Chapter 13 Jane #2
The attic itself was vast, far larger than the footprint of the ballroom below.
The ceiling rose in a perfect triangle, its beams blackened by age, and the spaces between were filled with insulation that resembled matted gray snow.
The air was sharper up here, edged with the scent of dust, old cedar, and the faint sweetness of dried orange peels.
Every inch of the floor was covered in boxes, trunks, and plastic bins, all stacked in precise rows and labeled in her grandmother’s looping script.
It felt less like an attic and more like a warehouse, the inventory of a family that never threw anything away.
Trinity’s eyes went round. “This is like a room of treasures!” she said, her voice echoing off the rafters.
“Treasure and junk in equal measure,” Jane replied, stepping over a stack of faded wrapping paper tubes to get to the far end. “Just don’t touch anything that looks like it could bite.”
Trinity snorted and immediately began peering into bins and boxes. “Do you really keep every decoration up here?”
“Everyone we’ve ever used since as long as I can remember,” Jane said. “Grandma was obsessive about holiday storage. No plastic Santas or discount store junk. If she didn’t like the look of a thing, it got donated before it ever saw daylight.”
She knelt by the first row and pulled out a long, shallow tub.
“Ballroom only” the label said. Inside were gold ribbons and lengths of beaded garland, each coil wrapped with tissue.
Jane began to set aside the things she’d need: the strands of glass beads, the special velvet bows that matched the curtains, the heavy star that went atop the lobby tree.
She worked in silence, methodical, feeling the strange comfort that came from the weight of old routines.
Meanwhile, Trinity wandered deeper into the attic, past the bins, to a wall lined with battered bookcases. She stopped in front of a low shelf, then bent to examine its contents.
“Jane?” Trinity called. “What are all these books?”
Jane didn’t look up from her sorting. “They’re not books. They’re albums. Pictures of every holiday my grandparents ever hosted at the inn.”
Trinity picked up a fat, red volume with gold foil letters pressed into the spine: “Christmas Inn—Winter Ball 1962.” She ran her hand over the cover, carefully, then plopped onto the floor, pulled it into her lap, and opened it.
Jane wandered over to where Trinity sat on the floor. She pulled a few cushions from the settee, making Trinity get up and sit on one while she sat beside her on the other as Trinity opened the book again.
Inside, the pages were thick and creamy, the photos arranged in perfect grids. Every picture was captioned in neat, black-ink script: guests in tuxedos and ball gowns, close-ups of table settings, and black-and-white shots of the band on the old wooden stage.
“These are incredible,” Trinity whispered, flipping to a page full of little kids in matching outfits, their faces sticky with punch and dessert. “Did your grandpa take all these?”
“He had a photographer,” Jane said, closing the tub she’d been sorting. “He was obsessed with documenting everything. Said it was the only way to be sure a thing really happened. Otherwise, memories just slip away.”
Trinity set down the first album and picked up a second, this one green and labeled “Easter Eggstravaganza,” with the year. She grinned at the pun, then started turning pages, her finger trailing over the pastel-tinted Polaroids. “Your family did this every year?”
“Every single holiday. There’s even one for Arbor Day, if you dig far enough.”
Trinity laughed, the sound bright and alive in the cold air.
The photo album was in good shape, the plastic sleeves only slightly yellowed.
On the first page, Jane saw a picture of herself at five, holding a basket almost as big as her head, her hair sticking out in wild red curls.
Next to her was her grandfather, wearing a hat shaped like a giant egg, his smile as wide as a boat.
Trinity grinned. “You were adorable.”
Jane groaned, but she didn’t look away. “Grandpa used to say the only way to survive a holiday was to embrace the absurd.”
“He was right,” Trinity said, pausing as she flipped to a page and her eyes landed on a shot of a crowded dining room.
The table was set with linen and crystal, the centerpiece an elaborate nest of colored eggs and fresh tulips.
Everyone was dressed to the nines, even the little kids, and the sense of joy in the room seemed to leap right out of the picture.
“Who are all these people?” Trinity asked, genuinely curious.
