Praise the novels of Viola Shipman

“Viola Shipman knows relationships. The Clover Girls will sometimes make you smile and other times cry, but like a true friendship, it is a novel you will forever savor and treasure.”
—Mary Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author

“Viola Shipman has written a love song to long-lost friends, an ode to the summers that define us and the people who make us who we are. The minute I finished The Clover Girls, I ordered copies for all my friends. It’s that good.”
—Kristy Woodson Harvey, New York Times bestselling author

“Reading Viola Shipman’s novels is like talking with your best friend and wanting never to hang up the phone. The Clover Girls is her most beautiful novel yet, and her most important.”
—Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author

“Oh, the joy! The Clover Girls may be [Shipman’s] best yet, taking readers on a heartwarming trip down memory lane… Ideal for summer… A redemptive tale, celebrating the power of friendship while focusing on what matters most. Perfect for the beach!”
—New York Journal of Books

“Every now and then a new voice in fiction arrives to completely charm, entertain and remind us what matters. Viola Shipman is that voice and The Summer Cottage is that absolutely irresistible and necessary novel… [It] brings us the astounding importance of home and underscores the importance of a loving family and of having a generous heart. Grab a glass of sweet tea and enjoy!”
—Dorothea Benton Frank, New York Times bestselling author

“Shipman’s evocative novel is a love letter to Michigan summers, past and present, and to the value of lifelong friendships. A blissful summer read sure to please the author’s many fans, and fans of writers like Elin Hilderbrand or Kristin Hannah.”
—Library Journal on The Heirloom Garden

“The emotional scars left by war unite two women, generations apart, in Shipman’s sentimental family saga... The Heirloom Garden successfully captures these women’s resilience and their hopeful desire for new beginnings.”
—Publishers Weekly

A Sugarplum Christmas

Viola Shipman

“[She] still had the wounded Nutcracker wrapped in her handkerchief, and she carried him in her arms. Now she placed him cautiously on the table, unwrapped him softly, softly, and tended to the injuries. Nutcracker was very pale, but he beamed so ruefully and amiably that his smile shot right through her heart.”

—E.T.A. Hoffmann, The Nutcracker

prologue

THE NUTCRACKER BALLET

When I was five, my grandmother took me to see The Nutcracker. She drove me all the way to Chicago, prattling the entire time about how magical the experience was going to be. I was a tomboy, more prone to climbing trees than watching ballet. The entire drive, my grandma kept rapping me on the shoulder with her gloved hand.

“Stop fidgeting!” she’d admonish.

I was not used to wearing a pretty dress with a frilly collar, and I felt as if I were being choked.

I pulled on her hand, trying to break free, the entire time we climbed the steps to the ballet and then down the stairs to our seats. I simultaneously rocked in my seat and kicked the back of the one in front of me until a very snooty usher warned my grandma we would be asked to leave unless “the demon child began to exhibit some manners.”

“Good!” I answered.

But when the lights went down and the ballet began, I was spellbound. I was no longer Debbie Hutchins. My grandma, wearing her dramatic red cape, was no longer my grandma. We were at a 1915 Christmas Eve party. I was Clara, the young girl given a magical nutcracker doll that came to life in her dreams, battled the evil King of the Mice, and took me to a Crystal Palace full of dancing.

On the ride home, I was the one who couldn’t stop prattling on about the ballet. I not only wanted to dance, right that very moment, but also collect those magical nutcrackers.

That Christmas, my grandmother—as usual—packed gifts underneath her silver tree heavy with Shiny Brite ornaments. I had three big packages that I rattled for days as well as one envelope perched in a branch that I unsuccessfully tried to steam open with my grandmother’s teapot. My parents, staunch Protestants, were not generous of emotion, gift or leisure time.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” was my father’s mantra.

My grandmother, however, didn’t listen.

“Pshaw!” she would say. “Children deserve to be spoiled.”

On Christmas Day, I ripped those packages open, tossing paper left and right. I received three German nutcrackers: a soldier, a king and—my favorite—a horseman on a real rocking horse.

I opened the envelope last, and my grandma’s gift reduced this tomboy to tears.

