Christmas in Elm Grove

By Marie Krohn

It is 1985 and Harriet Anderson has somehow made do after the death of her husband three years earlier. As the holidays approach, she keeps busy running her antique shop, caring for her beloved cat, and sharing confidences with her friends. Although her life comes with challenges, everything seems to be going swimmingly until she experiences an unpleasant Thanksgiving dinner with her close friend, Len Huston, and his daughter, Sarah.

Len, whose romantic interest in Harriet is strong, feels badly after Sarah insults Harriet and her business. When Harriets shop window is damaged a few days later, the sheriff identifies Sarahs son and his friend as the culprits. As Sarahs family falls apart, she blames Harriet. Meanwhile as Harriet battles conflicting feelings for Len, she tries to put some distance between them. But when she agrees to have dinner with Len on Christmas, only time will tell if she is ready to take the next step with him and whether Sarah will ever take responsibility for her own reality and accept Harriet into the family.

Christmas in Elm Grove shares the poignant tale of an antique shop owners struggles as she faces the possibility of an unhappy holiday and the end of an affectionate friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491780916

Marie Krohn

Marie Krohn is a former teacher and correspondent for the Norfolk Daily News who is now a speaker with the Nebraska Humanities Council. Her novel, Portrait of a Chair, was nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Prize, and her articles and stories have appeared in Calyx, Storyteller, Rockford Review, Nebraska Life, and elsewhere. Marie lives in Neligh, Nebraska.

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Copyright © 2016 Marie Krohn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8092-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8091-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016900757

iUniverse rev. date: 02/05/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ONE

Where is Gray Boy? Harriet worried as she paced through her store, Main Street Antiques, checking the front and back doors and glancing out the windows. Her cat was prolonging his after-breakfast stroll on this gloomy day after Thanksgiving. Her mood matched the gray sky. She was recovering from an unpleasant Thanksgiving dinner at the home of Len Huston's daughter, Sarah Ramsey. Len was her accountant, and since the death of her husband, his romantic interest in Harriet was as strong as his interest in helping her balance her books.

The memory of Sarah's horrid behavior caused Harriet to shudder as she moved toward the front window. She knew Len's daughter hated the idea that they were a couple, probably because Sarah thought Harriet was too old for her father at the age of sixty-two, or perhaps it was because Harriet was prettier than Sarah. She smiled at that thought. She knew she looked good for her age, with a petite but sturdy figure that hadn't gone to fat, curly gray hair and warm hazel eyes that emphasized the slight olive cast of her skin. Only a few wrinkles crossed the high forehead of her angular face when she smiled, and high cheekbones emphasized a straight but somehow pert nose.

Daily Yoga exercises kept her trim. She'd been a plump child and endured ridicule from boys in elementary school. During high school she struggled to lose twenty pounds, and she had managed to keep them off. But losing weight had not increased her popularity with boys. She'd had only a few dates in high school, and only with studious boys who needed a date for a school function.

Standing at the front window, Harriet glanced to the north and studied the area around the Congregational Church, but Gray Boy wasn't running across the grass as he often did when coming home from his morning walk. He wasn't across the street from the church patrolling the grounds of the funeral home either, and he wasn't chasing squirrels or rabbits in the yards of the houses beyond the church and funeral home.

Seeing the funeral home reminded her of her husband's death from a stroke three years ago. Nineteen eighty-two had been a turning point in her life, one she wouldn't soon forget. Henry died on a rainy March morning. After she'd come downstairs that morning, she wondered why he wasn't sitting in his leather armchair reading the Omaha World-Herald. He'd always been the first one up. When she looked out the living room window, expecting to see him walking across the porch with the paper under his arm, he'd been lying at the foot of the porch steps beside the open newspaper. She raced outside and knelt beside him. Then she pressed her hand against his neck feeling for a pulse, but it seemed weak. As she stood to go inside and call the paramedics, she noticed the wind scattering newspaper pages across the lawn, and she'd felt pulled apart, just like the paper. Henry died during the drive to the hospital.

Now in addition to losing Henry's companionship, she might lose the company of Gray Boy. He'd been her companion for two years. As she continued staring out the window looking for him, she remembered the cold windy November morning she'd discovered him wandering in the alley behind her shop, his fur matted and his tail drooping. Feeling a kinship with the lonely cat, she called, Kitty, kitty! Come kitty!

After giving her a skeptical stare, he skittered down the alley. Yet he roamed behind her shop every day after she put salmon-flavored cat treats in a dish near the back door. On a wind-whipped snowy morning, he finally scooted into the shop when she opened the door. He made himself at home on the loveseat that she'd had reupholstered in red plush.

