Home for the Holidays
Page 7
A photo of Daniel and his daughters captured her attention. She studied it, looking into his kind eyes, wishing she could reach into the photo and touch his hand.
“I wish you were here, Father.” She went to his favorite armchair and curled up on it. “I could really use your advice.”
Daniel Howard had always known how to talk to her. He had coaxed her to talk about her concerns simply by helping her to sort out her feelings. She could remember a dozen times when she had rushed to the study, looking for him.
“I’m not going to school today, Father,” she had once said when she was in the fifth grade, “I’m never going to school again.”
“Come here, Jane.” He had set aside his Bible and taken her onto his lap. “You’re feeling very angry today, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m so angry I could blow my top, just like a volcano.”
“That’s not a very good feeling, is it?”
“No.” She had buried her face against his chest. “I hate being angry. It hurts my heart.”
“So you’re feeling a little sad, then too. Were you sad before you felt angry?”
She had not meant to tell him, but the words began pouring out of her. “No, I was angry first, when Will and Jerry made fun of me on the way home from school.…”
Now Jane slowly began to sort through her feelings, asking herself the same questions that her father would have, trying to pinpoint what she had not been able to express to Alice.
Like her sisters, she had wanted this Christmas to be special. She had not lied to Alice when she said that. She also understood Louise’s reluctance to get involved with the tour group. They had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange the time off in order to be together for the holidays and do all the things that they never had time to do.
Yet on the first day of their long-anticipated vacation, Jane had talked her sisters into giving up some of their time to help guide the Christmas homes tour. She had told herself that it was the Christian thing to do, but there was a small corner of her heart that was glad to give up some of the time with her sisters in order to spend it with people that she did not know. People who did not know her. People who really did not care about her. People who had no expectations where she was concerned.
That was what confused her. That same little corner of her heart wanted to find other things to do. Things that would keep her occupied and busy. Ways she could use up the time when she might otherwise be idle.
No, she had to be brutally honest, at least with herself. She wanted to find things to use up the time that she had promised to spend with her sisters.
Jane knew that Alice had expected her to go with her to town, and yet she had used chores as an excuse to stay behind. If she had gone in the car, Alice would have wanted to talk more about Christmas and gifts and how much fun they were going to have. And she did not want to do that. She did not want to keep up a happy pretense.
Would she really rather scrub the kitchen floor than spend time with her sisters? Part of her said yes, because it was easier to be busy. It was safer. Like pretending not to want anything special for Christmas.
There were a dozen things Jane might have suggested, but she was worried she would ask for too much, or the wrong thing. She did not know what they expected of her.
“I don’t want them to be disappointed in me.” Was that what she dreaded most? She was avoiding their time together and keeping so busy so they would have no reason to complain about her or to feel resentment toward her.
She had rarely come home for Christmas before, when their father was alive, and now she would never have another Christmas with him.
Jane closed her eyes. Of course, that was the root of it. She was acting out of guilt.
Stay busy, don’t ask for anything special and no one you love will have any reason to resent you.
Daniel would have let her cry and then he would have prayed with her. Now she would have to pray by herself, and in that moment she missed her father more than any other time since his passing.
“Dear Lord,” she prayed, “You gave us this beautiful holiday, and here I am, spoiling it. Help me with my feelings. Help me to accept the love my sisters have for me instead of being afraid of it. And if You have some extra all-purpose courage lying around, I could sure use some.”
Chapter Six
After the group had enjoyed a relaxing meal, Louise led them in the minivan to the next stop on the tour, the German Inglenook bungalow owned by Joseph and Rachel Holzmann.
Some of the oldest oak trees in town were on their property, and their solid presence complemented the simple lines and sturdy construction of the Holzmanns’ house.
A wide, overhanging eave created by the extension of the main roof protected the white front porch. The porch itself was spacious enough to accommodate an old-fashioned porch swing, two rocking chairs and a wicker patio set without giving the impression of being crowded.
It was the sort of home where one could imagine himself on a lazy July afternoon, sitting on the front porch swing, sipping a glass of cold lemonade and simply watching the clouds roll by.
“This time I would like to read something aloud from the literature your tour company sent to me,” Louise said as she extracted a folded paper from her purse and opened it. “Mainly because I have not memorized it.”
Ted laughed. “We won’t give you a test, later, Louise. Honest.”
“Thank you, Ted.” She consulted the paper. “‘The word inglenook is made up of two words: nook, which means seat or corner, and ingle, which comes from the Gaelic word aingeal for fire or light. Combined, they indicate a corner or place by the fire.’”
“I’m all for a place like that,” Edwina said, shivering a little.
Louise folded the paper as she nodded toward the uppermost section of the Holzmanns’ roof. “You can see that the house has a chimney in the very center there. I’m no expert, of course, but I do know that Inglenook homes were always built around their central fireplace.”
Ted studied the front wall. “It seems so modern-looking.”