“One year of ballet classes,” my grandma announced to the room over my heaves.

I spun around the room clumsily, doing my best sugarplum fairy dance, kicking wrapping paper this way and that.

“Thank you, Grandma!” I said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The next few Christmases, I collected more and more nutcrackers, and more years of dance classes.

And then one holiday as my grandma was putting up her silver tree, there was a crash. She had a heart attack reaching to adjust the star, and we found her lying on top of the tree.

Just like that, she was gone, along with my dreams.

My mom and dad boxed up her belongings and beloved decorations—the silver tree, ornaments, appliqué tree skirts, snow globes—and sold them off at an auction as if she’d never existed, as if she were a fantasy, just like Clara and The Nutcracker.

I watched the crowd come like a swarm of locusts and ravage my grandmother’s house until it was empty. I watched my parents count the cash on a calculator the size of a dinner plate.

Nothing was real anymore.

So I gathered my nutcrackers and sold them all that day to the highest bidder.

chapter 1

THE NUTCRACKER SOLDIER
DECEMBER 2022

Estate sales are like war. All the junkers arrive before first light, ready to pounce.

I am already late, thanks to the predawn line at Starbucks and the chatty woman in front of me in the drive-through, who acted like she’d never had a Pumpkin Spice Latte in her life. She nearly spilled her latte when I laid on the horn.

My tardiness has relegated me to a side street, a block over from the estate sale, on Heritage Hill, the historic district of stately old homes in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

The beautiful neighborhood, not far from downtown GR, is filled with a mix of some 1,300 historic homes—mansions to bungalows—featuring 60 different architectural styles dating from 1844. It is one of my favorite neighborhoods in the city. My grandma owned a beautiful Victorian, not too far down the block from a Frank Lloyd Wright craftsman—and its massive picture window was the perfect showcase for her Christmas tree.

My heart pangs, and I blame it on the caffeine.

I look at the old home, another Victorian in need of repair, and I already know this will be a good estate sale.

A family that wants to rid itself of its memories and its “junk” as quickly as possible.

The line of cars already parked in front of the house flicker with light from cell phones, cigarettes and radios, and it looks as if a horde of mammoth fireflies has come to life in December. I know many of the junkers by their cars alone. We’ve been running in the same circles for years. Some own antique malls—the nice ones in cities and lakeshore resort towns—while others run ratty shops on empty town squares in tiny towns across the middle of the Mitten. A few are interior designers, while a couple are home stagers or theatrical set designers. Too many are hoarders, their basements, attics, garages, pole barns and yards filled with anything they can get their hands on. And some, like me, have their own online shops.

Most come seeking very specific items. Top of the list is furniture. For many years, Grand Rapids was known as Furniture City of America, following the city’s showcase of its wooden wares at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition in 1876. Buyers from all over the world looked to Grand Rapids for its fine wood furniture. Many of the factories’ workers lived within walking distance of them or close to streetcar lines, while the owners chose to live in large homes high on the bluffs overlooking downtown.

Heritage Hill.

Over time, other materials replaced wood, but nothing could replace the city as Furniture City. Midcentury furniture soon took hold. Today, buyers at these sales hope to stumble across an overlooked hoop back armchair from the 1800s on which Grandma used to dry dish towels, or a Herman Miller Eames lounge chair hidden behind oil cans in the garage that Great Uncle Joe always thought was too ugly to be in the house.

But I am not here for furniture. I am here for the holiday decor. The boxes and bins filled with the decorations family forgot, or wants to forget, the memories too much to relive.

I seek the snaking strings of lights—the vintage, multicolored, big bulbs—no one can untangle, the dented plastic molds of Santa’s jolly face and Rudolph’s red nose, the manger scenes missing a Wise Man or a few sheep, leaky snow globes, bottlebrush trees that have lost their snow, heirloom glass ornaments.

And if none of what I buy is truly an heirloom, I can still make it all seem shiny to someone who wants to believe.

I turn around and glance at the house, waiting for the front door to open. Shadows shift in front of the window, and I suddenly see my grandfather—an accountant for a furniture company—and my grandmother, a high school English teacher—hugging in the front window by the Christmas tree.

