That Christmas Feeling (9 page)

“What? Are you nuts? There’s a clock in the parlor that is amazing…and a music box filled with jewels…and no telling what else. It’s all hers, too. It belonged to her husband—to Hans Schmidt and my aunt.”

“Flossie Ross had a husband?”

“Don’t call her that. We hate that dumb name.”

Rob stared at her. “Claire—”

“Just don’t let anything happen, Robert West. I’m counting on you to protect those valuable possessions out there.”

His blue eyes searched her face. “Claire, what’s going on? Do you honestly think it’s worth trying to save all the junk in this house?”

“It’s not junk. Not under the mess. These are my aunt’s treasures. They belong to her.” She took a breath, trying to collect herself. “Something happened to Aunt Flossie years ago—a terrible tragedy and loss. Her husband’s death started her down this long road of mental illness, Rob.”

“I told you she hadn’t been born bitter.”

“That’s right, and I’m going to see that my aunt gets help now. If she wants to keep these things, I’m going to make sure she has them. If she chooses to sell the contents of the house, fine. I want her to be able to live in comfort and health for the rest of her life. Our family should have been caring for her all along, and from this day forward, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Why, Claire? Are you doing this out of guilt? Because you don’t owe—”

“No!” Claire protested vigorously. “That’s not it at all. I love my aunt. I love the adventurous girl she used to be. I mourn what she could have been. And I care about who she is now. In some strange way, I see myself in her.” She looked away from him. “Rob, if I keep going the way I am—refusing to share myself with people, hiding in my safe little world—I’m afraid I could become bitter and hateful just like Aunt Flossie.”

“You would never—”

“You might, too, Rob.” Cutting off his denial, she met his blue eyes. “I know things didn’t turn out right in your marriage. I’m not sure if that’s why you’ve changed, but I’ve known you long enough to see a big difference. You
never used to keep people at bay. You always spoke your mind. You weren’t afraid to talk about your feelings.”

“I talked to
you
about how I felt. Not to everybody.”

“But these days, you won’t reveal your true emotions even to me. You’re locked away like Rapunzel in a tower.”

“Whoa, now. Wasn’t Rapunzel a girl? She was the one with all that long hair, and the prince had to—”

“Robert West! Don’t try to change the subject.” Claire jabbed her finger at his chest. “I am being deadly serious here. My aunt got hurt, so she turned her back on people, and look what happened to her. I’ve been heading right down that same road…”

“Yeah, you’ve got your first cat already.”

“This is not about cats!” she said hotly. “Quit making jokes and listen to me! You are the police chief, and you’re not too dumb to hear what I’m saying. I don’t want you to turn out like my aunt and me. You’d better stop pushing people away.”

“All right,” he said, taking her arms and pulling her close. “Is this better?”

She caught her breath as his hand slid down her back, drawing her against his chest. “Rob, I didn’t mean…”

“Didn’t you?”

“No, I…”

“I think you meant this,” he said, brushing his lips across hers. “And this.” He kissed her again, taking time to fold her in his arms and teach her lips the extent of his feelings.

Then he drew back. “Mmm, I wanted to do that again,” he murmured. “Claire, listen to me.”

“I see you two over there!” Flossie’s high voice carried across the kitchen. “I know what you’re up to!”

“Aunt Flossie, it’s not what you think.” Claire pulled away from Rob, eager to reassure her aunt that she had no intention of plotting with him to steal the Austrian treasures. “We were just—”

“Spoonin’! I saw the two of you. I may be a little teched in the head, but I’m not blind. Somebody fetch me some sugar and milk. This coffee is for the dogs.”

Laughing, Rob nudged Claire as he passed her on his way back to the cleaning crew. “Keep on preaching at me, Clarence,” he said. “I think I’m finally beginning to get your message.”

T
he moment Claire stepped out of her car she noticed the large pine wreath centered on the moonlit front door of Ross Mansion. Though its ribbon bore traces of mud, the branches were still green, and the silver bells twinkled. No tree lights glittered inside the parlor’s bay window and no mistletoe hung over the door, but at least the wreath stood as a symbol of warm wishes to all who might visit the house on this chilly Christmas Eve.

