Tic-Tac-Mistletoe - N.R. Walker Page 0,30
wanted to do. But realising there could very well be family heirlooms or sentimental ornaments in the boxes, and given this was Ren’s first Christmas without his dad, I had to tread carefully. He wasn’t just opening up boxes of decorations. He was about to open up boxes of memories.
“This box is for the tree,” he said, sliding it between us.
I put my hand atop it and looked him in the eye. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?”
He nodded and gave me a kind smile. “If you weren’t here . . . well, if you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be doing this. But you’re right. I should do this. I need to. And having you here helps.”
I slid my hand over his and gave his fingers a squeeze. “If you want to tell me about each ornament, whatever memories you have, I won’t mind one bit.”
He sighed with a smile. “Most of them I bought at the store.”
“You never did the family tradition thing with ornaments?”
He shook his head and opened the box. The first ornament I pulled out was a bunch of ice-block sticks glued into a star shape, covered with red and green glitter, with a pipe-cleaner glued in a loop. And glued badly, I might add. “Did you pay actual money for this?”
Ren laughed. “Hey, I made that! In kindergarten.” He took it and stared at it for a long moment. “Dad kept it. He kept all the ones I made at school. This was the first.”
“Then it should be first to go on the tree.”
Ren’s face lit up and he hung the ornament pride of place in the middle of the tree. We hung more ornaments and tinsel, then we added the fairy lights, and Ren told me stories of growing up. How it was really only ever the two of them, just him and his dad, and how his dad made a lot of his gifts when he was really young. Wooden trucks and spaceships, a farmhouse with hand-carved animals, and I was reminded that Ren was a third-generation hardware store owner.
“Do you make stuff like that?” I asked.
“Nah, not really. Not like Dad did. I never really had a need to.” Ren smiled now as he talked of his father, and I hoped he found it cathartic instead of painful. “He was handy around the house, of course. Could fix anything. But building stuff was his hobby. He loved it. Model planes and ships. Whereas I do more home-renovating and building than him. Dad always said I should have been a carpenter.”
“You fixed up a lot of this house?”
“Sure. It was barely standing when I bought it.”
“No way.”
He nodded. “It’s taken me five years. Still have to redo the kitchen, and I’d planned to do it this year, but I’ve been busy . . . with everything.”
“You’ll get there,” I said. “And anyway, your home is gorgeous.”
“Thanks.”
Pulling on Ren’s arm, I stood us back from the tree to inspect our work. “We have to stand back to appreciate it.”
It didn’t look like any kind of tree in a department store or in some fancy magazine. The tree itself was kinda short and a bit lopsided, but it was now full of mismatched decorations that told the story of Ren’s life.
It was perfect.
“I love it,” I said.
When I looked up at Ren, he was smiling at me. “It’s amazing.”
It made my stomach swoop and my heart swell. “Now for everything else. We don’t have to go overboard with house decorations. I’ve already tortured you enough with the tree.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t call it torture.”
Ren opened the next box and the door wreath was on top. He hung it on the front door and I pulled out two old, small wooden figurines. One was a reindeer and the other was a Santa, each was about the size of my hand, and they reminded me a little of the Nutcracker. They were varnished but only had a bit of colour. Santa’s coat was painted red, of course, his beard white. The reindeer’s nose was red as well; his little feet were painted black.
They were old, and I didn’t have to guess that Ren’s dad had made these. “Oh my God, these are beautiful,” I whispered. Ren stood beside me and took the little Santa.
“I think he made these for my first Christmas,” he murmured. He studied the figurine a while, his face thoughtful. “I packed them away last year not knowing it would be my