Chapter 30 #2
“There are more decorations in the attic,” Greyson said, delivering the last of the boxes from the truck.
Logan was digging through the ratty box he’d found upstairs and Soren was speaking to his dad. She didn’t want to disturb them, so she stood and brushed the glitter off her jeans. “I’ll help you bring them down.”
The attic smelled of cedar and forgotten decades. Wren shivered in the dry cold as dust motes danced in the pale light streaming through a single window.
“Watch your step.” Grey shifted trunks aside, disturbing years of stillness.
Several chests bore labels with Sable’s name in faded marker.
Greyson avoided those and dragged the Christmas boxes into the center where there was the most light and room.
The cardboard was too fragile to stack, and Wren worried moving them might do more damage than good.
Maybe they should find a sturdier container and keep the boxes up here, only taking what they absolutely wanted down stairs.
Her fingers traced the tattered lid. “Can I look?”
“Go ahead.”
The flimsy flap lifted to reveal treasures wrapped in fifteen-year-old newspaper. Wren touched the yellowed date reverently, imagining Sable’s hands doing the same after her final Christmas.
Glass bulbs painted with winter scenes emerged from the paper cocoons, followed by ivory angels with tarnished gilt wings and picture frame ornaments. “Grey, look at this.”
The floorboards groaned under his approach. She held up a tiny frame containing a faded photograph, Sable in a floor-length velvet gown, cradling baby Soren while leaning over Logan’s bassinet.
“Wow,” Greyson’s voice caught.
“There has to be another one with you.” She searched through the paper, unearthing frames with Sable and Magnus, more of Soren, faces she didn’t recognize. Her hand froze when she revealed a faded photo of their mothers standing side by side, frozen in time and beauty.
“Look at them,” she rasped, voice tight from dust and emotion.
The two friends laughed hysterically in ridiculous New Year’s Eve hats. One with yellow feathers that contrasted her dark black hair, the other with silver sparkles that complemented her long blonde waves. They looked…timeless.
“They could make each other laugh harder than anything else ever could.”
Wren’s smile pinched as tight as her heart. “I try to remember her laugh...”
His hand warmed her shoulder. “I know.”
She rewrapped the photo with reverent care. “You need to move these into plastic totes after the holidays. We have to protect the few memories we have left of them.”
They found a bin and gathered what they could, selecting the items they thought the others would appreciate most. Downstairs, the tree rested in an outdated stand, leaning dangerously to the left.
“I’ll get my drill and some rope,” Greyson said, setting down the box from the attic and heading for his truck.
Soren used a pair of bolt cutters to cut the rope. Branches sprung free in a green explosion and Wren gasped. The enormous pine had a few blemishes, but it would look great once decorated.
“Don’t scratch the paint,” Magnus hollered, his gruff words muffled through the mask.
“We got it, Dad.” Logan’s patience frayed. “Soren, get over here and help me balance this.”
Jocelyn perched on Magnus’s bed like she belonged there, settling in for the show with her drink.
Magnus glared at her. “Who are you?”
She playfully caressed his bruised hand. “Mr. Hawthorne, it’s me, Jocelyn Collins. You’ve known me since the third grade.”
His brows knitted. “Of course.”
While Jocelyn let him get away with the lie, Wren knew he didn’t remember her. Still, Jocelyn played along.
“Are you sure you’re not faking for attention?” Her friend squeezed his bicep playfully. “You look too strong to be sick.”
Color bloomed in Magnus’s cheeks as he chuckled like a schoolboy. “I’ve got a little life in me yet. Feel free to roam about—“
“Dad!” Soren’s horrified face appeared from behind pine branches. “That’s Jocelyn.”
“I know who it is! I’m sick, not senile.” He turned back to Jocelyn with a wolfish grin. “Far from dead, sweetheart, if you want to take a walk upstairs, we can test my virility.”
Jocelyn laughed. “You’re bad. I like that in a man. But, as fun as that might be, I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve recently sworn off all men.”
Soren’s snort carried from behind the tree where branches jostled. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m sorry, did you say something, Your Royal High Maintenance?”
He peeked out from behind the mammoth tree—no doubt to toss out a quick comeback—but Greyson pulled the trigger on his drill. “Soren, hold it still!”
Six hands and two bolts later, it stood straight as a soldier. Each brother claimed a tattered box from the attic, unwrapping ornaments while Wren wove lights through the branches. Every laugh made her heart swell. Whether they realized it or not, the holidays were already bringing them closer.
