Page 69 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
I stood, took the pipe from his hand, and placed it in a crystal ashtrayon the table next to him. Then I straddled his lap, his hands moving under my robe and resting on my waist. “I do. I couldn’t pick a better father for my children. I am also hopelessly and ceaselessly in love with you, Jack Trenholm. Whatever profession you choose.”
His hands caressed my sides through the thin fabric of my nightgown, doing wild things to my nerve endings. “Show me,” he whispered in my ear.
So I did.
CHAPTER 24
When I got home after work the next day, I threw open the door to the piazza, intent on rushing upstairs to Nola’s room to see any lingering evidence that Eliza or the bees had been there the previous night. I’d been running late for work that morning and both Sarah and JJ had been out of sorts, begging to be held, and I hadn’t had the time to investigate. I stopped short at the sight of Greco hanging a Christmas wreath on the front door. I walked more sedately toward him, then stood back so we could both admire it.
“What happened to the wreath that was there? I made it, you know. At the workshop I ran benefiting Ashley Hall.”
Greco stepped forward to rearrange a strand of holly berries and adjust the enormous, intricately knotted red velvet bow. “Oh, it’s in there. I loved your color scheme—you did a nice job of that. It just needed a bit of... zhushing.”
“Zhushing?”
He nodded. “It’s a technical term designers use that means ‘adding to’ or ‘expanding.’ In layman’s terms, it’s taking something skimpy and inelegant and re-creating it as something a client might actually be proud to have in her home. Or to hang on her front door.”
I probably should have been offended, but he was annoyingly right. Compared to this elegant and gorgeous confection, mine had been a puny impostor. Even Jack had had a difficult time coming up with a convincing compliment. Nola had just called it sad.
I peered closely at it. “So my wreath is somewhere underneath all this... zhushing?”
He nodded. “Yes. Somewhere very deep.” He turned around to indicate the glass hurricane lamps that lined the perimeter of the piazza. “And I switched out your luminaries. I didn’t think paper bags were the best look, and the fake candles inside looked, well, fake. I found these electric candles that not only appear real but aren’t nearly as tacky as some of those less expensive ones.”
I started to protest, but he held out his hands. “My treat. Your mother and mother-in-law are being so generous with the redo of Nola’s room that I felt I needed to up my game a bit. I hope you don’t mind.”
I looked at the hurricane lamps, each one spotless and sporting an ivory candle in a brass candlestick. It was impossible to tell the candles weren’t real. “Do the flames flicker like actual candles?”
Greco looked offended. “Of course. They’re also on timers so that they turn on at dusk and turn off at sunrise. The best part is that Dr. Wallen-Arasi approves. She says they look like the sort of lighting they had during Colonial times, so they will be appropriate for the progressive dinner—and safer than real flames. She actually likes them so much that she wants more to be placed throughout the entire house so there won’t be a need for more obviously electric lights the night of the dinner.”
“Great,” I said, picturing diners stumbling around my house in the near dark, the spirits rousing due to the lack of bright lights to deter them. I looked up at him. “Did you say Dr. Wallen-Arasi? Did you see her?”
“She’s inside. She arrived about twenty minutes ago and I let her in. I hope you don’t mind. She didn’t see the replacement window brochures on the hall table, if that’s what you’re worried about. Although I’m not sure I shouldn’t have mentioned them to her, since everyoneknows repairing your historic windows is much more economical in the long run.”
“Thanks, Greco. And if you’d like to pay for the repairs, I’ll ask Nola to start one of those GoFundMe accounts and let you know.”
He picked up two shopping bags from Hyams Garden and Accent Store, several boughs of fresh pine poking out of the tops. “I’m going home to make potpourri with these, and I’ll bring it tomorrow inside some of my vintage silver pomander balls—all very kosher, as I explained to Dr. Wallen-Arasi. Nothing on the inside or outside of my potpourri isn’t authentic to the Colonial period.”
“That’s a relief.” I pretended to wipe sweat off my brow. I was fairly certain that Greco knew about my lukewarm feelings toward authenticity when it came to the bottom line. I was all about the bottom line and convenience. I think he appreciated this and might even have been enjoying his role as referee between Sophie and me. “Did they even have potpourri back in the day? I thought that was more of a modern invention by stores like Abercrombie & Fitch to get people to come inside.”
He stared at me for a long moment, and I wondered if his eyes looked funny because he was trying very hard not to roll them. “No, actually. Potpourri has been around since early civilizations. I think its usage correlates to the level of hygiene practiced by humans of the time period. In Colonial days, with no running water and certainly very rarely heated, people didn’t bathe much, especially in the winter. Try to imagine body odor on top of that of wet wool, and you can perhaps come close to what it must have smelled like in the average home. Hence potpourri.”
It was my turn to stare at him. “I didn’t know that, and I might even have been happy continuing in my ignorance, but thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He twisted a blue cashmere scarf around his neck. “By the way, that word that was scratched into the wall that I sanded out is back again. I wanted to let you know that I’m aware of it, and I’m on it.” He smiled, touched his forehead in a mock salute, then walked toward the piazza door.
“Thank you,” I said to his retreating back, amazed that he was more concerned about concealing the word than why it was there or what it might mean.
I glanced at my watch, then hurried through the front door, letting it slam behind me. I had quickly taken off my coat and hung it up, buttoning every single button because that’s the way it should be done, when I turned around and nearly ran into Jayne.
“Sorry!” I said. “I was running a bit late and then stopped to chat with Greco outside. But I’m here, so you can leave now. Twins good today?” I thrust my hand into the closet and grabbed her coat, having to unbutton only the top button.
“Little angels, as usual. That Sarah is running all over the place and babbling up a storm. JJ prefers to be carried everywhere and to build stuff with whatever he can find. Hard to believe they’re related, except they both look like Jack.”
“Hard to believe,” I repeated, placing my hand on her shoulder and gently propelling her to the door.
“They’re catnapping in their cribs, so they should be good for another thirty minutes or so.” She looked at my hand on her shoulder, then into my eyes. “Why are you so eager to get rid of me?”
I looked past her toward the small carriage clock on the table in the foyer and walked a little faster. “I’m not trying to get rid of you, but didn’t you say you had to leave a little earlier today? That’s why I rushed back.”
