The Twelve Dice of Christmas

by Gail Oust

  “Well, it’s too late now for second thoughts.” Pam flicked on her blinker and signaled a right turn. “You’ve already jumped off the diving board into the deep end of the pool.”

  “I never did care much for heights,” I grumbled. “If I ever got up the gumption to jump off a diving board, I’d probably break my fool neck.”

  “Think of this project as decorate or die. Once Monica sets her mind on something, there’s no going back.”

  “Not to mention Connie Sue. Under all that fluffy blond hair lies a head hard as a rock.”

  “Here we are,” Pam announced, pointing to a neat white frame house with black shutters set back from the street.

  I consulted a Post-it stuck to the dash. “Yep, this is it. One-fifteen Adams Street.”

  One-fifteen Adams turned out to be as cute as a button. A gable over the porch boasted a single window that hinted of an attic beyond. A series of columns supported a wide porch suitable for sipping sweet tea on a lazy summer day. A brick-paved walkway passed through a vine-covered wrought-iron arbor and led to the front door.

  Pam parked at the curb and switched off the ignition. “Think of all the possibilities.”

  “Think of all the challenges,” I said, climbing out of her PT Cruiser.

  Just then Connie Sue pulled up behind us in her Lexus. Monica emerged from the passenger side. Judging from their unsmiling faces, I assumed the pair had been bickering. Gloria and Polly were the last to arrive. Polly, at least, seemed to be in a holiday frame of mind. She reminded me of an elf in an oversized sweatshirt with a grinning Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer and Kelly green leggings. Alongside her, I felt downright dowdy in jeans and tailored blouse.

  “Hey, everyone!” Polly greeted us with a jaunty wave. “Let’s get this party started.”

  We trudged up the walkway behind Connie Sue. “Isn’t this just darlin’?” she gushed, making an expansive gesture. “It’ll be such fun decoratin’ an older home.”

  From her sour expression, Monica didn’t seem to share Connie Sue’s enthusiasm for older homes. “It appears to me we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  Gloria motioned to a tree that took up most of the side yard. “I bet that magnolia tree is as old as the house. It must be magnificent in the spring. And these vines—Carolina jessamine—have the loveliest fragrance when in bloom.”

  “An old boyfriend once gave me perfume that smelled like magnolias,” Polly reminisced. “Silly man, thought that would make up for breaking our date in favor of playing poker.”

  “So what did you do? Forgive and forget?” Pam asked.

  “I kept the perfume but not the guy.”

  Connie Sue halted at the base of the porch steps for a final look around. “Magnolia leaves will be perfect in a floral arrangement.”

  I groaned inwardly at the prospect of transforming leaves into anything creative.

  “I can hardly wait to see inside,” Connie Sue said, continuing her appraisal. “Claudia would tell you that a house like this, in the right neighborhood, would bring top dollar.”

  “Location, location, location,” Gloria singsonged Claudia’s mantra. In her former life, Claudia had been a top-selling Realtor in metro Detroit. These days she was content to be a newlywed.

  “Only people with a GPS can find their way to either Brookdale or Serenity Cove,” Monica said. “To say they’re both off the beaten path is an understatement.”

  “That’s part of their appeal,” I said, compelled to defend my adopted place of residence. Like most of the Babes, I call Serenity Cove Estates home. Situated in South Carolina near the Savannah River, Serenity Cove is a retirement community for active adults. In other words, we’re not the type to spend our days in recliners watching the Weather Channel. It had been love at first sight when Jim and I first visited. With loblolly pines, magnolias as big as dinner plates, a gentle climate, and smiling faces, Serenity Cove was the ideal place for my husband and me to retire. After Jim passed, the kids urged me to return to Ohio, where I’d spent most of my life, or perhaps move closer to my daughter Jennifer in California, but, no, South Carolina is where I wanted to stay.

  Before we could further discuss the pros and cons of life in the South, the front door of the house swung open. A petite white-haired woman with faded blue eyes peered at us through eyeglasses too big for her small face. A welcoming smile wreathed her lined face. “You must be the nice ladies my granddaughter told me about. Come in, come in.”