“A Craftsman home was, for its time.” Allan walked up to the front porch and scanned the front of the house, which had three sets of large windows on the first floor and a row of smaller, clerestory windows above the wide porch roof. “I wasn’t sure from the literature, but this is a classic Gustav Stickley design. Quite an impressive example at that.”
Louise was beginning to realize how fortunate she was to have a retired architect along on the tour. Allan Hansford’s knowledge of house design was nothing short of remarkable and did much to round out her own limited presentation.
“It only looks like a little ranch house to me,” Max said, clearly unimpressed. “What’s so historic about it?”
“Stickley was a leader in the Arts and Crafts movement, and he popularized it through his designs,” the retired architect explained. “The standard of the last part of the nineteenth century had been ornate Victorians, like Miss Reed’s home, but Stickley chose to build furnishings and homes that were clean, practical and no-nonsense.”
“You called it a ‘Craftsman’ home. What does that mean?” Edwina asked. When Laura made an impatient sound, she added, “Well, I know it didn’t come from Sears.”
“It was Stickley’s own term for his individual style, although the generic term typically used for his furnishings is ‘mission furniture.’ Gustav Stickley had a wonderful maker’s mark too. He would sign each piece with a sketch of a medieval joiner’s compass and the phrase Als ik kan, which means ‘as I can.’”
“Nice motto,” Ted said. “Although today it would probably be ‘when I can.’”
The architect chuckled as he walked up to the front door to study the dark wood frame. “You’re right, Ted.”
“Allan, thank you. You have saved me at least fifteen minutes of reading from the literature, for which I’m sure everyone else is grateful,” Louise said as she walked up to the door to ring the Holzmanns’ bell.
Louise made introductions, but the visitors were already taking in the Holzmanns’ large front living room, which was a showcase for their private collections of antiques and Christmas decorations.
The sweet, spicy smell of the air came from clove-studded orange pomanders hung from the boxed ceiling beams. A tall, full Christmas tree redolent of fir occupied one corner by the fireplace and glittered with ornaments in a rainbow of colors. A comforting warmth emanated from a blazing fire on the natural-stone hearth, and on the other side of the room, an archway led directly into the informal dining room.
“We put out a few things for the holidays,” Rachel said, giving Louise a smile.
That was an understatement of epic proportions. Being antique dealers who were devoted to their field, Rachel and Joseph had impressive collections displayed all around the house.
Louise watched with pleasure as the visitors looked around them with wide eyes as they took in the framed botanical prints; a hutch filled with collections of colorful spatterware, redware and graniteware; and the open baskets and mason jars filled with smaller items, like old glass buttons, cat’s-eye marbles and advertising thimbles.
“I am dying of curiosity about one thing already,” Edwina said and pointed toward the front door. “Why do you have the letters C, M and B written in chalk above your doorway, Mrs. Holzmann?”
“That is an old custom my parents taught me. When I was a girl, they would inscribe the initials for the Three Kings, Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, in order to invite God’s blessings on our home.” She turned to the rest of the group. “This is the first year my husband and I have participated in a Christmas homes tour, and I have a little presentation I’d like to give. If I may steal the spotlight from you, Louise?”
“Please do.” She was happy to relinquish it.
“Joseph and I bought our home about twenty years ago. To tell you the truth, when we first looked at this house, I thought I’d walked into another time zone. Outside it was bright and sunny. Inside it was dark, dark and more dark.” Rachel went to one wall and indicated the wood paneling, which was stained the color of roasted chestnuts. “The original stain was actually darker than this. Back-of the-bear-cave blackish-brown, I called it.”
“You were not a fan of dark woods, I take it,” Allan said, underscoring the obvious.
“I was used to the interior style of our previous home, a modern Italianate house with painted plaster walls and ceramic tiling. I told my husband that visiting this house was like leaving Venice to lose oneself in the Black Forest.” She paused as everyone laughed. “You can understand then why I was prepared to rip out every bit of wood or paint it white. Happily, Joseph bought me a book on Stickley homes and made me read it first.”
“Thank heavens,” Allan said. “Dark as it is, you have a real jewel of a house here, Mrs. Holzmann.”
“We like to think so.” Rachel retrieved an old magazine from a side table, which she passed around to the group. “The plans for our home were published in this issue of The Craftsman, a magazine Stickley published, which, as you can see, is dated 1910. The previous owner’s grandfather, a wool merchant by the name of Karl Schroeder, worked directly from the plans when he built this house.”
“Then the house is much older than it looks,” Edwina said.
“The Stickley Craftsman has been the baseline for nearly all the bungalow designs since the original,” Allan said. “It has never had time to become dated. Karl Schroeder made a very good choice.”
“There is a portrait of Karl and his family on the wall above the fireplace, by the way.” Rachel pointed to the framed, sepia-tinted photograph, which showed a short, bearded man wearing glasses; a plump, fair-haired woman wearing a pretty muslin gown; and three identical-looking tow-headed boys in knee-length pants.
