The Christmas Collector

by Kristina McMorris

  The thought was irrational. Just like the tears building behind her eyes. Pushing them down, she reached under the sofa to gather the stray cards. A 9 was just beyond her reach, like so many other things these days.

  Lying on her side, she stretched out her arm. Almost . . . had it . . .

  The doorbell chimed. Reflexively, her finger flicked the card away. Jenna fumed as the bell rang again. Her parked van likely boosted the caller’s hope in summoning a person. Soon, persistence would lead to an annoying series of knocks.

  Jenna marched toward the entry and swung open the door. “Yes?”

  An elderly man stood under the portico, out of the rain. He wore a damp trench coat over his suit and navy bow tie, a fedora hat shielding his eyes. His silver mustache was narrow and neatly trimmed.

  “Pardon me, miss. I hope I’m not bothering you.” He spoke with such tenderness Jenna swiftly reined in her emotions.

  “Not at all. What can I do for you?”

  “I saw an ad for the estate sale with this address. Said it was for the Porters.”

  She should have guessed. Estates with well-known owners tended to attract sneak peeks.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re not having a preview on this house. If you’d like to come back on December seventeenth—”

  “I’m not here for the sale. I . . .” The man grabbed the hat off his head and squeezed it to the medium frame of his chest. “I just need to know if Stella . . .” He inhaled a breath before the rest tumbled out coarsely. “Has she passed?”

  Stella?

  “Do you mean Estelle Porter?” Considering the topic, clarity was essential.

  He mustered a nod as Jenna realized the implication that had drawn him here. Estate sales for elderly residents commonly followed a death. From the stranger’s intensity, Jenna was grateful the day’s emergency had ended the way it did.

  “Mrs. Porter is alive and well,” she told him. “She’s simply moving in with her family.”

  A gasp shot from the man’s lips, which suddenly quivered. Same for his hands. “Thank you,” he breathed. “That’s . . . thank you.”

  Dazed, he fumbled in replacing his hat and started to leave. An old Chevy sat empty in the driveway, streaked with raindrops. The last thing Jenna needed was another distraction, but she couldn’t let him operate a car in his unsettled state, especially with the slick, winding roads in the area. One hospital run was enough for the day.

  “Sir,” she called out, “why don’t you come inside?”

  He angled a quarter of the way back, then raised a hand. “I’d better not. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “It’s just me here, and I’d love the company.”

  The man hesitated, contemplating.

  “Please,” she said, growing weary. “Just until the rain lets up.”

  He glanced at the road, his car, the house. With a small nod, he agreed.

  “Do you live around here?” Jenna asked, padding the silence as she waited for the microwave to beep.

  The man sat in his chair, fingering the brim of his hat on the Formica table. “Summerville Center.”

  “Oh, sure. Over in Tigard.” Two of Jenna’s past clients had moved into the retirement home. “Seems like a nice place to live.”

  He smiled softly.

  At last, she delivered the mug. He steeped his tea bag by lifting and dropping it several times.

  “So,” Jenna said, “you’ve known Estelle—or Stella, for a long time?”

  He took a sip before replying. “It was quite some years ago.”

  Silence again.

  She debated on excusing herself and returning to task, but intrigue, her greatest enemy lately, baited her to stay. “I’m Jenna, by the way,” she began. “And your name is . . . ?”

  Inclining his head, he accepted her handshake. His light blue eyes held a charming if worn twinkle. “Tom,” he said.

  As she watched him take another sip, his look of discomfort growing, the connection sank in. Still, there had to be a million Toms out there.

  “I really ought to be going,” he said suddenly.

  When it came to Jenna’s work, there had always been lines, invisible but clear. Yet after a week with the Porters, those lines were blurring. And now, with the man’s departure imminent, any rules ceased to exist.

  Rising, he donned his hat.

  “Are you Corporal Redding?” she blurted.

  He froze, his eyes downcast. An infinite pause stretched the air taut until he spoke. “Stella told you about me?”

