A Winter Wonderland

by Fern Michaels

“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-h
igh 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.

  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 l
iked 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.