The Christmas Collector

by Kristina McMorris

  Her pointed remark wasn’t lost on him. Clearly, she had overheard him and his father bickering at the hospital. Considering their volume, how could she have avoided it? Maybe Reece was long overdue to drop the weights of his own past. “I hear what you’re saying, Grandma,” he conceded.

  But then, recalling where this conversation began, he sent the lesson right back at her. “Who knows, I might even get the itch to join a quilting group. Visit old friends, start cooking, gardening. That kind of thing.”

  She pursed her lips, fighting a smile that ultimately won out. “Who on earth taught you to be such a smart aleck?”

  “Must be hereditary.”

  “Must be.”

  As they laughed together, the room gained an even cozier feel. That’s precisely how it remained throughout the rest of their chat, which shifted to lighter topics. It went unspoken that their thoughts and emotions needed a break. And so, they engaged in the usual discussions of books and weather and Wheel of Fortune.

  At a natural lull, their talk having run its course, Reece prepared to leave. He stood and gave her a soft peck on the cheek.

  “Oh, wait, before you go,” she said, gesturing toward her jewelry box. “Got something for you in the bottom drawer.”

  It didn’t dawn on him what that something would be until he grabbed the knob. A velvet ring box stared back at him.

  “You still wanted that, didn’t you, dear?”

  He creaked open the case. Inside, a small marquise diamond topped a beautiful silver band. Amazing how a whole future could rest on such a small object.

  Reece turned to his grandma, replying with a smile.

  Time to live without regrets.

  Chapter 13

  Jenna shifted in her director’s chair, fending off the urge to fidget. Lightbulbs framing the mirror compounded the heat generated by her nerves. She should have skipped her morning latte. The caffeine was proving anything but soothing.

  Mia, the makeup artist, pulled a comb from the apron tied around her hefty middle. Her almond-shaped eyes and cornrows lent her an exotic look. Candy cane earrings shimmered against her chocolate skin. “Okay if I touch up your hair?” she asked, aerosol already in hand.

  “Spray away.” Jenna pinned on a smile, which she dropped once she felt her cheeks tremble. A guest spot on a talk show had sounded so exciting. But after arriving early at the station, the producer had put such stress on the live-air aspect of Morning Portland, Jenna now feared a tongue-tied disaster. It didn’t help that her mother had told everyone on the planet about the program.

  “Been on the show before?” Mia asked while launching a shower of hairspray.

  Jenna coughed on a mouthful and shook her head.

  “Well then, I’ll make sure your debut looks fabulous. You’re talking about used jewelry, right?”

  “Right,” she squeezed out.

  The woman deshined Jenna’s face with a brush full of powder. “Buying or selling it?”

  Once the air cleared enough, Jenna said, “Both.”

  Their fractured conversation resembled visits with her dental hygienist, who never failed to ask a question when Jenna’s mouth was stuffed with cotton, cardboard, or bubble gum fluoride. As the current exchange trudged along, she tried not to grimace at the heavy application of red lipstick and rosy blush—although her mother would be thrilled. Jenna repeatedly reminded herself that the studio lights washed out color.

  “Don’t know about you,” Mia remarked, “but I couldn’t do it.”

  A pointed pause hauled Jenna back to the discussion. “I’m sorry . . . ?”

  “Wear a divorced person’s ring. Or even a hawked engagement band, for that matter. Just so much sadness and turmoil tied to those kinda things.”

  Jenna countered with her usual: “Yes, but they could bring a lot of happiness to the new buyer.”

  “I don’t know, maybe . . .” Mia worked at taming a lock of Jenna’s shag. “Then again, I’m more of the sentimental type. Every spring I vow to clean out my daughter’s art projects from school, now with her off at college, but just can’t bring myself to do it.”

  Jenna easily visualized the boxes, crammed with wrinkled handprint paintings and glitter-shedding snowflakes—none of which would be viewed more than twice.

  “What about you?” Mia asked with another spritz. If she was perpetuating conversation to ease a nervous guest, the attempt was failing.

