Christmas Angels Read online

  Mattie’s heart began to pound even faster, and a tear popped into her eye. She immediately tried to blame it on allergies, but knew better.

  Easter 1950

  “I found it! I found it!”

  Madeline Barnhart zipped through her sloping backyard in St. Louis, down the hill, and directly toward a dyed pink egg nestled in the crook of a redbud tree.

  Her parents laughed as she jumped up and down in her Easter dress—white with little pink bows that her mother had made, and patent leather shoes—holding up the matching pink egg for them to see.

  While his daughter was looking, Joseph Barnhart secretly pointed behind his wife’s back toward the next location—a squirrel hole in an old oak—and Mattie giggled, racing off to the next hiding spot with her basket bursting with bright green plastic grass, chocolates, and colorful eggs.

  Joseph put his arm around his wife.

  “Perfect Easter,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  “Looks like The Wizard of Oz with all the color, doesn’t it?” Mary Ellen asked.

  As the Barnharts stood on their deck, they could survey not only their sprawling suburban yard but also those of their neighbors. They could see neighborhood kids rushing around their yards with baskets, too, while Harry Caray’s unmistakable voice boomed over radios broadcasting the Cardinals game.

  The dogwoods and redbud were in bloom—white and pink dotting the lush green—and most of the trees, save for the stubborn oaks, were nearly full of leaves. Tulips encircled the trees—a Crayon box of colors—while sunny daffodils lined the fence.

  It was April, and St. Louis was downright hot: The air was thick and moist like a rain forest. The earth smelled alive.

  Mary Ellen dabbed at her brow with the Kleenex she pulled from deep within the top of her own Easter dress.

  “You’re like a magician,” teased Joseph. “Always pulling Kleenex from a purse, a sleeve … anywhere.”

  Mary Ellen draped the Kleenex over her husband’s face. “Sometimes I wish I could make you disappear,” she said laughing, before returning it to her forehead. “Humidity’s already back. It’s going to be a hot summer, I can already tell.”

  Joseph waved his arms in front of his wife, pretending to be a fan.

  “That’s not going to cut it.” She laughed.

  He walked over and took a seat in a lawn chair on the patio, as his daughter continued her hunt.

  “We should think about a summer house,” he said. “A place where we can get out of this heat.”

  “Really?”

  Mary Ellen beamed expectantly.

  She looks just like Doris Day, Joseph thought. And Mattie looks like a mini-Doris. Both blond, happy rays of sunshine.

  “We could do it, especially with the extra money from my raise,” Joseph said of his accounting job at Anheuser-Busch. “All the fellas from the brewery are buying in Wisconsin and Michigan. And I have nearly a month off now. We could make it work.”

  Mattie’s happy shrieks echoed throughout the yard, and the ten-year-old zipped past the birdbath toward her parents, sending a pair of fat robins flying into the sky.

  “Too much chocolate,” Mary Ellen said, plucking another Kleenex from her dress and wiping down her daughter’s face. “You are too excited.”

  “It’s Easter!” screamed Mattie. “I love my Brach’s!”

  “Well, we have one more surprise for you today … if you stay calm,” her mom said, unable to hide a smile. “Follow us.”

  Mary Ellen and Joseph led Mattie into the family room of their sprawling red brick ranch, and their daughter gasped: A trail of jelly beans meandered past the kidney bean–shaped coffee table and burnt orange amoeba lounge chair and ottoman.

  “Where’s it go?” Mattie giggled.

  “Follow it and find out,” Joseph said.

  “Follow the yellow brick road,” Mattie sang, giggling, before changing the lyrics. “Follow the jelly-bean road!”

  Mattie took off in a flash—Easter basket still in the crook of her arm—her parents running to keep up, the trail of jelly beans leading across the kitchen linoleum, past the Hotpoint appliances, and into the formal living room where, smack-dab in the middle sat a large package wrapped in colorful cellophane.

  “That’s a big Easter basket,” Mattie said, her hazel eyes wide.

