Sandy tilted her head at the photo with a prideful glow. “That’s our son at Multnomah Falls. Reece and his sister, Lisa, used to go hiking there every summer, before she moved to Washington. You just missed them both, actually.”
Jenna strained to absorb anything that followed his name. Reece. Putting that together with the memory of his face returned a simmer to Jenna’s cheeks. She needed to switch topics. Now. “By the way, I had a question about . . . Mrs. Porter.” It was the first thought her mind could grasp.
“Go on, shoot.” Sandy smiled, waiting.
You’re a salesperson, Jenna told herself. Spin this.
“The thing is, I have some items of hers that seemed pretty important. A box of old pictures from when Mr. and Mrs. Porter served in the military. Even a Bronze Star from World War Two. But when I asked her, she told me to toss it all out.”
Sandy didn’t ponder this for more than a second. “It couldn’t have been them. Probably just some people they knew.”
“But, the woman in the photos—her features looked so similar.”
“Hmm . . . maybe a cousin, then. I couldn’t tell you. But I do know that Bill’s father never enlisted. Because of flatfoot, I think. And goodness knows, Estelle isn’t the type to have enlisted in the military.” Sandy laughed softly, making the suggestion seem ludicrous.
When it came to personal items, Jenna welcomed the invitation to do as she pleased. She just wished she could as easily discard Mrs. Porter’s reaction.
“So you don’t think they’re worth saving?” Jenna wanted final confirmation.
“From what Estelle told you, doesn’t sound like it. Besides, even though she has a great little setup here, with a kitchenette and its own compact washer and dryer, I’m afraid there isn’t a lot of storage space.”
Jenna nodded. The subject was settled.
“Anyhow, this is for you,” Sandy said.
The key. Jenna had nearly forgotten. She accepted the offering, which brought back her other concern: How long until the flooded bedroom was repaired?
Before Jenna could ask, a phone rang in the kitchen.
“Ooh, I need to catch that,” Sandy said, stepping away. “Would you mind letting yourself out, sweetie?”
“Um—no. That’s fine.”
“Thanks a bunch!” Sandy waved and disappeared into the next room.
Releasing a sigh, Jenna headed out.
After sending a text—On my way!—she drove toward her meeting. Houses on every block were in the midst of being Christmas-ized. Neighbors were hanging wreaths, untangling lights. Planting huge plastic candy canes in perfectly good lawns.
Today, though, Jenna barely felt her usual irritation over the scene. Despite her better judgment, her thoughts kept channeling back to the mystery of Estelle Porter’s past.
Chapter 5
The system had become a clustered mess. Thousands of international shipments continued to arrive at stores with no clear tracking of details. For Reece, this meant an emergency campout at the office, regardless of it being Thanksgiving weekend. Even if the holiday were observed by his biggest London account, it wouldn’t matter. Reece and his IT team were ordered to fix the problem before Europe’s retailers opened for morning business.
For yet another hour Reece left his techies to their mission. In his office he’d tried calling his grandma, but her house phone had been disconnected. His father hadn’t wasted any time. If there was any chance of making it over before she went to bed, he needed the Brit issue solved.
“Making any progress?” he said, peeking into IT’s cubical area.
One of them mumbled “sorta” and the three continued typing away. They slouched before their computers with four screens each. Why the hell they needed as many screens as the CIA was beyond Reece, but now wasn’t the time to raise the question.
He glanced inside the pizza box on the closest desk and found a lone slice. The six-pack of Mountain Dew he’d brought in, bribery for the two caffeine addicts of the bunch, was nearly gone. He wished he could think of something else to speed up the group.
“Anything I can get you guys?”
Instead of responding, over their shoulders the three exchanged codes and technical speak to facilitate their test cases. The mood was sluggish and gray. But then, he couldn’t blame them for not being enthused. Working today hadn’t been part of Reece’s plan either.
