The Cottage on Juniper Ridge. Sheila Roberts
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containing the tree.
They were followed by many more boxes. Dean had been right. A person could drop dead lugging all of this around. Of course, she’d never admit that to him. He’d see it as some sort of capitulation and be ready to take everything away—to the dump.
Once all the boxes were stacked in the upstairs hall, the next step was to take her treasures to the attic. She pulled the chain to the trapdoor and let down the ladder. “You’re almost done now,” she told herself.
After lugging four cartons up to the attic, she realized she needed to work smarter, not harder. Rather than go all the way up the stairs and cross the attic to deposit each box separately, she’d be better off climbing the ladder and piling them nearby. Then, once they were all up there, she could arrange them as she wanted.
This plan worked really well until she decided to pile one box on top of another...while holding a plastic garbage bag filled with a stuffed Santa, his sleigh and reindeer. Somehow—who knew how these things happened?—she lost her balance. Santa went flying and she dropped the box. She missed her grab for the stairs and tumbled backward, tipping over the remaining pile of boxes as she went. She landed on the bag containing her Christmas quilt, giving herself a nice, soft landing. And she provided an equally soft landing for the boxes of decorations. One whacked her in the head and another landed on her middle. Both spilled their contents, surrounding her with Santas and candles. Ho, ho, ho.
Groaning, she clambered out from under the wreckage and assessed the damage. Other than a twinge in her back and a smarting head she was okay. And it looked as if the Santas had all survived. Except... Oh, no. There lay the newest member of the Claus family, decapitated.
It took some searching among the tissue paper and bubble wrap to find Santa’s missing head, but she did. She packed up the others, carefully inspecting them to see that they were well wrapped, but set him aside. Dean would say, “It’s broken. Why keep it?” But Dean didn’t get that a treasure was still a treasure, even if it got broken. A little glue and Santa would be fine.
Back up the ladder she went, now taking one box at a time. For a millisecond she entertained the thought that maybe her husband was right and they didn’t need quite so many decorations, that perhaps Muriel Sterling’s book on simplifying one’s life might actually make a valid point.
But only for a millisecond. Treasures equaled memories, and memories were priceless. And if it took some work storing hers, so what? One day her family would thank her for all the trouble she’d taken to surround them with pretty things.
And one day her son would actually want that latte maker.
Wouldn’t he?
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