  “I don’t have kids.”

  “No, I meant is there anything you collect?”

  That word again. “There’s nothing.”

  “Oh, surely there’s something you cherish enough to hang on to.”

  Jenna shook her head against the disbelief that blared in the woman’s tone. Why was the concept so hard to get? “I am not a collector.”

  Mia paused the primping, fist on her hip. The woman was only making small talk. When had Jenna become so neurotic?

  In the stiffening silence, the woman sharpened an eyebrow pencil.

  Jenna searched for a way to backpedal before Mia added, “Way I see it, we’re all collectors in one way or another. Keepers of memories, if nothing else. Some aren’t as pretty as others, but wipe out one half and you’d lose the other. . . .”

  As her words trailed off, Tom Redding’s face appeared in Jenna’s mind. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, as well as his mouth, bespoke smiles and frowns, happy and sad moments, like the memories in Estelle’s box.

  That darn haunting box.

  Jenna still couldn’t bring herself to throw the thing away, yet she should have. Life had been easier before its complicating ties. Disposing of others’ items had always brought relief—at least until the craving returned. Which it always did. Like an addiction, some might say. Like cigarettes or alcohol, or . . . hoarding.

  “Miss Matthews?” The intern who’d initially greeted Jenna poked her head in from the greenroom. “We’re ready for you.”

  Jenna sprang from her chair, thankful for the interruption.

  “Not just yet,” Mia ordered, filling Jenna with dread. Had the woman somehow read her thoughts?

  Mia merely removed the protective tissues she’d tucked into the collar of Jenna’s sweater, which the producer had borrowed from wardrobe for a festive look.

  Jenna reviewed herself in the mirror. Between the bright red garment and matching lipstick, she felt like a Rudolph the Red-lipped Reindeer.

  “Right this way,” the intern said. She led Jenna down the same hall she’d traversed earlier to set up her display.

  Again, they wove through the station’s maze, past editing rooms with walls of monitors and enough buttons and switches for a NASA control center. With a wave of the girl’s badge over a security pad, an alarm beeped once and the door opened.

  “Watch your step,” she said as they approached an obstacle course of thick black cords. Each was connected to one of several mounted cameras facing the empty news anchors’ desk. A solid green wall denoted the meteorologist’s area. Reporting the weather in Portland—rain, drizzle, downpour—had to be as thrilling as reporting sunshine in Hawaii.

  The intern held a finger to her lips, a warning to Jenna that the microphones were hot. In the studio kitchen, the host, whose former role as a sportscaster befit his appearance, was sampling a Cajun twist on Christmas turkey. Judging from the sweat beading on his forehead, the meat had fully absorbed the chef ’s Southern spice.

  When the show broke for a commercial, a floor director clipped Jenna’s mike in place, then rushed her to the table of jewelry. Jenna had borrowed some from her boss, some from coworkers; others she’d snagged from a pawnshop. The host threw her a quick hello before guzzling water from a glass and flipping through a script. The female floor director launched a countdown. A cameraman gripped his handles as he spoke into his headset while the other camera moved on its own.


  Amid the chaos of the room, Jenna’s ears turned hot. She smoothed her hair over both lobes, praying they weren’t the same shade as her sweater.

  Focus on the table, she told herself. She would work her way from left to right, just as she’d practiced, starting with a gemmed bracelet that only needed a few minor repairs to double its value.

  “We’re live in five, four . . .” The floor director continued silently with three fingers. Two. One. Then a red light glowed on the camera as she pointed to the host.

  “Welcome back to Morning Portland,” he said, standing beside Jenna. “ ’Tis the season of gift giving. If your pocketbook is a little light this year, not to worry. Used jewelry could save the day. Here to tell us how is Jenna Matthews, an estate liquidator who’s built a career on pricing and selling off other people’s treasures.”

  Jenna winced at the introduction. Yeah, it was true, technically, but it sounded so pilfering stated that way.