After getting his car battery replaced that morning, he had zoomed onto the freeway, headed for his grandma’s house. Thoughts of Jenna, the beautiful woman he’d just met, had disengaged his auto-pilot skills. When his cell phone rang, he realized he’d missed the turnoff—by three full exits. His boss’s call about the integration disaster had rooted him back in reality.
“I tried to tell them,” Reece had insisted, “rushing the SAP cut-over was a bad idea.” Ignoring his warning, some hotshot exec had demanded they implement the complicated system right before a global launch of a winter clothing line. A real genius.
“I know, I know,” his boss had said. “But unless we want to lose millions, you’d better round up your guys right away.”
Reece had groaned his compliance. In the background, he could hear people talking and laughing, band music blasting from a televised football game.
“Bet you wish you’d taken me up on my offer, huh?” A smirk in the man’s tone.
“Hell yeah,” Reece had replied, though hadn’t actually meant it. Even with the two feet of fresh snow on Mount Hood, rarely seen this early in the year, a snowboarding trip had lost its appeal.
He now grabbed the last slice of pepperoni pizza and called out to his team, “I’ll be down the hall if you need me.” An ugly mountain of nonurgent e-mails had piled up during his travels. At least that would keep him busy until receiving his cue to help put out the logistical fire.
Reece journeyed through the ghost town of a floor to reach his office. He took a bite of cold pizza and plopped down in his chair. On the corner of his desk was a digital frame he’d grown so accustomed to that he barely noticed its auto slide show anymore. He had forgotten this particular picture, of him and Tracy in a stall beside her horse. He’d never been much of an animal person. Then he’d volunteered to groom Chestnut until Tracy was well enough to do it herself, and the horse gradually grew on him.
Reece smiled at the memory of the first time Chestnut nuzzled his neck, a sign of affection and acceptance, of trust. That was the day Tracy snapped the photo.
The picture faded from the screen, replaced by a shot of the Graniellos. Or “Granolas,” as Tracy called them.
“A bunch of fruits and nuts,” she liked to joke, “all packed into one big family.”
He laughed to himself now, before a realization struck: Tracy was the one he should have been thinking about all morning, not some stranger who’d helped him with his car. And yet somehow, he couldn’t shake the buzzing thrill he’d felt from watching Jenna move, from touching her hand. The raw beauty she projected from every pore. The way she seemed embarrassed by anyone flustering her like that—
He stopped there, scrapped the wandering thought.
“Now who’s the genius?” he muttered, and threw his pizza away.
Reece didn’t know a thing about the other girl, one he’d never see again. Cold feet. That’s all this was. Natural nerves about taking the next step.
He’d learned the hard way not to follow emotions over logic. Snowmobiling at Mount Hood had taught him that. With Tracy on the backseat, they’d been cruising along, having a great old time, when adrenaline lured him into an impromptu race with a guy on the next snowmobile.
“Reece, you’re going too fast,” he’d vaguely heard her say. Wind and snowflakes blew at his ears, at the mask over his eyes. Tracy clung to his middle as they approached a curve. If he cut the corner around a tree, no doubt they’d take the lead.
“Slow down!” Maybe her words had come too late. Maybe he’d ignored them, driven by the need to win a no-win contest. There had been no judges. No finish line. Just the rush of hitting a snow-covered rock that launched them into the air, a slow motion flight, rewarding him with a broken arm—and the scare of his life at seeing Tracy’s limp form at the base of a tree.
“Oh, God, please . . .” he begged, after crawling over to her. “Please be all right.”
Her cloudy breaths kept him from breaking down until they reached the hospital, where a doctor diagnosed her fractured pelvis.
“My horse,” she’d said groggily once she was told the news.
At her bedside, Reece gingerly squeezed her hand. “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry,” he told her. “And I swear, Tracy, I’ll never hurt you again.”
Out of fear now of breaking that promise, something inside him was looking for a way out. That had to be it. That’s where all these doubts were coming from. Any fascination with another woman had no place in his life. The time had come to take the leap, to ask the big, looming, inevitable question.
