by Sandra Hill
“Boy, your fences are a mile high and stone-hard.”
He gritted his teeth. “Mind your own business, Grandma.”
She hated when he called her Grandma, much preferring the more endearing Nana, but she didn’t react to the jab this morning, having other, more important things on her mind. Like interfering in my life. “Boy, it’s time for you to talk to the girl about what happened and get some closure so that you can move on.”
I’m hardly a boy, at thirty, and Wendy is certainly no longer a girl. That ship sailed a long time ago. “I already talked to Wendy on the ferry, and, for your information, I got closure twelve years ago. Furthermore, Nana, I have no intention of moving anywhere. Let’s drop the subject, please.” He glanced pointedly at his daughter who loved to eavesdrop on adult conversations.
Cassie, who had been pretending to nibble on a buttered English muffin, dropping little bits for Harvey, but was following the conversation with too much interest, asked, “Is she the lady with the short hair, Dad? She’s pretty.”
“Wendy has short hair now?” his grandmother inquired. “Ah!” she added, as if that change of hairstyle was meaningful.
It was.
“Mom told me about Wendy,” Cassie said.
Ethan and his grandmother both stared at the little girl who sipped at her cup of hot chocolate, knowing full well she had their attention by dropping that bombshell. The little imp!
Harvey’s big tongue flicked out and he scarfed the last of her muffin. The big imp!
“What did Mom say, sweetheart?” his grandmother prompted before he could cut short this line of conversation. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed Harvey’s slick move.
“Mom said that Dad loved her, but not like he loved a girl named Wendy. She told me to never settle for any kind of love, except the Wendy kind. It’s in that journal that she gave me to read when I was twelve years old. I’m almost twelve, you know. So peeking is all right.”
Ethan inhaled sharply. That damn journal Beth Anne had always been writing in! He should have read it before handing it over to Cassie. “Oh, princess!” he said. “I’m sorry she burdened you with that.”
“No, no!” Cassie shook her head. “Mom wasn’t being sad or anything. It was when she was telling me all the life lessons she would miss giving me when I’m older. Like, study hard and find a job that makes you get up every morning with a smile.”
That isn’t too bad. In fact, it’s excellent advice. Wish I felt that way about tree farming, the actual growing, not the business. But poor Beth Anne! Even though she had never mentioned it, he knew that she had followed news of Wendy’s career, and for some reason thought that if she did something more interesting than being a wife and mother he would suddenly love her more.
“I thought you were going to wait for a guy just like PopPop,” Ethan said.
Everyone in town knew the story of Samuel Rutledge and Eliza Metz, and no one romanticized it more than his grandmother Eliza who had pictures of the two of them all over the place. And no one relished the stories of their legendary love more than Ethan’s daughter. Instead of bedtime stories, she was always begging Nana to tell her about the first time she met “that mountain boy,” or how he proposed, or what their wedding had been like out on the beach.
“Can’t I have both?” Cassie asked, as if he’d asked a dumb question. “Anyhow, Mom had lots of lessons to give me. They’re in the journal. Be kind to everyone, even people you don’t like. That was another one.”
Even better, though I have trouble following that rule when it comes to that annoying Baxter. And, Nana, truth to tell, when she’s on a nagging streak.
“Don’t have sex until I’m sixteen, or until I’m ready.”
“Whaaat?”
His grandmother barely stifled a smile, probably at his discomfort, not at Cassie’s precocious words.
“And don’t settle for a lukewarm love, aim for a Wendy kind of love.”
Harvey spread-eagled himself on the floor, under the table, and let loose with a low dog moan, as if he knew all about love.
A Wendy kind of love? Ethan put his face in his hands for a moment. Then he looked directly at his daughter. “I loved your mother, don’t ever think that I didn’t.” Loved, never in love, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“I know,” Cassie said.
“After all, without her, I wouldn’t have you, and I love you bunches. That’s the best kind of love.”