“One day these memories will all be yours,” I can hear my grandma say.

I take a sip of coffee, and again my heart pangs.

Memories. History.

People will believe anything you tell them.

Especially online.

Despite having the entire world of knowledge at their fingertips, they will swallow any story you toss out, hook, line and sinker.

We believe what we want to believe these days, what we need to believe, and visit those virtual places that reaffirm those beliefs rather than challenge them. This, despite the fact that every fact is available with just a simple click.

Why have we become lemmings?

Why have I become a purveyor of holiday lies?

Online, I am known as The Sugarplum Fairy. I welcome buyers into my virtual holiday kingdom filled with antiques and heirlooms, where ripped festive table runners are made of “delicate French lace” and plastic candy canes become “rare vintage ornaments.”

It is a kingdom of lies and junk.

A random snowflake appears in the streetlight, and it twirls down onto my windshield, and then instantly disappears.

I think of The Nutcracker ballet I watched so long ago with my grandma.

I am not The Sugarplum Fairy who is the ruler of the Land of Sweets; I am The Sugarplum Fairy who is the ruler of the Land of Sweet Memories. But we both have something in common: we live only in people’s dreams.

I see a blur of movement and a flash of light, and I turn. The front door is open, and the junkers are on the move. I scurry from my car, locking it with my key fob as I run. The smell of mothballs and pine-scented cleaner overwhelms me as I hit the front door.

“Hi, Debbie!”

Elaine, who owns the estate sale company, greets me with a raised Styrofoam cup of coffee. I slow my jog and take a look around the living room, which seems as if it’s been perfectly preserved from the 1970s: mauve shag carpet, a TV console as big as a Buick, orange crackle lamps.

“I’m surprised you’re not first today,” Elaine continues. “What next?” Elaine acts as if she’s peeking out the front door. “No. The earth hasn’t frozen over yet.”

“Ha ha,” I say. “If this estate sale was in Palm Springs, you’d make a fortune. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, midcentury is hot again. Check out the prices.”

I stop and look at a price tag on a lamp.

“Ouch,” I say.

“One of a kind.” Elaine eyes me, lifts a brow and takes a sip of coffee as if to keep her from saying what’s on her mind: The real deal. Unlike what you sell.

Elaine’s estate sales are well-respected, well-oiled machines. Items are marked with a selling price, and if a buyer does not want to pay the marked price, she will accept bids, but that means taking the chance that someone will pay the marked price before the sale ends. Everyone at Elaine’s sales pays the marked price or more. That’s because Elaine invites in her top clients first, before opening up the door at 9:00 a.m. when it becomes first come, first served. Elaine well knows, as we all do, that there are too many lookie-loos who will drain your day asking questions, eating the free cookies and bartering, offering a quarter for something marked fifty dollars.

I turn. A line is already forming at the door.

“Where is it?” I ask.

Elaine nods toward the staircase behind her. “All the way up. Don’t stop till the top.”

I grab the ornate wooden banister and climb three very steep floors, stopping at each landing to catch my breath, before emerging into a large room with a fireplace with a fancy mantel, ornate trim work, gilded wainscoting and a turret. This looks as if it might have been a parlor, a gentleman’s office or perhaps even a child’s bedroom. I pick a path through all the boxes and wend my way to the turret. There is fabric of muslin and dimity, heavy curtains layered over frilly white, held back by brass pulls. This room is unlike any on the other floors—it’s stopped in the 1870s while the rest stopped in the 1970s.

I scan the room. That’s when I finally notice the tiny closet, with the door flung open. Inside it, red and green tubs and stacked boxes. There is a sign over the door that reads: “Christmas Decorations.”

I jump over a box of children’s toys and beeline toward the closet.

Another sign on the side of a tub reads: ITEM #314-ALL DECO-$300.00

I peek inside the cardboard boxes on top: strands of lights with frayed wires, mangled elves, ornaments of pets’ paw prints.

“Three hundred dollars!” I yelp. “For this?”

I hear footsteps.

“Oooh,” a woman says. “Look at all the holiday decorations!”

