I pull open the door, but my head is full of coins and baseball cards, so I open the wrong one. It’s Victor’s closet. I gasp out a breathless “Ooooohhhhh.”
Bzzz, bzzz.
My phone’s vibrating. I send it to voicemail, then receive a text.This is Wesley.
I’m still staring at my phone in surprise when the number flashes across my screen again, buzzing in my hand. I answer it. “Hey, come up here,” Wesley says into my ear.
“How’d you get my number?”
“Why do you have a picture of me on your phone?” he shoots back.
Ugh, notthisagain. Cherish the past, Wesley, because the grace period for treating your feelings with kid gloves has expired and you’re not getting away with throwing that picture in my face to avoid answering questions you don’t like.
“Why did you have a picture of me in the attic? Hand-drawn, which is even more questionable than a real photograph taken from your brother’spublicFacebook page.”
His mutterings fade; he’s lowered his phone, probably making a face at the ceiling.
“I can’t go upstairs because I just made the most magnificent discovery,” I continue airily, confident that our stalemate has divested him of that particular weapon. “Come down here and take a look.”
“My discovery is better.”
“Sincerely doubt it. I found aChristmas tree.”
Five seconds pass. “... So?”
“So, it’s one of those fancy ones! With fake snow! It’s got to be like ten feet tall. I found it in Uncle Victor’s closet.”
“I don’t see what’s special about finding a Christmas tree.”
This man has no soul. I begin heaving the tree out of the closet. The branches have been smoothed down so that it takes up less space in storage, but it still scratches the frame up as I ease it out. And it’s unexpectedly heavy. Fake snow showers my hair and shirt. “My uncle Garrett was right. Ididgrow up to be a tree-hugger.”
“That’s great. Come upstairs, you’ve gotta take a look at something.”
“Can’t. I’m putting the tree in the ballroom.”
“Right now?”
“Yes!”
“It’s April. Actually, no, it’s technically May now.”
“Christmas is a state of mind, Wesley.”
“Why do you sound so terrifying when you say that?”
This thing weighs about as much as a real tree. I grunt as I drag it down the hall, careful not to bang into any chandeliers. There’s a medieval iron one in the kitchen that’s my favorite, with candlesticks going around the circular rim. “I... just... want... to... see,” I bite out. Pine needles jab my hands.
“In May.”
“I’ll put it right back.” I’ve reached the ballroom. It’s in a state of chaos because whenever I find something cool, I bring it in here. It’s going to be my favorite part of the house after I’m finished making it magnificent and less like the set ofThe Nanny. So far I’ve got a hodgepodge of candlesticks, clocks (all kinds: grandfather, cuckoo, carriage), old books, sculptures, wall hangings, fancy pillboxes, a barrel I might try to convert into a table, and a tangled heap of silk wisteria. I don’t know what I’m going to do with everything, but somehow Iwillcram it all in here and make it fabulous.
I was right; the tree looks amazing in the ballroom. I plug it in and voilà—soft white lights glow to life, casting a small golden halo onto raised plaster roses on the rococo-style ceiling.
My high-pitched “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, I love it!” earns me three thumps of a broomstick rapping from above.
“Your problem is that you love everything,” Wesley complains.
“My one flaw.”