“I know.” Then, unaware of the shock she’d created, Cassie asked, “Can I be excused? I want to go into the Christmas shop with Nana today. Is that okay?”
Just like that, the subject was no longer of any interest to the little girl.
Suddenly, he noticed her attire for the day. A pink sweatshirt with silver sparkly snowflakes in the form of a tree, over darker pink sweatpants, and her pink boots. In her hair, which she insisted on caring for herself, there was pinned a sprig of holly attached to a headband, which was . . . what else? Pink. She looked like a pink elf, perfect attire for the Holiday Shoppe. Or. . . . Oh, no! He would bet his last dollar that Zach Stanton was on the schedule today. He was about to object, not liking the idea of his young daughter having a crush on an older man . . . sixteen years old! Girls her age should be interested in Barbies, not Kens. Not that Zach was any kind of Ken with his tattoos and one earring. But his grandmother kicked him under the table, a silent caution to not overreact. He knew she was right, forbid a kid something and they wanted it even more. So, all he said to Cassie was, “As long as you don’t overdo.”
Cassie got up and walked out of the kitchen. No need for crutches today. She only limped slightly. Please God, let her improvement continue, he prayed. The cats followed after her, but Harvey stuck around, still hoping for some scraps.
Once they were alone, his grandmother pointed a spatula at him. “Like I said, closure. I’m not getting any younger. I won’t always be around, you know.”
“If you’re planning on kicking the bucket, please don’t do it today. I have too much to do without having to make funeral arrangements.”
“Very funny. Maybe I want to get a life for myself. Maybe I want to sign up for mambo lessons. Maybe I want to get myself a Latin lover.”
His mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding. I hope. Or maybe mambo lessons would do you good. Better yet, get yourself a boyfriend. Get two. It might improve your mood and stop your nagging.”
Under her breath, his grandmother said, “I’m not the only one that needs to get laid.”
Sometimes his grandmother went too far. Ethan said the bad words he’d been holding back, under his breath, followed by, A Wendy kind of love. Those words would stick in his craw for a long time now.
As if she hadn’t shocked the pants off him, his grandmother was off on another tangent. “By the way, I heard on the radio this morning that Frank Baxter is leading the contest for best grinch. You’ve dropped to third place. Moving into second is Gabriel Conti, the architect who inherited his family’s factory here in Bell Cove. Apparently, he made a remark to a Durham newspaper, something to the effect of, ‘Who needs bells today, anyhow? You can buy them at Walmart for a dime a dozen.’”
At least she was off the subject of closure. “That doesn’t bode well for our committee meeting with him this afternoon.”
“I wondered why you were wearing a shirt and tie.”
He figured it was the least he could do to make an impression, though his appearance wouldn’t matter diddly-squat to a big shot like Gabriel Conti, who thought quality bells could be bought at Walmart. The Durham architectural firm he was a partner in was in the media all the time for the famous buildings it designed around the world. Gabe probably forgot they’d even met as teenagers. “We were supposed to get together last week, but he canceled at the last minute. I heard he met with the real estate developer, though.”
“It’ll be a cryin’ shame if they close the factory down.”
“We’re trying our best.”
“If bells aren’t selling, it’s too bad they can’t find another business to take over.”
“If Conti would give us time, we might be able to lure a suitable enterprise here.”
“Maybe that’s what the excess money from the grinch contest could be used for. A Bell Cove Development Authority or whatever you call those committees that try to entice businesses into their communities with tax incentives and stuff.”
He just gaped at his grandmother. What does she know about development authorities? And another committee? Not for me! And just how much damn money does she think this crazy contest is going to make? Instead of snapping at her, like he was inclined to do, he said, “It’s hard to attract new business, with Bell Cove being so inaccessible.”
“Bell Forge managed with barges off that back dock harbor.”
“Pfff! Have you seen that thing lately? The wood is rotted out and would crumble under the weight of a two-ton church bell.”
