I hope you’ll look for Easter Bunny Murder and the other books in the series and get to know Lucy and her family. I think you’ll discover the Stones are a lot like your family.
Best regards,
Leslie Meier
The Christmas Collector
KRISTINA MCMORRIS
Dear Reader,
Only upon completing this novella did it occur to me that my literary journey has indeed come full circle. After all, it was a family Christmas gift that had sparked the idea for my debut novel, Letters from Home. The fact I had “borrowed” two characters from that story in order to create The Christmas Collector, though now as their elderly versions, seems all the more fitting.
You see, I was in the midst of interviewing my grandmother for the biographical section of a homemade cookbook, intended as a Christmas present for the grandkids, when she revealed a shocking detail: She and my grandfather had dated merely twice during WWII before uniting in a marriage that lasted until his passing, fifty years later. Until then, I had no idea their courtship had blossomed almost entirely through heartfelt letters, each of which Grandma Jean then retrieved from her closet to share.
Captivated by their relationship and a fading era, I soon sat down to pen my first novel, based on the question: How well can you truly know someone through letters alone? What formed as a result was Letters from Home, in which a WWII soldier falls deeply in love through a yearlong letter exchange, unaware that the girl he’s writing to isn’t the one replying. Unique cases of loved ones separated by war have since continued to fascinate me, as proven by my second novel, Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Again inspired by a true account, the story follows a Caucasian woman who, refusing to be separated from her Japanese American husband, moves to an internment camp by choice. In many ways, the struggle of living between worlds, seeking out one’s true identity, is a common thread among my books—as are themes of redemption and forgiveness, loss of innocence, the complexities of family, and the importance of memories. I hope you enjoy The Christmas Collector for all these reasons and more!
With warm holiday wishes,
Kristina McMorris
For 1940s holiday recipes, special book club features, and excerpts from the letters by Kristina’s grandfather, visit www.KristinaMcMorris.com.
Chapter 1
She tried to ignore him throughout dinner, but the squatty monk held Jenna’s focus in a fisted grip. He seemed to be mocking her with a half smile curled into round rosy cheeks, his hand resting on the wide shelf of his belly. Traditionally a symbol of self-sacrifice and frugality, he instead radiated sheer overindulgence.
The fact he was a mere saltshaker didn’t lessen Jenna Matthews’s anxiety. She shifted in her seat, forced down another bite of instant mashed potatoes. She knew without question the Friar Tuck collectible was new to her mother’s house. In a brown robe, his hair forming a silver wreath, he stood amid the Thanksgiving dishes as if staking his claim. A matching pepper shaker and sugar bowl flanked him on the dining room table. Candlelight flickered over the trio, casting shadows across the floral vase and oval doily.
New vase. New doily. New condiment holders. All signs that Jenna’s mother, Rita, had potentially relapsed.
But the woman gave no other indications. Over their holiday meal of turkey TV dinners—her mom’s standard menu, now accustomed to cooking for one—she was rattling on about a film she had seen with a friend from her days in group therapy. Jenna feared those sessions might now be needed again.
“I just don’t know why they insist on doing that.” Her mother used a melodramatic tone for emphasis. “It ruins a perfectly good movie, don’t you think?”
At the expectant pause, Jenna reviewed the discussion she had caught in disjointed pieces. “What does?”
“When they have those corny endings.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I swear, I can’t recall the last time I saw a romantic comedy with a realistic ending. Some character always has to give an over-the-top speech in front of a reception hall, or even a whole baseball stadium. As if big revelations only come when you’re holding a microphone.” She puffed a laugh that jostled her hoop earrings. “Honestly. When have you ever seen that happen in real life?”
Forging a smile, Jenna shrugged, and her mother moved on to the next topic: a Thanksgiving conspiracy by U.S. turkey farmers, based on her doubts over the pilgrims’ actual supper. From a marketing perspective, Jenna hated to admit, the theory was intriguing enough to contemplate. She tried her best to listen, but her surroundings were of greater concern.
What other new purchases lurked in the shadows? She wrestled down the urge to spring from her chair and tear through the china cabinet on a hunt for more evidence. Perhaps she was overreacting.
Then again, she had witnessed firsthand how quickly a handful of knickknacks could multiply until they packed an entire mantel. A wall of bookshelves. Every drawer and cupboard in the house. And before long, you were drowning in a sea of objects no more satisfying than cotton candy: a temporary filler that, for her mother, eventually gave way to the reality of loss. It was this very emptiness that had devoured most of Jenna’s high school years.
“Honey?” her mother said.
“Sorry—what?”
“I was wondering what you wanted for Christmas this year.”
“Nothing.” The reply came stronger than intended. “I mean . . . there really isn’t anything I need.”
“Well, then. I’ll just have to get creative.” She flashed a smile, accentuating the Mary Kay lipstick she’d worn since the early nineties. Her shimmery eye shadow matched her irises, a deep sea green like Jenna’s, and created arcs beneath brown bangs teased to a frizz. Only once had Jenna tried to update her mom’s fashion, citing her cowl neck sweater and stirrup pants, like the ones she wore now, as “Goodwill bound.” The half joke didn’t fly. Her mother had licked her wounds by buying six new bags of useless “stuff.”
