The Christmas Collector

by Kristina McMorris

  “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 couldn’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.

  This wasn’t about him.

  Done with the conversation, his father ducked beneath the Ford’s open hood and adjusted plugs on the motor. The expensive toy rarely left the garage. He k
ept it stored away for fear of the tiniest scratch. Now he wanted to do the same to his own mother.

  Over time, since her husband’s death, Grandma Estelle’s activities of quilting groups and bridge clubs had lessened to none. But she did keep up with her garden and “puttering” in her house. Take those away, and the grandma he adored might fade as well.

  “If she doesn’t want to move,” Reece contended, “she shouldn’t have to.”

  His father responded with a mumble, clearly half listening. Reece decided to say something that would make more of an impact.

  “Just because you want to cash in on the sale doesn’t mean you have the right to force her out of her own house.”

  That one worked. His father drew his head back and stood with a glower, tinged with confusion. “Your grandpa left that house to me for a reason. He trusted I’d make sure she was taken care of.”

  “Yeah,” Reece said, “I’m sure staying in my old, flooded bedroom was exactly what Grandpa had in mind.” With that, he turned to leave.

  He was about to step outside when his father yelled, “Reece!” The tone carried a deep gruffness so seldom used Reece couldn’t help but stop. He wheeled back around as his father stepped closer, hands hitched on his hips. “You wanna tell me what the hell this is really about?”

  Not until asked the question did Reece realize the core of the issue. It was more than a youthful attachment to a house, more than his recent aversion to major change. What really got to him was that his father was never off duty. Always sizing Reece up, judging him. Policing his acts like a dictator of safety. After the snowmobile crash, Reece had felt enough guilt at the hospital without the guy charging in, shouting, “With all the crazy stunts you pull, how many times have I warned you something like this would happen?”

  Reece considered explaining this now. Yet there was no point giving his father the satisfaction of knowing it still bothered him. Besides, what would come of it? His dad was far from the type to acknowledge his own faults.

  In the silence, the man took a calming breath through his nose. “Look, son, I don’t know what’s eating at you. But after talking it through, even your grandmother agreed it was the right decision.” At Reece’s lack of response, his dad headed back to the engine. “You don’t believe me, you go ask her yourself.”

  An unnecessary suggestion. That’s precisely what Reece planned to do.

  Jenna parked beside the neighborhood curb, calculating. If she hurried in and out, she’d have plenty of time to grab lunch somewhere before meeting Sally about the appraisals. Fortunately the collectibles broker, with a work ethic rivaling Jenna’s, didn’t balk at an appointment on Thanksgiving weekend. Otherwise, today would have been chalked up as largely unproductive on Jenna’s list.

  Cataloging and adding to inventory sheets had been a challenge after her encounter with Mrs. Porter. Unable to concentrate, Jenna had called it a day but followed orders by ridding the house of the shoe box. She could think of three collectors off the top of her head who loved buying World War II memorabilia. For the time being, though, the box would wait in her trunk. Based on the emotion she had witnessed, she’d be surprised if Mrs. Porter didn’t have second thoughts.

  As Jenna stepped out of the car, a rumble caught her ear. Across the street, a driver was struggling to start an SUV. Reflections of gray clouds shaded the windshield. The possibility of offering to help zipped through Jenna’s mind. Then again, thanks to modern communication, who today wasn’t fully capable of handling a little car trouble?

  She continued toward the Tudor-style house of Mrs. Porter’s son and his wife, Sandy. The woman had promised Jenna a key to an upstairs storage closet at the Porter estate. Hopefully, like all the other closets in the home, there would be items of decent monetary value that just needed a dusting or polish. Perhaps while here she could also determine how long before the elderly woman could return to her new residence.

  Jenna had almost made it to the driveway when the slam of a car door turned her head. The driver leaned back against the SUV and raked his fingers through his dark brown hair, inadvertently causing his bangs to spike. He blew out a breath that said it was one of those days.

  Jenna urged herself to stick with her plan. But something about his expression—a frustration that ran deep and familiar—wouldn’t let go. She peeked at her watch. With a grumble, she decided she could always eat after the meeting.

  Approaching the guy, she became acutely aware of his athletic build. A navy polo shirt, tucked into belted slacks, showed off his toned biceps, a complement to his square jaw. From his profile, she happened to notice a pink dot on his earlobe from a hole that had been allowed to close. Something about the story there made her smile.

  “Is there some way I can help?”

