Chapter Six
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IF THE exterior of the Davisons’ house looked like a Christmas card, the interior looked like a kitschy Christmas shop. Decorations covered every horizontal surface from snow globes to plush snowmen to reindeer figurines to three different sets of Dept 56 villages. Pre-lit garland swathed the staircase banister in the central hallway and draped the fireplace mantel in the living room. Three four-foot evergreen trees stood at attention alongside the staircase in the hallway, and a six-foot tree held prominence by the living room windows. There was even a Christmas Story lamp in the dining room.
The Grinch would be horrified.
And if Gwynn, currently seated at the dining table, turned her head just so, she could peer through the doorway, across the central hall, and into the living room to look the worst offender in his jolly glass eyes.
Aunt Maude’s very own, three-foot Santa Claus.
Contrary to Irene’s Santa at the art gallery sporting its classic red suit and black belt, this one wore Old World garb. A sack of wrapped boxes lay at its feet where it guarded the main Christmas tree.
He knows if you’ve been bad or good …
A memory leaked from its cage and floated to the floor of her mind. Like most children, Gwynn had stopped believing in Santa sometime before the third grade. But Frank Holliday—the one-and-only Gramps—had kept the fun alive with his own “Letters to Santa” mailbox, encouraging the kids in town to drop off their letters year-round and he’d make sure Santa received them.
Gwynn had later discovered Gramps read the letters himself and tried to fulfill as many Christmas wishes as he could. For kicks, she had slipped a few letters into the mailbox as an older child, asking for a new sled or a new pair of mittens after hers had become thin and ratty, and he’d never let her down.
Then came the year everything blew up in her face—
“Here we go!”
From the kitchen, Aunt Maude backed her way through the adjoining swinging door, huckleberry pie in hand. At her heels, Brisket scooted into the dining room, appearing for all the world like a normal, healthy dog that hadn’t suffered a seizure the other day.
Gwynn straightened in her chair as Aunt Maude set the pie on the table. “That looks fantastic.”
“Let’s pray it tastes fantastic.” Aunt Maude turned to the sideboard bedecked with a Dickens’ Christmas village and tsked at her husband who rummaged in the bottom drawer. “Russell Davison, what are you doing down there?” she asked. She opened a top drawer and removed a serrated pie server.
“I’m trying to find … this.” With a wide grin, Uncle Russ held up an album and pushed to his feet, Brisket jumping and pawing at his leg. “Here, sweetheart.” He slid the album on the table toward Gwynn. “You’ll get a kick out of this.”
As he took a seat across the table and lifted Brisket onto his lap, Gwynn opened the album cover. A laugh escaped at the baby photo she recognized. “Is this whole album of me?” She flipped through several pages of glossy pictures taken during her middle school days, the layouts embellished with stickers, washi tape, and scrapbook frames. Yellowed newspaper clippings and a few worn photographs highlighted big moments from her early years.
She turned another page, and her breath hitched at the photo centered there, four round faces smiling out at her. Two siblings, Uncle Russ and Mama Edith, with their two spouses, Aunt Maude and Poppa Jeb. When Poppa and Mama had gone to be with their Savior a few years ago, the pang in Gwynn’s heart proved that one needn’t be blood relatives to feel the exquisite pain caused by a loved one’s earthly absence.
“Where would I be without you four brave souls?” Gwynn whispered, smiling through blurry vision. She smoothed a finger over their photographed faces. Aunt Maude paused in cutting the pie and reached out to pat her hand.
Swiping at a wayward tear, Gwynn flipped another page, and a chuckle escaped. “My surprise eighteenth birthday party.” Poppa Jeb had captured the shock on her face for all time. “I forgot you two came.”
“Edith had been so proud that she’d managed to keep the celebration and our visit a secret,” Aunt Maude said, transferring slices of pie onto three porcelain dessert plates.
“And then you attempted to outdo her homemade birthday cake the next day.”
Aunt Maude wrinkled her nose as she set a plate in front of Gwynn. “I do have a competitive streak, don’t I? Along those lines”—she handed out forks and fresh napkins—“you two shall be my guinea pigs since Cash insisted on a rain check.”
“Gladly.” Uncle Russ pulled his plate closer even as he readjusted Brisket to keep the dog from licking his food.
“Guinea pigs?” Gwynn sunk her fork into the crust, which flaked apart. “You’ve made huckleberry pies before.”
“I tweaked the recipe for the upcoming Christmas Jamboree.” Aunt Maude took a seat beside Uncle Russ and draped a napkin on her lap. “I told you about Annabelle Richards the other day. I am determined to win this year.”
Gwynn scooped up a wedge of pie. “You’re a feisty old lady.”
“Yes, well, I’ve earned that right after all these decades.” She twirled her fork in the air. “This will be the most rewarding Jamboree ever.”
For Aunt Maude, maybe. For Gwynn, her most rewarding Jam was the year she’d received her first official kiss from her crush behind a darkened kiosk as the snowflakes fell about them.
Ugh, you’re not supposed to go there, she rebuked herself.
Giving a tiny shake of her head, she brought the pie to her mouth. The tangy sweetness of the huckleberries hit her tongue, and she closed her eyes on a contented moan. “Delicious. If you don’t win, I’m gonna suspect Mrs. Richards of bribing the judges. What did you change?”
Brisket stretched over Uncle Russ’s lap and sniffed at the crust and berry filling stacked on Aunt Maude’s fork. She pushed his nose away. “I went heavy on the cinnamon and was very generous with the butter.”
