The Christmas House Read online

  The Christmas House

  Elizabeth Bromke

  Published by Elizabeth Bromke, 2019.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to locations, events, or people (living or dead) is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Elizabeth Bromke

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Jessica Parker

  The reproduction or distribution of this book without permission is a theft. If you would like to share this book or any part thereof (reviews excepted), please contact us through our website: elizabethbromke.com

  THE CHRISTMAS HOUSE

  Published by:

  Elizabeth Bromke

  White Mountains, Arizona

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: 2013

  Chapter 2: Present Day

  Chapter 3: 2013

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5: 2013

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25: 2014

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Other Titles by Elizabeth Bromke

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Aunt Margaret and Grandma Engelhard, best friends.

  Chapter 1: 2013

  An icy, wintery wind curled around Fern Monroe and deposited her like an errant snowflake through the front door of the Dotson Museum.

  She rarely left work during lunchtime but had forgotten her tote at home. After a brisk walk to the sandwich shop down the street, Fern returned, a brown sack clutched beneath her berry-red nails.

  Few visitors milled about inside the foyer, and Fern was glad of that. Though she was fine to answer questions and play docent when necessary, her introversion felt heavy that day.

  Ideally, the thirty-something curator with fur-lined snow boots and a sturdy winter coat (a QVC clearance purchase) would disappear into her little office space and get back to her job as she munched away on a plain turkey sandwich.

  But despite the routine work that awaited Fern Monroe, fate had different plans on that frosty December afternoon.

  Sitting squarely in the center of Fern’s desk between the computer and a towering stack of reference books was her task of the day. A possible movie prop from the film Seabiscuit.

  As she turned the heavy piece over in her hand, Fern booted up the PC.

  According to her boss, a donor had dropped it off the afternoon before, claiming it was a genuine horse bit from the set.

  The Dotson didn’t typically display movie props—and especially not modern movie props—but it was Fern’s job to verify the authenticity of donated items.

  She took a sip from her to-go cup of hot cocoa and browsed the web for a local film expert.

  After jotting down some leads, Fern stumbled across a hokey-looking chat room: Louisville Movie Buffs.

  Curious, Fern created a quick profile and joined.

  ***

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn has entered the chat.

  GoneWithTheGale is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: Welcome to Louisville Movie Buffs! I’m Stedman, the unofficial chat moderator.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Hello, Stedman. My name is Fern.

  GoneWithTheGale: How did you find us, Fern?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Dumb luck, I suppose.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I work at the Dotson Museum. Research brought me here. You folks don’t happen to know anything about the movie Seabiscuit, do you? I suppose I fell down the rabbit hole. Anyway, I love movies, so I figured I’d join even if you can’t help me.

  GoneWithTheGale: Unfortunately, racing movies are not my forte. Classics are. And, I have to admit that I’m the only one who uses this chat room, other than my cousin, Shari, and my friend, Tim. We jump on to chat to each other sometimes, but mostly this place is as dead as a door nail. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m in here right now...

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I thought chat rooms were ancient. But, I did enjoy coming up with a screen name. How nostalgic. Took me back to my college days.

  GoneWithTheGale: I’m glad you joined! It looks like you got the memo on our handles, huh?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: ???

  GoneWithTheGale: Your screen name/handle is a movie pun or a play on a movie title. Is that your street? Pine Tree Lane?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I can neither confirm nor deny. You’re a stranger!

  GoneWithTheGale: We can fix that. **Hi, Fern. I’m Stedman Gale. Marketing consultant, one of six children, and UofL alumnus, class of 2002. I’m thirty-nine years old, six foot one, in good shape, and—much to my mother’s dismay—I’m single. There, now we aren’t strangers anymore ;)

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: You sound like a catch.

  GoneWithTheGale: Now, Fern, this chat room was not founded under pretenses. If you want a hook-up, you’ll have to look elsewhere.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: I’m just kidding, Fern!

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: But I am single...

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Well, Stedman Gale, I have no romantic notions about a wacky movie nut from the web. But while we’re at it... My name is Fern Monroe. I’m forty-one years old, petite, blonde-haired and blue-eyed.

  GoneWithTheGale: You sound like a catch.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: My mother would agree with you.

  GoneWithTheGale: Is she, too, dismayed that you’re single?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: Are you single?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Now, Stedman, this chat room was not founded under pretenses. If you want a hook-up, you’ll have to look elsewhere.

  GoneWithTheGale: What if I want more than a hook-up?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: Maybe I’ll change my handle to GoneTooFar. Sometimes I talk too much. Or write too much, as the case may be.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Are you looking for a soul mate?

  GoneWithTheGale: I think it’s safe to say that if a man’s favorite movie stars Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh, well then—he’s looking for his soul mate.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Hm...