Carrying the large gift she had wrapped in shiny gold paper and tied with a red satin bow, Claire stepped onto the porch. School was over for the holidays, and the townsfolk were preparing their own celebrations, yet she had no doubt many people had dropped by the mansion earlier in the day. In the past week, volunteers had repaired the steps, the porch railings and the porch floor. They had replaced broken windows, hosed down every outside wall and thoroughly scrubbed the parlor and foyer where Florence Ross
Schmidt had lived out more than fifty long and lonely years. Every afternoon that she could spare, Claire had joined the work crew, though her job had consisted primarily of calming her agitated great-aunt.

“Who is it? I hope you aren’t here to sing carols at me again!” The door opened a crack, and Flossie’s face appeared in the silvery light. “I’ve had about enough caroling to choke on, and as for fruitcake, well…. Oh, it’s you. What are you doing out on a night like this, girl? Get inside quick, before you freeze to death.”

Claire cast a glance at the greenery as she entered the foyer. “I see you decided to use the wreath I gave you, Aunt Flossie,” she said as she made an unsuccessful attempt to hug the elderly woman. “It looks pretty.”

“I’d tell you one of the other ladies hung it out there, but that’d be a lie. I did it myself. Saw it sitting over there on that table and figured I might as well put it up.” She tottered toward the parlor, her cats following the hem of their owner’s ratty pink bathrobe. “Bunch of old pine branches…I never did understand the point of such nonsense. But I guess it’s all right. Got the fool thing out of the house, anyhow. It stank to high heaven.”

“You thought the wreath smelled bad? Aunt Flossie, your house still reeks after all those cats. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever get rid of the odor. I imagine the curtains will have to go. And certainly what’s left of the wallpaper has to come down.”

“Sure, take everything. Leave me with nothing. I know that’s what you want anyhow.”

Smiling at the now familiar refrain, Claire set the gold-wrapped gift on a lovely mahogany table with a polished marble top. One of the volunteers had taken on the table as a special project, and tonight it fairly gleamed in the firelight that warmed the room with a golden glow. Homer and Virgil resumed their positions on a new rug that someone had bought at the local discount store, and Flossie settled into a chair that had been draped with a thick wool bedspread.

“Well, sit down, girl,” the woman said. “What are you planning to do, stand there all night?”

“I just wanted to absorb everything for a moment,” Claire explained as she seated herself on the edge of a settee that still needed to be reupholstered. “People have worked so hard here, Aunt Flossie. Your house is really beginning to look like a home again.”

“I guess so. It’s a bother, though, folks dropping by morning and night. People hammering and sawing. And you—you’re the one who took away all my paintings! Why’d you do that? I liked those pictures! They’re mine, and I don’t want anyone to—”

“I already told you, Aunt Flossie,” Claire cut in, taking her gift from the table and handing it to her aunt. “I’ve sent them to a preservation service for analysis. We need to find out who the artists are, when the pictures were painted and whether they’re salvageable.”

“Whether they’re worth anything is what you mean.” She cast her niece a glance of reproach. “Don’t think I’m ignorant. I’m not too old to know what you’re up to. You want all this for yourself!”

“Now, Aunt Flossie, we’ve been over this several times already.” Claire pulled a sheet of paper from her purse and set it on the table beside Flossie’s chair. “Here’s the paper for you to sign. A lawyer in town was nice enough to draw it up. It’s not a proper will—you’ll have to have her help with that. But it does allow you to specify what you want to happen to the house and all its possessions after you’re gone. This is a legal document, and all you have to do is fill in the blank here, and sign it.”

“Well,” Flossie said, crossing her arms. “Sounds like trickery to me.”

“It’s not a trick. After I leave, you read it over and sign it if you want. Even if you don’t sign it, I won’t inherit any of your possessions, Aunt Flossie. I’m not your next of kin. My parents and their siblings have that role.”

“They all deeded this house over to me. It’s mine.”

“That’s right, and you get to decide what happens to it.”

Claire sighed and leaned back on the settee. How many times had she tried to explain this to her aunt? Nothing seemed to dent Flossie’s certainty that everyone was out to get her. She was skeptical of the hard work that had gone into making her house fit to live in. She distrusted the people who had given so much of their time and labor without expecting anything in return. And she still believed her niece was conspiring behind her back.