  “Thanks for being on the show.” He smiled at her, but she could see in his eyes that he’d rather be talking about touchdowns than trinkets.

  “Thanks for having me.”

  “To start off, why don’t you tell our viewers how determining the value of jewelry can come in handy at Christmastime?”

  “Well,” she said, recalling her rehearsed speech, “if you understand how to appraise a piece acquired at an estate sale or a flea market, for example, you’ll know what you’re actually giving someone. It’s also helpful when you’re selling jewelry you already own.”

  “And those proceeds can be used to buy other gifts,” he finished.

  “That’s right.”

  “Sounds dollar-smart to me. I bet there’s lots of collectors out there who have a drawerful gathering dust. My wife, for one.” He winked at the camera.

  The vision of a drawer invaded Jenna’s thoughts. If she were given even half of one to fill, what would she put inside? All she had collected was empty space. A preventative measure, it created a barrier against anything that might hurt her. The flip side being that nothing meaningful could get through.

  “So, let’s get started,” the host went on. He gestured to the brooch on the right side of the table. “How about this pin? What would that go for?”

  Pin? He was supposed to start with the left. The bracelet! At home, over and over she had practiced in that order. Pores of perspiration opened on her scalp as her mind reeled in search of the value.

  Think, think...

  The Victorian brooch was an heirloom. Terrence’s mother had given it to him the Christmas before she passed. Not to wear himself, of course, but to keep in the family. He let Jenna borrow it, claiming his mom would have loved showing it off. He said that as a kid he used to believe the ivory profile was fashioned after his mom.

  “Just a ballpark figure,” the host prompted, alerting Jenna that she hadn’t responded.

  “I would say . . .” she began. “The value would be . . .”

  The guy flickered an intense glance at the floor director, a plea for help with his stage-frightened guest.

  Jenna hastened to calculate, to estimate anything close. Then another image came to her: Estelle’s Bronze Star. From it, a sudden peacefulness flowed, for there was only one true answer.

  “It’s priceless.”

  Covering with a smile, the host flashed another side glance. “I’m sure to the owner it is. But, what do you think the dollar range would be?”

  “Really . . . there isn’t one.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The revelation struck like electricity, humming through her veins. How could anyone put a price tag on a woman’s final gift to her son? It could be a rock or a blade of grass, and no dollar amount would do it justice. The same applied, she realized, to a kid’s baseball caught with his grandpa.

  Confidence growing, Jenna explained, “Perception is what dictates price—whether it’s paintings and furnishings or antiques and jewelry. That’s a basic standard for any type of retail. It’s what says a store can charge eight dollars, or eight hundred, for a pair of shoes. All that said though,” she confessed, “what I didn’t understand, for a long time now, was the major role memories play in that perception.”

  “Uh, yes,” the host interjected, “I see what you mean.” His uncertainty over the segment’s direction tolled as loud as bells.

  Jenna, on the other hand, knew precisely where her message was headed. She turned to the camera and spoke directly to her mother.

  “In different ways, we all have voids to fill. Holidays, for a lot of people, can bring those feelings out even more. The best thing we can do is to fill our lives with things that matter, like . . . turning a favorite hobby into a job, or finding a person you’re crazy about. Even if none of those things come with guarantees.”

  The story of Tom and Estelle, despite their relationship’s end, exemplified the need to take a risk.

  “Allowing people you care about into your life,” she continued, “and letting them know how important they are, that’s the best present you can give them.” In the brief lull, Jenna glimpsed the wide-eyed host, spurring her to veer back on course. “Which is . . . why a gift of jewelry . . . carries more value, in every aspect, when it’s personal and tied to a memory.”

  At the floor director’s cue, the host angled toward the teleprompter. “Definitely a great message for the holidays. Speaking of holidays, after the break Mimi the Elf will teach us how to make ornaments out of plastic toys from fast-food meals, sure to become the talk of the neighborhood.” He pushed up a grin. “Don’t go away.”