  “Well . . . she . . .” Jenna had to confess, “No. Not exactly.”

  His gaze lifted, swirling with disappointment, confusion. He wanted to know if he’d been forgotten. Jenna understood the feeling, from her father. And she refused to let this kind-hearted man believe the memory of him was lost.

  “Mr. Redding,” she said, coming to her feet, “I have something to show you.”

  In the den, Jenna led Tom around an obstacle of hand trucks and moving supplies. She guided him to sit in the cushioned swivel chair. Forbidding herself a second thought, she presented the infamous shoe box.

  Slowly, he pulled out the photographs and laid them on the desk. His expression lightened by degrees until, as with Estelle, the decades since the war vanished from his face.

  “It was just yesterday,” he murmured.

  “This is you, then, with the mistletoe.” It wasn’t a question, just an observance of a mystery being solved.

  He touched that particular picture and sported a boyish grin. “Had to get creative. I was bound and determined to get a smooch out of that girl.”

  Jenna smiled along with him, feeling as if she had been there. “And did it work?”

  Tom shook his head. “Only on the cheek. Consorting like that was against the rules.” He let out a soft laugh. “’Course, she found me later behind the supply tent and gave me a kiss I’ll never forget. Blew my army socks clear off.”

  “So . . . you two started dating?”

  “Well. Not officially.”

  No elaboration. Perhaps he preferred a less intimate topic.

  Jenna retrieved from the box another piece of the puzzle. The Bronze Star. As she flipped open the case, he tilted his head. “Ahh, yeah,” he sighed.

  “Do you happen to know how she got this?”

  He hummed in affirmation, running his thumb over the grooves of the medal. “We were stationed in Dutch New Guinea at the time. MacArthur was leapfrogging toward Tokyo. Docs and nurses were being rotated up to the front. Stella volunteered to help, which I didn’t like one bit. And I sure as heck told her so.”

  “But she went anyway,” Jenna guessed.

  Tom glanced up, brow raised. “One thing about Stella. She was the sweetest girl you ever met. But make no mistake, few people were better at holding their ground.” A mix of frustration and admiration seeped into his voice. “Turned out to be a good thing, anyhow. Saved a whole lot of soldiers out there.”

  After a moment, Tom set down the award. He straightened, prompting Jenna to do the same. He was going to leave. But he couldn’t. Not yet. A buried tale was surfacing. All that was left in the box, however, was a tattered book.

  A last ditch effort, she hastened to hold up Jane Eyre. “Any idea if this was special to her?”

  Tom stared for several seconds. His skin paled. As he sank into his chair, any remnants of nostalgic warmth drained away. He handled the book as though poison soaked its pages. On the inside cover was an inscription Jenna could make out from her view.

  My dearest darling,

  Merry Christmas!

  Tom

  Shoulders hunched, he shut his eyes. “That’s all I could come up with,” he said before forcing another look.

  Jenna simply waited, not pushing.

  “It was her favorite no
vel,” he finally added. “I spent a good half hour trying to write a thoughtful note, and that was it. No mention of love. No gratitude for taking care of me.” He shook his head as tears welled. “I was so angry at the world. It was never her, of course, but that’s who I took it out on.”

  Jenna was struggling to keep up. Yet he gazed at her intently, a plea for understanding.

  “We were being shipped home, from the Philippines. War was over. People were celebrating for days. With all the commotion it took me a minute to even realize I’d been hit.”

  The way he spoke the word, Jenna gathered the meaning. “You were shot?”

  “Some drunken GI had fired off a pistol. Got me right in the kneecap. That’s why we held off marrying. I told Stella I wouldn’t go down that aisle till I could walk nice and smooth. That’s how dumb and stubborn I was.”

  The tragic irony was staggering to Jenna. Serving in a world war, only to be wounded by your own side. And all while celebrating America’s victory.

  “Did you break up because of your injury?” she dared to ask.