But to do that properly, there was one thing Reece needed: a special heirloom with a history he hoped to repeat.
Chapter 6
Jenna sat up on her white leather couch, reading it once again. Ad copy for the estate sale shouldn’t have been this difficult to proof. Terrence had penned a fabulous write-up, as he always did. Wisely, this time he mentioned the family’s name. Mr. Porter’s former status as the president of a local college could attract more buyers. Even small-celebrity interest helped.
She leafed through her folder, moving on to her task sheet. The meeting with Sally hadn’t gone as she’d hoped, most of the items not appraising for more than Jenna guessed. “Let me keep checking on these,” Sally had told her, regarding the last two uncertainties.
A slow economy wasn’t helping Jenna’s cause. The fifteen percent increase she’d promised, and thus her partnership, were slipping from her grasp. Squashing the prospect, she racked her brain for any collectors she’d forgotten to contact. Not a single one emerged. Granted, her resources weren’t the problem. It was her thoughts, which kept floating back to Estelle. And her box. And her alluring grandson.
Business and pleasure don’t mix, she reminded herself, citing her boss’s basic rule. A clichéd concept, but valid nonetheless. In fact, it was one her father had bulldozed right through, leaving Jenna and her mother in his trampled wake.
She shut the file, tossed it aside. From the end table she snagged the remote. She reclined on the couch and flew from one channel to the next. A cheesy talk show. A political debate. An endless slew of reality shows. She kept flipping until she landed on a movie featuring stars she recognized. Cuba Gooding Jr. and Ben Affleck, in Pearl Harbor.
The connection to Estelle screamed as loud as the bombs dropping onto the navy ships before her.
Jenna resumed her channel surfing. Eventually she stopped on an infomercial. She treated TV ads and pawning programs like a game, challenging herself to guess the price. Make that two prices: first, the product’s worth; second, what it would sell for. She was seldom off by much.
In this one, a bearded man demonstrated a cabinet with a zillion compartments. All silver and glass, it matched everything in Jenna’s condo. Of course, she didn’t own enough to fill half the thing. Nor did she have anything left to tidy.
The infomercial broke for a commercial—a great irony in that. Black-and-white footage of Nat King Cole filled the screen. He crooned “For Sentimental Reasons” into an oversized microphone. As song titles scrolled upward, the shot changed to another man singing “I’m in the Mood for Love.” It was a CD collection of nostalgic songs, ballads from the 1940s.
The war years.
Jenna arched a brow. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
She shut the TV off.
From the beginning, Jenna had made a habit of giving clients their space. Anything unrelated to their houses and furnishings was their own business. At the end of the day, it was all about the sale. But . . . never before had she felt stalked by a person’s history. By the likes of a shoe box, stored in her car trunk. Something in it kept on prodding.
If only she could identify the source, like locating a pebble in her shoe, she could shake the problem away. A little digging around wouldn’t hurt anyone. Not an intrusive investigation, by any means. Just a quick online search. A few public records. Available to anyone.
Before she could change her mind, she dragged her soft briefcase closer and pulled out her laptop. As it warmed up, the rumble of a passing truck rose from three floors below. The motion rattled her large windows. She typed the keywords: Estelle Porter Oregon.
An obituary for the woman’s husband, Walter, gave a brief summary of his life. No military service, which aligned with Sandy’s claim. It mentioned his surviving widow, Estelle Agnes Martin. Besides her maiden name, there was nothing of note.
Jenna skimmed through several other entries, using the name Martin as well. But most of the links pertained to a beer company, specializing in porters, and some PTA president in Oregon, Wisconsin. No info about the right Estelle.
Probably a good thing.
Jenna tried to end the search, yet couldn’t. She despised giving up on anything so easily. She stared at the blinking cursor, considering options, and tried: Estelle Martin military WWII Pacific.