“It could be rebuilt,” she started to say, then, at his scowl of disbelief, she added, “by a motivated buyer.”
“And where would we find one of those?” he scoffed.
She shrugged. “Maybe it’s time for a Christmas miracle.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I’m gonna be praying for . . . a miracle of the bells.” He was kidding, of course, but the light in his grandmother’s eyes—the same blue as everyone’s in the Rutledge family, including his and Cassie’s—made him regret his hasty words.
Especially when she said, “Hmmm.”
He knew, he just knew, that not only was this town going bonkers over a grinch contest, but they would now be praying for a bell miracle.
Personally, Ethan was praying he could make it through the holiday this year. A Wendy kind of love. The words kept drumming in his head. He reacted the only way he could, by muttering, “Bah! Humbug!”
“What did you say?” his grandmother asked.
“I said, ‘Merry Christmas! It’s off to work I go. Ho, ho, ho!’”
“I think you’ve got elves and dwarves mixed up.”
That wasn’t the only thing he was mixed up about.
Fancy meeting you here, Mister Crab . . .
Wendy spent the next morning with Aunt Mildred finalizing sleeping arrangements for her friends who should be arriving that afternoon. A cleaning lady, Sally Davis, came in once a week to help her aunt, but the third floor hadn’t been touched in years.
Sally was up there now mopping the old oak floors to a high sheen with Murphy Oil Soap, the not unpleasant scent of which drifted all the way down to the kitchen where it warred with the delicious aroma of homemade marinara sauce. Wendy and her aunt were in the laundry room folding the third batch of bed linens and towels. If the weather was warmer, the sheets would be hanging outside on the clothesline, and the doors would be open to the bay breeze, adding yet another scent to the air.
Elmer was making lasagna for dinner with tomatoes canned from his own garden, taken over recently by the new owners of his home which had been sold out from under him by an unscrupulous family member. The issue was currently slogging through the mud of the state court system. He was being aided by Harry, whose wheelchair fit perfectly under the low island where he was chopping onions, mushrooms, and garlic. Gloria was perched on a stool—no need for the walker today, apparently—making an arrangement of holly, pinecones, and a fat clove candle for the dining room where they would be eating that night, with all the extensions added to the table for the first time in years.
Wendy could hear some jaunty Christmas music coming from the front parlor where Raul was apparently teaching Claudette how to do the Carolina Shag to “Jingle Bell Rock,” while the New Orleans native was showing him how to shake a leg with a Cajun Two-Step. How they were doing that with the rug down, she wasn’t sure. Maybe they were out in the hall.
It was organized chaos, which Wendy didn’t yet understand. For now, she was more concerned with the logistics of having anywhere from ten to fifteen people residing in this house for the holidays.
With Gloria in her mother’s sewing/sickroom and Harry next door in her father’s office made into a temporary bedroom, it meant that her aunt and Raul shared one of the five bedrooms on the second floor, she was in her old room, and Diane in the second guest room, which was separated by a Jack ’n Jill bathroom. The new arrival, Claudette, had been using the second guest room, but would be sleeping on a pull-out sofa downstairs with Gloria for the time being. Elmer occupied the first guest room on the second floor. The old master bedroom hadn’t been used since her father died, but Wendy wasn’t so sentimental that she would mind one of her SEAL friends using it. A change of linens and quick dusting was all that was needed there. If Delphine should show up, she could take one of the twin beds in Diane’s room.
In addition to the small shared bathroom, there was also a large bathroom on this floor with an old-fashioned claw-foot tub, alongside a more modern shower stall put in when Wendy was a kid. The first floor had a half bath. Wendy wasn’t sure how that worked for the handicapped two down there, and she wasn’t asking. There was also a full bath on the third floor, with two bedrooms, once intended for servants, and a large school/playroom.
The basement was half finished with paneling, used occasionally for parties by Wendy and her friends when she was growing up. Now it was a junk room with old furniture and boxes stored to the ceiling. Not a mess she wanted to tackle during this trip.