Since then, he'd been a loyal companion as she adjusted to widowhood and to establishing a new business in Elm Grove, Nebraska. A year after Henry died, she sold the grocery store they had owned together and traded their Victorian-style house for a furniture store, which she renovated into an antique shop. She and Gray Boy lived in an apartment above the shop. Harriet also owned Elm Grove's former Carnegie Library and rented it to her artist-friend, Rachel Carter. Buying the library, along with renovating the former furniture store into an antique shop used up most of the insurance money from Henry's policy. Now, she struggled to support herself by selling antiques.

Smiling, she recalled the day two years ago when the recently divorced artist walked into the shop carrying a painting that she asked Harriet to sell. Even though she didn't sell paintings or craft items, Harriet felt a kinship with the lonely woman and agreed to display her art. Since then, she and Rachel had become friends.

Still standing at the front window, Harriet pressed her forehead against the glass to get a better view of the catalpa trees that stood like sentinels in front of the courthouse across the street. Their branches leaned in the wind, shedding dry leaves that flew across the street. Some whipped into her store when the door opened, and Len stepped inside.

Morning, Harriet. Len's tall, lanky form towered over her, and his blue eyes flashed with affection as he reached for Harriet's retreating figure. She knew he meant to fold her into his arms as a way of apologizing for the disastrous Thanksgiving dinner they had shared at his daughter Sarah's house.

I know you're feeling bad, Harriet. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her to him. Sarah put on an extraordinary show of snobbishness. I'm sorry. His hand rubbed her back, as if he were attempting to erase his daughter's behavior.

Harriet pulled away from him. Clad in her favorite crewneck blue sweater, which she'd worn that day as a way of comforting herself, she crossed her arms in front of her.

Your daughter was more than just a snob, she managed to insult me every chance she got. Unfolding her arms, Harriet uneasily recalled the insinuations that spewed from Sarah Ramsey's prim mouth. It was clear that Sarah felt threatened by her guest, whom she evidently feared would come to share her father's life and thereby diminish her influence over him.

What Len didn't know, and she had no intention of telling him about it, was that Sarah's insults brought back the hurt of rejection that had pained her growing years. Her weight had encouraged her reclusive nature, even in high school after she'd lost the weight and gained respect for her musical talent.

***

In her opening attack, Sarah had asked Harriet, Do you think your secondhand store will generate many sales during the Christmas shopping season?

Looking up as she delicately sliced her piece of turkey, Harriet let a few seconds pass. She wasn't about to admit to Sarah that her shop needed a healthy dose of Christmas sales to break even financially. She watched Sarah lean forward to pick up a bowl of mashed potatoes and pass it to her father, her reddish-brown hair hanging from a center part that accented her flat cheeks.

Harriet set her knife and fork down. Most of my merchandise is at least third- or fourth-hand, having been passed down from one generation to another or sold three or four times. You know, of course, that many of the pieces I sell are one hundred years old. She noticed Sarah's eyebrows arch in disapproval.

Then Harriet smiled and shook her head. I have no idea whether or not I'll have good sales. I understand that antiques are not what most people give as Christmas gifts.

As she took the bowl of mashed potatoes from Len, who was sitting beside her, Harriet glanced around the table. Sarah's husband, Ed Ramsey, sat at the head of the white-damask-covered table, his balding head bent and his broad shoulders hunched. Sarah, seated at her husband's right, avoided Harriet's gaze and picked up a plate of rolls. She handed them to her oldest son, Phil, whose shaggy mud-colored hair draped his long face. His features echoed those of his mother.

Phil's broad body resembled that of his father, although without Ed's sagging belly. Harriet thought she detected in Phil's form the muscle tone of an athlete, inspiring her to ask, Did you play football this year? She knew he was a senior in high school, and Len had mentioned that he took part in sports.

No, I lost interest in the game. He grabbed a roll from the plate and abruptly passed it to his brother, Tim. Tim's tall, lanky build reminded Harriet of Len, and he had Len's blue eyes. In contrast to his brother, Tim's blond hair was trimmed above his ears.

After helping himself to a roll, Tim smiled at Harriet. Phil didn't play football this year because he refused to cut his hair.

Unable to think of a tactful reply, Harriet picked up her fork and slid it under her helping of dressing. Then she studied the still-life painting that hung above the sideboard. It featured a pheasant, its plumage intact, lying on a table beside a bowl of fruit. She had never liked still-life paintings of food, and the lifeless pheasant in the picture roused her sympathy.

Sarah's voice rose higher than usual, grabbing everyone's attention. Phil is simply trying to find himself. At the present time, he's experimenting with hair styles, and he's interested in music. She raised her head and flipped a wandering strand of faded red hair behind her ear.

Ed placed his napkin on the table. I don't call the noise coming from his room music. It sounds like pieces of scrap metal rubbing against each other.