  We crowded into a living room that looked as though it were stuck in a time warp. A crocheted granny-square afghan was draped over the back of a green and gold plaid sofa. The cushion on an overstuffed recliner sagged gently from years of wear. A television stand along with a blond coffee table and twin end tables comprised the remainder of the furnishings. Every visible surface was covered with some sort of bric-a-brac, which had to make dusting a challenge. A stone fireplace dominated the far end of the room. My attention was instantly drawn to a group of photos on the mantelpiece.

  “That must be Tammy Lynn’s high school graduation picture.” I walked over and studied the framed shot of a teenager in cap and gown standing with two men. I recognized her brother Josh and assumed the older man was her father.

  Eula wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes, Tammy Lynn is like the daughter I never had. I practically raised her after her mother up and left. I’m very fond of that child.”

  Polly was more interested in the photo of a distinguished-looking gentleman with dark hair graying at the temples and laughing blue eyes. “Who’s this handsome dude? Looks like a real heartthrob.”

  A sad smile flitted across Eula Snow’s face. “That’s my Waylon. He’s been gone twenty-five years, but I still miss him every single day.”

  “Are these the original hardwood floors?” Connie Sue asked, apparently sensing a change of subject was in order.

  Eula brightened. “Yes, dear, and all the glass is original, too.”

  “How old is your house, Mrs. Snow?” Monica produced a notebook and pen from her tote bag.

  “I believe it was built in 1911. Or was it 1912?” Eula gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Waylon always told me I didn’t have a mind for numbers. He, on the other hand, was just the opposite. That’s why he was such a success as a general contractor.”

  “Do you mind if we take a look around, Mrs. Snow?” Gloria craned her neck to see down a short hallway.

  “Please, everyone call me Eula. And feel free to look as much as you like. I’m just so grateful—and so relieved—you offered to help. Marge Mayfield, an old friend, convinced me the garden club needed one more house to round out their program. Cora, my baby sister, was furious when she found out, but by then it was too late.”

  Just then an ear-piercing screech rent the air. I resisted the urge to put my hands over my ears to stop the noise. The sound was so shrill it made my teeth ache.

  “I smell something burning.” Monica raised her voice loud enough to be heard above the racket.

  “Gracious!” Eula clapped her hands to her cheeks, then took off at a run, her movements spry in spite of her advanced years. “My cookies . . .”

  The six of us raced after her toward the kitchen, where a smoke detector shrieked. Black smoke filled the room, along with the scorched smell of burnt food.

  Grabbing a dish towel, Eula yanked open the oven door, pulled out a pan that held what looked like lumps of charcoal, and dropped it into the sink with a clatter. “I forgot all about my cookies,” Eula moaned. “I hoped we’d get better acquainted over tea and my cinnamon-sugar cookies. Folks always love my cookies.”

  I threw open a window overlooking the backyard and let in a welcome rush of fresh air. “Why don’t we air out the kitchen a bit?” Eventually the smoke alarm, thankfully, went silent.

  Eula twisted the dish towel in her hands. “I’m so embarrassed I like ta die. Mercy, I don’t know what’s come over me, bein’ so forgetful.”

  “Let’s adjourn to the livin’ ro
om,” Connie Sue suggested. “I’ve got some ideas I’d like to toss around regarding a theme. See what the committee thinks.”

  “Fine,” Monica snapped. “I have a few ideas of my own.”

  The ad hoc committee, myself included, trooped back into the living room with Eula trailing, looking dejected after her kitchen fiasco. Pausing, I patted her gently on the back. “It’s all right, Eula. We all suffer senior moments now and then. In Serenity Cove Estates, where we’re all retirees, it’s a downright epidemic.”

  She mustered a weak smile. “That’s mighty sweet of you, dear, but time’s come to move into Valley View Manor before I go and do something careless like burn my house down.”

  Monica stood in front of the fireplace while the rest of us crowded onto the sofa or perched on the armrests. “As Connie Sue already mentioned, the first order of business is to decide on a theme.”

  Pam nodded in agreement. “Since Rita is an officer in the garden club, I spoke with her this morning. She told me that one homeowner chose a teddy bear theme, another one wants to show off her nutcracker collection, and yet another has a Christmas village display complete with an electric train.”

