Her gaze drifted to where her children were sitting. Her sweet babies. They were growing up so quickly. They were...texting!
Well, one of them was.
“Let’s pray,” said Dad.
They all bowed their heads. Except the texting culprit. And Toni, who was now shooting daggers at her daughter.
“Dear God, we’re so glad we can be together at this wonderful time of year.”
There was one “we” who wasn’t exactly together with everyone else. Toni stepped out of the circle and began to move to where her daughter stood.
“Thank you for each one here,” Dad continued.
One of them may not be here much longer because I’m going to throttle her.
“And thank you for the joy of the season.”
And for texting. Someone’s joy was about to come to an end. Toni slipped behind her daughter, reached over Jordan’s shoulder and snatched her cell phone.
Jordan gave a start. This was followed by a guilty look over her shoulder, almost penitent, until she realized it was Mother the Enemy taking away her phone. Then she scowled.
“Close your eyes,” Toni hissed.
Jordan closed her eyes and clamped her lips into a thin, angry line.
“May we always remember to be thankful for our blessings and thankful for one another.”
Toni doubted her daughter was sending up prayers of thanks for her right now.
“In the name of our Lord, Amen,” Dad concluded. “And in the words of Tiny Tim, God bless us, every one.”
“Amen,” everyone echoed.
“Amen,” Toni said, and smiled sweetly at her pouting daughter.
“Can I have my phone back?” Jordan demanded.
“Yes, once you’ve remembered how to respect the people you’re with.”
Anyone seeing the expression on Jordan’s face would have assumed she’d gotten horrible news that the Grinch had kidnapped Justin Bieber. “Mom!”
“Sorry, sweetie,” Toni said sternly, “we’re here to be with our family.”
Jordan hurled herself into her chair and glared at her plate, and Toni returned to her seat at the table, her holiday spirit as good as smothered. Christmas was supposed to about togetherness. Even if children got sucked into their phones and their games during the rest of the year, this one day should be a time of interacting face-to-face with the people in their lives.
And, of course, her daughter would so want to interact with her now. Her mother, who was seated next to her at the end of the table, gave her arm a pat. Naturally Mom had seen. Heck, all sixteen people squeezed around the long table (plus the little ones at the kids’ table) had seen that lovely mother-daughter moment.
Jen shot her a sympathetic look from across the table.
“This, too, shall pass,” Mom whispered, and handed her the basket of French bread slices.
Jordan made a concentrated effort to enjoy her misery for the rest of the evening. She pouted through dinner and, later, refused to sit with Santa.
“That’s okay, little girl. I know your mama told you never to talk to strangers,” joked Santa, aka Uncle David.
“You’re strange, all right,” cracked Uncle Dennis.
Their comic interchange lightened the moment, and the party went on without Jordan, everyone playing Dirty Santa, a game that involved stealing presents back and forth, and singing Christmas carols while she sat in a corner like a miniature Scrooge in drag.
“What’s wrong with Jordan?” Wayne asked as the family indulged in a raucous debate over whether or not angels could actually sing, as the old Christmas carol suggested.
“She’s mad,” Toni replied.
“I can see that. Why?”
“You didn’t catch that little scene at dinner?”
“I saw her acting like a stinker.”
“I took away her phone.”
“Whoa. You cut off her lifeline.”
“She was texting during grace.”
Wayne frowned. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. I think she can live without her phone for a few days.”
“That’ll be a merry Christmas,” Wayne predicted.
Sure enough, as soon as they were out the door and going down the walk, the fun began as Jordan demanded the return of her phone.
“You can have it back after we’re done with Christmas.”
“What!”
“It won’t hurt you to spend some face time with people.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Well, you know, it wasn’t exactly fair to be texting while Grandpa was saying grace,” Toni said. “In fact, it was downright rude.”
“I was just finishing telling Sarah something.”
“Good. And now you’re finished telling her something until after our family Christmas tomorrow.”
“I hate you,” Jordan grumbled.
Ah, the power children had to hurt their parents with their careless anger. Not for the first time, Toni remembered every mean and snippy word she’d hurled at her own mother when she was a girl. What goes around comes around, she thought sadly.
“Yes, I know,” she said to her daughter. “But I love you.”
And maybe come Christmas morning, when Jordan found the American Eagle handbag she’d been drooling over, along with the clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch, she’d have dialed down the emotion from hate to strong dislike.
Meanwhile, next to Jordan, Jeffrey sat happily playing on his Gameboy.
“How come he gets to have his Gameboy?” Jordan asked petulantly.
“Because he wasn’t playing during grace,” Toni said.
“And I sat on Santa’s lap,” Jeffrey added.
“Of course you would,” Jordan said scornfully. “You’re just a kid.”
