I’d completely understand.”
Ignoring the assurance, she continued, “But if you love this girl with all your heart”—a warm smile lifted her cheeks—“I know your grandpa would’ve been honored to pass it along.”
Responsibility pressed onto his shoulders, as if his grandfather’s hands were reaching down. Reece came around the table and gave her a hug, taking care not to squeeze too hard. “Thanks, Grandma.”
“My pleasure, dear.” She patted his back.
As he stood, she added, “I’ll have your mother bring the ring here when she stops by tomorrow. Why don’t you come over on Monday, and I’ll have it all ready for you?”
“That’d be wonderful.”
Once they traded good-byes, he threw on his coat and scarf and headed for the front door. His grip was on the handle when he glanced into the formal room. There, items were strewn across a long folding table, prepped to be priced.
Any other year, a fresh-cut tree would already be centered before the large picture window. Its decor never mimicked a store display, color coordinated and too pretty to touch. Instead, the ornaments were a hodgepodge of random shapes and handmade crafts, each holding a special memory.. . .
A noise from upstairs sliced through the thought. Reece strained to hear more. Over the years, thanks to the surrounding forest areas, he’d been credited with ridding the place of a bird, a mouse, and even a bat that had entered through the attic.
He grabbed a newspaper and rolled it as he climbed the stairs. At the top, he waited, listening. Another sound seeped from the guest room on the right, the one he’d used for his overnight stays since childhood. He clutched his weapon and cautiously opened the door. The sight of a person caused him to jump.
With a gasp, the woman spun to face him. Then she released an audible breath, hand over her chest. “God, Reece. You scared me.”
His reflexive demand of Who the hell are you? died at the recognition of his name. Wait . . . the girl he’d met yesterday. Outside his parents’ house.
“Jenna?”
She raised her hand in an awkward wave.
His delight from seeing her again whirled into a mix of surprise and utter confusion. “What are you doing here?”
“When I saw your car outside, I—I thought about coming back later to give you and your grandma privacy. But my crew’s off till Monday, and I had some inventory to do, and—” She paused, slowing herself, and smiled. “Sorry if I disturbed you.”
The pieces were assembling: the clipboard in her left hand, the moving boxes, the filled trash bags.
“You’re the one selling off my family’s things.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, as if thrown by his statement. Uncertainty washed over her features. “I’ve been assigned to this property, yes. But I assure you, we’re a professional company.”
Reece glimpsed his baseball, setting off an internal alarm. The ball rested on the inside lip of a white trash bag tipped onto the floor. He pulled it out, running his thumb over the seams, ratty from use. “You’re throwing this away?”
She shook her head and replied, “No.”
He relaxed a fraction, before she added, “The white bags are for donations.”
As in, doling them out for free? Dumping them at The Salvation Army?
“You can’t do that,” he bit out. “My grandfather caught this. It was the first Mariners game he ever took me to.”
She straightened her posture and spoke evenly. “You’re welcome to keep it if you’d like.”
Thanks for your permission, he expressed through a huff.
What else of value was she planning to toss out? Reece sifted through an open box on th
e bed and picked out a pennant flag from his Notre Dame years. His mother always cleared out memorabilia with every passing stage of his life. But his grandparents were different. His room here was like a precious time capsule.
At least it had been—until now.
Jenna gripped her clipboard with both hands. “If the flag is special to you, please, take it. But my work here is under contract. Everything of significant sales value is considered frozen inventory.”
“Inventory? This isn’t a store.”
“I’m sorry if this is hard for you,” she offered. “But it’s a job my company takes great pride in—”
“Yeah. The pride of a vulture.” The reply flew from his mouth. Her lips flattened into hard lines before he registered the full harshness of his remark. Jenna, specifically, wasn’t the villain here.
“Listen,” he tried to explain, “this wouldn’t be happening if it was up to me. There are things here that are really special.”
“Yes,” she burst out, “I know. Everything is special to everyone.” She stopped abruptly. Lowering her gaze, she wheeled around.
Reece sought appropriate words, all of which eluded him—as did the true core of his anger. He wanted to halt time. Or, better yet, to go back to a period when life made sense. He glanced down at his hands, desperate for an answer. Between his fingers, emotion hummed, trembling the cracked letters of his pennant, his grandpa’s weathered ball. Finally, at a loss, he dropped them into the box and walked away.
Chapter 8
Jenna hurried through the doors and scanned the chattering crowd. Decorative saddles and rodeo posters adorned the walls. She located her mother in a far booth; the profile of her bangs were tough to miss.
As Jenna threaded through the restaurant, empty peanut shells cracked underfoot. The scent of barbecue ribs and the sizzling of steaks made her light-headed, or perhaps it was simply the good news. And good news was definitely what she needed after yesterday’s run-in with Reece Porter. The arrogant, self-righteous twit. If she had known better, she never would have helped that deadbeat with his dead battery.
A Winter Wonderland Page 33