Sheila Roberts - The Cottage on Juniper Ridge

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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