Page 19 of The Forever Christmas Tree

After he left, three people put five-dollar votes for Ethan Rutledge in the Mason jar on the counter.

Chapter 5

Home was never so sweet . . . sounding . . .

Wendy drove through the small town square, which was charming, she had to admit, just like Diane had observed way back at the Wet and Wild, the night all her friends self-invited themselves here for the holidays. The central gazebo and all the storefronts were bedecked with holiday trimmings, most of them featuring the bells for which the town was famous.

The hodgepodge of architecture styles was reminiscent of Cape May, but not so fancy, with its steeples and gingerbread trim. This was, after all, a working man’s town from the beginning, fishermen and bell makers. Yes, there were artisans at the bell factory, but mostly they were blue-collar, skilled forge men. Funny, she’d never really thought about it before, but Bell Cove was not at all a beachy town in appearance, but rather an unexpected, attractive contrast to the ocean and large bay that framed its sides.

Everything looked pretty much the same to Wendy, except for a few new businesses and a high polish on the brass bell streetlights. There had been that odd message on the billboard before she’d entered the outskirts of the town, though. What did it mean? “GET GRINCHED! WELCOME TO BELL COVE!”

Just then, the bells tolled to mark the hour, first Our Lady by the Sea Catholic Church, BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG, followed by St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church across the square, BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG, then the town hall. Growing up in a place founded on bells, Wendy appreciated all the variations, according to size, shape, materials, and craftsmanship. These particular church bells were noted for their clear resonant tones. Not at all jarring like some big bells were. And not as tinny as some of the digitized church bells were today.

The noise caused Diane to awaken with a start. She stretched widely as she glanced around. “Wow! I’ve landed in the middle of Old Timey Town. This looks like the town square in that Chevy Chase movie Funny Farm.”

“I think that was somewhere in New England, and there was a lot of snow, as I recall.”

“A small-town Thomas Kinkade calendar picture then,” Diane amended, fascinated by each of the buildings they passed. “Look, a store called Hard Knocks. And over there, Everything Bells. And Blanket-y Blank: Historic South Carolina Quilts. I love it! I’ll have to check out Monique’s Boutique. I need something for my cousin’s wedding.”

“You’ll be able to walk from my house.”

“Oh, good!”

After exiting the town proper, Wendy entered one of the residential areas, heading toward the older section facing the bay, or sound. The homes here were mostly Victorian, made from cedar shakes weathered to a rich gray color, or Italianate, which was popular at the turn of the last century. Some of the shingles were cut in shapes or arranged artistically to create patterns. Turrets and rooftop widow’s walks were not uncommon to a neighborhood that had once housed a few wealthy people, the original owners, Italian immigrants turned tycoons, and higher-ups at the factory. Bell Cove had never catered to the “summer people,” like those attached to the millionaire mansions along some of the Outer Banks.

In comparison to this neighborhood, Wendy’s home was modest, although it was large—three stories—and the shakes had been stained years ago to a mellow oak color, which complemented those parts of the house made of yellow brick. Although her father had been dead for five years now, there was still a brass plaque attached to the lamp post in the front yard close to the street. It read: Dr. Alan Patterson, M.D. At one time, she and her father had planned for the day that plaque would also have her name on it. Dr. Wendy Patterson, M.D. Alas, fate—and a two-timing boyfriend—intervened.

If Wendy were alone, she probably would have wept. As it was, Diane was already slipping on her coat while Wendy parked in the driveway behind Aunt Mildred’s green Camry, fifteen years old but only thirty thousand miles. Wendy knew because Aunt Mildred had told her so in a recent phone conversation.

Parked behind the Camry was a vintage sports car, a Triumph, with a license plate that read “iSamba” and a plate surround proclaiming, “I’d rather be dancing.” The mysterious Raul’s vehicle, Wendy surmised.

Grabbing their duffel bags, she and Diane made their way up the brick sidewalk, which had heaved a little here and there—that should be repaired before someone tripped and fell. Otherwise, the hundred-year-old house looked in good shape, especially with the beautiful Della Robbia wreath on the door and a matching garland around the fanlight window and door trim.

She could have rung the bell. Everyone in Bell Cove had one of the trademark Bell Forge doorbells. But it was her house. So, she just opened the door and stepped inside.

At first, no one noticed her and Diane standing in the entryway. A vacuum was running upstairs. Loud Latin music was blaring from her dad’s old stereo system in the front parlor. A petite, gray-haired lady with a walker was dusting some of the side tables. Her aunt Mildred and a handsome older man—Raul?—were on their knees attempting to roll out the large Persian rug onto the bare wood floors. At the far end of what would have been the second parlor, divided by pocket doors which were now open, a man in a wheelchair was polishing silver. And in the middle of all this, a woman of advanced years, but beautifully built and coiffured, was waltzing by herself, arms extended, as if she had a partner.

The song ended and in the brief silence before the next song came on, Wendy called out, “Aunt Mil,” and, at the same time, upstairs a male voice exclaimed, “Oh, shit! The vacuum died again.”

Everyone on this floor turned to glance her way, except the dancing lady, who kept on dancing, as the next song came on, “Livin’ la Vida Loca.” The Crazy Life.

Oh, yeah!

Aunt Mildred and her male companion rose to their feet. He went over to turn off the music, while Aunt Mildred rushed toward her, arms outspread in welcome. “Wendy, honey, we weren’t expecting you till tomorrow.”

They hugged warmly, both speaking at the same time.

“Oh, it is so good to have you home, baby girl.”

“I was able to leave a day early. It is good to be home. What is that wonderful smell?”

“Raspberry shortbread sandwich cookies, of course.”

Wendy’s favorite. She hugged her aunt again. Then, with an arm over her aunt’s shoulders, Wendy re-introduced her to Diane. “You remember my friend and housemate, Diane Gomulka, from Washington State. She’s in the WEALS, like me. You met her two years ago when you came to visit.”

“Welcome, welcome!” Aunt Mil gave Diane a hug, too, then mentioned to Wendy, “I thought you were bringing some fellas with you.”

“They’ll arrive tomorrow. And another female friend might show up here later this week.”