“The truth has been lost in the mists of time,” Ora Abrams always concludes dramatically when she relates that chilling tale during the special exhibit tours during the summer convention.
Today, however, she tells the students only about the first--floor exhibits.
“The front parlor is decorated to portray a typical Christmas Eve in 1860; the back parlor depicts what Santa would have left for the children of an upper--middle--class family in 1880; the scullery is in the midst of preparing breakfast on a Christmas morning in 1900, and the dining room is set for a formal New Year’s Eve dinner in 1910. Any questions?”
There are plenty, as always.
“Where can we put our coats?”
“I suggest you leave them on,” Ora says. “You’ll find that it’s quite chilly in here.”
“Why don’t you turn up the heat?”
“Because it’s very expensive to warm this huge old mansion.”
“When do we get to eat cookies and drink cocoa?”
Ora chuckles delightedly. “So you’ve heard about the cookies and cocoa. Very soon, I promise.”
One last question—-an earnest one that comes from Billy: “How old are you?”
“Younger than I look and older than I feel,” is the good--natured reply. “Shall we get started?”
She descends the staircase and begins leading the group toward the front parlor nestled in the base of one of the turrets.
“You have a nice bunch of students this year,” she tells Rowan. “Very well behaved.”
“They are. There are always a few live wires.”
“The live wires are my favorites . . . and as I recall, you were one yourself, my dear.” Eyes twinkling, she reaches out to touch the snowflake brooch pinned to Rowan’s coat. “Oh my goodness. Where did you get this?”
“It was a gift from my Secret Santa. Isn’t it unique?”
“It is. We have a few pieces in the collection, but nothing like this. I’d love to know where your Santa got it when she reveals herself.”
“I’ll let you know. You have pieces like this in the museum? So you think it’s an antique?”
“I’m sure it must be. Mourning jewelry was wildly popular in the late Victorian era.”
“I didn’t know that’s what it was called. I guess I’ll have to make sure that I don’t wear it at night.”
“Oh no, not morning. Mourning. The Victorians wore jewelry made from the hair of their dead loved ones.”
Taken aback, Rowan looks down at the intricate snowflake she’d assumed was crafted from red thread. “You think this is made from hair? Human hair?”
Ora nods. “I inherited a similar brooch from Great--Aunt Etta but it’s not nearly as striking. Yours is a rare piece. That’s why I’d love to know where your Secret Santa got it.”
“So would I,” Rowan murmurs, as the Gravitron picks up speed.
As Kurt covers the last few steps between the parking garage and his stepfather’s Weehawken apartment building, he belatedly wonders whether he should have asked someone to come with him.
But who? This is a family matter, and he’s the only one in the family available to tend to it right now. His half sister is at college in California, his half brother in Texas, and his brother, though he lives nearby in Brooklyn, is working.
“Daddy did leave me a message on Sunday,” Erin said when she returned Kurt’s call late last night—-late for him, anyway. “But he didn’t answer when I got back to him Monday night, and I left him a message but I haven’t heard back.”
His brother said almost the same thing: Rick had left a message on Sunday saying he wanted to talk, but when he got around to returning the call Monday night, Rick hadn’t answered.
As for Liam, who knows? He’s ensconced in an Austin fraternity house and didn’t pick up when Kurt tried to reach him last night. Nor did he answer his texts. Typical college kid.
Not that Kurt has much experience in that area. He’d lasted two semesters at Rutgers. Mom was dismayed when he flunked out, but Rick had his back.
“You mark my words. He’ll make something of himself even without a college degree, Vanessa.”