Page 197 of The Holiday Clause
“Watch your step.” Grey shifted trunks aside, disturbing years of stillness.
Several chests bore labels with Sable’s name in faded marker. Greyson avoided those and dragged the Christmas boxes into the center where there was the most light and room. The cardboard was too fragile to stack, and Wren worried moving them might do more damage than good. Maybe they should find a sturdier container and keep the boxes up here, only taking what they absolutely wanted down stairs.
Her fingers traced the tattered lid. “Can I look?”
“Go ahead.”
The flimsy flap lifted to reveal treasures wrapped in fifteen-year-old newspaper. Wren touched the yellowed date reverently, imagining Sable’s hands doing the same after her final Christmas.
Glass bulbs painted with winter scenes emerged from the paper cocoons, followed by ivory angels with tarnished gilt wings and picture frame ornaments. “Grey, look at this.”
The floorboards groaned under his approach. She held up a tiny frame containing a faded photograph, Sable in a floor-length velvet gown, cradling baby Soren while leaning over Logan’s bassinet.
“Wow,” Greyson’s voice caught.
“There has to be another one with you.” She searched through the paper, unearthing frames with Sable and Magnus, more of Soren, faces she didn’t recognize. Her hand froze when she revealed a faded photo of their mothers standing side by side, frozen in time and beauty.
“Look at them,” she rasped, voice tight from dust and emotion.
The two friends laughed hysterically in ridiculous New Year’s Eve hats. One with yellow feathers that contrasted her dark black hair, the other with silver sparkles that complemented her long blonde waves. They looked…timeless.
“They could make each other laugh harder than anything else ever could.”
Wren’s smile pinched as tight as her heart. “I try to remember her laugh...”
His hand warmed her shoulder. “I know.”
She rewrapped the photo with reverent care. “You need to move these into plastic totes after the holidays. We have to protect the few memories we have left of them.”
They found a bin and gathered what they could, selecting the items they thought the others would appreciate most. Downstairs, the tree rested in an outdated stand, leaning dangerously to the left.
“I’ll get my drill and some rope,” Greyson said, setting down the box from the attic and heading for his truck.
Soren used a pair of bolt cutters to cut the rope. Branches sprung free in a green explosion and Wren gasped. The enormous pine had a few blemishes, but it would look great once decorated.
“Don’t scratch the paint,” Magnus hollered, his gruff words muffled through the mask.
“We got it, Dad.” Logan’s patience frayed. “Soren, get over here and help me balance this.”
Jocelyn perched on Magnus’s bed like she belonged there, settling in for the show with her drink.
Magnus glared at her. “Who are you?”
She playfully caressed his bruised hand. “Mr. Hawthorne, it’s me, Jocelyn Collins. You’ve known me since the third grade.”
His brows knitted. “Of course.”
While Jocelyn let him get away with the lie, Wren knew he didn’t remember her. Still, Jocelyn played along.
“Are you sure you’re not faking for attention?” Her friend squeezed his bicep playfully. “You look too strong to be sick.”
Color bloomed in Magnus’s cheeks as he chuckled like a schoolboy. “I’ve got a little life in me yet. Feel free to roam about?—“
“Dad!” Soren’s horrified face appeared from behind pine branches. “That’s Jocelyn.”
“I know who it is! I’m sick, not senile.” He turned back to Jocelyn with a wolfish grin. “Far from dead, sweetheart, if you want to take a walk upstairs, we can test my virility.”
Jocelyn laughed. “You’re bad. I like that in a man. But, as fun as that might be, I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve recently sworn off all men.”