  “If it weren’t for an infection, things might’ve been different. But you see, I couldn’t work for some time. And alcohol helped dull the pain.” He clutched the book as he continued. “Back then, being a man meant earning a paycheck. You couldn’t have a woman doing it for you. Wartime was one thing, but back at home, life was supposed to be normal. Besides, Stella was too good for that. I promised I’d take care of her, and somehow it all got turned around. I actually had myself convinced it’d be a relief for us both when we went our separate ways.”

  Estelle’s efforts to break from the past began to make sense. Jenna’s soap-opera theories fizzled on the spot.

  Tom released the book. He attempted to flatten the edges he’d bent. “Important thing is, when I happened across her husband’s obituary, listing their kids and grandkids, I knew she’d had a good life. Just like I had with Noreen—God rest her. So really, it all worked out for the best.”

  “Had you ever thought about contacting Stella? To tell her all of this?”

  He stifled a small laugh. “Wrote at least six versions of a letter over the years. In the end, always felt like nudging a beehive. Didn’t seem right to disturb her life.”

  Jenna nodded, relating to the intent. The couple’s circumstances, though, had changed. “Maybe it’s time to mail one of those letters.”

  His gaze dropped to the photos. He shrugged a shoulder and said, “Oh . . . I don’t know. . . .”

  “Mr. Redding, you came here today, worrying it was too late. But now you know it’s not.”

  “Yeah, well. We’ll see.” His tone didn’t sound promising.

  He patted the book, a farewell motion, and rose to his feet. “I’d really best get going.”

  “Are you sure? There’s really no reason to rush.”

  “Nah, nah. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  She yielded with reluctance and walked him to the door, where they traded holiday tidings. He was a few steps outside when he pivoted back. “Miss,” he said, “I want to thank you for that.”

  Thanks for what? For allowing Jenna to pry open old wounds?

  “I really didn’t do anything you should be grateful for.”

  His lips curved into a wistful smile that argued otherwise.

  Chapter 12

  Although part of him still resisted the change, Reece had to admit the setup was better than he’d expected. In the basement of his parents’ house, the walls of his old bedroom had always been the color of stone. Fitting for a teenager, it had provided a brooding backdrop for posters of rock groups and rebel athletes. The feeling of being separate from the house had made it an ideal spot during high school.

  He rotated slowly now, hardly recognizing the space. A fresh coat of buttery yellow paint had transformed the dungeon into a cozy cove. A miniature kitchen appeared where a storage closet once stood. Best of all, elements of his grandma’s home were sprinkled throughout: a mounted shelf of porcelain figurines; down bedding and a claw-footed hope chest; floral curtains that virtually matched her own.

  Below the two windows, his grandma sat in her rocking chair, sifting through Christmas cards forwarded from her old house. A tasseled lamp glowed on the nightstand, brightening her pallor. She looked remarkably better than she did in the hospital. Hard to believe that was only four days ago.

  Reece held up the poinsettias, the pot wrapped in a silver bow. “A little housewarming gift for you.”

  She merely flicked them a glance. “Lovely, dear.”

  In the wedge of quiet, he set the plant on her dresser, another furnishing from her house.

  “Why didn’t Dad ever say he was going to fix it up like this?” Reece said this more to himself than her.

  “Could be that you never asked.”

  True. Although he couldn’t imagine asking his father much of anything at the moment. Thankfully, the guy was holed up in his garage, making it easy for Reece to slip in and out before dinner.

  Just then, the aroma of baked crescent rolls wafted from upstairs. The slight trace of burnt dough delivered an idea.

  “You know, with you being here now,” Reece suggested, “Mom can finally pick up some cooking tips.”

  After a halfhearted smile, his grandma continued to study her cards in an absent manner. Adjusting to a new way of life was never easy. Quiet time to dwell often made things worse.