Wendy really needed to think about getting rid of this big elephant of a house, with all this space. It was something she would discuss with Aunt Mildred before she left. When her father was alive, he liked having those three rooms on the first floor for his home medical practice, and he had been a big man in stature who relished what he called “breathing room.”
One thing was certain; she wouldn’t sell if her aunt wanted to stay here. Money wasn’t an issue for Wendy. At least not at the moment.
About noon, Wendy showered and changed to black leggings and a fluffy soft, white cashmere mock-turtleneck sweater. She was going to meet her friend Laura Atler for lunch at the Cracked Crab. Before going outside, where the temperature had dropped to a low thirty degrees, which had everyone wishing for a white Christmas, even if only flurries, she grabbed her mother’s old red coat from the hall closet. She buttoned it and pulled the collar up, relishing the feel, almost as if being enfolded with maternal warmth.
I’m becoming way too sentimental. That’s what comes from returning home. She sighed and went out, telling her aunt she would be back about three or so. Diane had taken the rental car that morning to the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum on Hatteras Island where she planned to spend a few hours.
Laura was already at the restaurant when Wendy arrived fifteen minutes later after her brisk walk to town. She knew because she’d gotten a text message a few moments ago. The bell tinkled on the door when she entered, but the hostess was missing from the entry area, probably showing someone else to a table.
Wendy walked up to the reception desk to get a closer look at the big Mason jar sitting there with a poster behind it listing all the nominees thus far for Bell Cove Grinch of the Year. An amazing twenty-two names and twelve thousand dollars had been raised thus far, the proceeds to go for street lighting and other civic projects. Wendy recognized some of the names, including Ethan who was now number four. At the top was Gabriel Conti, whom she’d never met but assumed was one of the founding bell factory family members. But wait, she had met him long ago when she was a teenager and he’d sometimes visited his grandparents here during the summer months. But then, Wendy had eyes for Ethan only. Plus, she was often away being a swimming instructor at summer camps.
Looking around to make sure she wasn’t noticed, she wrote Ethan’s name on two of the slips of paper and dropped a ten-dollar bill in the jar. Immature? Yes. Satisfying? Hell, yes!
Laura was sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, which was surprisingly busy for this time of the year. If the del
icious aromas of seafood coming from the kitchen were any indication, she could tell why.
They both laughed when Wendy took off her coat, revealing her white mock-turtleneck, and she noticed that Laura was wearing an almost identical one under a Christmassy green pantsuit. Some things never changed, apparently, including their shared taste in clothes.
After Wendy explained that Diane wouldn’t be joining them, having opted for the touristy day, she and Laura hugged warmly, each commenting on how good the other looked. Laura was a beautiful blonde, one of those women who came late into their beauty. Growing up, Laura had always been a little too pudgy, or suffered from acne, or hair issues, or chronic shyness. Now, she was petite, with clear skin and to-die-for long platinum tresses styled into a mass of waves. She couldn’t be too shy anymore if she was editor of the weekly newspaper where she probably had to do a lot of the interviewing herself.
Even though Wendy hadn’t come home much over the past twelve years, she’d kept in touch with her best friend by phone and email. Time didn’t matter with “sisters at heart,” which they had always proclaimed to be.
Tony Bonfatto, the owner of the Cracked Crab, came over to hand them menus personally. After introductions and some small talk, during which Wendy could tell that he had a thing for Laura, they placed their orders. Wendy would have a soft crab sandwich on a fresh-baked roll with a side of coleslaw, and Laura opted for lobster bisque, with a small baguette. Diet sodas for them both.
Before he left, Tony reminded Laura, “Remember the committee meeting over at the forge at two.”
Laura nodded.
The forge—Bell Forge, Wendy assumed—was located about five miles south of the town, beyond the Rutledge Tree Farm.
Wendy arched her brows at Laura after the restaurant owner went back to the kitchen to place their orders.