The Christmas House by Elizabeth Bromke

Author:Elizabeth Bromke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Elizabeth Bromke
Published: 2019-10-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

With new energy, Fern took a quick shower, pulled on a fresh pair of Christmas leggings and a worn t-shirt, blasted “Jingle Bell Rock,” and set about a plan.

She had a stack of unused notebooks in the parlor, and she selected a red one to frame things out.

Several internet searches later and about five lined pages filled from top to bottom with lists and brainstorms, she had something to work from. And it would require that she take stock.

And that would require that she clean her house. For once, and for all.

It was a painful thought, cleaning. What if she came across something of her mother’s that she hadn’t before discovered? Would she fall back down the well of nostalgia and heartache?

Toffee rummaged around in the boxes to the side of her desk, clawing excitedly as though she knew what was about to come.

Whatever Fern found, she’d have to deal with. She could do it. If she could muster the strength to call Stedman and then invite him for coffee and then have dinner with him, she could do anything.

Four empty boxes gawked in the foyer. She would drag her goods to them, categorizing as she went: Sell, Trash, Store, and ?.

Anything that didn’t fit into a box would have to go onto the veranda in front. It was cold. Snow encroached on the deck. But weather would not get in the way of her inertia.

Fueled by marshmallow-studded hot cocoa and last year’s clearance-rack candy canes, she got down to it.

By lunch, Fern officially had three full boxes. The ? box was not full, but a few items did sit in the bottom, waiting to meet their fate. And, since exhaustion is one way to turn indecision into action, those few trinkets would likely find themselves in the trash before sunset.

Her stomach began to rumble, and despite the fact that she’d warmed up from working, potato soup sounded perfect. Before heading into the kitchen, she stopped off in the front hall bath to quickly surveil what she’d be doing after lunch.

Cinnamon-scented hand soap and a cinnamon-scented candle to match and a hand towel embroidered with a stocking lay neatly at the corners of the sink. All necessities that could stay right where they were.

She popped open the medicine cabinet. First aid supplies. Stacks of plastic-sleeved toothbrushes. She pulled everything out. These were the types of extras that surely would come in handy one day. She couldn’t trash them—wasteful— and she couldn’t store them—impractical. She had to keep them. Just, somewhere else. Somewhere more orderly.

So, for now, they could rest on the countertop.

Then, she opened the door of the narrow side table that stood adjacent to the pedestal sink. Fern pulled a packaged foursome of toilet paper out to peek at the back. A wooden box, taller than it was wide, sat, hiding in the shadows.

Fern knew exactly what was inside.

It was something she’d hidden from herself years before. As soon as Eleanor died. And then she added to it once Stedman left.

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