Page 67 of About Last Christmas
I venture into the living room to say hi to Pap, but he must be resting upstairs. Mom enters with her plate and bottled water.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay long,” I say as she sits in the recliner. “But I want to grab Gran’s ornaments. Pap told me the other day he set them by the door to the garage. I didn’t see them.”
“Oh, you mean the tub of Christmas bulbs and decorations?”
“Yeah, that.”
“I moved them to the utility room. I was shining them up for you. Some were grimy.”
No.
No, no, no. “What do you meanshining?” But I can’t wait for her reply. I bolt into the small utility room, and my heart sinks at the sight of the blue bottle. “Mom, please tell me you didn’t use Windex on the Hummels?” I drop to my knees beside the tub and pick up a Christmas bulb lying atop packing filler, finding my answer.
“They were dirty, honey.”
“Then you use a very,verydiluted dish soap and water solution. Not Windex. Never Windex.” I gape at the peeling paint. It’s ruined. I can’t help the burning in my eyes. How many more are?—
Oh, no.
I start unpacking wadded newspaper sheets and plastic bags used as cushioning material, horror filling me with each rapid heartbeat. “The Garrick. Mom, did you touch the Garrick?”
Her blue eyes widen. “I-I’m not sure what that is.”
“The nativity set. It’s in this tub.” It’s worth more than anything I own. But more than that, it’s tethered to core memories, making it valuable beyond any dollar sign. “Did you clean that?”
“No.” She shakes her head rapidly. “Just a few of the bulbs.”
I exhale in relief and release the Walmart bag I was strangling. At least the Garrick’s safe from Mom’s cleaning binge.
“I’m sorry.” She puts the Windex in the cupboard above the washer and gives an apologetic smile. “I didn’t know.”
A tight band stretches between my shoulder blades. “But you could have.”
She looks at me. “What, honey?”
“You could have known. You could’ve known that you never use ammonia on antiques. And that I wear this jumper when my mind’s foggy.” I sweep a hand over my person in an exaggeratedfashion. “That I freak out in front of crowds. That I hate raisins and feel strongly they’ve no right to be in cookies. Mom, you could’ve known all of this … if you hadn’t left.”
Her fingers flit to her parted mouth, but I’m not done. “Was I not worth staying for? Me? Your only daughter. Your family. I got to see you for a few weekends and holidays. That’s it.” I press a hand to my heart, but it’s too late. It’s crumbling, and there’s not enough fight in me to hold it together. “I stupidly thought I might have more pull when I became an adult. You’d answer my texts, give the occasional call. But you didn’t want a relationship. It took Gran dying—dying!—for you to come home.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “I know.”
“I don’t think you do. You can’t begin to know the damage it’s caused.” I can’t enjoy a kiss with a guy without getting triggered that he’s going to leave. Something that should be no big deal ishugeto me because of her. She always left. And I always stood there, helpless, watching her pull away from the drive, never knowing if or when I’d see her again. An uneasy gnawing in my stomach would hit me every time. A feeling I’d only had in those moments. I blink, my haunted thoughts of the past smacking me in the present. That exact sensation struck me last night. That’s why I panicked like I did. It was because of mommy issues. “I know I’m emotional, and it’s probably best to talk when I’ve a cooler head. I’m not angry. Well, I kind of am, but I think I need answers more than anything.”
My cell rings. It’s Jared, the one who sent over Leo’s ceramic tree. “I have to take this,” I tell Mom and duck into the hall, needing space. “What’s up, Jared?”
“A lead on your set.”
“Really?” I jolt my head back and knock a sconce off the wall, the bulky candle landing on my foot. Though I feel nothing. Either my adrenaline’s pumping from my exchange with Mom, or my body’s still numb from last night. I’m not used to thismuch drama. Which is probably why I’m not overly optimistic about this call. “The Vallerton?”
“Yeah, my aunt’s got it.” Then Jared says that.
Game changer. “You’re going to say Midge, aren’t you?” Jared comes from a huge family who all deal with antiques. Midge is the scariest of the bunch, but she’s also good at what she does.
“The very one. So you know the urgency.”
“I do.” Midge Saunders is an old-school antique dealer. She doesn’t do any business online, no website, no social media pages. What she does have is a customer base that trusts her. Gran trusted her. If Midge has a Vallerton, I know it’s authentic, but I also know how she operates. “Thanks, Jared.”
Just to be sure, I verify Midge’s store address, hours, and contact information before disconnecting. I punch in the number Jared gave me for Midge’s store and prepare to barter, beg, or offer my own version ofLet’s Make a Deal. Anything to persuade Midge to break her own rule and hold the Vallerton until I can get there. A busy signal pulses against my ear. Because of course she has a landline. With a sigh, I return the sconce and candle to their proper place and find Mom in the living room, her grilled cheese untouched. “I have to go.”
