Page 39 of The Forever Christmas Tree

Everyone gaped at Gloria. She was a walking encyclopedia.

“Are you sure? In Nawleans, we’re told that the cocktail was invented in a French Quarter pharmacy where it was served in an eggcup, which is called a ‘coquetier’ in French and later became Americanized to the word cocktail.”

Everyone gaped at Claudette now. She hardly talked at all, but then the most amazing things popped out of her mouth.

Before you knew it, someone would be saying cocktail came from the Latin for you-know-what. If F.U. were here, it would have been said by now.

JAM waved a hand in the air. “Hey, in Mexico, we say the cocktail was named for an Aztec princess, invented by some lonely vaquero, or something.”

They all laughed then.

“So, it’s only seven thirty,” K-4 said, glancing at his watch. “What say we go pick up a Christmas tree? Wendy? You said you wanted us to do it tomorrow, but why not tonight?”

Wendy wasn’t about to chance another meeting with Ethan, but she didn’t mind them going. In fact, she’d appreciate it.

So, the three SEALs and Diane went off to Rutledge Tree Farm, while Aunt Mildred cautioned, “I do not want one of those Rutledge Trees. I want a regular tree,” which led Wendy to explain the history of the Rutledge Tree, after which all four of her guests said, “Cool!”

Wendy and Aunt Mildred rolled their eyes at that and went up to the attic to gather the boxes of Christmas tree decorations while the other seniors cleared the table, did the dishes, and made room in the front parlor for the tree. It took three trips for the two of them to carry all the boxes downstairs, and by then Raul had put some soft Christmas music on the stereo and lit the logs in the fireplace.

“I like your friends, Wendy,” her aunt said while they were carrying down the last load.

“I like yours, too,” Wendy replied.

Her aunt beamed. “I am so glad. I was worried that . . . well, I was worried.”

“What? That I would kick them out, and you with them?” Wendy teased.

“No, of course not. Well, maybe,” she admitted. “If you disapproved, I would have had no choice but to ask everyone to leave.”

“Now, stop right there. You don’t need my approval for anything, Aunt Mil. I told you that before.”

Not totally convinced, her aunt smiled softly. Wendy suspected that her aunt was worried about what would become of the house, if Wendy wasn’t coming back here to live, eventually. That was a decision they would make together, but this wasn’t the time for that discussion. She squeezed her aunt’s hand in reassurance.

The guys and Diane were back an hour later with a huge, ten-foot, perfectly-shaped Fraser Fir, which almost met the ceiling once it was in its stand and topped with the ratty old angel that had graced Patterson family trees for fifty years. Because of the chipped paint on its china face, which gave it a perpetual wink, Geek said it should be called a Fallen Angel. They also bought a three-foot Rutledge Tree for the kitchen, where the seniors decided it should have culinary type ornaments . . . a.k.a. dried fruits left over from a fruitcake baking project last week, along with strings of popcorn alternated with cranberries. The ugly little tree looked almost pretty.

Around eleven, her Coronado buddies, including Diane, decided to go to The Live Bass, a local bar they’d passed on the way to the tree farm, for a few beers. Wendy opted to stay home, despite their entreating her to come along. They even invited the seniors to come, which pleased them to no end, but they, too, declined, it being past their bedtimes.

Once her guests were gone and her aunt and the rest of the seniors had gone to their respective rooms, Wendy put another log on the fire, turned off all the lights, except those on the tree, and let herself remember. Standing before the tree, she examined one ornament after another.

First, there were some miniature Bell Forge commemorative bronze bells, including her favorite, for 9/11, featuring etched twin towers. The Pope Francis visit to America. Virginia Dare and the Lost Colony, which was supposedly on the Outer Banks. The Wright Brothers’ first flight from Kitty Hawk. A dozen commemoratives in all.

Then, she examined the vintage glass ornaments passed down through the family, those that survived clumsy children handling them over the years. Only seven of the original two dozen remained, and a few of those had flecks of paint missing.

Her childhood handmade efforts had all been collected and stored for her. They were on the tree, too. K-4 had gotten a big kick out of the cardboard reindeer with five legs that she’d made in kindergarten.

But then there were those with special meaning. The bright red tin apple purchased the year her parents took her to New York City, a.k.a. the Big Apple, to see the Rockettes’ Christmas show. She’d been about seven and for a long time after dreamed of becoming one of those beautiful dancers.

One year her mother got inspired to make a whole army of stuffed mice cloth ornaments, complete with clothing and tools of their trade. A Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus, he carrying a sack of toys, she with a baking tray of cookies. A farmer and his wife, he with a shovel in hand, she with a basket of vegetables. An Amish man and woman in black garb, he with a flat-crowned hat and suspenders, she with a white apron. A Scotsman with a bagpipe, wearing a kilt. A skier and a golfer. A physician complete with tiny stethoscope (her father’s favorite, especially since that particular mouse had ginger-colored hair). A soldier and a sailor. A policeman.

Originally, her mother had made them to give to the church to sell at its summer bazaar, with a duplicate set for her own family. She probably could have sold them in one of the local stores, but she’d lost interest in making any more. The illness had already set in.

And then there were the special ones. The ones Ethan had given her, knowing how much she loved Christmas and tree decorations with a provenance. She wouldn’t have put these particular ornaments on the tree, but Geek had already opened the box, and she hadn’t wanted to call attention to her distress.

She smiled at the cardboard heart cut out of a valentine. It was signed in pencil by Ethan, except it was spelled ƎTHAN. They’d been in first grade at the time. In return, she’d given him five Necco candy conversation hearts from her lunchbox that her mother had packed for her that morning. Ethan told her years later that he’d eaten four and saved the one that said XOXO.

The starfish was purchased for her by Ethan on a tenth-grade field trip to Myrtle Beach. He’d bought it for her in a shell shop, along with a bead bracelet. Somewhere in the attic, if it hadn’t been thrown away, was one of those hokey, boardwalk photobooth, period costume pictures of Ethan dressed as a riverboat gambler with a mustache and her as a dance hall girl.

A meticulously hand-carved blue spruce tree, about three inches tall, had been made by Ethan in the high school wood shop the Christmas following his fifteenth birthday, a simulation of the blue spruce tree the two of them had planted out on the family’s local tree farm. His father, who had been experimenting for years, mostly futile attempts to raise evergreens on the Outer Banks, had been delighted at Ethan’s interest. Little did he know, he and Wendy had planted the tree, which they called their Forever Tree . . . (yeah, hokey, but then, they were only fifteen, and in luuuuve) . . . with the idea that by the time it was full-grown, it could be their Christmas tree the first year of their marriage.