  “Hey, how about some music?” He turned the knob of her antique RCA radio. He’d forgotten how touchy those dials were to find a station without static. At last, an FM channel projected a clear tune, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” The repetitive chorus tended to grind at his nerves, but he hoped the lyrics might give her a giggle. Which they didn’t.

  He was grateful the song ended, until he registered the next one: “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” He clicked the radio off.

  “Mom says she’s set aside an area in the backyard so you can garden in the spring.”

  His grandma murmured her acknowledgment.

  “Also, I hear some of your friends have been calling to check on you. I think they’ve been hoping you’ll join their quilting group again.”

  He waited for a wisecrack about hanging out with blind old biddies. But nothing came.

  Reece couldn’t stand seeing her this way. He understood where she was; he’d been there before himself. And it was his grandma’s no-nonsense advice that had ultimately yanked him out of his cave. Serving up that same tidbit to her now, about throwing a solo pity party, was tempting. Unfortunately, he doubted his own ability to deliver the words with his grandma’s charm.

  He perched on the end of her hope chest, wishing he possessed a magic formula to revive the strong grandmother he knew.

  He’d done his best to stamp out thoughts of Jenna the last several days—the powdery fragrance of her skin, how close he’d come to kissing her and, once again, screwing up his life—but at this moment, her assurances returned with unavoidable clarity. She’d seemed certain of his grandmother’s courage, all based on a past Reece knew nothing about. It could be helpful, reminding his grandma of her younger days, when her military service required independence and bravery.

  Surely it was worth a try.

  He clasped his hands, elbows on his knees, and leaned closer. “Jenna Matthews—the girl working at your house—she told me about a box she found. Things you saved from the war.”

  His grandma’s hands went still. Her gaze remained on her lap.

  “Is it true you served in an army hospital?”

  Her silence served as confirmation, along with the sense that she’d hoped to keep that nugget under wraps. But why? Why the cover-up, the lies?

  “At first, I told Jenna she had to be mistaken. That you’d even said you’d never been to Asia before.”

  “Vacationed,�
�� she corrected boldly, and raised her head. “I said that I never vacationed there. Aside from a few coconut cocktails, it wasn’t exactly Club Med.”

  One could argue it a technicality, but at least she wasn’t denying the claim.

  “I just don’t get it,” he said. “Being an army nurse is something you should be proud of. Why didn’t you ever mention it?” Reece could see vets not wanting to share details, given how gruesome he imagined the war had been, but not hiding their service altogether.

  “Please, Grandma,” he insisted gently. “You can tell me about it.”

  Following a lengthy pause, she looked into his eyes and appeared to recognize her own stubbornness—meaning Reece wasn’t about to let the subject go.

  She sat back in her chair and set her cards aside. Then she sighed, as if dusting off stored-up words. “We weren’t nurses,” she clarified. “That would have taken a lot more training than enlisting in the WAC, and I was too eager to do my bit. Once there, of course, we took to their duties all the same.”

  “So you were stationed in the jungle?”

  “It was nothing like Gilligan’s Island, I can tell you that much. After a few days in Hollandia, we sure didn’t resemble Ginger or Mary Ann.” She let out a small laugh. “You should have seen my parents’ faces. About had a conniption over my appearance when I got home. It just supported why they were against me joining up in the first place.”

  “And that’s why you never talked about it,” Reece concluded, still trying to understand.

  “It wasn’t just them. Society’s never been a fan of change, dear. Once we came back, I learned real fast that putting WAC on a résumé was a surefire way not to get hired. The soldiers we’d helped, they knew the truth, but most people at home preferred to believe we’d helped boost morale in . . . well, other ways.”

  Reece got the point, along with her motivation for secrecy. Shame dictated she close that chapter of her life as though it had never happened.

  “Then, years later,” she said, eyes glimmering behind her glasses, “I met your grandfather. Together we created a family I couldn’t be prouder of.” She paused before reaching over to pat Reece’s forearm. “Way I see it, better to focus on the path ahead, rather than hanging on to what’s already done.”