Page 42 of Healing Hearts at the Christmas Inn
Trinity picked up a fat, red volume with gold foil letters pressed into the spine: “Christmas Inn—Winter Ball 1962.” She ran her hand over the cover, carefully, then plopped onto the floor, pulled it into her lap, and opened it.
Jane wandered over to where Trinity sat on the floor. She pulled a few cushions from the settee, making Trinity get up and sit on one while she sat beside her on the other as Trinity opened the book again.
Inside, the pages were thick and creamy, the photos arranged in perfect grids. Every picture was captioned in neat, black-ink script: guests in tuxedos and ball gowns, close-ups of table settings, and black-and-white shots of the band on the old wooden stage.
“These are incredible,” Trinity whispered, flipping to a page full of little kids in matching outfits, their faces sticky with punch and dessert. “Did your grandpa take all these?”
“He had a photographer,” Jane said, closing the tub she’d been sorting. “He was obsessed with documenting everything. Said it was the only way to be sure a thing really happened. Otherwise, memories just slip away.”
Trinity set down the first album and picked up a second, this one green and labeled “Easter Eggstravaganza,” with the year. She grinned at the pun, then started turning pages, her finger trailing over the pastel-tinted Polaroids. “Your family did this every year?”
“Every single holiday. There’s even one for Arbor Day, if you dig far enough.”
Trinity laughed, the sound bright and alive in the cold air. The photo album was in good shape, the plastic sleeves only slightly yellowed. On the first page, Jane saw a picture of herself at five, holding a basket almost as big as her head, her hair sticking out in wild red curls. Next to her was her grandfather, wearing a hat shaped like a giant egg, his smile as wide as a boat.
Trinity grinned. “You were adorable.”
Jane groaned, but she didn’t look away. “Grandpa used to say the only way to survive a holiday was to embrace the absurd.”
“He was right,” Trinity said, pausing as she flipped to a page and her eyes landed on a shot of a crowded dining room. The table was set with linen and crystal, the centerpiece an elaborate nest of colored eggs and fresh tulips. Everyone was dressed to the nines, even the little kids, and the sense of joy in the room seemed to leap right out of the picture.
“Who are all these people?” Trinity asked, genuinely curious.
“Guests. The inn was always full during the holidays. People came from all over the state. Sometimes from other countries.” Jane’s voice softened. “When I was a kid, I thought everyone’s family did stuff like this.”
Trinity turned to the next album, the Winter Ball from the nineties. This one was full of pictures of the ballroom: the chandelier lit up like a diamond mine, the floor packed with dancers, the band in white tuxes. Jane spotted her mother in one shot, hair piled high, laughing with her arms around her best friend. Her father appeared a few pages later, younger than she remembered, with a slightly self-conscious smile.
She felt something ache behind her ribs—a longing, not for the parties themselves, but for the world they captured. The certainty that things could be simple, that happiness could be planned and photographed and pasted into a book for safekeeping.
Trinity noticed the change in her expression. “What’s wrong?”
Jane shook her head, but her voice was thick. “Nothing. Just… it’s been a long time since I looked at these.”
Trinity was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why don’t you do this stuff anymore?”
Jane swallowed. “After Grandpa died, it felt wrong. Like we were pretending he’d just gone to get more ice, or was waiting for us to start the music.” She closed the album gently. “We kept decorating. We kept cooking the big meals. But it wasn’t the same. No one wanted to dance.”
Trinity nodded, picking at a loose thread on the cushion. “That makes sense. But isn’t it kind of sad?” She gestured at the wall of albums. “All these happy memories just… stopping?”
Jane looked at her, seeing not a kid but a wise old soul in borrowed sneakers. She thought of her own first winter after Darren died, the way she’d retreated from every tradition, afraid even to touch the ornaments in case they shattered from the grief in her hands.
“It is sad,” Jane admitted.
Trinity smiled at her, shy but determined. “Well, maybe we can start again.” Her excitement at her idea sparked a light in her eyes. “Let’s have the Winter Ball. Even if it’s just us.”
The simplicity of it almost knocked Jane off balance. She reached over and squeezed Trinity’s shoulder, not trusting herself to speak before gathering herself. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, kiddo.”
They sat together, paging through the albums one by one, letting the years unspool. They lingered over the Halloween photos (so many costumes, so much fake blood), and the Fourth of July (Jane in a red-white-and-blue swimsuit, her father holding sparklers). There were pictures from the Valentine’s Dinners, the table covered in pink roses and paper hearts. And then, near the end, a thin album labeled “Thanksgiving,”—the last one with Jane’s grandfather, who wore a ridiculous pilgrim hat and carved the turkey with a flourish.
By the time they finished, Jane was shocked to see how late it was and realized she’d lost all track of time.
Trinity looked up at her. “Don’t you think your grandpa would want you to keep having parties? Even if he wasn’t here?”
Jane tried to answer, but emotion closed her throat. She nodded instead.
“I think he would,” Trinity said. “In all these photos, he has this… this sparkle in his eyes.” She smiled. “He reminds me of Santa and the Easter Bunny all rolled into one magical being.”
Her words struck Jane right at the center of her heart, as a picture of her grandfather formed before her eyes. So real it was like she could reach out and touch him. Her skin prickled as the air around her seemed to cool, and she could swear she felt his soft touch brush her cheeks as a voice whispered,"Out of the mouth of babes, the truth flows, innocent and pure."Listen to her, Janie. It’s time to breathe some life back into this place.