Of course, that was back in the midst of her mom’s grieving, too soon after their family of three became two. Maybe, at last, she would consider a small change.
“I was thinking,” Jenna began, gauging her approach, “I should probably get my hair colored in the next few weeks.”
“Oh?” her mother said. “Are you going with a different shade?”
“Just getting rid of the gray.” Jenna’s stylist would faint from joy if Jenna ever agreed to liven up her shaggy brown bob with red or blond highlights, rather than simply disguising her scatterings of early silver. “Why don’t you come along? Maybe try taking off a couple inches. You know, you’d look great with short hair.”
Her mother’s expression perked for a moment, the idea like a sun rising, then just as swiftly setting. She smoothed the ends of her shoulder-length do. “Maybe some other time.”
At thirty-one, Jenna knew that answer well. Through decades of asking permission—hosting a slumber party, buying overpriced jeans—the meaning hadn’t changed. Maybe some other time equaled No.
Jenna returned to her shriveled, gravy-drenched stuffing. The wall clock ticked slowly away. Every swing of its pendulum echoed against the marred wooden floors.
And from the table, that ceramic friar kept right on staring. His painted eyes speared her thoughts, piercing the walls of her past. Despite her efforts, Jenna couldn’t hold back. “When did you get the new saltshaker?”
“Huh? Ahh, that.” Her mother brushed her hand clean with a napkin, monogrammed with an L for its previous owner—whoever that was—before picking up the item. “I got it back in, gosh, August I suppose. Apparently the creamer broke years ago. I thought I’d shown these to you already.”
Jenna shook her head, bracing herself against her mother’s nonchalance. Minor cracks and chips on the rims made the set’s origin clear. A garage sale. Fliers and posters Jenna had passed on the drive here, each tacked to utility poles in the suburban Oregon neighborhood, now sprang to mind: Yard sale this way! Clothes and furniture sale one block ahea
d! They were like neon tavern signs tempting a recovering alcoholic.
Jenna should have visited more often, to keep better watch. With Christmas around the corner, folks everywhere loved purging their old junk to make room for their new junk. It was the all-American way. As an estate liquidator, Jenna had built a career upon that very principle. But that didn’t stop her from despising the holiday that brimmed with manufactured, made-in-Taiwan cheer.
As her mother gazed in admiration at the figurine, Jenna’s insides twisted into a braid of fear. “I thought you stopped buying those kinds of things.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t buy—” Her mother’s cheery tone dissolved as she explained, “It was from Aunt Lenore.”
Aunt Lenore?
And then Jenna remembered. Over the summer, back in the Midwest, the youngest sister of Jenna’s late grandmother had passed away. Lenore used to send them handwritten Christmas cards, among the few people who did that anymore, and create doilies to raise money for the food bank.
Doilies, like the one on the dinner table. The faded floral vase, too, must have belonged to her great aunt.
“So, you just inherited these things,” Jenna realized. Relief washed through her until she met her mother’s gaze, and a mixture of embarrassment and distrust ricocheted between them.
Jenna sank into her chair, weighted by guilt. She sipped her merlot while her mother set down the shaker. Silence returned, heavy as a damp blanket. It draped the black lacquered chairs, a fake fern in the corner, the framed photo tacked to a pin-striped wall. The black-and-white image caught Jenna’s eye. In a grassy field stood a single tulip, almost three-dimensional, airbrushed in vibrant yellow.
“Did you take that one?” she diverted.
Her mom looked over and nodded. “I was driving past a farm over in Damascus when I saw it. Just had to pull over.”
“It’s a really beautiful picture.” A genuine compliment. Her mom’s new job at a portrait studio, after a long career with the school district, had recently revived the hobby. “I like the color effect you added.”
“Well, I did have some help with that part.” A hint of excitement suddenly buoyed her voice. “I used this amazing new editing program. And Doobie’s been wonderful, walking me through it. You remember me telling you about him?”
“A little.” How could Jenna forget? The name of her mom’s coworker sounded like a product of Woodstock. Or at least the remnants of what was smoked by everyone there.
“Anyway, he’s also been teaching me about different lenses, and about the shutter speed for action shots—which has actually come in handy lately, with all the families getting their pictures taken for Christmas.”
Given the modern rage of posting and sending digital images, Jenna was surprised families still bothered with formal portraits. Especially since, in reality, the majority of those mass-printed cards would receive a two-second glance before being tossed in a box.
Box...
Pictures . . .
“Crap.”
“What’s wrong, honey?”
Jenna groaned. “I forgot to do something.”
Terrence, her right-hand man on the current sale, had phoned her yesterday while boarding a plane to see family. “Promise me you’ll grab it,” he’d said, “so it doesn’t land in the trash.” He’d meant to set aside a box, which he suspected the client would want to keep.
While Jenna cared little about personal valuables, she did care about promises.
“I’d better get home,” she told her mom. “I have to go to work early tomorrow.” Early enough to beat Mrs. Porter’s garbage truck.
“But it’s Thanksgiving. I thought everyone else had the weekend off.”