  GoneWithTheGale: That’s all I get? A “hm?” I’m spilling my heart, and you, a veritable stranger, can only write “hm?”

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Hah. I’m sorry, Stedman. It was a good “hm.”

  GoneWithTheGale: Oh, well. I think we can work with that, then.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I hate to leave, but I have to get back to work.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: I understand!

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: It’s been nice talking with you, MiracleOnPineTreeLn.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Stedman, wait.

  GoneWithTheGale: I’m not going anywhere...

  Mirac
leOnPineTreeLn: This was fun!

  GoneWithTheGale: I agree : )

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I’ll be back online later tonight... say around six?

  GoneWithTheGale: You’ve got a date.

  Chapter 2: Present Day

  Clad in a brand new, pine green sweater with mistletoe earrings dangling from below her blonde up do, Fern Gale clutched a serving tray. At the center of the tray, a few errant clumps of leftover white meat lay limp.

  Overhead, radio speakers transitioned from “Jingle Bells” to “Holy Night.” The crowd thinned out and the low murmur of jolly eaters was reduced to a few stragglers and the remaining volunteers.

  Fern shifted the tray in her hands. Indecision clouded her judgment—either spoon the little bit of turkey into a Tupperware from the kitchen and be on her merry way, or trash it as if she were the Grinch. A forty-five-year-old, female Grinch.

  Of course she should save it. What was the point of serving the less fortunate if you were going to dump the leftover food? Didn’t that undermine the whole idea of doing good?

  Nodding to herself, Fern lifted a brown boot and started for the kitchen.

  “Oh, Fern, here. I’ll scrape that for you.” Liesl Hart pried the tray from Fern’s grip and bounced to the nearest trash bin. She stopped short, clicking her tongue at the height of the waste, then set the tray down and proceeded to lift her foot over top of the teetering pile of soda pop cans, greasy napkins, and soiled paper plates. At last, she jumped up and into the darn thing.

  Fern rushed in behind her. “Liesl, let me help, for goodness sake.”

  Laughter took hold of both of them, and Fern laced her fingers through Liesl’s, helping the woman to jounce up and down until the trash had sufficiently compacted to allow Liesl to scrape the few leftovers on top.

  Liesl’s hands were smooth and clean. Her nails carefully painted brick red. Short. Squared off. Functional but pretty. She was both masculine and feminine. The duality was quite beautiful, and Fern felt important helping to steady this woman.

  As Liesl descended, Fern caught a whiff of floral shampoo. It reminded her of her mom. Eleanor Monroe always smelled like shampoo. Fern clutched briefly at her chest just as Liesl landed back on the rec hall floor.

  “There. Whew!” Liesl clapped her hands and moved on to do the same with cranberry sauce dregs and leftover potatoes.

  Fern suppressed an urge to cry out, This is for the homeless! Shouldn’t we save the leftovers and dole them back out tomorrow?

  Or, at the very least, maybe the volunteers could divide the remains and tote them home? Turkey sandwiches for a week—wasn’t that the post-Thanksgiving tradition of any true, red-blooded American?

  Then again, who was Fern to judge? She, herself, followed few conventions of society, really. Accepting instead a quiet, lonely life.

  She preferred to stay in. She preferred to keep social interactions for only the most important of occasions. Fern wasn’t one to waste energy and makeup on any old weekend night. She saved all of that for special events. Like holidays.

  Fern loved holidays. Even Halloween when there was no charity dinner where she could turn up and help. Still she loved it. She loved watching Alfred Hitchcock films for a week straight.

  And she loved carving a pumpkin with grand plans to roast and salt the seeds soon thereafter. Of course, Fern typically didn’t get around to roasting the seeds. Hauling the rotting pumpkin to the garbage hopper was as much follow-through as she could muster.

  But she mostly loved the sweeter holidays, looking especially forward to Little Flock’s Community Thanksgiving. A sweeping title for what was simply the Little Flock Catholic Parish’s charity meal.

  Fern had begun volunteering the year after her mother passed because she knew it was her duty to fill that role and because it was a chance to chat with the locals; many of whom she’d simply never connected with throughout her life.

  Plus, it always felt good. Rubbing elbows with Hickory Grove high society like Liesl Hart gave Fern a bit of a thrill and even inspired her.

  Maybe today would be the day she’d deep clean her house. Maybe today would be the day she’d book a trip to the salon. Maybe today would be the day she’d get back to being her old self. The Fern who everyone saw as a mysterious beauty. The Fern who, though somewhat isolated, was happy and pleasant and normal.