  Joseph laughed, running a hand through his thick, black hair, which was slicked back and parted on the side. “Open it,” he said, kneeling down in front of his daughter. “I’ll help you.”

  The two began to unwrap the layers of cellophane, the loud crinkling causing Mattie to giggle even more.

  “What is it?” Mattie asked as the gift was revealed, her mouth hanging open.

  “It’s a hope chest,” Mary Ellen answered, taking a seat on the carpet next to her daughter.

  “A what, Mommy?”

  “A hope chest,” she said. “It’s sort of like a jewelry box, except bigger, for your dreams.”

  Mary Ellen sat on her knees next to Mattie and smoothed her daughter’s short blond hair.

  “This was mine when I was a little girl, and your dad and I thought it was the perfect time to pass it on to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to help you fill it before you’re all grown up.”

  “With what?” Mattie asked.

  “Well, a hope chest is filled with lots of things,” Mary Ellen said, continuing to smooth her daughter’s hair. “It’s filled with blankets and linens to keep you warm. It’s filled with household items, like glasses, dishes, kitchen towels, and bakeware, so that your future house is truly a home. It’s filled with memories, like scrapbooks and family pictures, teddy bears and dolls, so that you can pass those along when you are married and have a family. It’s a way to connect your past with your future.”

  Mary Ellen stopped and looked at her husband. “But, mostly, a hope chest is filled with love, and the hopes and dreams that parents have for their daughters, that we have for you.”

  “It’s so pretty,” Mattie exclaimed, touching the chest, whose wood was burnished and the color of gold, the lid shiny and smooth from use.

  “Your father wanted to add something, too,” Mary Ellen started, “so he carved these beautiful spring flowers onto the front.”

  “They’re all your favorites: tulips and daffodils and dogwood blooms,” Joseph said. “I thought you’d like that since we love to work in the garden together. And those flowers represent spring, the season of eternal hope.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” Mattie said, standing to give him a big hug.

  “Open it,” Mary Ellen said. “I have something in there for you, too.”

  Mattie tried to lift the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. “I think it’s jammed,” she said, turning to look at her parents. “Or broken.”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Mary Ellen said. “See the lock? There’s a special key—the only one like it in the world—that goes with it that only you will have. So you need to keep it in a secret place, okay?”

  “Where is it?” Mattie asked.

  “Would you help me?” Mary Ellen asked her husband.

  “I don’t know where the key is, either,” Joseph said.

  “The last place anyone would ever look,” she said, grabbing one end of the chest and nodding at her husband to grab the other. The pair tilted the chest up and taped to the bottom was the key. “The most obvious.”

  Mattie giggled.

  “Grab it, sweetheart,” Mary Ellen said.

  Mattie took the key, her parents tilted the chest onto the floor again, and Mattie carefully inserted the key into the old lock.

  As she lifted the lid, she asked, “What’s that smell? It’s like we’re in the woods.”

  “That’s cedar,” Mary Ellen said. “That smell never goes away. It smells exactly the same way it did when I was a little girl. You’ll never forget that scent. Did you find anything in there yet?”

  Mattie bent over the chest. Its lid had a lined drawer with com
partments that ran the entire length of the chest. In the bottom of the deep chest sat one item: a wooden plaque.

  Mattie carefully lifted it out of the chest.

  “It’s a ‘Home Sweet Home’ plaque for your future home,” Mary Ellen said. “I wrote the poem on it just for you, and your father engraved the plaque.”

  Mary Ellen took it from her daughter’s hands and held it up for her to read.

  Hope Is Only One Short Letter From Home

  H is for Hope

  Now and for always

  O is for the Overwhelming love

  I have for you

  P is for the Practical items

  That will make your house a home

  E is for the Eternal memories this chest will provide

  Every time you open it up

  You are my hope, and my home, in this world

  My daughter, my love

  As Mattie read, Mary Ellen’s eyes grew misty, and Joseph put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  “And, see,” Mary Ellen said with a shaky voice, “on the other side of the plaque your father engraved the word ‘home’ and trailed your name down from the m. Like the title, my mother always told me that hope is only one short letter from home.”