“Guests. The inn was always full during the holidays. People came from all over the state. Sometimes from other countries.” Jane’s voice softened. “When I was a kid, I thought everyone’s family did stuff like this.”
Trinity turned to the next album, the Winter Ball from the nineties.
This one was full of pictures of the ballroom: the chandelier lit up like a diamond mine, the floor packed with dancers, the band in white tuxes.
Jane spotted her mother in one shot, hair piled high, laughing with her arms around her best friend.
Her father appeared a few pages later, younger than she remembered, with a slightly self-conscious smile.
She felt something ache behind her ribs—a longing, not for the parties themselves, but for the world they captured. The certainty that things could be simple, that happiness could be planned and photographed and pasted into a book for safekeeping.
Trinity noticed the change in her expression. “What’s wrong?”
Jane shook her head, but her voice was thick. “Nothing. Just… it’s been a long time since I looked at these.”
Trinity was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why don’t you do this stuff anymore?”
Jane swallowed. “After Grandpa died, it felt wrong. Like we were pretending he’d just gone to get more ice, or was waiting for us to start the music.” She closed the album gently. “We kept decorating. We kept cooking the big meals. But it wasn’t the same. No one wanted to dance.”
Trinity nodded, picking at a loose thread on the cushion. “That makes sense. But isn’t it kind of sad?” She gestured at the wall of albums. “All these happy memories just… stopping?”
Jane looked at her, seeing not a kid but a wise old soul in borrowed sneakers. She thought of her own first winter after Darren died, the way she’d retreated from every tradition, afraid even to touch the ornaments in case they shattered from the grief in her hands.
“It is sad,” Jane admitted.
Trinity smiled at her, shy but determined. “Well, maybe we can start again.” Her excitement at her idea sparked a light in her eyes. “Let’s have the Winter Ball. Even if it’s just us.”
The simplicity of it almost knocked Jane off balance. She reached over and squeezed Trinity’s shoulder, not trusting herself to speak before gathering herself. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, kiddo.”
They sat together, paging through the albums one by one, letting the years unspool.
They lingered over the Halloween photos (so many costumes, so much fake blood), and the Fourth of July (Jane in a red-white-and-blue swimsuit, her father holding sparklers).
There were pictures from the Valentine’s Dinners, the table covered in pink roses and paper hearts.
And then, near the end, a thin album labeled “Thanksgiving,”—the last one with Jane’s grandfather, who wore a ridiculous pilgrim hat and carved the turkey with a flourish.
By the time they finished, Jane was shocked to see how late it was and realized she’d lost all track of time.
Trinity looked up at her. “Don’t you think your grandpa would want you to keep having parties? Even if he wasn’t here?”
Jane tried to answer, but emotion closed her throat. She nodded instead.
“I think he would,” Trinity said. “In all these photos, he has this… this sparkle in his eyes.” She smiled. “He reminds me of Santa and the Easter Bunny all rolled into one magical being.”
Her words struck Jane right at the center of her heart, as a picture of her grandfather formed before her eyes.
So real it was like she could reach out and touch him.
Her skin prickled as the air around her seemed to cool, and she could swear she felt his soft touch brush her cheeks as a voice whispered, "Out of the mouth of babes, the truth flows, innocent and pure.
" Listen to her, Janie. It’s time to breathe some life back into this place.
“Jane?” Trinity’s voice penetrated the haze of her imagination, and she gave herself a mental shake. “Are you okay? You’ve suddenly gone pale. Like you’d seen a ghost.”
“Uh…” Jane swallowed, trying to wet her suddenly dry throat, the words she’d fancied she’d heard from her grandfather echoing through her mind. “You know what? I found the ornaments. So why don’t we each take a box, and we can come back for the rest tomorrow and start decorating then?”
They packed up the albums and the boxes for the ballroom, neither rushing nor lingering. As they walked down the attic stairs, Jane felt changed by the evening, as if the ice inside her had begun to melt.
They’d carried the boxes and albums down from the attic and set them in the ballroom, ready for the following day.
As they left the room, Holly walked out of the dining room. “Trinity, there you are, my love.” Her eyes pooled with relief. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s time for bath, teeth, and bed.”