Perhaps this was all part of the mental illness that had plagued Aunt Flossie since the death of her husband. Claire had made appointments with both a medical doctor and a psychiatrist in the nearby city of Springfield, but those ex
aminations would have to wait until after the holidays. She certainly hoped the professionals could come up with a way to ease the fear and unhappiness that resided in her aunt’s heart.

“Why don’t you open your present, Aunt Flossie?” Claire asked. “Tonight’s Christmas Eve. I wanted you to have something special.”

Flossie muttered nonsensical fragments of sentences as she went to work picking at the bow. Sadness crept into Claire’s heart as she watched the thin fingers plucking and pulling at the red ribbon. She had no doubt medical and psychiatric care could help her great-aunt. But Claire sensed that the greatest healing needed to occur in Aunt Flossie’s soul. After more than fifty years, the woman still clung to her bitterness. She hadn’t forgiven those who had murdered Hans and his parents, and the vines of hatred had choked every last fragment of kindness, hope, faith and love from her heart.

“It’s a robe,” Flossie said, lifting the warm blue chenille garment from the box. She frowned as she examined it. “I don’t need another bathrobe. I got one already.”

“Yes, but yours is—”

“How come you didn’t bring me a fruitcake, like everybody else?” she sneered. “Or a chicken casserole? I’ve only got about fifteen fruitcakes, five casseroles and now two bathrobes! What would make you think—”

“I don’t know, Aunt Flossie,” Claire snapped. “I don’t know what would make me think you needed something to replace that old pink rag that hangs in shreds from your
shoulders. I don’t know why fifteen people bothered to bake you fruitcakes. Or why five of them brought casseroles. But most of all, I don’t know why you’re so determined to think the worst of everyone! The people of Buffalo have reached out to you with love and generosity—”

“I’ll tell you why I think the worst of everyone. You said it yourself. They’re all rotten.” She pushed the gift box and the robe onto the floor. “Rotten to the core.”

“At least they’re making an effort at kindness. They’re not sitting around wallowing in their rottenness. Most of the people who have helped you are Christians, Aunt Flossie. Christians don’t practice evil. They don’t welcome nastiness in their lives. If they find it, they confess it, ask forgiveness for it and get back to trying to be obedient to Christ.”

“Well, la-dee-da. Take your blue bathrobe and go on home. I don’t need your sermons.”

Rob’s words to her the last time they had spoken echoed in Claire’s thoughts. She did have a tendency to preach, and maybe people didn’t appreciate it as much as she wished. Obviously her sermonizing had turned Rob away. Something had.

Though his last touch had been a kiss and his last words had sounded like a tease, Rob had not made any effort to contact her all week. She thought she understood why. He wasn’t willing to surrender his pain. Like Aunt Flossie, he wanted to cling to whatever held his heart so tightly locked away. That was Rob’s choice, and as much as Claire now wished she could change him, she knew he had to live his own life. And she would live hers.

“I promise I won’t preach at you, Aunt Flossie,” Claire said. “I’m through with that. I just want to tell you a little story. The end of a story, really.”

“Which story? I’m in no humor for fairy tales.”

“This is not a fairy tale. It’s the truth.” Claire picked up the blue robe and folded it as she spoke. “It’s the end of my Stephen story. He was my fiancé.”

“The one who jilted you? As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of the story.”

Claire swallowed at her aunt’s painful words before she could go on. “It’s not the end of the story,” she said in a low voice. “There’s more, and you’re going to listen to it.”

“Get on with it, then,” Flossie said. “I don’t have all night.”

“Until last week, I didn’t want to let Stephen off the hook. Ever. I thought he ought to suffer for what he had done to me. His betrayal hurt me so badly that I wanted him to hurt, too.”

“Serves him right.”

“But then it occurred to me that my anger, resentment and bitterness wasn’t hurting Stephen at all. He’s having a fine time writing his books and dating whichever woman currently admires him the most. I’m the one who’s been doing all the suffering—isolating myself in my little house, surrounding myself with comforts that don’t really help and trying to keep well-meaning people from getting too close.”