  Monica shook her head. “Teddy bears, nutcrackers, even Christmas village displays have all been done before. I propose we do something bolder, more original . . . innovative.”

  “Innovative?” I swallowed hard. “Define innovative.”

  “I was thinking along the lines of mid-century modern.”

  “I don’t get it,” Polly said. “How can anything mid-century be called modern? Isn’t that one of them oxymorons?”

  Monica huffed out a breath. “If it makes you feel better call it ‘retro.’ Naturally, we’ll have to clear this place out, pack up the knickknacks, put the furnishings into a storage unit.”

  Eula twisted the dish towel she was still holding around and around. “You want to get rid of all my things?”

  “Only temporarily,” Monica said, airily dismissing Eula’s concern. “Next, we’ll have to scour every flea market and second hand shop within a fifty-mile radius for a low-slung sofa and chairs. Avocado green and harvest gold were popular back then, and we can always add pops of red for a Christmassy atmosphere. Be on the lookout for one of those aluminum Christmas trees—the kind with a revolving stand and a spotlight with colored lights. If we can’t find one, I can always order online. The tree will be our pièce de résistance!”

  Connie Sue, who had remained silent during Monica’s monologue, slowly rose to her feet. “Ladies, I have a different vision for Eula’s vintage home. I propose we confine our decoratin’ to the time period of the house. We can use nature as a source of inspiration. Lots of greenery, holly, and pinecones. Plenty of ribbon, bows, and candles. Add some pretty baskets, and voilà!”

  I darted a look at Monica. From her pinched expression, I could tell she wasn’t pleased Connie Sue’s “vision” differed vastly from her own. “Why don’t we take a vote?” I suggested.

  “I second the motion,” Pam said before Monica had time to object. “All in favor of Connie Sue’s plan for an old-fashioned Christmas, raise your hand.”

  Our hands sprang up like dandelions after a spring rain. Even Eula stopped torturing the hapless dish towel to raise hers. Monica looked around, her face mirroring defeat.

  “I hope you’re still willin’ to work with me, Monica?” Connie Sue said, extending the olive branch. To Monica’s credit, she didn’t leave in a huff.

  “All righty then! We’re burnin’ daylight.” Connie Sue practically clapped her hands in glee. “Time to roll up our sleeves and set to work.”

  “Only thing Waylon loved better’n me was Christmastime. He got a kick out of seein’ the house all decked out. Years ago, we had all sorts of fancy ornaments and decorations. Not sure where I put ’em. They could be most anywhere—maybe in the attic.”

  Connie Sue whipped out a notebook of her own from an oversize handbag bearing a designer logo. “Let’s split up, shall we, and see if we can find Eula’s long-lost Christmas decorations. Gloria, you and Pam take a look in the attic. Meanwhile, Monica and I can inventory the main level and jot down ideas.”

  “What about Polly and me?” I asked, feeling left out of the important tasks.

  “First impressions are very important,” Monica said, as if I needed a reminder. “The outside of the house is as important as the inside. You two, make a note of any yard work that needs to be done, things such as leaves raked or shrubs trimmed.”

  I squelched the urge to salute. “May the good times begin,” I muttered.

  Chapter 3

  “C’mon.” I motioned to Polly. “Think of this as a treasure hunt.”

  “More like a shaggy shrub hunt,” Polly grumbled but followed me outside. “At least Monica’s mid-century modern brainchild was laid to rest. I can barely haul my butt out of a recliner, much less one of those low-slung chairs.”

  We roamed around the yard. The vines covering the wrought-iron arbor would need a trim so visitors could pass through easier. A camellia bush, taller than me by a foot, grew at one corner of the house and was covered with buds ready to burst open. Overall the front yard, at least, appeared to need little work. I suspected we had Tammy Lynn’s dad or brother to thank for keeping up the place.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s hope the backyard is in as good condition.”

