“Mitch. His name is Mitch. He’s a bit older than me. He was a surgeon—worked on hands—and he’s retired now out in Ohio, with pots of money. We’ve been corresponding online since last October, and seeing each other for three months. Posy, you won’t believe this, but he loves me. He loves everything about me and he wants me to move in with him.”
Trish was right. Posy didn’t quite believe it. After her marriage broke up, Trish had become increasingly needy and clingy when anyone so much as asked her on a date.
Posy had a clear memory of a guy who’d come to pick Trish up for a first date being coerced into fixing the washing machine. He hadn’t come back for a second date. For Trish, love meant never having to solve your own problems. Not too many men stuck around after the first crisis.
It had been several years since her mom had gone out with anyone, as far as Posy knew. Despite her daily phone calls and innumerable weekly texts, she’d been keeping this guy a secret for three months?
“A surgeon? Where did you meet?”
If her mom said Match.com, she was going straight to the FBI to get a profile of this supposed surgeon/
paragon. She felt disloyal, but it was hard to believe Trish had met a guy and hadn’t scared him off. That had never happened, in all of Posy’s twenty-eight years.
“We met at the Holiday World trade show. I was testing a line of nutcrackers, which if anyone ever tries to tell you resin composites look exactly like hand-carved wood, you should run the other way. But anyway, Mitch noticed that I was uncomfortable with the salesman’s hard sell and he stepped in and put a stop to it.”
Anyone who helped her mom walk away from an investment in faux-wood, resin-composite nutcrackers won bonus points in Posy’s book.
“Why was he looking at nutcrackers?”
“He wasn’t. He was buying antique-style streetlights for his train display. The wires are so thin you can barely see them. I’ll show you—”
“Mom! The surgeon.”
“He’s retired. He owns a wonderful place near Toledo called Mitch’s Train Yard. It’s this incredible Christmas train display that fills his whole barn. He has a shop and a small café and is building up a model-train museum.”
“Your new boyfriend is a model-train-collecting professional?” Was there any way this was true? Had her mom actually met a guy who would not only put up with her crazy collections, but enjoy them? Share them? Contribute to them?
“We’re perfect for each other. It’s too bad your dad isn’t still here. I think he’d have enjoyed meeting Mitch.”
Posy’s dad would have hanged himself with a string of Christmas lights before he got anywhere near a meeting with her mom’s new boyfriend. But she didn’t say that to her mother. In the three years since he’d died, Trish had been mentally revising their relationship until it would be hard to know from her stories that after their divorce Posy’s dad had gone out of his way to avoid her company.
Trish became absorbed again in the angels. She picked one up and ran a finger over the gilded wings. “So once you write me a check, I’ll be free and clear and I can move in with him.”
“Mom, I’m not buying all your stuff so you can run away to Toledo. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you.” And happy that her mom was finally willing to consider downsizing. The house and store were the sources of many of the problems Posy had been called in to manage, but as much as she wanted them gone, she didn’t want her mom rushing into a relationship with a virtual stranger. “You don’t have to move right away. What if we make a plan—we’ll talk to a Realtor, get someone to look at the accounts for the store and see if you can attract a buyer. Even if you just want to liquidate the stock, you need to think this through.”
Trish was shaking her head.
“No? What no? Mom, is there something else you’re keeping from me?”
“I don’t want to get into the details.” Trish’s hands tightened on the angel and she broke the left-hand wing off. “Oh, no.” Her shoulders hunched up close to her ears and she seemed to shrink right in front of Posy. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
If Posy hadn’t already guessed there was something very wrong going on in her mom’s life, that would have been an unavoidable clue. If Trish didn’t want to discuss something, it was Upsetting or Uncomfortable or even worse, Embarrassing. She’d happily chat about cancer, crime, war, politics, heck, even religion, but as soon as the conversation brushed up against shame or negative image, Trish shut the door.
“Mom, you didn’t really think I was going to buy every one of your earthly possessions without finding out why this is necessary.”
“I told you the reason. Mitch. He’s a hand surgeon. I’m going to move to Ohio.”
Patented Trish Jones “looking on the bright side” nonsense.
“Bullshit.”
Trish pressed her hands together and her mouth tightened briefly before she smoothed her expression. “Posy, there’s no need for that type of language.”
“Tell me why you need money all of a sudden. Is this guy pulling some kind of scam?”
“No!” Trish practically shouted. “He doesn’t know. The truth is... I’m not sure how to... I need the money because...” Trish sniffed and shook her head as she picked up the pieces of the broken angel and tried to fit them back together, but she only managed to chip the end off the wing. Angel, the dog, zipped in out of nowhere and scooped the piece of ceramic off the floor before running back out into the store. “Because I don’t want to go to jail.”
Of all the things that had come out of her mother’s mouth over the years, that had to be about the most shocking. Jail? Trish Jones? Cardigan-sweater wearer, volunteer for good causes, poodle aficionado, owner of a Christmas shop spelled with an extra P and an E?
“Jail?”
The wing snapped off a second angel her mom had picked up.
“Put the angels down before you massacre the whole heavenly host, okay?”
“I didn’t want to tell you this,” Trish said. “It would have been so much easier if you’d bought everything. I could have paid the money back and no one would ever have known.”
“What money?”
“I ran a fundraiser. It was just a small thing. I put a story on my Wonders blog about the community center we’re trying to open here. Some of my readers wanted to help, so I set up a donation button. But then Chloe Chastain linked to it from her blog and her readership is much larger than mine—mommy bloggers have a big reach. Before I knew it, I’d collected quite a bit of money.”
Posy was having trouble tracking the details. She read her mom’s blog, but she had a very small core of regular commenters, fellow Christmas-shop owners and miniatures enthusiasts. Chloe—her old neighbor—ran a blog that was a different story. She’d somehow turned a twice-daily post about life as a divorced mom, taking her toddlers to the park or sipping wine from a plastic Barbie cup, into a successful business. Posy didn’t read Chloe’s blog, but she did look at it from time to time. She had to do something while waiting for movies to load on Netflix.
“Mom, the crime?”
“I don’t have the money anymore.”
She doesn’t have the money anymore. Oh, Lord.
Posy coaxed the details out of her. Trish had been shocked at the amount of money people donated. She’d told a friend of hers about it and the friend had asked to borrow the money. Trish’s friend ran a Christmas store in Maine and her credit line had been reduced by her bank. She told Trish she just needed the money for a few days while she collected