“Uh uh,” I say, swiping Cooper’s coffee out of his hand since my own mug is empty. He backhands me across the chest, but I just drink the coffee. “Cooper’s is, at minimum, second best.”
“Because mine’s the best,” Noah says, pouring more coffee. “You assholes are terrible present givers. I win at that game every damn year.”
“Not this year,” Jordan says, a lazy grin on his face. “Jo is literally the best present giver of all time, and she’s on my team.”
Jo shrugs and leans against Jordan. “Sorry guys, my man tells no lies. Pam, buckle up because we’re going to knock your socks off.”
My mom beams at Jo. “I knew I liked you. Okay my beautiful family, breakfast is ready, so I’ll need everyone in the living room. Grab your coffee on the way in and take your seats. Dad and I are bringing in breakfast. Let’s eat fast so I can decide which of my children won the present game.”
We all laugh, and in one of our long-standing family Christmas traditions, which probably started because my mom needed a five minute breather from four very excited andenthusiastic boys on Christmas morning, my mom waves us all out of the kitchen to settle into the living room for breakfast around the tree.
“El, can you do me a quick favor?”
I turn in the doorway to the living room at my mom’s voice. “Sure, what’s up?”
“I forgot to bring your grandmother’s Christmas mimosa pitcher down from the attic. Can you run up and get it for me?”
I groan internally because I fucking hate the attic. “Do we really need it? Just use any regular pitcher. Cece isn’t even here yet.” My grandmother has a habit of rolling in on Christmas whenever it suits her. It’s the way she lives most of her life, so we just roll with it.
“Elliot Wyles, I’m sure I didn’t just hear you tell me to use any old pitcher. On Christmas.”
I shrug. “What’s so special about the Christmas pitcher anyway?”
My mom rolls her eyes as if I’m the one being unreasonable. “It’s a Christmas pitcher. For Christmas. Which is today. Now go.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “But if I don’t make it back down from your creepy ass attic, just know I’ve always loved you.”
She shakes her head, her lips twitching. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Takes one to know one,” I call over my shoulder as I head up the stairs.
“Bet your ass,” she yells back.
I grin as I trudge up to the third floor, glancing into my parents’ bedroom and chuckling when I see my little dog, clad in a shirt that matches our pajamas, sprawled out and fast asleep in their bed. Then, with a grimace, I pull down the rickety ladder to the attic. The house was built in the eighteen-hundreds, and I’m positive this death trap of a ladder is original. I climb up carefully, sure it’s not built to hold my entire six-two frame.Pulling myself up into the attic, I tug the string for the light, wincing as I bat cobwebs away from my face.
With the dim light casting an eerie glow over the small space, I head straight for the corner where my mom keeps the Christmas decorations, ducking where the roof slopes so I don’t slam my head against the ceiling. The haphazard, disorganized stack of bins has my fingers itching to straighten it all up, but in the interest of getting out of this murdery attic as soon as possible, I get to work.
I rummage through the various bins, but all I find are broken ornaments, an old angel long ago deemed far too creepy for the top of the tree, and a nutcracker I made in fifth grade that I got in trouble for after I drew an actual cock and balls on him because, nutcracker. I smile at the memory of my brothers and I laughing at it for two hours straight and then my mom studying it and immediately deeming it a piece of fine art she swore to keep forever and ever. And she did.
I finish going through the Christmas bins, but there is no pitcher to be had. I’m just about to abort the mission and face the wrath of Pamela Wyles when a box catches my eye. It’s not big but seems about the right size to hold a pitcher. It’s shoved into a corner of the attic, and I have to crouch low to get it. I grab the box and start to stand when my pajama pants get caught on a loose floorboard, and I tumble backwards, the box flying from my hands. I have a split second to consider that if I break that pitcher, my mom might murder me and shove my body in a corner of this attic of horrors before the box lands face down. I brace myself for the sound of ceramic shattering, but it doesn’t come.
I forget for a second that the box is face down, and when I reach over to pick it up, the flaps open and a bundle of what looks like postcards comes falling out. I may hate this freak-show attic, but I love old shit, so I’m immediately intrigued.I untie the ribbon holding the bundle together and take the postcard on the top of the stack, setting the rest of it on the floor.
The front of the postcard features a faded image of Parliament Square in London, and when I flip it over, careful blue penmanship covers the back. I squint to make out the date on the postcard, which I think is July 28, 1913. That would be amazing itself, but it’s the words that have my heart pounding.
My Dearest Clara,
Every day since you left England, I sit at my table, watching the seat that was once yours. My heart aches at your absence, and even as I go about my day, my mind never strays far from you. Please write me and let me know you are well, my love. That you have made the journey to Boston safely.
I am, as ever, yours.
Always,
Henry
I grab the next one on the stack, dated October 10, 1913.
My Dearest Clara,