  The instant the red light turned off, the host’s expression made clear his last line wasn’t meant for Jenna. Instead, his eyes told her: Go. Away. Now.

  Swept off by the intern, who stole back the mike, Jenna wound through the station, pausing only to reclaim her shirt. She signed out at the front desk, where a television was now airing Mimi the Elf.

  “That was quite a segment,” the receptionist said.

  “Yeah,” Jenna breathed, and handed over her visitor’s badge.

  “Best one I’ve seen in a while.”

  Jenna would have taken the phrase for sarcasm if not for the tone, pulled from a deep well of sincerity. “Thanks.”

  In the parking lot, Jenna inhaled the crisp morning air. Clouds had given way to a clear winter sky. Everything about the day felt different.

  As she retrieved her keys from her purse, she noticed a message on her phone, a text from her mom: Loved the show. Loved your sweater. Love you.

  Jenna smiled at the note, guiding her thoughts to a memory. A conversation from Thanksgiving. Indeed, like a character in a romantic comedy, with a microphone on and the world tuned in, Jenna had been seized by a revelation. There was a good reason, she decided, to declare your stand in public. Because then you couldn’t go backward.

  Her career would be the next step.

  While she still believed in the job’s value—helping families, transitioning residents—the idea of price tagging Estelle’s effects wrung Jenna’s stomach. How could she pay her mortgage with another person’s memories? No partnership would be worth the trade. If she had to sell her condo, even at a loss, that’s what she had to do.

  The prospect, though scary, thrilled and liberated her— thanks, in part, to Terrence. Of any coworker she knew, he would treat the Porter estate with compassion. She floated on this certainty as she sat in her car, before the buzz of her phone jostled her. She expected to see her mom’s number, not Sally’s.

  “Oh, boy.” Jenna braced herself for an earful about her behavior on the show. Needless to say, she didn’t foresee another invitation.

  “Can you talk?” Sally greeted with urgency.

  Jenna wavered. How long did her friend plan on commenting? The segment itself didn’t last more than five minutes.

  “Um . . . sure
.”

  “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, in case I was wrong. But I just heard back from an old professor of mine in Chicago.”

  “Wait. What are we talking about?” Obviously, Sally had missed the broadcast.

  “The teapot from the Porter estate,” she explained. “I knew it denoted the Qing dynasty, and that the stamp was rare. But I’ve been fooled by something similar before.”

  Jenna’s thoughts spun as she pictured the little Chinese teapot.

  “Jenna, are you still there?”

  “So . . . are you saying . . . ?”

  Sally replied with a smile in her voice. “Merry Christmas, sweetie. You hit the jackpot.”

  Chapter 14

  Reece squeezed the side handle, more out of frustration than for safety. Beside him, bundled in winter sporting wear, Tracy steered their golf cart toward the green.

  “Uh-oh,” she sang out, nose scrunched. She brought them to a stop by the sixth flag. “I think it’s in the water.”

  Big surprise. So far today, his shots had landed him in several sand traps and in knee-high rough. Once on another fairway. His thoughts were a jumble, his muscles the furthest thing from loose. When he’d arranged their golf outing, he hadn’t actually planned on them playing a round.

  But then, he hadn’t banked on Tracy running late to the clubhouse, near frantic they’d miss their tee time. Nor had he foreseen the ranger who’d glowered at them for stalling the game on his watch.

  “Hon, I need to talk to you,” Reece had told her as they approached the first tee box.

  “After this hole, okay?” She’d dashed off to set up with her pitching wedge, ponytail swinging through the back of her Pinnacle cap. Rushing had slightly hooked her drive, causing her to mutter a few choice words. Not an ideal moment to pop the question.

  Still, he’d wanted to follow through. This was, after all, where they had first met—an idea he’d borrowed from her sister’s proposal. Plus, for an outdoor girl like Tracy, the mountain backdrop, towering trees, and open air fit her perfectly. The rarity of blue sky on a December day in Oregon, just as forecasted, had seemed a telling sign.