Toni decided it would be useless to point out that the two older teens who’d been there hadn’t had a problem posing with Santa in exchange for a goody. Even the grownups had all taken a turn, pulling on his fake beard or poking him in his pillow-stuffed tummy, and several of the women had posed kissing him on the cheek, including Toni.
It really had been a fun evening, enjoyed by everyone except one surly thirteen-year-old. Once Toni had decided to ignore both her daughter and her own irritation, she’d had a good time, too. She hoped she’d be able to enjoy Christmas Day, although she knew her daughter would do her level best to ensure she didn’t.
Sure enough, Jordan woke on the grumpy side of the bed and stayed grumpy all through the morning’s present-opening, as well as Christmas brunch. She was barely polite when they went to visit Wayne’s family that afternoon.
“You know, if you keep up this bad attitude, you won’t be getting your phone back until New Year’s,” Toni warned as they drove home.
“Well, it’s not fair.”
“We’ve already had this conversation. You need to think about how it makes the people who love you feel when you can’t be bothered to look up from your cellular attachment and talk to them or even listen respectfully when they’re saying grace. Maybe next time you want to tell Dad or me something important, we should just ignore you.”
Jordan fell silent, and in the dark car, Toni couldn’t tell if she was seething or actually considering what her mother had said. Probably the former.
Once home, both her children vanished to their rooms, Jeffrey in his normal happy mood, Jordan subdued and serious.
“Do you think anything I said got through to her?” Toni asked
Wayne.
“Oh, yeah. It’s submerged somewhere in her brain and should surface in about ten years.”
“Thanks.”
He kissed her. “Hey, we still have to get through her learning to drive.”
There was a scary thought. “And dating.”
“Oh, God, I need a drink,” Wayne said.
He helped himself to a beer, and then, just as she was about to suggest they put the fireplace to work and snuggle up and listen to some Christmas music, he pulled out his laptop. “Oh, no, not you, too,” she groaned.
He looked at her, perplexed. “What?”
She shook her head and reached for the TV remote. “Never mind.”
Whatever happened to the good old days when people spent time cuddled up with each other instead of their techno toys? Hey, Santa, in the new year, do you think you could give me back my family?
* * *
Christmas in the Thomas household had been perfect. Stacy had done everything possible to make sure the kids enjoyed their visit home—baking their favorite treats, putting her espresso maker to work making eggnog lattes for everyone each morning, playing Christmas music, hauling out all their favorite holiday movies.
It had been late afternoon the day Autumn arrived and she’d taken in the lit tree and the glowing candles on the mantel with a happy smile. “It’s so good to be home,” she’d said, and hugged Stacy.
Ethan had been more interested in the aroma of melted chocolate wafting from the kitchen, but his girlfriend had been seriously impressed. “Gosh,” she said, “everything’s so...Christmassy.”
“I told you, it looks like a department store in here,” Ethan had said to her.
Stacy hadn’t been so sure that was a compliment but she’d let it pass.
She’d found it harder to ignore his lack of enthusiasm for the Christmas surprise she’d set under the tree for him. His girlfriend had been delighted with her Target and Gap gift certificates, but Ethan had left his latte maker behind.
“I can just go to Starbucks,” he’d informed Stacy when she saw he was leaving home without it. “Hang on to it, Mom.”
Autumn had made the same request regarding the Victorian village starter kit Stacy had given her—a snow-frosted house and an old-fashioned church complete with stained-glass windows. Of course, Stacy had expected that. She’d known she’d end up storing the decorations until Autumn graduated from college and had her own place.
Still, graduation was only three and a half years away so the time to start was now. Stacy had gone out the day after Christmas and purchased more on sale to tuck away for next year. There was so much to get when you were building a village—houses, shops, trees, old-fashioned streetlamps, people, little gates and fountains and snowmen.
Stacy frowned as she looked at her own village. It was fun to put out but such a pain to put away. It was now New Year’s Day, the day she always took down her decorations. Dean had promised to help her, but he’d gotten lured next door to watch a football game and, rather than wait for him, she decided she’d get started on this year’s disappearing act on her own. By the time Dean got home, she’d have everything packed and ready for its return to the attic.
She went up there to fetch the boxes for her treasures. The sea of containers stretching across the floor made her sigh. This was going to take all day.
Oh, well. That was the price you paid when you had a lot of decorations. And a lot of decorations was the price you paid to set the scene for a happy family Christmas. When everything looked festive, everyone felt festive. She grabbed a couple of boxes and climbed back down the stairs. Why was it so much less fun putting things away than it was putting them up?
Several trips later, she was ready to begin stowing her treasures. She picked up a ceramic Santa. This little guy had sat on the dining room buffet when she was growing up, and her mother had given him to Stacy for her first Christmas with Dean. It was vintage, possibly valuable. She wrapped it in bubble wrap and stowed it carefully in the box.
