Catherine Lanigan - Home For Christmas

She’d known Adam was smart and was convinced he hadn’t yet found his groove. She’d urged him on, believing his genius would pay off one day. The time when he’d lost the state science fair championship, he’d been despondent and distant, but Joy had kissed away his tears and forced him to envision a golden future filled with success. He said he believed her.

They’d had a romantic senior year together, stealing kisses in the greenhouses. Learning how to cross-pollinate and hybridize poinsettias from her grandfather. Going to summer concerts in the park and dancing at the beach under the stars—with Adam humming a song to her. He’d given her a gold promise ring and told her he wished he was rich enough for a diamond. At the time, she hadn’t cared.

I loved him.

Those days with Adam had been the most romantic of her life. Idyllic days—until her parents died.

She looked out the window at the nude maple trees along the interstate. The ground was barren of flowers; the grass was frozen. The sky was the same depressing slate-gray, promising snow flurries or rain.

She felt gray inside without her grandfather, just as she had after her parents’ deaths. Grief’s fingerprint was a deep one. She wondered if she’d ever feel sunny again.

She looked down at her gloved hands and remembered a winter day once when she’d forgotten her gloves and Adam had walked her to the greenhouses after school. He’d taken both her hands in his, rubbed them until they were pink and warm again, and then he’d given her his too-big gloves to wear. He’d pulled her close as the wind whipped around them.

“I’ll always keep you warm,” he’d said.

“Ditto,” she’d replied.

“In fact, I’d like to be the one who discovers cheap energy to keep all the world warm. No one should go cold,” he’d said.

“That’s what you want to do? Save the world from freezing?”

“It’s a tall order, but it’s what I want to do,” he’d said and kissed the end of her very cold nose.

“Now, that was very warming,” Joy had replied.

She certainly couldn’t remember anything memorably romantic that Chuck had done with her since they’d met.

There was never a lack of wine or exotic food, but their dates wound up being work dates.

He’d proposed at the sushi bar they frequented, though she didn’t like much on the menu except the California rolls. He’d asked her to be his wife, and just as she’d said “yes” his cell phone rang. He’d looked down at it, but didn’t take the call. She’d thought it was a good sign. But after he kissed her and they toasted with sake, which she also didn’t like, he excused himself to take the call.

Joy knew that Chuck felt enormous pressure to perform to his father’s high expectations. Chuck had a good heart and he was eager to please both her and his father. He was mindful of their long hours and would surprise her with a latte and buttered bagel from the deli down the street. When she complained her back hurt after long hours at the computer, he introduced her to a killer pain-relieving essential oil as he rubbed her neck. Chuck had seen Joy’s performance potential on her first interview and hired her on the spot. She gave him credit for that. Because he was her boss, she ignored his excuses to work overtime with her over the years. She pretended not to notice him lingering in her office after client conferences. Chuck had actually gone to his father and discussed his growing attraction to her before asking his permission to pursue a romance. For Joy, their relationship had evolved slowly over the next few years. No fireworks. No adrenaline rush. They were solid and secure. She liked that.

She had to admit, though, that dinner with Chuck was polar opposite from the mac and cheese she used to make for Adam and Grandpa, which they’d share after a ten-hour Saturday working retail at Christmas in the greenhouses.

Joy had been so lost in thought that she’d forgotten that she’d turned off the ringer on her cell phone. She turned it back on and saw that Chuck had left three voice messages and five texts. She answered the texts and replied she would call him when she wasn’t with Roy, as some of their conversations were best kept confidential for the clients’ sake.

They had driven into town and stopped at the light with beautiful Indian Lake dead ahead. Joy leaned forward.

“Oh, Grandpa.”

“Pardon?” Roy asked.

“Sorry. Nothing. It’s just that I’ve forgotten how pretty this place is. I grew up here.”

“So, you have family here?”

“Not anymore.”

“Sorry.”

Roy drove into town, past the red sandstone county courthouse with its one-hundred-and-forty-year-old clock tower and onto Maple Boulevard. They passed houses she remembered, belonging to Sarah Jensen and Mrs. Beabots. Saint Mark’s Church. The Indian Lake Police Station. Specters of past, happy days flew around Joy, pulling her back to Indian Lake like magnets. And with each memory, she missed her mother, her father and especially her grandfather all the more.

That was why when Roy drove up to the three glass greenhouses, which her grandfather had built right after World War II, her vision had been blurred by her tears. She couldn’t possibly be seeing correctly.

“What is this?” she asked Roy, like a stupefied tourist.

“Boston Greenhouses.” He waved his hand across the expanse of the windshield. “This is it.”

“No.” She shook her head and opened the door, wiping her eyes. The greenhouses were empty. Totally devoid of even one poinsettia. Panes were filthy, cracked or missing from the glass ceilings and walls. The farthest greenhouse was in the worst condition. Its once perfectly maintained and cleaned brick-and-tile floor now sprouted weeds, frozen back from the cold November weather. Joy walked liked a zombie toward the greenhouse. Her father and grandfather had taught her how to clean the tiles with the sprayer. She’d swept the water away to expose the pretty sand-colored tiles. She’d taken a great deal of pride in the glistening glass walls and ceiling. She and her grandfather had pressure washed those panes every month. Their patrons commented on how good the plants had it when they came to live at Boston Greenhouses.

Joy felt her insides twist. Not only was her grandfather dead, but he’d lied to her. He’d told her he couldn’t come to New York to be with her because he was too busy. It was going to be his best year ever, he’d said.

She turned to Roy. “How long have the greenhouses been closed, Roy?”

“I’m not sure. A few years.”

A few years… Joy’s shock turned to a sense of betrayal.

“Grandpa lied to me. And now he’s gone.”

CHAPTER FOUR

JOY LOOKED BACK at the weeds growing through the tiles.

“Years. Not just this Christmas, but many holiday seasons it’s been closed.”

She went to the front door, peered through the windows and tried the latch. It was unlocked.

“What?” Why would the door be unlocked? Had the attorney unlocked it? Perhaps when she met Kyle Evans, she’d gain more insight.

She pushed the door and stepped in. She wasn’t prepared for the shock.

As if she’d been swallowed by a time warp, she was eighteen again, rushing in on a Saturday morning to see her grandfather already at the cash register, his big Chicago Cubs coffee mug filled with steaming coffee as he counted the money. She remembered her mother, dressed in jeans, a floral blouse and a rubber apron while she watered the flowers and sang to them. Her father whistled while he carried in heavy sacks of humus and fertilizer to sell. She’d forgotten how much she missed his whistling.

As the door swung closed behind her, a numbing chill enveloped her. The sight of empty shelves, dusty counters and cobwebs around the ceiling where garlands and Christmas ornaments once hung was heartbreaking. The walk-in flower cooler was dark and smelled like mold. The carpet needed shampooing. Worst of all, there were no poinsettias, no life, no energy.