Page 20 of The Forever Christmas Tree

“Good, good,” Aunt Mildred said, and then with a decided nervousness, she began to introduce her around the room. The lady with the walker was Gloria Solomon, who had been the town librarian for many years; she’d shushed Wendy more than once for talking during “silent time.” And the man polishing silver was Harry Carder, a widower, who had been a financial consultant or something with the bank; his wife, Julia Carder, had been Wendy’s dentist growing up. Aunt Mildred whispered to her that Gloria and Harry were supposed to have departed, at least for the holidays, but plans changed suddenly which she would explain later.

The dancing lady was a new arrival to Wendy’s house, Claudette Deveraux from New Orleans. How and why she was here would also be explained later.

A short, pudgy man in khakis with red suspenders over a red-and-green plaid flannel shirt came bopping down the stairs, having heard the commotion. He was bald as a cue ball. No surprise that he introduced himself as Elmer Judd. “No, not Elmer Fudd, Judd. J. U. D. D.” He rubbed his bald head and said with a laugh, “You could say I fulfilled the expectations of my birth name.” Elmer was a former veterinarian from Hatteras. Which accounted for the mixed-breed dog the size of a pony which came bounding down the steps after him, followed by a bulldog and a Pekinese. They all decided to sniff various body parts on the new arrivals.

“You promised to keep the dogs out of the way, Elmer,” Wendy’s aunt chastised the little man.

“Sorry. I didn’t think Wicked Wendy was coming till tomorrow,” he said, then winked at Wendy. “Just kidding. Mildred has been ordering us about all week because the house had to be perfect for Wendy. Anyways, meet my family—Duke, Prince, and Earline.”

“I never, ever called you wicked,” her aunt said.

Wendy just laughed. “I never thought you did.”

Then the last introduction took place. “Wendy, this is my close friend Raul Arias, from Spain. Raul, this is my precious niece, Wendy.”

A man of medium height, maybe five ten, with perfectly groomed, white, wavy hair stepped forward. “Senorita,” he said with a deep Spanish accent, kissing her hand. “You are as beautiful as your aunt said.”

He kissed Diane’s hand, as well, and to her, declared, “Ah, a blonde. I am, what you say . . . a sucker, for blonde women.” He gazed adoringly at her aunt’s reddish-blonde locks.

Wendy and Diane rolled their eyes at each other, after which they took their duffel bags upstairs where Wendy settled her friend in the bedroom next to hers. While Diane went off to shower, after which she planned a walk to explore the town, Wendy went back downstairs to talk with her aunt. Even though she hadn’t had much sleep in the past twenty-four hours, she was too amped up to take a nap.

The house was built in a sort of modified Colonial Revival style, very symmetrical in appearance with six-over-six windows, often paired together, giving the interior a light airy atmosphere. A wide center hall divided all three floors, what would be considered wasted space in today’s home designs, but a blessing for ventilation during the hot summers. Downstairs there were two large parlors and a dining room on one side, and, on the other, what used to be her father’s waiting room, consulting room, and examination room, behind which was her mother’s small sewing room which had been converted to a sickroom when her illness progressed. The kitchen and a breakfast nook occupied the entire back of the house. French doors in the dining room and kitchen led to the wide porch that covered three sides of the house. It was a home made for families, which the original owner, Ephraim Thompson, had in spades—eight children in all. But unfortunately her mom and dad were unable to have more than one, which they later discovered was due to her illness.

Wendy found Aunt Mildred in the kitchen, thankfully alone. Probably deliberately so, to give them a little privacy.

Her aunt smiled warmly at her and said, “I have ginger tea made. Would you like a cup?”

“Sure.”

Aunt Mildred had introduced her to ginger chai tea when she moved in after her sister-in-law’s death. She used to travel to Durham to obtain the special tea in one of the Asian markets, but nowadays it was available everywhere, even in tea bags. When Wendy was feeling lonely or homesick back in Coronado, she often made herself a cup of the soothing brew.

Wendy sat in the chair of the alcove facing the bay. There wasn’t much of a beach here, and the view was limited by the dunes, but she loved it nonetheless. Home.

Aunt Mildred carried a tray to the table holding a china teapot, two cups and saucers, all in the Royal Albert Scottish bone china pattern of dogwood flowers, and a plate of raspberry shortbread cookies. Without asking, she placed the latter in front of Wendy and began to pour the tea into the two cups, adding a spoonful of honey and one cube of sugar in each, no milk.

Taking a bite, Wendy pretended to swoon. “Um, my favorite!”

“I know. They were your daddy’s favorite, too. Our mother used to make them at Christmastime every year, when we were in Scotland, then later when we immigrated to the United States, and settled in Kearny, New Jersey, where there was an enclave of Scottish immigrants. I was only five years old and your father was seven. Mama made shortbread throughout the year, but the raspberry ones were reserved for holiday treats. Your daddy used to sneak some from the cookie jar to take to his room. I suspect Mama knew but never said anything.”

Wendy had heard this and many other stories of their childhood together, countless times, but she never tired of hearing them. “You miss Daddy, don’t you?” she asked, reaching a hand across the table to squeeze her aunt’s hand.

“I do. It got to be unbearably lonely here in this big house without him and . . .” She glanced pointedly at Wendy. “. . . and you.”

“Oh, Aunt Mil, I’m sorry that I haven’t come back more often. It was selfish of me. Especially when Daddy was alive, I should have—”

“No,” her aunt interrupted her. “You have your own life. I didn’t mention that to make you feel guilty. It was more to answer the question that I know is foremost in your mind. What is that old lady doing with all these people in my house?”

“Aunt Mil! This is your house, too. I’ve told you repeatedly to think of it as your home. I don’t begrudge you any guests. I do wonder, though, about . . . well, why so many, and why they live here and not in their own places. None of them are indigent, as far as I can tell.” She shrugged. “I mean, do you need money? Have you done this out of financial necessity?”

“Not even close! I have my pension and social security benefits. Plus, I have an impressive nest egg. No, money isn’t a problem. And before you ask, I’m not losing my mind, either.” She sighed deeply and began to explain. “If you’ve never lived alone, you can’t understand how lonely a person can be, even in the middle of a crowd, even in the middle of a small town with so many caring people.”

Or in college when your heart is broken. Or in the Navy in the midst of boot camp. Or WEALS where teammates are like sisters. Even on dates with one man after another, never any real relationships. The loneliness never goes away. No, Aunt Mil, don’t think for one second that I don’t understand.

Sensing her thoughts, her aunt smiled sadly and continued, “It started about two years ago. Joy Lowry was my first housemate.”

“The bookstore lady? Why would she move in here? She lives in that big blue oceanfront mansion with the widow’s watch cupola on top that resembles an ice cream cone.”

“Lived, not lives,” her aunt corrected. “Joy’s husband, Bill Lowry—remember him, the insurance agent, who always drove the latest model red Mercedes—ran off with his twenty-year-old secretary. Can you imagine? Joy was left to prowl around alone in that big house, which she wanted to sell, but she didn’t want to leave Bell Cove.”