She lifted a second Santa from the herd of Clauses. She and her mom and older sister had met in Seattle and hit the postholiday sales together three years back, and her sister had insisted on purchasing the little guy for her. She blinked back tears as she remembered her sister. Sue had died suddenly from an aneurysm ten years ago. This little guy got protected with two sheets of bubble wrap.
A third Santa was one Dean had bought for their tenth Christmas, back in the days when he didn’t complain about all her “stuff.” She had the accompanying note he’d written in her scrapbook. “I’ll always be grateful to the old guy for bringing us together,” he’d written, alluding to when they’d first met at a friend’s Christmas party.
Yes, Christmas was special. And all these little mementos served to remind her of it. Obviously, they didn’t serve the same purpose for her husband. Well, he was a man. There were some things men simply didn’t get.
She worked for the next two hours, packing away both her decorations and her memories. By the time she was done, the living room looked positively naked. It won’t be once you get your other decorations back up, she reminded herself. That in itself was a daunting job.
But not nearly as daunting as hauling these decorations back up to the attic. She wished Dean would come home. It would be nice to get this done.
So why wait? She wasn’t helpless. She could take all this to the attic herself, and be spared listening to any complaining.
Stacy picked up the box containing the nativity set and went upstairs. She left it in the hallway under the trapdoor to the attic and returned to the family room for another load. Upstairs went the candles, then the tree decorations, followed by the long, heavy box containing the tree.
They were followed by many more boxes. Dean had been right. A person could drop dead lugging all of this around. Of course, she’d never admit that to him. He’d see it as some sort of capitulation and be ready to take everything away—to the dump.
Once all the boxes were stacked in the upstairs hall, the next step was to take her treasures to the attic. She pulled the chain to the trapdoor and let down the ladder. “You’re almost done now,” she told herself.
After lugging four cartons up to the attic, she realized she needed to work smarter, not harder. Rather than go all the way up the stairs and cross the attic to deposit each box separately, she’d be better off climbing the ladder and piling them nearby. Then, once they were all up there, she could arrange them as she wanted.
This plan worked really well until she decided to pile one box on top of another...while holding a plastic garbage bag filled with a stuffed Santa, his sleigh and reindeer. Somehow—who knew how these things happened?—she lost her balance. Santa went flying and she dropped the box. She missed her grab for the stairs and tumbled backward, tipping over the remaining pile of boxes as she went. She landed on the bag containing her Christmas quilt, giving herself a nice, soft landing. And she provided an equally soft landing for the boxes of decorations. One whacked her in the head and another landed on her middle. Both spilled their contents, surrounding her with Santas and candles. Ho, ho, ho.
Groaning, she clambered out from under the wreckage and assessed the damage. Other than a twinge in her back and a smarting head she was okay. And it looked as if the Santas had all survived. Except... Oh, no. There lay the newest member of the Claus family, decapitated.
It took some searching among the tissue paper and bubble wrap to find Santa
’s missing head, but she did. She packed up the others, carefully inspecting them to see that they were well wrapped, but set him aside. Dean would say, “It’s broken. Why keep it?” But Dean didn’t get that a treasure was still a treasure, even if it got broken. A little glue and Santa would be fine.
Back up the ladder she went, now taking one box at a time. For a millisecond she entertained the thought that maybe her husband was right and they didn’t need quite so many decorations, that perhaps Muriel Sterling’s book on simplifying one’s life might actually make a valid point.
But only for a millisecond. Treasures equaled memories, and memories were priceless. And if it took some work storing hers, so what? One day her family would thank her for all the trouble she’d taken to surround them with pretty things.
And one day her son would actually want that latte maker.
Wouldn’t he?
Chapter Seven
A new beginning is also a new adventure.
—Muriel Sterling, author of Simplicity
Everything had worked out. Jen had been able to rent her condo in Seattle for enough to cover her mortgage and most of her rent. Now, the first weekend in January, she was moving into her charming mountain cottage with the help of her sister and family.
She’d nearly put dents in the steering wheel driving up the mountain in the snow, but once Wayne had gotten the chains on her tires she’d been able to relax a little. As they neared town, the roads weren’t bad, and he had taken the chains off again. That had been enough to make Jen hyperventilate until Wayne pointed out that the roads had been cleared and they were now all level. This, she had to admit, was a nice improvement over Seattle, which was a city of hills.
Still, she breathed a sigh of relief when they made it to the cottage in one piece. Garrett Armstrong met them there with the key and offered to help unload. He was just as gorgeous as she remembered, and obviously kindhearted. It would be so easy to fall for this man.
The Cottage on Juniper Ridge Page 7