  He raised his head with a start. The instant their eyes connected, a tingling invaded Jenna’s legs and shot to her chest.

  He held her gaze for a long, silent moment, or maybe it only seemed that way, until he replied. “The battery . . . I think it’s done for good.”

  “Do you need to borrow a phone?” She managed a smooth voice.

  “I called Triple A already. Guess I was hoping to give it one last shot.”

  Jenna could relate. She started her own vehicle every morning with the same attitude. Suddenly, she remembered the cables in the hidden compartment of her trunk. “Do you want me to jump you?”

  When he went to speak but paused, she reviewed her question. “I meant, in your car.” Oh, God. That sounded worse. “Not in,” she corrected, “but on.”

  What was she saying? A burn filled her cheeks.

  “I mean to. Do you want a jump to the car?”

  Any trace of earlier angst in his face dissolved. His lips curved into a smile that he appeared to be stifling. “I’d love a jump,” he answered. “To my car, that is.”

  Jenna’s insides cringed into a ball. Since when did any guy, let alone a stranger, make her so flustered? Her sole salvation was the subtle blush tinting his olive-toned cheeks.

  “I’ll drive over.” She quickly moved her car to face the SUV before retrieving her cables. Behind the shield of her raised trunk, she closed her eyes and exhaled. Her nerves started to settle as she and the driver focused on their tasks. Popping hoods, connecting batteries, revving motors. She did her best to detour from his gaze. After the mess left from her last boyfriend, she didn’t need another complication.

  Life was better without the clutter.

  Done helping the guy, her shoulders loosened a notch. She leaned into her trunk to put the cables away. Then she turned around and discovered him right behind her. How long had he been standing there? The view of her backside in faded jeans topped with an old sweatshirt couldn’t have been rated as sexy.

  Not that she wanted it to be.

  Because she didn’t.

  She closed the trunk, hoping to entrap the thought. “So, you’re all set.”

  “I really appreciate your help—” He stopped and shook his head. “Geez, I didn’t even ask your name.”

  “It’s Jenna.” She stuck out her hand in reflex, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Somehow she knew the touch of his hand would resurrect those damn tingles. And that’s just what it did. Only this time around they hit more like a current.

  “Well, Jenna, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  “It was nothing. Really.”

  In the midst of their lingering shake, warm as the deep tone of his voice, Jenna’s stomach groaned. A reminder of lunch, and her meeting.

  “I’d better get going or I’ll be late.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled with lines of regret. “I’m sorry to keep you.”

  She appreciated the excuse to pull her hand away, as much as she hated it.

  After an awkward beat, he shrugged and said, “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too
.” She hastened off to snag her keys and purse from her car, but then chose to wait in her seat until he drove away, to avoid another exchange.

  Once in the clear, she hazarded a look at the dashboard clock. If she left this very minute, she could make it on time. But that would mean having to swing by here again later.

  “Oh, crap,” she said, making her choice. She dashed outside and up the driveway.

  Her second ring of the doorbell succeeded in summoning Sandy Porter, who was busy listening to someone on a cordless phone. She ushered Jenna inside and motioned her hand like a bird’s beak to indicate the caller was a chatterbox.

  “I agree,” Sandy said into the mouthpiece. “I definitely think you should bring that up at the next committee meeting.” Charitable boards and events appeared to fill her schedule. All were likely important enough, but Jenna didn’t have time today for patience.

  “The key,” Jenna whispered, using her own hand motion to illustrate.

  Sandy vigorously nodded, bouncing her twisted-up do. Her nails and lips were glossed in pink, perfect matches to her sweater set. Continuing their game of charades, she raised her pointer finger—Be back in one minute—and ambled off around the corner.

  Jenna flicked at the side seam of her jeans, an anxious countdown. She could hear Sandy rustling through a drawer and commenting cheerily on the phone.

  That’s when Jenna glimpsed an image in the formal room. On the white fireplace mantel appeared a framed photo of the SUV’s driver. A residual flutter drew her into the cream-carpeted room. Was he part of the family?

  She picked up the picture to take a better look. A huge waterfall behind him, a backpack on his shoulder, he beamed with a ruggedness that glimmered in his eyes. He was attractive, sure, and had loads of charm. But there was something more than that....

  “Oh, here you are!” Sandy entered the room. “Sorry about the phone. Auction season. The thing rings off the hook.”

  Jenna fumbled with the frame to prop it back in place. “No problem. I was . . . wiping a smudge.” She pushed up a smile. “Occupational habit.”