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 raise 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.
He forced down another sip of his spiked cider. Beside him, Tracy fidgeted with the handle on her mug. Noise from the house lightened along with the rain, amplifying their exchange of quiet.
At last, she angled her body toward him. “Reece . . . I think it’s time we talked. About our relationship.”
He replied with forged levity. “What’s on your mind?”
“The thing is, I’ve been giving my life a lot of thought while you were away. I’m almost thirty, and every time I try to envision us five or ten years down the road, nothing seems clear.”
Without her saying it, he knew the source of the haze. It was him. What he didn’t know was which obstacle continued to hold him back. From skydiving to bungee jump
ing, he used to be the type to literally plunge headfirst without a thought.
In a single day, all that had changed.
“I can’t help but wonder,” she went on, “if you’re still with me just because—”
“Tracy!” a voice hollered from behind. Her mother had reopened the sliding glass door. “Heidi and Marco have been looking for you.”
“They’re not leaving yet, are they?”
“Marco said he wants to get up before dawn. He’s already warming up the car.”
Tracy let out a heavy breath. Apparently, she’d agreed to watch their toddler, freeing the couple for the Black Friday stampede. Not even pregnancy could deter shoppers on a mission.
She looked at Reece, clearly torn.
“Come on, come on,” Tracy’s mother urged. “They’re waiting.”
Reece gave Tracy’s hand a tender squeeze. “Go ahead,” he assured her. “We’ll talk later.”
Though hesitant, she nodded her agreement. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips, brief enough for a parental audience, and watched Tracy step inside. Her mother sent him an approving wave.
Alone again, he realized he, too, would be free to leave. The idea of settling into his apartment, giving himself a chance to think, to better prepare for the rest of their discussion, sounded awfully appealing.
Before he could stand, his cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He answered and found relief at the absence of urgency in his mother’s tone.
“Honey, I’m sorry we didn’t call you back earlier. Dinner had me going a bit crazy.”
“How’d it turn out?”
“Not the best,” she admitted wearily. “I tried to deep fry the turkey this year, and it was a total disaster. While I was dealing with that mess, half of the side dishes ended up overcooked.”
The kitchen always tended to be this chaotic when, on the alternate years, his grandmother didn’t run the show. But usually his sister provided damage control.
“Wasn’t Lisa there to help?”
“She got stuck in terrible traffic in Seattle, so she didn’t get here till late.”
Reece felt a tug of regret for not joining them. Last year, he and Tracy had split time between both families, and ended up not enjoying either one on a tight schedule. Now, at his mother’s recap, he was struck by the family traditions he had missed out on, burnt food or not. Thankfully, Tracy had agreed to spend Christmas Eve at his grandmother’s house. He could already smell the glazed ham and hot chocolate; could hear Bing Crosby’s velvety voice lined with a soft crackle from their record player. No modern CD or iPod. Always a real thirty-three LP, same one since his childhood. Speaking of—
“Do you want me to pick up a tree tomorrow, or is Dad doing that? For Grandma, I mean.”
“For Grandma . . .” she repeated in a pondering tone. “Um, well. That’s something we haven’t had a chance to discuss with you, since you’ve been gone.”
“I don’t understand.”
A pause fell over the line.
“Mom?”
“Why don’t you come over tomorrow and your father can explain.”
“Explain what?”
Muffled, she spoke to someone off the handset, then finally returned. “Honey, I’ve gotta help clean up. We’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”
Reece’s jaw tightened. He was about to demand she fill him in, but recalled the strain her evening had been. Relenting, he simply said good night. After all, if it was anything critical, his mother would have told him.
Wouldn’t she?
Chapter 3
Jenna steered through the swampy fog, pulse quickening. Her smearing wipers only worsened the view. Experimenting with the headlights didn’t help. Six in the morning, but not a slit of light. Well, except for the blinding beams from passing commuters coasting downward.
She reduced her speed, eyes trained on the solid white line running parallel to the guardrail. In the tree-laden hills overlooking Portland, the Skyline neighborhood was considered one of the most affluent, but come January, their snaking boulevard would turn slick enough for a luge.
It took a little patting to find the defrost button by feel. The second she turned it on she realized her grave mistake. Warm air flooded the windshield and thickened the haze. Resisting panic, she scrambled for the knob to shut it off. In the process she hit the radio button, launching “Carol of the Bells” through the airwaves.
Deeeng . . . donnng . . . deeeeng . . . donnng . . .
The monotonous loop intensified as she rolled down the window. She poked her head out to see the road. A wall of cold shivered her skin.