“Mine!” I say, grabbing the tag. “I was here first!”

She throws up her hands and gives me a wild-eyed look. She turns to her friend and twirls her finger around her temple to indicate that I’m crazy. I stack boxes in my arms and begin to navigate the stairs. When I reach the bottom, Elaine looks at me and says, “I’m not going to negotiate the price. There’s some nice stuff in there.”

“Really? How much can I charge to electrocute someone?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it all seem very special to your buyers.”

My eyes narrow.

“Listen,” Elaine says, sensing my tension. “I’ll throw in these, too. I actually had my eye on them for you anyway.”

I follow her eyes toward a dusty box of Encyclopedia Britannica.

“I know how much your grandmother loved to use them as a teacher.”

I forget Grand Rapids is all Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Everybody knows someone who knows someone in your family, went to school with someone in your family, or—in my case—had my grandma as an English teacher.

“Thank you.” My voice is soft. I pull out my cell and Venmo Elaine my payment. She motions for a mover to help carry my finds to my SUV. I lower the back seats, and soon the car is filled with boxes.

I start to lower the trunk, but stop, curiosity killing the cat. I begin to peek in bins and boxes. I glance at a green bin with a Magic Marker “NC” on its side.

“North Carolina?” I mumble. “Low Country deco? Maybe a gator in a Santa hat?”

I’m able to lift the top of the tub just enough to peek inside.

A nutcracker soldier stares back at me.

chapter 2

THE NUTCRACKER KING

I am alone in the loft of my condo overlooking the Grand River. Flurries fall, illuminated in the holiday lights along the riverfront, and I feel as if I have been catapulted back in time.

My estate sale boxes of holiday decorations are stacked in the loft, an open area above my living space that I use as my office. The lid remains shut on the nutcracker soldier. There are more in there. I have tried diligently over the years of junking to avoid buying nutcrackers, even going so far as to sell them before I’ve even left an estate sale. They’re too painful to even look at.

The box is heavy.

As is my heart.

I’ve felt alone since the day my grandmother died. It was the day I learned that something you love more than anything can disappear in the blink of an eye and that memories can be just tossed aside as easily as junk.

Junk.

Such an odd word. I once looked it up to trace its origin, discovering that it likely started as a nautical term centuries ago. If I remember correctly, I think it meant “old cable or rope,” which was extended from a ship to gather old refuse or any discarded items.

Old rope.

From the present to the past.

I take a deep breath and begin to create listings for my website.

Victorian Holiday Decorations!

New Finds from a Special Time!

Have a “Dickens” of a Christmas This Year!

Miniature Village

Tiny homes representing a Victorian neighborhood (eight total)

Only $199.99!

Delicate Glass Ornaments

Victorian Fruit-Shaped Works of Art (four total)

Only $99.99!

Embellishments

Lace and ribbon images of angels, fairies, birds and stars (20+ total/all sold together)

Only $149.99!

Sheet Music Ornaments

Crafted from Victorian sheet music and patterned paper

(10 total/all sold together)

Only $99.00!

I begin to upload the photos I’ve taken of the items. I have spent a few days making them look as if they truly are vintage Victorian. They are not. The houses from the miniature village are warped, molded and featured tags from Venture, a discount department store no longer in business. The embellishments were purchased from Michael’s, and the sheet music ornaments were obviously made by children with little hand-eye coordination.

But I’ve perched them under Christmas trees and on pine branches along the river, and even made videos with holiday music.

Most buyers won’t even notice the difference. Some will. They will make my life miserable for a few days when they ask for their money back. But most will not, or they’ll realize it’s not worth the fight. It’s too much hassle to argue with an invisible presence. And those who are enraged and go online to warn others with a one-star rating and toxic review will simply be obliterated by the hundreds of fake accounts I have created that ensure my rating always stays a solid 4-plus.

But Elaine was also right. There were some lovely finds among the holiday bins that I purchased. I plan to post those right before Christmas, when people are desperate for gifts or holiday decorations for a party, or just feel lonely—and I can ask the moon for them.

I skew my eyes away from my laptop and toward the bin of nutcrackers.