  “Thank you, Mommy!” Mattie said. “I love it! When can we start filling it up?”

  “We have all the time in the world, my angel,” Mary Ellen said, laying the plaque back into the chest. “We’ll have it overflowing by the time you meet the man of your dreams and have your first little girl.”

  Mary Ellen stopped and pulled her daughter close. “Can I tell you something important?”

  “Of course.” Mattie nodded.

  “Always remember that hope is something you carry with you forever, not only in this chest but also in your heart. So look inside it and inside yourself when you need hope the most, and it will guide you, and remind you of what was and what is to be.”

  Mattie looked at her mother, considering her words. Then she nodded and dropped the key into her Easter basket, before reaching back in and grabbing a little chocolate egg. She unwrapped the candy and popped it into her mouth.

  “Okay!” she said. “But I don’t think there will ever be a time when I’m sad. I have oodles of hope!”

  Mattie popped another chocolate into her mouth, hugged her parents, and skipped out of the room with her Easter basket.

  “Later, ’gator!” she giggled, leaving five chocolatey fingerprints on the inside of the white frame of the door, just below the pencil marks that measured her growing height.

  * * *

  “Almost forgot this!”

  The shouts of the movers startled Mattie.

  “Found it in the attic,” one of the men was saying. “What is this old thing?”

  Mattie heard a thud as they placed it down behind her, and she turned her wheelchair around to see what they had discovered.

  Her heart stopped.

  “That’s my hope,” Mattie gasped, her voice choking, stopping short of adding the word “chest.”

  Before she could say anything further, the young movers were already trying to open the chest.

  “Thing’s jammed,” one of the movers said. He turned to Mattie. “Sorry.”

  Mattie smiled. “Key,” she said. “Taped underneath.”

  The movers tilted the hope chest up a little, and an old key glimmered in the sunlight.

  “Well, I’ll be,” one of the men said. “Pretty clever. Last place I would have looked.”

  He took the key, inserted it into the lock, and opened the chest.

  “Wow,” one of the young men said, before standing in front of the chest, which was overflowing with family heirlooms. “Smells great. What is all this stuff?”

  Mattie’s eyes instantly filled with tears when she looked at the contents: a cloth doll, family photos, china, Christmas ornaments, a Bible, a scrapbook, an embroidered pillowcase and apron.

  One of the movers saw Mattie’s tears and smiled at her.

  “Must be for your kids or grandkids, huh?” he asked. “That’s real sweet. Glad we found it.”

  “Please put it in the back of our van,” Don said quietly from the front door, before walking over to take the key and whisper to his wife, “Honey, are you okay?”

  “How could I have forgotten that?” she asked, her voice weak and trembling. “How?”

  “It was in the attic,” Don said. “It’s been there a long time.”

  “I never would have forgiven myself,” Mattie said.

  The smell of cedar rushed on to the screened porch.

  “Can we leave now? Please,” she begged.

  Don walked over to kiss his wife.

  “Of course,” he said, softly kissing Mattie’s cheek. Don put his hand underneath her chin and looked into his wife’s eyes. “I love you.”

  “Me, too,” she replied. “Time to go.”

  “Here,” Don said, putting the key into her hands. “For luck. To remind you that memories can never be locked away.”

  Mattie tried to smile, but nothing came. Instead, she navigated her wheelchair out of the house, down the ramp, and to the van, silently screaming inside.

  I’m saying goodbye to everything, Mattie thought. My family. My history.

  Mattie stopped.

  My life.

  Mattie squeezed her eyes shut, until her chair had been lifted and locked into place and she could hear the gravel of the long driveway crunch under the tires.

  Mattie tried to keep her eyes closed, but she couldn’t help herself, and she opened them at the final moment, just in time to see the wood-carved sign that announced the name of the family cottage to visitors for years—HOPE DUNES—swinging in the lake breeze on a log post attached to two stone pillars.