“I know you think I’m just like you,” Flossie growled. “I got your point—and it is a sermon, by the way.”

“No, it’s not, because it has a happily-ever-after ending.”

“You said it wasn’t a fairy tale.”

“It’s a true story. You see, last week when I was over here—”

“Sure, I saw you kissing that man who stole my guns. So you’re getting married. Happy wedding bells.”

“Married?” Claire gasped. “I’m not marrying Rob West.”

“Why not? It’s obvious he’s sweet on you—grabbing you and smooching you like that. And right in my kitchen, too!”

“Aunt Flossie, Rob is not sweet on me. We haven’t talked for a week. There’s nothing going on between us, I assure you.”

“No? Hans never kissed me that way till after we were married. So if there’s nothing going on, let me tell you what. You better get something going on, or the both of you will wind up like me, sitting in a big old house with nothing and nobody.”

“Well, that’s my point.” Claire shook her head, trying to clear it. “Not my point about Rob. I’m talking about Hans and Stephen.”

“Hans and Stephen? They never even knew each other. What kind of craziness are you on about now, girl?”

“I’m trying to tell you that I forgave Stephen for hurting me. I did it the other day, in my house, on my knees, by myself. I forgave him for all the pain he caused me, and I asked God to help me forgive him again when the hurt came back to haunt me. Which it does.”

“You saying you want me to forgive that police chief for stealing my guns?”

Claire gave a cry of exasperation. “This is not about Rob! I’m asking you to forgive the men who killed Hans so many years ago, Aunt Flossie. Forgive Hans for dying. Forgive everyone who ever hurt you. Let it go! Get down on your knees and beg God to help you forgive everything that’s ever been done to you. Just release it all. Your bitterness won’t make anyone else suffer—you can only keep hurting yourself. And hurting everyone who cares for you.”

Flossie sniffed as she picked at a string on her bathrobe. “Not much of a happily-ever-after ending,” she said finally. “I thought I was getting invited to a wedding.”

“Well, you’re not. I don’t need Rob West or any other man to make me happy. I like Rob. I do care about him, but I—”

“Oh, you love him. Just admit it.”

“I am a contented woman with a good life. Besides, I have you to love now. You can’t escape me, Aunt Flossie. I’m here for the long haul.”

“Happy day.” Flossie eyed her niece from under her scowl. “Well, go ahead and open your present. Might as well get it over with.”

“You have a present for me? I didn’t expect—”

“Yes, you did. Don’t try to deny it.” Flossie handed Claire a familiar box. “There. You can have that.”

“A fruitcake,” Claire said, gazing down at the colorful picture of nuts and candied fruit embedded in a brown cake. “Oh, thank you, Aunt Flossie. I really appreciate your sharing—”

“It’s not a fruitcake! Open the lid!”

Jumping to obey, Claire lifted the lid of the fruitcake container to find the jewel-inlaid music box that Hans had given to his wife so long ago. The diamond-encrusted blue enamel sky glittered as she opened the box and watched the shepherds and kings circling the baby Jesus. As sweet music filled the room, Claire shivered at the beauty of the scene.

“Oh, Aunt Flossie,” she said softly. “This is too much.”

“I figured you ought to have it before one of those people who keep tramping in and out of my house decided to carry it off. You never know what folks will do. They’re liable to have stripped me blind, for all I know. I bet you most of those hand-knotted Persian wool rugs are gone.”

“They are gone. That’s exactly right. Gone to the trash, because they were ruined by the cats.” Claire rose from the settee and went to her aunt’s chair. Kneeling, she slipped her arms around the frail old woman. “Thank you, Aunt Flossie. Thank you so much for thinking of me at Christmastime. I know you’ve been overwhelmed by…”

Claire paused at the sight of two glowing green eyes shining out from under a chair near the fire. The eyes blinked once. Then again. Claire pulled back and faced her aunt.

“Aunt Flossie, there’s a cat over there.”

“Homer and Virgil,” Flossie said. “Right beside the fire. Their favorite place.”

“Yes, but you have another cat, don’t you? It’s hiding under a chair behind you.”