And yet I know that if the majority of the decorations I purchased were less than “vintage,” the nutcrackers must be, too.

I take another deep breath to steel myself for the next lie.

Heirloom Nutcracker Soldier from Germany

I collected nutcrackers as a child but must part with them due to a move...looking for a good home for my memories and protectors...

LOTS more nutcrackers available soon!

Only $650.00!

The price, I know, is only a touch inflated were my find to be a true vintage nutcracker soldier in good shape. Pristine-condition nutcrackers can fetch nearly four figures.

I take a sip of my hearty Cab, and then another. It is my second glass, and the wine—which packs more punch than a carnival strongman—is already getting to me. I glance at the box again, and I swear I can see it shake, the nutcrackers trying to break free.

I stand and pull my fleece robe even tighter around my body. I walk over to the box, kneel on the carpet and lift the lid.

A wooden soldier nutcracker with a rifle stares at me. I reach in and pull him free.

My heart skips a beat. He is exquisite. He looks just like the ones I had as a girl.

The nutcracker is roughly a foot tall, the rifle as big as his body, and he is perched atop a little stand in black-and-white boots. He is hand-painted in bold traditional colors. He wears a top hat with a shiny emblem, a blue coat with red cuffs and white pants. The soldier has sky blue eyes and a puff of white hair flowing from the top hat that matches his long beard. A painted white mustache sits atop eight perfect teeth—four on the top and four on the bottom—disguising the spot where the mouth opens.

I know a fake when I see one. This looks incredibly real.

Are my eyes, the wine and all the guilt and memories playing tricks on me? This couldn’t be a vintage Erzgebirge nutcracker, could it?

I spin the nutcracker in my hands.

On the bottom is the original sticker: Original Erzgebirge hergestellt in der DDR.

My mind reels, and I take a seat on the floor. I stare at the soldier and then at the box. All of his fellow wooden countrymen are stacked upon one another. I can’t help but feel sorry for the way they’re carelessly packed.

I pick up another soldier, this one in bright red and white atop a green base, holding a saber. Beneath him is a king holding a scroll. Tumbled to his side is a horseman, much like one I had: a nutcracker riding a rocking horse.

Without thinking, I stand the nutcrackers in a semicircle around my body.

Immediately after my grandmother died, I did the same on the shag carpet in front of my bed. The horseman was set to ride off, the soldiers were lined up before their king, the entire wooden army facing my door, ready to protect me from the evils of the world.

But it was too late: my grandmother was already gone.

My protectors soon followed.

My walls collapsed.

My childhood kingdom faded.

I hear a ding from my laptop.

Someone already wants you.

I actually didn’t lie.

I shut my eyes. I can hear my grandma say, “This nutcracker will always protect you, even after I’m gone.”

All of a sudden, I stuff a king into one pocket of my robe and the horseman into the other. I throw open the sliding door to my tiny balcony overlooking the river, and the north wind smacks me hard in the face. But it doesn’t sober or stop me. I step outside. I dangle the nutcracker soldier, upside down, feet heavenward, over the balcony.

“I hope you can fly,” I say.

I can’t let go of the past.

I can’t let go of my sadness.

I can’t let go of my anger.

But I can let go of this nutcracker, just like I did so long ago.

The cold numbs my fingers, and I begin to unclench my hand.

My grip loosens, and I am about to let go when I see the soldier’s rifle flutter.

My eyes, tearing up in the wind, blurred from the cold and wine, are deceiving me, and I shake my head to clear it.

And that’s when I see it: what looks like a scrap of paper, wrapped around the rifle, fluttering in the wind.

I tighten my hand around the nutcracker at the last second and head back inside. I wipe my eyes, take a seat at my desk and train my lamp on the nutcracker’s arm.

It is a piece of paper, bound around the rifle and sealed, barely, with a piece of yellowed transparent tape. I stand, head down to my bathroom and grab a pair of tweezers. When I return, I begin to unhinge the tape with the tweezers, slowly and carefully, one millimeter at a time so as not to tear the old paper. Suddenly, the tape gives, and the paper comes to life, springing forth as if it has filled its lungs with oxygen after years of being suffocated.