“Are those boys triplets?” Edwina asked. When Rachel nodded, she murmured to Louise, “God bless Mrs. Schroeder.”
Rachel swept her hand toward the hall. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the rest of the rooms.”
The first floor of the low-slung bungalow also contained a master bedroom, guest room and kitchen, as well as what Rachel referred to as their “work and play room.” It contained her sewing machine, a card table and Joseph’s work bench.
“The built-in cabinetry in the dining room and kitchen is original to the house, and is made from oak trees grown right here on the property,” Rachel told them. “Because Stickley homes were usually built by their owners, instead of by contractors, making use of local materials was common. That further defined the individuality of these houses, as a Craftsman home built in California from the exact same design plan as ours might have redwood cabinetry and a slate stone fireplace.”
Rather than remove the original features of the home, Rachel explained, she had combated the dark colors by providing light prints and paintings, mirrors and a trompe l’oeil mural, which so closely resembled a window opened to overlook a flower garden that Louise imagined she could almost smell the realistic-looking pink roses.
“Our second floor originally had four bedrooms and a bath, but for the convenience of our guests we converted one of the bedrooms into a second bath.” Rachel took them to see the renovated room, which she and Joseph had decorated to look exactly as it would have at the turn of the century.
“How original,” Laura said, making notes on her electronic planner with a stylus. As she wrote, she kept lifting her gaze and darting it around, as if she did not know what to look at next. “How did you find all these things?”
“We’re in the antiques business, and the renovation of this room started when Joseph found this wonderful, old claw-foot tub at a dealers’ show in Atlanta,” Rachel told her. “It was in mint condition—a very rare find in period plumbing fixtures, I should add—and we decided to buy it and then build the bathroom around it.”
“But these aren’t all antiques,” Laura said, tapping the sink with her stylus. “This looks far too new.”
“It’s a reproduction. Part of our business is to find fixtures to complement a specific antique piece, like our porcelain tub here. Often our clients specifically request reproductions, especially if they’re going to be subjected to regular household use.”
“That’s a good selling point,” Laura said and looked up from the device she was using. “What is your standard mark-up on reproductions? Do you use manufacturers or distributors? Oh, and do you ship direct or keep things warehoused for pickup?”
The flood of questions seemed to puzzle Rachel. “Are you in the antiques business, Laura?”
“I buy them now and then,” Laura said, suddenly putting on a coy expression. “Just little accessories for the houses I do.”
Edwina rolled her eyes at Allan, who only shook his head.
Louise reined in a sigh. “Perhaps business questions could wait until after the tour.”
“Come by the store if you have a chance tomorrow,” Rachel suggested. “I’ll give you one of my cards when we go back downstairs. Joseph and I are always happy to talk shop with someone in the business.”
That seemed to please Laura. “Thank you, I will.”
Through one of the upper-floor windows, Rachel showed the group the small barn at the back of their property, which she and Joseph now used as a garage, and then they returned to the first floor.
“What amazed my husband and me most when we searched through the original estate papers was how little it cost Karl to build this house.” Rachel swept a hand around. “Care to take a guess?”
Ted guessed four thousand dollars and Laura said five. Allan went lower with fifteen hundred and Edwina suggested two thousand.
“Seven hundred,” was Max’s guess.
“You’re very close, Mr. Ziglar. By trading work and materials with other mer
chants, Karl built all this for less than five hundred dollars.”
“Good Lord. That’s what my wife and I pay for one month’s rent on our apartment,” Ted said. He gazed around the house and sighed. “Why couldn’t I have been born back then?”
“Average wages at the time were probably only a couple of dollars a week.” Edwina patted his shoulder. “So it wouldn’t do you any good to make that wish.”
“I’m beginning to think all my wishes are pretty foolish,” the young man admitted. “Art is beautiful, but like Max says, it doesn’t pay the bills.”
Louise felt her own heart ache for the young man. She had always considered herself fortunate for being able to live her dream of becoming an accomplished pianist. She had never thought of what life would be like if she had been denied that.
Ted obviously loved photography, but he was trapped in a job where he was forced to use it for minimal pay according to the whims of others. Louise imagined it would be the same if she had been forced to play the piano in a club or at children’s birthday parties, just to make a living.
Please, Lord, she prayed silently, let him find success with his gift before his dreams are gone.
Chapter Seven
Joseph Holzmann came in through the back of the house and greeted everyone. In his arms he carried a stack of firewood, which he took into the living room to deposit by the fireplace before returning to meet with the group.
“Were you related to Karl Schroeder, Mr. Holzmann?” Edwina asked after introductions were made. When Louise gave her a surprised glance, she added, “I notice a certain resemblance between you and the portrait of him.”
“You’re very perceptive. Karl was my grandmother’s first cousin,” he said, hanging up his heavy coat. “His family and hers immigrated together here to America just after the Civil War. When his granddaughter decided to sell the house, she put the word out to family members first. As Rachel and I had our hearts set on moving to the country, we came to have a look at it. It was all downhill from there.”