  Mattie closed her eyes again and rubbed the key, but she couldn’t shut out the smell of cedar seeping from the chest or the fact that the only thing worse than remembering a time once filled with hope was living when there was none at all.

  part one

  The Cloth Doll

  One

  May 2016—

  Rose Hoffs leaned in to her bathroom mirror and pushed at the bags beneath her eyes.

  She sighed and reached for some moisturizer and then for the foundation.

  More water, more sleep, more exercise, more … everything, Rose thought. I’m 26 going on 107.

  Rose took a deep breath and even bigger swig of coffee, and continued to “put on her face” as her mom used to say. Her nose twitched instinctively, just like a rabbit, and she sniffed the air.

  Spring, Rose thought. The town is alive again!

  It was a beautiful spring day in Saugatuck, Michigan, and the windows were open in Rose’s tiny five-room cottage, letting in the warm air that Michiganders wait so long for after interminable winters. Carried along on the wind was the sweet scent of blueberry streusel muffins, cinnamon scones, and roasting beans from Lake Effect Coffee located a few blocks away.

  Rose’s mouth watered.

  Rose’s cottage on Butler Street sat perched behind a row of larger resort homes, almost like a carriage house. But it wasn’t. The home was one of the town’s original fishing cottages—which came with a tiny square lot big enough for some rhododendrons and a couple of bikes. The Hoffs never dreamed resorters would come in droves to the little artists’ colony on the dunes of Lake Michigan, buying every available plot of land and building houses that reached up, up, up for seasonal peeks of the river and lake.

  In fact, the Hoffs’ house had become known in town as the “Up” house (the level of sarcasm or affection for the nickname depended on whom you talked to and their net worth) because their adorable little cottage sat in the midst of gentrification just like the elderly widower’s home in the Disney movie.

  The film Up came out just before Rose’s mother, Dora, died, and she had loved the movie and moniker.

  “Up,” she would say, laughing every time the cartoon movie house took flight thanks to the hun
dreds of helium balloons attached. “Our house is like that one: filled with hope and adventure.”

  The wind again wafted the scent of freshly baked treats into Rose’s house—Those are definitely blueberry muffins, she thought—making her mouth water again. Rose wondered how many blueberries her parents, Dora and Dave, had sold over the course of their lifetimes from their tiny farmers’ market on Blue Star Highway.

  We couldn’t afford to buy this house today, Rose thought. I couldn’t even afford to keep their stand going. I can barely pay the taxes.

  Rose’s mind drifted to all the resorters who owned land around the Hoffs’ house and their offers to buy the house and property.

  How much longer can I hold out? Rose wondered. My mother would never forgive me if I lost it. I need this job.

  Rose shook her head and reached for her lipstick.

  “How about this one, Mommy?”

  Rose looked over at her daughter, Jeri, seated on a cushioned chair at the vanity, happily holding up a tube of lipstick. In the few minutes Rose was not paying attention, her seven-year-old daughter painted her whole face pink, her favorite color. She resembled one of the Doodlebops, from the cartoon she loved to watch.

  “Very Deedee Doodle,” said Rose, smiling, despite Jeri’s misbehavior, referencing one of the colorfully painted children’s band members who teach kids social lessons.

  “Yeah!” giggled Jeri. “Better than one of the boys.”

  Jeri stopped and looked at her mom with a serious expression. “How come I’m named after a boy? All the kids in Mrs. Hooper’s class made fun of my name this year. I’m glad it’s summer vacation!”

  “Well…,” started Rose, who always had trouble explaining this fact to her seven-year-old.

  Do I tell her that her father had wanted a boy? And that he had been disappointed with a girl? And me? And with pretty much everything in his life? And that her name was a compromise to keep him happy?

  “We wanted a name as unique as you,” Rose said, reaching over to muss her daughter’s curly red locks. “Don’t worry. You’ll grow into it. It wasn’t easy being named after a thorny flower, either.”

  Rose dampened a washcloth and leaned down to clean her daughter’s face.