The Cottage on Juniper Ridge. Sheila Roberts
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you keep adding more. Pretty soon there isn’t going to be room in the house for us.”
“I don’t have that many Christmas decorations,” she protested.
“You’re kidding, right? And it’s not just Christmas stuff. Have you seen the attic lately?”
“Some of the things up there belong to the kids. And you.” Well, okay, most of them were things she’d acquired. She hurried on before he could point that out. “Anyway, when you’ve been married for twenty-five years you’re bound to end up with a lot.”
“Stace, you could load up a landfill with all the stuff you’ve got. My God, between the closet full of presents—”
“We have to have presents for the kids, and for Ethan’s new girlfriend. Anyway, I bought everything on sale,” Stacy said righteously.
“The material in Autumn’s old room.”
“I’m a quilter. I have to buy fabric.”
“The dishes. How many sets do you need, anyway?”
“One for every day, good china for special occasions. And we use those Christmas dishes every year.”
“And shoes.”
“A woman can never have too many shoes.”
“And purses.”
“A purse is an important accessory.”
“Clothes. You know there’s barely room in the closet for my clothes. And I don’t have that many. And don’t tell me I can put them in Ethan’s old room. I opened that closet the other day and a shopping bag full of bubble bath fell on me.”
That bubble bath had been a steal. Honestly, sometimes her husband had no idea how much money she saved him. “Maybe it was a cosmic hint to clean up your act, Mr. Scrooge,” Stacy said. “Anyway, it isn’t all for me. Most of that bubble bath is for Christmas presents.”
“How many people have you added to your Christmas list? You’ve got enough bubble bath to clean everyone in Icicle Falls. And their dogs.” He flopped on the couch, put in his call to Italian Alps and ordered a large pizza supreme.
“There. Feel better?” she taunted.
“I’d feel better if I could take all this junk to the dump.”
She opened the box with her collection of Santa figurines and took one out. “Someone’s being very naughty,” she told the ceramic Santa. “I think you need to bring him a lump of coal for Christmas.”
“Good. Something I can burn and get rid of,” he retorted.
Okay, enough was enough. “You know, you’re ruining my holiday spirit here. I’m trying to make our house look nice and you’re being a Grinch.”
He patted the couch cushion. “Come here and give your Grinch a kiss.”
“Will it help?”
He smiled, and she joined him on the couch for a kiss and another hug. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to un-Grinch myself. I love you,” he added, and kissed her again.
“And I love you, too.” But his attitude stank.
Besides, he didn’t have a clue about how important holiday decorating was. Or decorating in general. Those pretty things set the mood for fun. They were the backdrop for surprises and family togetherness. Without them it would be like watching a play take place on a barren stage. And that crack about the dishes? Come on. Using those Christmas dishes was part of what made everything so festive.
She glanced at the herd of boxes scattered around her living room. Okay, there was a lot of festivity here. Was she a pack rat?
The first step toward positive change is acknowledging the need for that change.
—Muriel Sterling, author of Simplicity
By seven-thirty the Thomas residence looked like Christmas central. Most of the decorations were up and the rest had been stuffed in their daughter’s old bedroom, squeezed in with the piles of material and the quilt in progress. Dean was now ensconced in the TV room, grading tests for his eighth-grade English class, and Stacy was ready for her book club to arrive.
She set her artichoke dip and crackers on the dining room table next to the plate of brownies and the punch bowl full of eggnog, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. The table looked lovely if she did say so herself. Her centerpiece was simple—an elegant Fitz and Floyd pitcher shaped like Saint Nicholas and filled with red carnations she’d purchased at Lupine Floral and surrounded with holly taken from the bush in their backyard. Very festive, she thought with a smile. Every woman should own something by Fitz and Floyd.
The doorbell rang and she hurried to welcome the first arrival. There on the porch stood Cass Wilkes, bearing her signature contribution, a plate of gingerbread boys and girls. She and Stacy were close in age and, as with Stacy, Father Time and Mother Nature were conspiring to put extra pounds on Cass’s hips. Of course, owning a bakery probably contributed to the problem.
“You seem tired,” Stacy observed, stepping aside to let her in.
“Tired doesn’t begin to describe it,” Cass said, handing over the plate. “Every year I say I’m not going to be so busy, but every year I get busier. I’m up to my ears in orders for gingerbread houses. Both Amber and Willie want to have Christmas parties, which they expect me to bake for.” She shook her head. “I’ve got to get those two more at home in the kitchen. Dani was always my right-hand woman and I’m afraid I let it slide with the other two.”
Cass’s oldest daughter, Dani, had worked in the bakery with her for years. But when Dani married she’d moved away. It looked as if Cass was still trying to pick up the slack, both at work and at home. A business to run, two teenagers and a dog—no wonder she was tired.
“Speaking of Dani, how’s she doing?” Stacy asked.
Cass’s face lit up. “Great. She loves culinary school. And she and Mike are coming home for Christmas.” Cass sighed. “I hope I can manage to get my Christmas shopping done before they get here.”
“At least you don’t have a wedding to plan this year.”
“No, but my ex and his family had such a good time last year they’re all coming up for Christmas again.”
“Tell me they’re not staying with you.” Cass had wound up turning her house into a B and B for her ex-husband and his new wife when they came to town for her daughter’s wedding. Somehow, before she knew it, all her former in-laws had descended on her. They wound up having so much fun, they’d decided to stay on and celebrate the holiday at her place. Apparently they were making that a tradition now. Poor Cass.
“No,” Cass said. “This year I was smart enough to book ahead. They’re all staying at Icicle Creek Lodge. But the whole mob’s going to be at my place for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.”
She was still talking when Charlene Albach (Charley to her friends) arrived. Tall and slender in her stylish jeans and boots, her red wool coat and black beret, she could’ve been in a shoot for a winter edition of some magazine.
“Hey, gang,” she said, and gave Stacy a bottle of wine. She studied Cass a moment. “You look more tired every time I see you.”
“Nothing a week in the Caribbean wouldn’t fix,” Cass joked. “You look great as always. Love must agree with you.”
Stacy hoped so. She hadn’t known Charley before Juliet Gerard started the book club. She did know that Charley had endured a rough couple of years. Her skunk of a husband had left her for another woman, then returned last Christmas, asking her to try again. Stacy wasn’t sure what had happened. All she knew