  A strip of woods bordered the rear of the property, creating a natural boundary. At some point, a mudroom had been tacked on to the back of the house. At a glance, I could see the backyard had been neglected. Bushes, either hydrangeas or rhododendrons—shame on me for not being able to tell the difference—were in desperate need of pruning. Maintaining a home, I knew, was difficult for many elderly people. Elderly, by the way, was not a term I applied to myself. I preferred to think of myself as middle-aged. I adhered to the philosophy that your sixties are the new forties. As long as there was Lady Clairol, I’d cover the gray. Anti-aging creams helped hide the wrinkles. And Spandex was created to contain the fallout. Elderly was a word for folks eighty-plus, but I reserved the right to modify that statement once I turned eighty.

  Polly picked a long stick off the ground near the base of a sweet gum and began to poke around. “This’ll come in handy if we find a snake. Never know what might come crawling out from under these bushes. How does that old rhyme go? ‘Red on yellow, kills a fellow’?” She frowned. “Or is it ‘black on yellow, kills a fellow’?” Never could keep the two straight.”

  “Snakes hibernate in the winter.” I hoped this was true, though I doubted the veracity of my source. Mort Thorndike was a braggart and a self-proclaimed snake expert.

  “I thought hibernating only applied to bears.”

  I watched Polly jab her weapon into a mound of either azaleas or gardenias. My knowledge of Southern horticulture was sorely lacking. In my humble opinion, without their showy flowers azalea and gardenia bushes looked similar. Perhaps it was time to renew my membership in the garden club. Leaving Polly to explore on her own, I wandered toward the tree line, thinking the woods here might be the ideal place to start collecting the pinecones that Connie Sue was so keen on.

  “Hey, Kate,” Polly called. “Come see what I found.”

  I hurried over, fingers crossed it wasn’t one of those snakes she’d been so concerned about. Instead, hidden behind overgrown shrubs, Polly had discovered a wooden door set at an angle into the foundation of the house and fastened with a rusty padlock.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “A root cellar! My grandparents had one like this on their farm in Ohio. My grandmother used it to store jars of pickles and canned fruit. Let’s take a peek and see what’s inside.”

  Polly backed up a step. “Are you nuts?”

  “Don’t be such a baby.” Reaching down, I tugged on the lock. “Who knows, maybe we’ll find Eula’s long-lost Christmas ornaments. C’mon, Polly, just a quick look. ”

  “Would this be considered trespassing? The minute Sheriff Wiggins he
ars you’re involved, he’ll toss both of us in the clink and throw away the key.”

  “The sheriff might not be a member of my fan club, but Eula’s the property owner and gave us permission to look around as much as we pleased.” I squatted down to better examine the padlock.

  “But locked spaces are usually locked for a good reason.”

  Ignoring Polly’s pessimism, I studied the lock. Beneath thick layers of rust, I saw that it was the old-fashioned kind that required a key and not a combination. Wrapping my hand around the rusted metal, I jerked it with all my might. The lock held firm but not the door. The wood splintered and split apart with a loud screech. The door came apart in my hands. I flew backward, landing on my bottom.

  Polly hustled over and helped me to my feet. “Now see what you’ve gone and done,” she tsked.

  Undeterred, I brushed dirt from the seat of my jeans. “One look, that’s all.”

  Polly edged closer to the cellar door, which stood askew on its hinges, and peered inside. “It’s awful dark down there. No telling what you might find. The place is probably full of spiders—and mice.”

  “I’ll use the flashlight app on my phone.” More determined than ever, I shoved aside what remained of the door. I tested my weight at the top of a short flight of stairs and then, satisfied it would support me, slowly descended the steps until I felt hard-packed earth beneath my feet. A blast of cool, dank air permeated the space. I swung the beam from my phone over the walls. A series of rough-sawn shelves held a half dozen or so Mason jars filled with long-forgotten preserves. A decaying bushel basket contained what appeared to be a handful of fossilized apples.

  “Find anything?” Polly inquired.

  “Mostly dust,” I answered. I swung the flashlight beam upward and spotted a light fixture with a single bulb fastened to an overhead joist. I tugged on the grimy cord attached to it and a feeble, jaundiced light sprang to life. In the dim glow, I noticed a trail of dainty footprints leading across the dirt floor then disappearing under a long, narrow box positioned under a ventilation shaft on the opposite wall. Mice prints? I didn’t like the little critters any more than Polly did.