I take the paper and unfold it. It looks as if it came from a small notepad, like the kind my grandma used to keep by her rotary phone to jot down a number. There is slanted handwriting, pretty cursive in ink now faded to the color of a bruise. The words are tiny, and I squint. I put on my readers and hold the paper to my eyes by the lamp. The number one, in a circle, sits in the upper left hand of the page.

Dear Gabriel:

I doubt you will ever know me. Probably only as the great-grandma who died in her relic of a home surrounded by the things she loved. My mind is fading. I am old. You are a baby. I can only hope you will remember me. Remember family. Remember the history that made us who we are.

These nutcrackers are part of our history.

Our ancestors were born in the Erzgebirge region of East Germany. Mining was the way of life. When the ore was depleted, the Wagners had to seek a new way to feed their families. So, our people went into woodcarving. Our homeland became famous for our Christmas traditions, namely, the nutcracker.

The letter abruptly ends.

“No!” I say out loud.

I grab the king from my robe pocket. There is no paper. I take the horseman from my other pocket.

“Yes!”

A worn piece of paper is halved and tucked under the tiny black leather strap that serves as the horse’s rein. I move the nutcracker’s hand holding the rein just enough to get the tweezers in to grab the paper. I open it, my heart racing. There is a number three in a circle at the top left of the paper.

“No!” I say. “Where’s two?”

I race to the nutcrackers I placed in a semicircle on the floor and begin grabbing one after another, searching their wooden bodies and accoutrements for any sign of paper.

Nothing.

I sit back and rock, just like the little horse sitting on my desk still is after my sudden departure. Returning to my desk, I pick up my wine, take a healthy sip and then grab the remaining letter number three.

“I might be missing a puzzle piece, but I still have you.”

I know my random scroll of memories, or these nutcrackers, may never reach you...

I stop.

Scroll!

I grab the nutcracker king and gently pop off the top of the scroll he is holding.

“You are a crafty woman,” I say to the king.

Inside is a piece of paper, rolled just like a scroll. I extract it with my tweezers and unroll it. It is a much bigger piece of paper, a slightly longer letter. A number two sits at the top.

Today, the nutcracker is probably the most famous legacy of Erzgebirge (besides you, my angel!). Its figures of kings, soldiers and gendarmes represented society of the time. According to German legend, nutcrackers are considered a symbol of good luck and bring protection to a family and its home. And, according to folklore, a puppet-maker created a doll with a mouth for a lever to crack nuts and won a nut-cracking contest.

These nutcrackers not only saved the place where our family started, but they saved me, too. When I was little, they were my protectors, my friends. When I grew up, I would set them on my mantel during the holidays. I not only felt protected and safe, I felt like I was home. I felt like my family surrounded me.

I knew Christmas was finally here.

If you receive these, my legacy will be fulfilled. I doubt you will, though. Maybe I’m just using this as a way to write my final memories, or play a game with my family to see if I really mattered. I will never know. Only you will. I doubt it. My kids were never one for embracing tradition. They want new. History could be thrown out like the bathwater.

Letter two ends, and I grab the third, starting where I’d left off:

I know my random scroll of memories, or these nutcrackers, may never reach you, and I know if you do receive my collection, you’ll wonder what this has to do with you. But one day you will be my age, and you will reflect on your life. Will those around you even see you as human any longer, or just “old”? How we view people—and things—that have aged and survived defines us as souls and societies. Do they mean something? Or do we just toss them aside?

I can feel my heart rise into my throat.

I hope these end up in your hands. You continue our lineage. But that doesn’t mean our family history survives. It requires effort. You have your whole life ahead. May these nutcrackers fill you with memories and bring you good luck. I love you, my angel Gabriel. And I will be with you forever through these nutcrackers, even if I’m not there. Merry Christmas. Gigi (Great Grandma Ingrid)

I pick up the rocking horse and hold it close to me.

And then I bow my head and weep.

chapter 3

THE NUTCRACKER HORSEMAN

I wake up on the sofa in my loft. A line of nutcrackers sits before me, a line of protection.

