Yet before he could retrieve the ring, tucked into his golf bag, a foursome from the Hit ’n’ Giggle club had pulled up for their turn. Armed with visors and Bloody Marys, the boisterous ladies had, unknowingly, stomped out Reece’s attempt.
Hole two had become his next option, then three, then four. But no moment had felt right. Reece had sped through his putting, to gain privacy from the group. This only worsened his shots, aggravating him more. An ugly cycle. With Christmas just two weeks away, the window of opportunity was narrowing; he refused to attend another Graniello holiday without making things official.
New plan of attack, he told himself, striding toward the water to the left of the green. Pitching wedge and putter in his grip, he surveyed the area, desperate for an idea.
The clubhouse.
Three more holes and they’d be at the halfway mark, a good chance for a lunch break fireside. Whoever said proposing over a Payne Stewart Burger wasn’t romantic? Points for uniqueness. They could look back at it one day and laugh.
“Yesss,” Tracy exclaimed. Her chip onto the green had placed her ball in an ideal spot. From there it rolled in a gentle curve, almost in slow motion, and ended—plonk—in the cup. Her lips stretched with elation before she glanced at Reece. In an instant, she dropped her smile, stifling her celebration.
Compassionate. He mentally added the trait to the list, a compilation of all the reasons he’d be a moron not to marry the girl.
“Any sign of your ball?” she called out.
He rotated in a circle and shook his head.
Lofty chatter projected from the foursome gaining on them.
“Why don’t you just call it a nine?” Tracy suggested. As in, a mercy score so they could skip this hole and move on. Surely, that’s how the Bloody Mary gang was playing. With twice as many people, how else were they progressing so fast?
Or were his skills today even more pathetic than he’d gathered?
Reece straightened, pulling back his shoulders. Today, of all days, he needed his ego intact.
“I’ll take the drop.” He reached into his right pants pocket. Nothing but plastic markers and wooden tees. He patted the other front pocket, then those of his Windbreaker. Empty. He’d blown through them all. At this rate, he couldn’t even qualify for the Hit ’n’ Giggle league.
He spoke through a clenched jaw. “Can you give me an extra?”
“Sure thing.” Tracy offered an overly cheery smile. “I’ll bring it over.”
As he waited for a spare, he studied the murky water that had swallowed his ball. In the reflection was a guy who, not so long ago, would have shucked off his spiked shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and waded into that icy water without hesitation.
He rubbed at his temple with his gloved hand, pushing down the thought, and noted Tracy’s delay. He raised his head. Rather than mere steps away, she had gone over to their cart. She was searching for a ball in her golf bag.
No, not hers—his. His bag!
“Tracy, wait! I’ll get it!” He meant to speed-walk in a seminatural manner but instead burst into a sprint.
Fortunately, his warning worked. She halted any movement until he reached her, at which point she slowly lifted her eyes. The source of their intensity lay in her palm. His grandmother’s box. Open. The ring exposed.
“Is this . . .” she said, a wisp of a voice. She didn’t finish; she already understood.
Reece took a breath. He saw himself kneel, hold up the ring, and take her hand. He heard his own speech, saw tears fill her eyes, right before she accepted.
This was it. The grandiose moment.
But at the recollection of his grandma’s phrase, a condition of using the ring—“If you love this girl with all your heart”—his world froze. His legs wouldn’t bend and hands wouldn’t rise. His speech had crumbled, and the syllables wouldn’t adhere.
“Yoo-hoo!” a woman hollered. Her singsong tone broke through his paralysis, turning his head toward her. “Mind if we play through?” she asked.
Reece managed to motion his hand in agreement. The ladies flitted their fingers in thanks, then stood there. Waiting. It dawned on him that he and Tracy should move aside if they didn’t want a golf ball to the skull. He angled back toward Tracy, to guide her away, but she had disappeared. His heart pounded like a fist to the chest.
He scanned the area until catching sight of her. She’d found a park bench off to the side, an empty space often used for the snack cart. She was staring down at the ring that glinted in the sunlight, but her expression wasn’t the kind that preceded happy tears.
Reece forced down a swallow of confusion, offense, relief. Hands balled at his sides, he made his way over and lowered himself beside her.
Not looking up, she said, “Reece, you don’t want to propose to me.”
His lips parted, an effort to craft a denial—that refused to come. She was right. And hearing the sentiment aloud confirmed it all the more. Nevertheless, he cared for her deeply and hated that his behavior might have hurt her.
“I think it’s obvious what’s been going on,” she told him. “It’s finally time we talked about it.”
A million thoughts entered his mind. Cautious, he said, “Okay . . .”
She set down the ring box and peered into his eyes. “After I went to the hospital and met that girl you were with, that’s when I knew for sure.”
Jenna Matthews . . . that’s what this was about?
He’d had a feeling his father was going to blab for no good reason. “Nothing’s going on between us. You have to believe me—”
“I do believe you.” Tracy’s reply, firm and calm, stopped the revving of his defenses.
“Then . . . what?”
She shook her head and gazed toward the passing carts. “When Jenna and I met in the waiting room, I introduced myself as your girlfriend. She tried to hide it, but it was obvious she was disappointed.”