  The clean-up was complete. No more picked-over food left. The long, narrow, folding tables had been neatly stacked against the far wall. Warming trays and food storage tubs had been soaked and scrubbed and were now drying along the Formica counter that stretched out from a utilitarian, stainless steel sink.

  Liesl had scuttled away with a few other women from the Ladies Auxiliary. Each likely heading to her very own Thanksgiving dinner. Or maybe to the Thanksgiving dinners that their families were hosting—bustling dinners with men shouting at television screens as other men, uniformed and sweating, stood on a green field with hands on hips.

  In these scenes, Fern could picture children squabbling over toys, or perhaps devices.

  She could picture elegant tablescapes with mixed textures and gleaming candles, somehow safe from the hectic flow of traffic. Cousins and aunts and uncles wondering through fire-warmed homes, bored and plump with turkey. Rowdy affairs, to be sure.

  Fern smiled wanly at Anthony, the only other volunteer left.

  “Thanks for helping today, Fern,” he said as they walked out together. He held the door for her and she passed through, awkwardly waiting as he fumbled to lock the building.

  Those who needed shelter for the night would be back in a few hours. A different volunteer would arrive by then. The chain effect of charity was strong in Hickory Grove. Fern knew this.

  “Oh, it was my pleasure, Anthony. Really. What a nice event.” She looked off across the cemetery that sprawled up the little hill beyond the church buildings.

  Anthony hesitated, offering Fern a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve got to get home. You know Jackie,” he added, squinting into the late afternoon sun.

  Fern did not know Jackie, really. She knew of her, as her mother would always trill—her voice perched high in her throat as though Eleanor Monroe had heard of such people but was too busy to know such people.

  Was Jackie an overbearing wife? Was she demanding and severe? Did she kiss her husband hello and goodbye perfunctorily or did she kiss him with urgency? Desperate for him to never leave her? Desperate for him to return home?

  “Enjoy your supper,” Fern offered, smiling as she turned toward her own vehicle.

  It was early yet. She had hours to fill before it was time to gear up for Black Friday. Empty hours where she would feel the pull of loneliness. The uncomfortable absence of people. Of noise. No one to irritate her or remind her why she chose to live alone and stay inside that loneliness with such dedication.

  Chapter 3: 2013

  GoneWithTheGale has entered the chat.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Good evening : )

  GoneWithTheGale: Hi, Fern!

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: How was your day?

  GoneWithTheGale: Great, actually. It’s funny—when you start your morning by talking to a beautiful woman, your day is automatically terrific. No matter what happens!

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: You have no idea whether I’m beautiful...

  GoneWithTheGale: You write beautifully. And, what can I say? I’m a sucker for blonde-haired, blue-eyed women with the last name Monroe.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Hah. I’m no Marilyn.

  GoneWithTheGale: And I’m no Clark Gable.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: In that case, I’d better go...

  GoneWithTheGale: Hey, now!

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Just kidding ; )

  GoneWithTheGale: Fern?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Yes...?

  GoneWithTheGale: You never answered my question.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Which one?

  GoneWithTheGale: Are you single?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I’m a couple years
older than you.

  GoneWithTheGale: That wasn’t my question.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Okay, well. My best friend is my mother...

  GoneWithTheGale: Hm. Did you lie to me?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: About what?

  GoneWithTheGale: Are you sure you’re a blonde woman and not a dark-haired motel owner by the last name of Bates?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: You like Hitchcock, too?

  GoneWithTheGale: You’re avoiding all my questions now.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I am a blonde woman. And yes.

  GoneWithTheGale: Yes?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Yes, I’m single. All right? There. I’ve said it.

  GoneWithTheGale: So what have you been doing for the last forty-one years?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: What do you mean?

  GoneWithTheGale: You work at Dotson. You love movies, especially classics. Ever married?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Never, actually. You?

  GoneWithTheGale: Almost. Came close.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: What happened?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: If you don’t mind my asking...

  GoneWithTheGale: Not at all. I’m a homebody. She wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy going out for drinks. And to the movies, obviously. I travel a lot for work, and it’s exhausting. So, when I’m home, I just want to be home. She was opposite. A social butterfly, always on the move.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I’m similar.

  GoneWithTheGale: You like to go out a lot?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: No, I mean I’m similar to you. A homebody.

  GoneWithTheGale: Hey, is that you?

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Is what me?

  GoneWithTheGale: You changed your profile photo on the page.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: You’re right—you’re no Marilyn.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing...

  GoneWithTheGale: You blow her out of the water.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Well, that’s ridiculous.

  GoneWithTheGale: If you look like your photo, then it’s true. You’re beautiful.

  MiracleOnPineTreeLn: It’s a flattering picture. I admit.

  GoneWithTheGale: I probably don’t own a flattering picture of myself. Here’s a recent one, though.