True, each of her four crew members did. Yet Jenna had the most to gain if they met their profit goal. And the most to lose if they failed.
“No rest for the weary, right?” she replied lightly. Feeling a tinge of regret, she averted her eyes while bundling up in her coat. “Thanks for dinner,” she said as they walked to the entry.
“Are we still on for this weekend?” her mother pressed.
It took Jenna a moment to identify the reference: the last Sunday of the month, their standing lunch date.
“Absolutely.”
They met in a brief hug before Jenna dashed outside and into the rain. Once seated in her car, she looked back at the house. Blue shutters, trimmed lawn, windows aglow. It was an image ideal for a mass-printed card.
Almost.
Chapter 2
Drawing a deep breath of night air, Reece Porter rubbed at his right temple. Tension had formed an unbreakable knot. From a patio chair, he watched raindrops puddle on the tarp covering the pool. A drain spout drizzled a stream that bounced off the awning overhead, muted by the din of laughter and chatter and holiday tunes from inside the house.
He’d once considered the stereotypes of huge Italian families as nothing more than myth—pasta and red-sauce obsessed, talking over each other, involved in everyone’s business—until he experienced his girlfriend’s family, the Graniellos. Even the protectiveness exhibited by Tracy’s brothers was fitting of a mob flick. When the accident happened two Decembers back, their distrust of Reece had magnified tenfold. But gradually he had earned their respect. In fact, aided by his dark features, few onlookers would guess he wasn’t a natural link in the family circle.
He just wished that circle tonight didn’t resemble a tightening vice.
Checking his watch, he blew out a sigh. Ten after nine. Another twenty minutes or so and he could excuse himself without being rude.
“There you are.”
Reece turned toward the high yet gentle voice, and found Tracy stepping out of her parents’ home. He started to rise, a reflexive habit from months of helping her through doors, up flights of stairs. But she had already closed the sliding glass door on her own.
She held up a pair of steaming coffee mugs. “Hot Apple Pie and a Peppermint Patty. Your pick.”
The concoctions from her bartender cousin were always a little too sweet. But if nothing else, Reece enjoyed the tradition of them. He’d come to appreciate predictable comfort.
“I’ll take whichever one you don’t want,” he told her.
After a pause, she shrugged a shoulder and gave him the one that smelled like cider. Then she smoothed her fitted dress and sat next to him. He blew on the surface to cool it off. He took a sip, only confirming his stomach’s disinterest. The celebratory champagne was still swishing in his gut.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed a little break from the noise is all.”
She smiled in understanding. The contrast of his own family went without saying.
“You didn’t eat much,” Tracy remarked, and took a drink from her mug.
“Guess I’m still jet-lagged.” It had been only five days since he’d returned from a six-week stint in London, where he’d helped a top account implement a new order-tracking system as part of his global logistics job. On the way back he’d stopped through the San Fran office and had flown back to Portland only this morning.
Perhaps travel weariness was the real root of the evening’s claustrophobia. Or at least what was intensifying the pressure.
“You’re up next, buddy,” one of the uncles had told him over dessert, after Tracy’s sister had announced her engagement. Reece had grown well accustomed to the group-wide sentiment. So why did the comment feel more like a threat than an invitation? More importantly, after all he and Tracy had been through together, why were doubts about their future scratching at his mind?
Just look at the girl: perfect posture, as much from Catholic school as from years of riding equestrian; long black hair in a braid, highlighting her narrow features; gorgeous blue eyes, so light they were almost clear. She was no less striking than when they had first met at a charity golf scramble two summers ago. A petite thing, she’d instantly impressed him by nailing the longest drive on the third hole, all to rais
e funds for a new ward at St. Vincent’s.
Little had Reece known how many hours he’d later spend at that very hospital, helping Tracy through physical therapy. The grueling sessions had sealed their bond. Yet that bond was no match for the discomfort now festering between them.
“So . . .” she said as if fishing for a topic. “Did you talk to your parents yet? To wish them a good Thanksgiving?”
“I called Grandma’s, but nobody answered. So I left a message on my mom’s cell.”
“That’s strange they weren’t there.” She was right, though there wasn’t anywhere else they’d have spent the day.
“I’m sure they just missed the ring. I’ll try again on my way home.”
“I hope everything’s all right.”
Her tone caused Reece a niggling of concern. Elderly couples too often passed in pairs. But it had been five years since losing his grandfather, and still, even at eighty-seven, his grandma was a healthy, feisty little thing.
Detouring from the thought, he mustered enthusiasm over the subject he had no logical reason to avoid. “That’s great news, by the way, about Gabby.”
Tracy returned his smile. “They make a great couple.”
“Do they know where they’re getting married?”
“They’re talking about Sonoma, at the winery where they met. It’s the same place he proposed.”
Reece nodded, pushing himself to continue. “Have they set a date?”
“Gabby was hoping for a summer wedding, but Mom wants her to wait till Heidi has her baby, so traveling will be easier.”
For a moment, Reece had forgotten Tracy’s sister-in-law was expecting a second child. He tried for a casual comment, yet the words wouldn’t flow; they snagged on the jagged milestones everyone around them was tackling with gusto.
A Winter Wonderland Page 30
