Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Foyer
For twenty minutes, nobody spoke.
The only sound in the house was the rhythmic, methodical sweep of Dad’s shop broom against the cherry floor, and the soft rustle of tissue paper as Grandma Pearl and I salvaged what we could.
We worked on our knees like archaeologists sifting through the rubble of an ancient civilization.
"Here's the ceramic mitten," Dad muttered softly, placing a small red ornament into my palm. A chunk of the cuff was missing, but the painted year—*2004*—was intact. "You made that in Mrs. Gable’s kindergarten class. You got glitter all over the back seat of the Subaru."
"I remember," I whispered, wrapping it carefully in a sheet of white tissue. "Mom told you the glitter was fairy dust and refused to vacuum it out until July."
Dad gave a weak, broken laugh that died instantly in his throat. He looked at the shattered angel resting on a clean cloth in the center of the coffee table. He reached out to touch the severed wing, his hand hovering over the glass, but he couldn't bring himself to make contact. He pulled his hand back as if the shards were red-hot coals.
"I let this happen," Dad murmured, staring at the floor. "I wanted... God help me, Emily, I was so lonely. When your mother died, this house felt so cold. The rooms were so big. When Vanessa came along, she brought color back into the room. She was loud, she was alive, she made plans... I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was helping us move forward."
"There is a difference between moving forward, son, and running away," Grandma Pearl said gently from the hearth. She was wrapping the vintage hand-blown teardrop baubles her own mother had bought in 1948. "And there is a difference between welcoming a new woman into your life and allowing her to bulldoze the foundation your life was built upon."
Before Dad could answer, a loud chime sounded from the foyer doorbell.
Dad looked at his watch. "Father Thomas."
"Don't let him in here," I said, panic rising in my chest. "Not like this."
"No," Grandma Pearl said, standing up with surprising agility. She wiped her apron and looked at Dad with eyes that were cold and tactical. "Let him in, Richard. Open the front door. And let Father Thomas see exactly what Christmas looks like in the Sanders household today."
Dad hesitated, then straightened his back. For the first time in months, the passive, tired look vanished from his face. He walked to the front door and pulled it wide.
Father Thomas stood on the porch, a jovial, round-faced man in an oversized woolen coat and clerical collar, clutching a digital camera and a heavy leather portfolio. Behind him stood Mrs. Eleanor Vance—Vanessa’s aunt and the grand dame of the Oakridge Historical Society—draped in silver fox fur.
"Good evening, Richard!" Father Thomas boomed cheerfully. "We’re here for the St. Jude Gingerbread Showcase! Vanessa texted us that the Victorian masterpiece was set up in the dining—"
Father Thomas stopped mid-stride. His eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.
Mrs. Vance gasped, her hand flying to her fur collar. "Good heavens! Richard, what on earth has happened?"
From the top of the stairs, Vanessa appeared like a phantom.
She had changed into a pristine, cream-colored silk blouse and a pleated black skirt. Her hair was brushed back into an immaculate low bun, and her eyes held just the right amount of glossy, tragic moistness.
"Oh, Father Thomas! Aunt Eleanor!" Vanessa descended the stairs with a trembling step, clutching the banister as if her legs might give out at any moment. "Please, forgive the terrible scene! We had a structural failure with the holiday tree just half an hour ago! The iron base simply sheared apart! Emily and Pearl are devastated, and Richard has been trying so hard to keep everyone calm—"
"Father Thomas," Grandma Pearl interrupted, stepping smoothly into the foyer, holding a manila folder in her hands. "How wonderful to see you. Eleanor, you look quite warm in that coat."
Mrs. Vance stiffened. "Pearl. What is the meaning of this disaster?"
"The meaning is quite simple," Grandma Pearl said, extending the manila folder toward the priest. "Before you go into the kitchen to photograph Vanessa’s gingerbread house, I believe you need to see the receipts for the parish charity registry."
Vanessa’s face flashed with sudden panic. "Pearl, what are you talking about? Father Thomas doesn't need to look at household accounts!"
"These aren't household accounts, dear," Grandma Pearl said sweetly. She opened the folder and pulled out a stack of high-gloss invoices printed on heavy commercial stationery. "Father, Vanessa entered her Victorian mansion in the amateur home-baker category for the St. Jude Charity Auction, did she not?"
"Why, yes," Father Thomas said, glancing nervously between the two women. "First prize comes with a five-thousand-dollar donation to the winner’s chosen parish ministry, funded by the Vance Foundation."
"Precisely," Grandma Pearl smiled. "Which is why I found it so fascinating that this afternoon, while looking for Laura's antique ornament boxes in the downstairs pantry, I found the commercial shipping crates from *Pâtisserie De L'Hiver* in Montreal."
The temperature in the foyer plunged below zero.
Mrs. Vance’s jaw dropped. "Pâtisserie... what?"
"Here are the bills of lading, Father," Grandma Pearl continued, handing the papers directly to Father Thomas. "Shipped via refrigerated priority courier on December twelfth. Fully assembled Victorian gingerbread architectural model, pre-baked gingerbread panels, spun-sugar glass window inserts, and three gallons of industrial royal icing. Total cost: four thousand two hundred dollars, charged to the Sanders joint corporate card."
Grandma Pearl turned her gaze onto Vanessa, whose skin had turned the color of curdled milk.
May you like
"Eleven days of hard work, Vanessa?" Grandma Pearl asked gently. "Or forty-five minutes with an icing tube sticking pre-molded chimneys onto a French Canadian export?"
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