There is a creak. The nutcracker horseman rocks gently in the heat blowing from the vent. The horseman sports a black mustache and regal hat, a bright blue jacket with gold embellishment, and an expression that looks deeply serious—as if he’s about to deliver a note of grave importance to the king—but is lightened by delightfully rosy cheeks. The horse’s mane is soft and gray as if it’s been dusted in snow, but its rocking horse body is painted in bright, celebratory colors and whimsical design, almost as if it’s a carousel come to life.

Questions circle in my head, as the horse rocks.

What is it about the face of a toy that makes you feel so safe and loved? Why can we remember a finite memory from decades ago and yet forget to put gas in our cars?

Is it the memory itself, or is it our desire to go back in time before we had been scarred by life? Is it the toy, or instinctual need to feel safe and loved again?

Do we rid ourselves of our heirlooms in order to declutter our lives, or do we rid ourselves of these memories to defend ourselves from more pain?

I stare at the nutcracker.

My second year in ballet, our class was invited to participate in a regional production of The Nutcracker. I was so excited that when my grandma came to pick me up from class, I sprinted to her with such velocity that I knocked her onto the ground.

“Part tomboy, part ballerina,” she laughed, as two parents helped her up. “Let’s focus on the ballerina part.”

The youngest girls were picked to be dancing lambs, and my class was selected to be dancing flowers. We attended only the rehearsals that included us, and I couldn’t sleep for weeks leading up to opening night. The night before my performance, my parents informed me they had to work.

“Work always takes priority over play,” my father told me.

“I’m not playing,” I said.

“It’s all pretend,” he remarked.

The disappointment nearly spoiled my performance.

“Drown out all the noise,” my grandma told me before the show began. “The Nutcracker may be ‘pretend,’ but it makes us feel better. And there’s much too little of that in the world.”

I will never forget my first real show. My “stems” were shaking so hard, I didn’t even know if I could spin. The lights were blinding, but somehow I still managed to locate my grandma’s face in the crowd, beaming brighter than the spotlights. I couldn’t help myself: I waved, and my grandma threw a gloved hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

I stood in the wings and watched the rest of the ballet, mesmerized. I was stunned when a real horse trotted out on stage.

“A horse!” I blurted, earning me a chorus of “Shhs” from the crew.

You can only imagine my reaction when the horse began to dance around to the music, as if it were a premier danseur. I didn’t realize until the horse pranced offstage that it was actually two men in a very realistic costume.

By the end of my first performance of The Nutcracker I more fully understood the passion, the beauty, the music, the talent and the commitment.

Moreover, I understood the meaning and tradition of Christmas. It was meant to be magical. It was meant to remind us to slow down and appreciate the wonder and meaning of the season. It was meant to be spent with family.

I stare at the nutcracker horseman, still rocking.

You can rid yourself of everything in life but memories.

I am seated by the window at one of my favorite coffee shops in downtown Grand Rapids. I come here nearly every day for the coffee. I live for their holiday latte, which has a touch of eggnog and gingerbread. It is Christmas in a mug, without being cloyingly sweet.

But, mostly, I come here for the memories. The less painful ones, anyway.

They roast their own beans, and the entire place—even from a mile away—smells like coffee. They also bake their own goodies: glorious streusel-topped blueberry and caramel apple muffins, scones, breads and cookies.

The shop, located in a tight, two-story building that used to be a home, smells exactly like my grandparents’ house did during the holidays: sugar, and spice and everything nice.

My laptop dings. My heart pings.

Nice.

I know the exact moment I stopped being nice. But why did I allow the pain to take root, then consciously water the tendrils and let them take over my soul?

A car honks, and I look up.

My seat faces an intersection, one that looks akin to a very complicated Venn diagram, streets zigzagging in four nonsensical directions from the center point in front of me. There is an accident here nearly every day.

When I look out, especially on a winter’s day like this, I can still picture the time when horse-drawn carriages trotted up and down the streets, locals dressed to the nines on their way to grand holiday parties on Heritage Hill.