The page refreshed with all new listings. It took Jenna a mere second to see that the fifth one down contained every one of the keywords. Anticipation flowed through her as she clicked on the link and discovered a site honoring the Women’s Army Corps, called WACs, of World War II. She picked up speed, reviewing the pages, searching for Estelle’s name.
At last, in an album of photographs, she found it in a caption:
(From left to right) Pvt. Betty Cordell, Pvt. Shirley
Davidson, PFC Rosalyn “Roz” Taylor, and
Pvt. Estelle Martin.
The corresponding picture appeared to feature the very faces from those in Estelle Porter’s box. So why would she have hidden this amazing achievement from her family? At least that’s what she seemed to be doing, based on Sandy’s comments.
Jenna scanned the next few pages in search of an answer, and froze. Not at the photo in particular, but its caption. For below the image of Estelle with a handsome soldier, the same one who’d fashioned mistletoe from a branch, was the man’s name: Corporal Tom Redding.
In other words, he wasn’t the late Mr. Porter.
Ideas began to whirl. Perhaps the corporal was an old flame who’d never made it home. It would make sense, why Estelle didn’t want the box. Especially if no one in the family knew of him. Better to rid yourself of objects that tethered you to the past. Jenna understood that firsthand. Plus, given the sparkle in the man’s eyes, the glow in his smile, he would clearly take effort to forget. Almost as difficult as, say . . . Estelle’s grandson.
In fact, both men radiated the same type of charm. There couldn’t be a connection—could there?
“Oh, stop it,” she told herself.
She closed down her computer and set off for bed. Whether possible or not, such theories were none of her business.
Chapter 7
“You don’t have to do this,” Reece insisted.
“What, keep meat on your bones?” his grandma said. “You sure you want to leave that to your mother?” She smirked from her stove, dressed in a pastel yellow sweater and gray woolen pants. Early-afternoon light angled through the window, creating a silvery outline of her soft curls.
Parked in a kitchen chair, Reece folded his arms. “Grandma, you know what I’m talking about.”
More stirring of the chowder. More evading his question.
She scooped a ladleful into a bowl. The aroma of comfort food filled the room, just as it had for as long as Reece could remember.
He couldn’t count how many PB&J sandwiches or bowls of goulash he’d enjoyed at this very table. No one in history could top Grandma Estelle’s zucchini bread or strawberry jam, both made of produce grown in her own backyard.
Reece cringed at the idea of a stranger moving in, tromping through her beloved garden. He tried to keep the frustration from his tone. “Regardless of what the paperwork says, this is your home. Dad has no right to make you move if you want to stay.”
“Well, he hasn’t called in a SWAT team quite yet,” she said, delivering his soup and spoon. Per her usual, she would eat only after everyone else was taken care of. “Eat up, now, before you shrivel away.”
“Grandma, please. I’m being serious.”
She lowered herself into the chair across from him and stifled a cough. With a tissue plucked from her pocket, she dabbed at her nose. Her tired eyes surveyed the room, giving away what she wouldn’t verbalize. No doubt, the wooden shelves of Goebel figurines and decorative plates and Amish carvings carried visions of her and her husband purchasing them together. Items that would soon be hawked off to a herd of bargain seekers.
Her gaze settled back on Reece. “Change is rarely easy, dear. Sometimes we just do what needs to be done.”
“You know that’s not a real answer.”
She gestured to his bowl. “Better eat soon, or I might start feeling insulted.”
Given her spunk, a person might take her for the type to speak her piece without pause. Indeed this applied to day-today minutiae; though ironically, when it came to the most affecting decisions she remained a traditional housewife and mother who dutifully complied. It would take more nudging to uncover what she really wanted. For the moment, Reece would give her room to ponder.
He blew on a spoonful of soup and swallowed it down. His chest warmed from the hearty, perfectly salted chowder. He wondered how often she cooked for others these days, or did anything social that she used to love.
“Have you seen any of your old friends lately?”
The Christmas Collector Page 4