Deeeng . . . donnng . . . deeeeng . . . donnng . . .
What the heck was she doing, risking her life to save a measly shoe box? Trading in her nice sedan for this two-door tin can should have reinforced her need to say no. Her first mistake had been to let her old boyfriend talk her into buying a condo together. “A good investment,” he’d called it. Of course, she hadn’t counted on him losing his job, or the realty bubble bursting. And when they split up, she didn’t have much of a choice but to purchase his half.
This, she reminded herself, was the greatest reason for her drive through the misty blackness, her nose threatened by frostbite. Because there just might be a gem in that box Terrence found. He’d mentioned a container inside that appeared to hold jewelry. Clients often didn’t realize what they owned. Like exploring a sunken ship, she simply needed to look under the right plank. A single treasure could seal the deal with her boss: “You get me a fifteen percent increase over the last estate, and I’ll make you a partner.” That’s what he’d agreed to after months of Jenna’s requests, all posed as a win-win; her boss could focus on other ventures and Jenna, his top employee, would earn them even more if she was personally invested. Her goal finally had clarity, same as the view now through the windshield.
She pulled her head back inside. Teeth chattering, she closed the window and silenced the radio in the midst of “Santa Baby.” The lyrics were but a wish list of materialism. Further support that the holiday came once a year too often.
Two turns and a sharp curve later, Jenna parked at the base of the sloped driveway. Its steepness, she’d been told, was part of the rationale behind selling. With Mrs. Porter now living in her son’s family home, her large Victorian house loomed dark and still.
At the curb stood a lineup of four garbage bins, each so packed that the lids gapped by a foot. Her crew would be filling many more of those before they were done. The thought made her happy; the idea of scrounging through them made her cringe.
She would check inside the home first.
The keys on her loop were labeled by house number, organized numerically. A good system in daylight. Prior to dawn, not so much. Judging by the keys’ shapes, she went with her first guess. No luck. A second one glided easily into the lock, but wouldn’t turn. When she tried to slide it out, the key’s metal teeth clenched and held, refusing to budge.
A squeak of brakes spun her around. A van rolled past. She still had time before the trash pickup. But how much?
Just then, the front door flew open. Her keys broke free and dropped to the ground. Fear of an intruder stalled her heart. Then the silhouette gained definition, and Jenna recognized the person she had met briefly in passing.
“Mrs. Porter,” she said with a sigh. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“I gathered as much.”
Jenna recalled the early hour. “Sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all. I was up doing my Pilates.”
At her age? She had to be in her late eighties, and wearing a pink frilly bathrobe, a scarf around her curlers.
“Wow, that’s amazing. Really?”
The woman peered over her cat-eye glasses. “No, dear.”
At first taken aback, Jenna smiled.
“Well, I suspect you’re here to work. So have at it.” Mrs. Porter shuffled toward the kitchen, flipping lights on as she went. Word had it, as the widow of a local college president, she was rarely seen in anything but her Sunday best. Predawn clearly afforded an exception.
“I’ll be right here in the den,” Jenna called out.
Mrs. Porter didn’t respond.
Jenna shut the front door and hurried into the study. She yanked the chain of a desk lamp, illuminating the ceiling-high bookshelves. A layer of dust further aged the antique book collection. The room’s paisley trim, burgundy curtains, and leather wingbacks were straight out of Masterpiece Theater—but surrounded by junk.
When Jenna started a week ago, the stacks of decades-old magazines had been the first to go. Paper grocery bags and used gift wrap, even saved aluminum squares, had filled two whole recycle bins. Typical of Great Depression survivors, the woman “didn’t like to waste.”
Jenna’s mother used to lean on the phrase when her so-called collecting began. She had never gotten as bad as those hoarders on TV; reality programs preyed on extremes. There had been no mold covering her floors. No cause for asthma or scabies. Although maybe, if the woman had continued denying help, that ultimately would have been her. She had certainly accumulated enough for Jenna to keep visitors away. Box after box of unopened items. Many purchases identical. The problem had grown steadily, ignited by Jenna’s father. Or rather the day he ran off with a young coworker. As a salesman who’d traveled most of his daughter’s life, he rarely reached out afterward. So the morning he called with news, Jenna had steeled herself: He was getting remarried. What she hadn’t prepared for was the full impact that hit on Christmas Day, when the presents her mother had bought formed a blockade of half the tree.
Shoving down the memory, Jenna focused on the only boxes that mattered: the moving boxes in Mrs. Porter’s study. One after the other she peeked beneath the unsealed flaps.
The Christmas Collector Page 2