Given the chaos of that day, Reece hadn’t considered the two of them crossing paths. God, Jenna must have taken him for a—
He snipped off the thought. His history with Tracy took precedence, everything they had endured as a team.
“That doesn’t matter,” he insisted. He reached out and held her hand, regaining her attention.
“It does if you’re not sure about us,” Tracy stated.
“What? No, but I am.”
“But if you weren’t—”
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to worry. Remember, I promised I’d take care of you.”
“Yes, I know that.” Her voice gained a graveled edge. “But that’s not a reason to stay together.”
“What are you talking about? There are other things—”
“Reece,” she burst out, “I was planning to break up with you.”
His mind did a double take. He pulled his hand away. Like the ring, he’d become open, exposed.
At last, she shifted her body to face him, softening. “I liked you, Reece, from the minute we met. You were unpredictable and loads of fun. But we were really different.” She quickened her pace, sounding tense from effort. “We’d only been dating a few months. I was going to move on, but then the accident happened. You were so wonderful, sticking by me. . . .”
The reality of their past snapped together and crashed into Reece’s head. It rattled his core before gradually settling in. “And guilt’s kept us together,” he finished.
After a heavy pause, Tracy nodded. “I think you’re a great guy, I really do. We’re just not meant to be together like this,” she said. “Honestly, I think we’ve both been pretending to be something we’re not.”
The scenario was certainly a familiar one. His grandmother, all from a shame of her own, had spent decades hiding part of herself, playing things safe to please others. Even now, she deserved to live her life, not watch it pass by.
; The same could be said about him, he supposed.
“So . . .” Reece sighed.
“So,” Tracy echoed.
“What do you say we call it a day?” His reference addressed much more than the game, which naturally went without saying.
She smiled in thoughtful agreement. Her eyes misted over as they relaxed into the quiet.
“Still friends?” she asked.
Whether they would be or not, he didn’t know for sure. But he did know they would always share a piece of each other’s past.
“Get over here,” he encouraged, motioning with his chin. When she scooted closer, he layered his arm over her shoulders and rested his cheek on her head.
On the bench beside them remained his grandma’s ring. Light bounced off the diamond, as if sending him a wink.
Chapter 15
Anticipation thrummed as Jenna waited for the big unveiling. Seated in the reception area, she glimpsed her reflection in a window. On the daring scale, her fresh, cherry Coke highlights were nothing compared to the transformation taking place across the salon.
Once again, she flipped through the magazine featuring the new look her mother had chosen. The hairstylist was so eager to get started, intent on sending the frizzy bangs back to the eighties, that she barely glanced at the example.
“It’ll look fabulous,” Jenna had said, detecting second thoughts in her mother’s eyes. Jenna was still astounded her mom had initiated the appointment, a tough yet much-needed decision. Just like Jenna’s career.
According to Sally, the teapot boasted a value upward of forty grand. The single antique piece would have ensured Jenna’s partnership—at the cost of her conscience. I’m not being stupid, I’m not being stupid, she’d told herself, entering her boss’s office. Quitting anything went against Jenna’s nature, let alone a job with an enticing payday. But when she walked away, a burden she hadn’t known existed lifted from her life.
“You can come see her now,” the receptionist announced.
Jenna tossed the magazine aside and followed with the anxiousness of a father about to view his newborn.
“She’s over there.” The receptionist pointed toward the farthest hair station before skittering away. Jenna hoped that wasn’t a sign the lady was taking cover.
Past wafts of styling sprays and chemical dyes, Jenna threaded through the room. Hair dryers boomed, mimicking a 747 at takeoff. In the corner, a row of hunched manicurists tended to ladies with fancy updos. Sparkly hair clips and berry red polish screamed of holiday parties.
Finally, Jenna hooked gazes with the stylist. If her mom hated the results, there would be no second attempt.
In a magician’s move, the stylist yanked off her customer’s cape and swiveled the chair one-eighty, presenting her creation.
Jenna gasped. She just . . . couldn’t believe . . .
Her mother’s brow knotted in fear. “You don’t like it.”
On a solid note of honesty, Jenna shook her head. “Nope,” she told her. “I love it.”
Her mom giggled in relief. Like a little girl wobbling in heels, an air of excitement outweighed her uncertainty. She touched the shortened sides that ran just below her jawline, sloping longer toward the front. All frizz and gray had been banished from her sleek, straightened hair.
“And Doobie’s going to love it even more,” Jenna added.
Her mom brushed off the comment, betrayed by her reddening cheeks. Already, Jenna could see the awe in his face while picking her mother up for their weekly lesson. Personally, Jenna wasn’t a fan of country-western dancing, but she’d recently joined them anyhow, and was glad she had. Witnessing the devotion in every look he sent her mom was well worth the boot scoots and grapevines. Most of all, her mother’s returning confidence continued to swell Jenna’s heart. New jeans to replace the woman’s stretch pants were a mere bonus.
“How about some lunch to celebrate?” Jenna asked. “I say we show off our new looks.”
Her mother fingered her flattened bangs, as if deciding. Then she smiled with a youthful giddiness and nodded. “My treat this time.”