“I think we’re ready,” she said, winding the last of the lights around the lowest branches.
“Drumroll,” Greyson announced, plug in hand.
Masculine hands drummed against denim thighs in crescendo. He shoved the plug into the outlet, and the branches glowed under hundreds of tiny lights, altering the room into something magical.
Silence fell like snow as they absorbed the transformation. She never knew what it was that made twinkle lights so enchanting. Maybe they were called fairy lights because they actually possessed magic.
“Wow.” Soren came to stand by her side. “You don’t even need the ornaments.”
Logan joined them. “I thought they’d be colored lights.”
Soren scowled at his brother. “Colorful lights are tacky. Mom liked a classy tree.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Wren said. “Sometimes, tacky is fun.”
She glanced at Greyson, his expression a mixture of awe and stricken emotion. Of the three boys, he’d had the most Christmases with his mother and would therefore have the most memories to combat.
Sensing her stare, his gaze pulled from the tree, and he gave her a weak smile.
“All right, boys,” she said, lightening the mood as she draped pearl beads over her shoulder and twirled them like a 1920s flapper. “Who’s ready for some garland?”
They worked in tandem, the boys handling the heights while she and Jocelyn managed the lower branches. Compared to the dressed windows in town, they did a horrible job. But Wren decided all the cockeyed, crooked swoops and loops added character.
Stepping back, she admired the sloppy tree, proud of her boys and the effort they put into it. “Now, we decorate.”
Newer ornaments went up first since the vintage ones required more reverence and care. As they unearthed the relics from their mother’s boxes, they carefully handed them off one by one.
“That ornament goes at the top,” Magnus’s voice cut through the chatter. The room stilled as they followed his trembling finger to the ornament Logan had just hung. “Sable liked it close to the angel.”
Wren looked at the crystal snowflake, and stretched on the stepstool to move it near the crown. “Here?”
Their father nodded, satisfied, but still scowling.
When the doorbell chimed, Wren handed off the next ornament. “That’s probably my dad and my aunt.”
Monica beat her to the foyer, and greeted their guests. Bodhi and Astrid swept in on a gust of winter air and patchouli.
“Will you look at this place,” Astrid marveled. “Is that chandelier real crystal? Oh, Wren, there you are. We brought nut roast with turmeric gravy and reishi mushrooms.”
“And I made my famous kombucha stuffing.” Bodhi presented his creation like a proud alchemist.
Wren took the dish from her father and led him into the den. “Grey?”
Greyson turned and smiled as if relieved to see her family’s familiar faces. “Bodhi! Astrid!”
Wren realized then how difficult this isolated time with his father had been.
The boys might be paying a toll with each grumbled criticism from Magnus’s mouth, but they were still gaining from the enforced togetherness.
They were brothers, and they needed each other right now, no matter how much they fought it.
“Mr. Hawthorne, you remember my dad.”
Magnus looked over his mask and gave a nod of recognition. There had only been a handful of times Wren recalled seeing their fathers in the same room. Unlike their mothers, the two had little in common and never passed time in the same circles.
“Wren, where am I putting this?” Astrid, still holding her dish, called from the doorway.
“In the kitchen. Follow me. Then you can help me with the centerpieces.”
The maid fussed at the idea of letting others dress the table, but Wren insisted.
Soren and Jocelyn bickered over candle placement.
Aunt Astrid argued that the silver clashed with Greyson’s aura.
Everyone had an opinion, and Wren tried to compromise, giving up her dream of a centerfold-worthy outcome, and instead settling for a hodgepodge mashup of tacky meets good intentions.
Greyson, sensing her stress, took her hand and pulled her into the kitchen. He didn’t give her a chance to gripe. Instead, he kissed her—slow and drudgingly. “Have I told you how much I appreciate everything you’re trying to do.”
Trying… That wasn’t exactly a rave review.
She nestled into the shelter of his strength. “Is it working? You can lie to me,” she teased.
“Depends on what you hoped the outcome would be.”
She’d hoped for a miracle, but she’d settle for tolerance at this point. “Was it a mistake inviting my family?”
He drew back and frowned, holding her firmly by the shoulders. “Why would you ask that?”
She shrugged. “They’re…you know…a lot.”
“You mean weird?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed her temple and hugged her. “You know I love Bodhi and Astrid.”
“You do, but the others aren’t used to them.”
“Give them time.”
“What about your dad?”
He chuckled. “He’ll adapt. Your aunt settles in with the subtlety of an enema.”
She laughed. “Your dad didn’t look too happy to see my dad.”