“In other words, you’re going to give Uncle Russ an actual heart attack.” When she’d greeted him earlier, Gwynn had joked that nothing harmful could ever befall him before clearing it with her first.
The older woman’s eyes crinkled. “Then we must give Cash an ample portion of this pie, so Russ doesn’t eat too much himself. You can take it to him tomorrow.” Gwynn opened her mouth to protest, but Aunt Maude barreled on. “Enough small talk. We endured it through dinner. I want to know how you’re really doing.”
“But I already told you—”
“No.” She pointed her fork at Gwynn. “I want the skinny on romance. Are you still dating those Business Suits?”
“Aunt Maude!” Gwynn laughed. “You are feisty.”
“That’s what Russ calls your beaus. He met one the last time he visited. Do you recall when I sprained my ankle and couldn’t come?”
“That would have been”—Gwynn squinted at the ceiling—“Quinton Baker. He was … nice. Needed table manners.”
“And then there was Isaac. Followed by Mike. And …” Aunt Maude nudged Uncle Russ with her elbow. “Wasn’t there another Suit?”
“Logan,” Uncle Russ said.
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you your minds are going,” Gwynn grumbled. “Yes, Logan asked me out to dinner, but he made it clear we were going Dutch. He was nice too. They were all nice, I suppose. Nice to look at. Nice to talk to.” She popped another piece of pie in her mouth. After swallowing, she added, “Their values weren’t always nice, though. Most didn’t align with mine. Even guys I’ve met at church have questionable morals.” With a sigh, she pushed a few huckleberries around the edge of her plate, the sauce smearing across the blue and white print. “I think I’m broken.”
“Oh, honey, society’s broken, not you.”
“Though you don’t do yourself any favors by dating the wrong kind of guy,” Uncle Russ said in a gruff tone, scratching Brisket under his chin. The dog’s eyes drifted closed.
“And what kind of guy would you suggest I date?”
“Well … Cash is single.” Aunt Maude smiled. “Now there’s a gentleman with a bit of an edge. He’d challenge you. Go head-to-head with you, get you all fired up, invigorate your soul.”
Gwynn exchanged a glance with Uncle Russ. “Sounds more like an adversary than a boyfriend.”
“And you two already have chemistry.”
“Aunt Maude—”
“I’m talking about earlier today. I saw those sparks flying.”
“Then did you notice when I scared him off with my face?” Gwynn hiked her eyebrows at the elderly couple. “Seems I remind him of someone he knows. Besides, he’s not part of my plan while I’m here.”
“Probably better that way,” Uncle Russ said around a forkful of pie. “Tessa Reynolds has her sights on him.”
Gwynn’s tummy squirmed. “Tessa’s still around?”
“And her daddy’s still a pastor.”
She worried her bottom lip.
Uncle Russ scooped up berries with the side of his fork. “It’s only a matter of time before Cash relents to her dogged pursuit. That boy’s not made of stone.”
Aunt Maude glared at Uncle Russ. “Tessa hasn’t nabbed him yet. And those two don’t have sparks!”
“A relationship needs more than sparks, Aunt Maude, if it’s going to last.”
“It’s the spark that sets the flame a’goin’,” the woman countered.
“She’s a pastor’s daughter . What guy would regret choosing such a woman for—” Gwynn’s mouth snapped shut as Aunt Maude’s glared turned in her direction.
“You know as well as I do that pastors’ children aren’t safe from the devil’s claws.”
Gwynn held up her hands in surrender.
“Now, take you and Cash—”
“There is no me and Cash. He’s not part of my plan.”
“Plan-schman.” Aunt Maude jabbed the table with a finger. “Did you ever submit your plan for God’s approval?”
Gwynn lowered her eyes to stare at her now-empty plate and its familiar pattern of delicate trees and rounded mountains. “I was clear with you on the phone—”
An image slashed across her vision of a similar plate exploding from where it hung on the wall. Gwynn gasped, and the image vanished, taking with it all the air in the room. Leaning her elbows on the table, she covered her face with shaky hands.
“Gwynn, honey, what is it?” Uncle Russ asked.
A queasiness started in her stomach, and she squelched her mind from going down Memory Lane. That lane was—would always be—forbidden. I didn’t ask for this, Lord. I won’t be a willing participant.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Aunt Maude dropped into the chair beside her and rubbed her back. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. At times, I’m like a pit bull on a slab of steak—”
“It’s the Imari Garden plate,” Gwynn whispered. “My mom used to collect them.”
“Oh, shoot.” Something rasped along the tablecloth. “Russ, you take this. Gwynn, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”
Gwynn shook her head and sat up, forcing a smile. “It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”
A significant look passed between Uncle Russ and Aunt Maude.
Gwynn stiffened. “No. I know what you’re going to say, and the answer is no.”
Aunt Maude flattened a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “But perhaps it’s time for healing.”
“I am healed. By the blood of Jesus Christ. He changed me inside and out, and I’ll be forever grateful.”
“This needs closure,” Uncle Russ said.
She sighed and scrubbed her hands over her face. “Some things never get closure. Some things just are until God metes out judgment in the end.”
“Gwynn.”
She met Uncle Russ’s gaze, and her heart tripped at the sheen in his eyes.
“Give it some thought, huh?” he asked.
Her throat burned. She couldn’t outright deny the man who had sacrificed so much for her. “Okay.”
But it didn’t matter how long she spent thinking. She’d arrived in Montana armed with a plan. A safe, wise plan. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—waver from it.