Reluctant, Jenna agreed. Until she found a job, and could afford more than her own TV dinners, she wasn’t in the position to argue.
“I just need to freshen up first,” her mother said.
“I’ll meet you in front.” Jenna headed to the reception area. While waiting, she glanced out the window. She spied a familiar face in the store across the street.
Could it be . . . ?
Antique stores traditionally ranked as her least favorite hubs. She dreaded the musty air, cramped spaces, and clash of displays. For the potential reward, however, she was willing to endure.
She turned to the receptionist. “Please tell my mom I’ll be right back.”
At the window display, her nose an inch from the pane, Jenna delighted in her find. Once more, it was the squatty monk. Make that lots of squatty monks.
Side by side they stood, like a village of holy men. Varied in size, they wore wreaths of gray hair, brown robes, and rosy cheeks. She scanned the queue with hope. A large water pitcher and gravy boat. Salt and pepper shakers. A sugar cup and . . . there it was! A fully intact creamer, handle and all. It was a perfect replacement for the set inherited from Aunt Lenore. Silly or not, Jenna felt like it completed the memory of the sweet old woman. She couldn’t imagine a more meaningful gift for her mother.
If she wanted to keep the surprise, she had to hurry.
A bell on the door jangled as she entered. She prepared for a dusty waft. Instead, the lemony scent of polished wood welcomed her. At the sales counter, she joined the line of two other customers. The cashier’s gentle eyes matched his Santa beard, and his knit snowman pullover could sweep a national contest. For ugly Christmas sweaters, that is.
Cha-ching, cha-ching.
The antique register, while pretty to look at, wasn’t the fastest way to do business.
She started tapping her toes, hoping to subliminally rush the guy along. Soon she realized she was keeping time with the tune playing on the speaker. “Jingle Bell Rock” had a pretty catchy beat—
She stopped mid-thought and rolled her eyes. Yet she couldn’t help smiling. Aliens must have replaced her grinch-like heart while she slept.
The first customer finished and the line moved up.
Cha-ching, cha-ching.
Tamping her impatience, Jenna glanced around the store. A baby buggy was parked nearby, its oversized wheels weathered from walks. On the maple vanity lay a silver shaving kit, beside it a mother-of-pearl hairbrush. How often had they been used to primp for a special occasion?
As if transformed by a wand, the old, worn items surrounding Jenna became anything but “junk.” They were storytellers. Rather than price tags, she now saw their tales. A wedding knife and server had shared a couple’s first cake. A jukebox had played records for a patron-filled diner. An army jacket had witnessed triumphs and tragedies. Come to think of it, the chocolate-hued uniform, fit for a woman, was used during World War II.
Topped with a cap, the mannequin enticed Jenna over. She touched the stripes sewn onto the sleeve. Her heart cinched at the thought of Estelle and not seeing the family again. The sale was only two days away.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” The clerk gestured toward the uniform, eliminating the possibility that he was speaking of Estelle. “Hard to find a ‘Hobby hat’ in such good condition. Are you a fan of memorabilia from World War Two?”
“I guess you could say I’ve become one.”
His face lit up. “Got lots of stuff sprinkled around. More things from the Women’s Army Corps, too, if you’re interested. Most are priced well below value. People just don’t realize what they’re worth.”
“No,” she said sadly, “I bet they don’t.”
“You know, my mother-in-law served with them o
ver in Europe. Never spoke about it much, though.” As he rubbed his beard, Jenna perked.
Was there more to Estelle’s secrecy than Tom Redding? The mystery continued to nag at Jenna. She hoped she wasn’t prying by asking, “Do you happen to know why she didn’t talk about it?”
“Oh, I dunno,” he said. “I imagine it wasn’t the most acceptable job at the time. Taking care of the kids, having dinner on the table by five—back then, that was the role women were proud of. Or were supposed to be, at any rate.”
As a modern woman, independent and career-driven, Jenna hadn’t thought of it that way. It seemed almost too simple, and yet made absolute sense.
The man jerked his thumb to the side. “Would you like to see more stuff like this?”
Yes prepared to spill from her mouth when she remembered her mother. “Another day would be great.” Jenna would definitely be back. “For now, I’ll only need the monk creamer from the front window.”
“Oh, sure, sure. Even got the original box for it in the back room. Be back in a jiffy.”
Jenna watched him scoot off, rounding a table of porcelain dolls. As he reached into the display, her cell phone rang. She expected to see the salon’s number, calling on behalf of a concerned mom. To her surprise, again it was Sally.
“Tell me you didn’t do it,” she demanded, obviously about Jenna’s career.
“Afraid so,” Jenna replied.
“So what’s next?”
“I’m figuring it’ll come to me, hopefully sooner rather than later.”
The clerk, creamer in hand, pointed toward the back room. Jenna lifted her hand in acknowledgment as he traveled through the store, neatly displayed and packed with enough valuables for a museum.
A museum . . .
A display . . .
Valuables . . .
The idea materialized, a scattering of threads being woven. With all of Jenna’s connections to brokers and collectors, why hadn’t she thought of it before?
The Christmas Collector Page 9