Again Sarah's eyebrows rose in indignation, and Harriet watched her press her thin lips together, probably to keep from arguing with her husband during a holiday meal, especially one where she had planned to put Harriet in her rightful place: out of her father's life. Harriet raised her napkin to her mouth to hide a smile.

During the rest of the main course, Len led the conversation in general subjects: the weather, the arrival of a new dentist in town, and the sale of the flower shop. But by dessert time, his daughter had regained her confidence, and as she served the pumpkin pie with the help of Ed and Tim, she resumed her attempts to annoy Harriet.

You know, of course, about John Everson's death, but you probably don't know that Ed bought his interest in Elm Grove National Bank and is now the sole owner. Poor Dale Tunbridge also tried to buy it, but Ed's offer was better. Now Dale has left the bank and moved his insurance business into the former gun shop.

Sarah smoothed the whipped cream across her pie with her fork and gave Harriet a smug smile. Of course, selling insurance isn't as important as banking.

Harriet knew that Sarah meant to insult her yet again, because Harriet's father had owned an insurance agency. She had worked for her father until she married and began helping Henry in the grocery store. Harriet tried to calm herself but couldn't resist defending her father, who had died eight years ago from a heart attack. A year later, her mother had died in her sleep.

Insurance is a very lucrative business for banks because it attracts customers who might establish accounts. I hope Ed will find someone to replace Dale, especially since you'll probably have both Phil and Tim in college at the same time.

A smirk creased Phil's face as he rescued his mother. Don't worry, Mom. I'm not going to college.

Sarah's face bloomed in embarrassment. After that, she made no more attempts to bully Harriet.

***

Now Harriet blotted the unpleasant memory from her mind, and stepped away from Len's embrace. She motioned toward the front window. Gray Boy hasn't come home since his after-breakfast stroll, and I'm worried about him. The wind has come up and the clouds are getting darker. It may rain, or we might be getting the first snow of the season.

It looks to me like snow, Harriet. How long has he been missing?

Two hours. Harriet's voice rose in frustration. She moved closer to the window, looking past the display that she and her clerk, Betsy Winslow, had arranged. An oak table covered with a blue cloth held a set of holiday dishes featuring birds and flowers. Several mismatched oak chairs surrounded the table, adding interest to the scene.

Len went to the front door. He pulled a pair of brown-framed glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on, adjusting them quickly. Where does he usually go on his morning strolls?

He always trots up Main Street to the Congregational Church, Harriet answered, joining him at the door. Then he turns around and takes his time about getting home. He waits outside the front or back door until I let him in.

How long does it take him? Len peered at the catalpa trees across the street.

He stays out about half an hour, especially on a cold, windy day like this. She resumed her pacing from the door to the window and back again. Len remained at the door, studying the courthouse lawn.

Finally, a slow smile widened his face. I see a dog beneath one of the trees on the courthouse lawn, and I think I see a gray bundle of fur in a branch near the top of the tree. He took off his glasses and put them back in his pocket, turning to Harriet. I'll go across the street and chase the dog away. It looks like David Hewitt's Irish setter, Lily. She must have escaped from his yard this morning. David was a lawyer and was dating Harriet's artist-friend, Rachel.

Harriet heaved a sigh of relief and placed her hand on Len's arm. Please, I'd appreciate it. I can't leave the shop. Betsy isn't coming in to help me this weekend. Her children are home and she cooked Thanksgiving dinner for both her and her husband's family.

As Len crossed the street, Harriet moved closer to the window and squinted in order to see better. She watched him clap his hands at the dog to shoo her away. But she couldn't see Gray Boy. She hoped that Len hadn't imagined glimpsing a bundle of gray fur near the top of the tree.

Lately she'd had trouble focusing on small print in books and magazines. It was time to put aside personal vanity, she told herself, and have her vision checked. She'd avoided wearing glasses for all of her sixty-two years.

Finally she noticed Gray Boy crawling onto a low-hanging limb. Then he leaped into Len's waiting arms with the grace of a trapeze artist. She asked herself, how can I stay mad at him after he rescued my cat?

As Harriet watched Len carry Gray Boy across the street, she thought about their relationship. They had struck up a close friendship during the last two years, but as Harriet reminded herself almost daily, it was only a friendship.

When Len invited her to have Thanksgiving dinner with his daughter and her family, he assured her that they would still be just friends, and that he only wanted to satisfy his daughter's curiosity about Harriet.

Well, Harriet told herself ruefully, Sarah's curiosity was well satisfied. She hoped she would never again have to endure Sarah's scrutiny and her biting remarks. Harriet knew that Sarah had decided to dislike her even before inviting her to Thanksgiving dinner. She had simply arranged an opportunity to try to shove Harriet out of Len's life with insults. It was better to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas by herself than share another holiday meal