“Sorry.” Jane smiled at Holly. “It’s my fault. Trinity was helping me gather decorations for the ballroom, and we lost track of time.”
“We’re going to decorate it tomorrow, Gran,” Trinity said enthusiastically and slid a hopeful look at Jane. “I’m trying to convince Jane to reopen the Winter Ball, even if it’s just us.”
“That’s ambitious,” Holly said, laughing and looking at Jane. “Thanks for keeping her busy.”
“Only a pleasure,” Jane assured Holly. “Trinity was a great help.”
“See you tomorrow,” Trinity promised. “Good night, Jane, and remember to think about my idea for the Winter Ball.”
Jane laughed and shook her head at the stubborn twelve-year-old as she watched her disappear up the stairs with Holly.
“You know that’s not a bad idea, sweetheart,” Julie’s voice came from behind Jane, making her spin around.
“Oh, no, Gran,” Jane said, blowing out a breath. “We couldn’t possibly. It’s way too late to organize and…” she pursed her lips. “You know we can’t afford it.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Julie scoffed. “I can raise the money. Don’t you worry about that, and trust me, it’s never too late to throw a last-minute ball together for Christmas.”
Jane stared at her grandmother for a few seconds, wondering if she was joking, and realized she wasn’t. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“That young lady,” Julie pointed to the stairs. “She’s our little miracle this year.” Before Jane could ask what that meant, her grandmother continued. “Now, go get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow to get this ball planned and arranged in time for Christmas Eve.”
“Gran,” Jane said. “You know no one will come because of the McFadden Hotel ball.” The McFaddens had picked up the tradition of a Winter Ball in the years after her grandfather died. Greg McFadden had been her grandfather’s best friend. “We can’t try to steal their thunder or guests.”
“Oh, honey,” Julie’s eyes became serious. “Haven’t you heard? Greg is terribly ill. They cancelled the ball in September already, and they’re selling the hotel.”
“What?” Jane spat. “No, I didn’t know that.” Of course, she didn’t. Jane didn’t keep up with what was going on outside the inn anymore. “That’s awful.”
“Yes,” Julie agreed. “There are a lot of people who will be really happy that we’ve once again taken back the Winter Ball tradition.”
“Gran… that doesn’t seem right,” Jane said, a pang of guilt hitting her, while excitement over organizing and having the ball bubbled beneath it.
"Nonsense," Julie said firmly, her eyes twinkling. "Greg always knew the day would come when we'd take our ball back. He's been waiting for it." She squeezed Jane's hand. "Now go get some rest. We have three weeks to pull off the impossible."
Julie headed toward her room, and Jane made her way through the connecting door into the family house, her mind already racing with everything that needed to be done.
She'd barely closed the door behind her when the house phone rang. Jane grabbed it from the hallway table.
"Hello?"
"Jane, darling, is that you?" A woman’s voice that she hadn’t heard in years rang through.
Jane froze. It hit her like ice water, familiar and unwelcome all at once. It couldn't be.
Her mother?
"Sorry, you must have the wrong number," Jane said, her voice flat and controlled. "There's no Jane Darling here."
She hung up before the voice could respond, then reached down and yanked the phone cord from the wall jack.
Her father's head appeared from the office doorway. "Who was that? Did I hear the phone ring?"
"It was no one," Jane told him, her mind reeling as she kicked the phone cord out of view with her foot. "Wrong number."
Jack frowned and sighed. “I guess it was too much to hope for a booking.”
Her heart sank for him as she crossed to him and kissed him on the cheek, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
"You never know, things could turn around at any time,” Jane pointed out. “Well, I'm off to bed. Night, Dad."
As she headed to the house and her bedroom, Jane's hands were shaking. After thirty years of silence, why now? Why tonight, of all nights, when she'd just agreed to bring the ballroom back to life? When she’d just found a reason to look forward to tomorrow?
She reached her bedroom door and paused, looking back down the hallway in the direction of the inn.
The words her grandmother always said rang in her ears: The inn had a way of bringing people exactly when they were needed.
But what about the people you never wanted to see or hear from again?