My mind whirs to the nutcrackers. I took pictures of them around town before I came here. I placed the king in front of the grand steps leading to the city’s public library. Snow was gently falling, and the photo looks as if it had been taken two hundred years ago in some faraway land. The rocking horse I placed in front of the hobby farm at the local zoo, goat and sheep in the background. At the last minute, I found an acorn, and I placed it in the horseman’s mouth, careful not to scrape his painted face. I want to show how incredibly constructed these works of art truly are and how well they’ve been maintained. I uploaded the images when I settled in at the coffee shop.

“Ma’am?”

I look up. A girl in an apron stands before me. She looks twelve. She is all dewy skin, sparkly eyes and no wrinkles.

I am a “ma’am” now. When did that happen? But I already know: it happened a long time ago, when I lost all hope. I am a “ma’am” to the younger generation: a nondescript woman of a certain age. I glance at my reflection in the window. I’ve let my hair go gray, and it’s not that stunning silver so many women are blessed to have, but instead the dingy color of an old car bumper. My readers are as red as my too-round cheeks, I am not wearing makeup and I am sporting a nubby sweater that is incredibly comfortable but not what anybody might ever describe as attractive.

“Ma’am?”

I look up again. “Sorry.”

“Would you like to try one of our Christmas cookies?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” I say.

“They’re free. A thank-you to our customers.”

I finally look at the tray she is holding. It is filled with beautiful sugar cookies in shapes of bells, angels and trees, inch-thick frosting coating each one. They look like delicious works of art.

The room spins for a moment. I can picture my grandmother in her apron, hand atop mine, helping me press shapes into dough with her heirloom Christmas cookie cutters. Then we’d ice them a mile high and make the bells sparkle with sprinkles. I would always sneak a few cookies to my nutcrackers, too, as pretend sustenance.

“I’d better not,” I say.

“Okay,” she says. “Have a great day.”

The girl turns, and then at the last second swivels toward me again.

“Why not?” she asks. “It’s almost Christmas. Maybe this is just the thing that puts you in the holiday spirit and makes this day better than any other.” She looks at me. “I’ve already had three.”

Her name tag reads “Olivia,” and she’s drawn a happy face in the O and put little hearts over the i’s.

How nice must it be to be this unscarred by life. To believe that life can be so simple: you eat a Christmas cookie and a sweet day comes to life. How nice to try to make a friend with a small gesture. To be brave enough to reach out in the first place.

Olivia decides for me, placing a Santa—beard thick with frosting—on a napkin beside my mug and laptop.

“My grandma says nothing can stop the holiday spirit. But that sometimes holiday spirit is like a dance, and somebody’s gotta take the lead.”

She walks away, and my laptop pings.

I have a full-price offer from a buyer for all three nutcrackers: The soldier, king and horseman. —nc59

I open the calculator on my laptop and add up my bounty.

And I have A LOT more! I type.

I want them ALL! nc59 types back.

It is going to be a great Christmas after all, I think.

I grab the cookie and take a celebratory bite. I shut my eyes.

It tastes like...home.

I open my eyes and type, DEAL!

I hover my finger over the return key, ready to accept the offer, when a little girl in a winter coat walks inside. She is wearing tights and ballet slippers.

Her mom follows, yelling, “Your shoes! Your shoes!”

The girl struts to the counter and opens her coat, revealing a glittery pink tutu. “One hot chocolate and one cookie that looks like Santa!” she says with all the confidence of an adult.

The room whirls again.

I see the cookie in front of me. I stare at the nutcracker on my screen. I see my reflection in the window.

And then I see what I must do as clearly as the little girl pirouetting with her cookie.

But can I do it?

I shut my laptop, wrap my cookie in a napkin and shove it in my coat pocket, rushing out of the coffeehouse.

chapter 4

THE NUTCRACKER DROSSELMEYER

Growing up, one of my favorite holiday activities was watching old Christmas cartoons with my grandma: A Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town.

But my favorite of all time might have been Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I loved the way the stop-motion movie looked. It was magical, almost as if I were dreaming, and my entire life was a cartoon. Sometimes, I would fall asleep, and when I’d wake up, I’d be curled next to my grandma, a quilt over my body. If I’d wake up with a start, she would caress my hair and say, “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m right here. Everything’s okay.”

My grandma made me—this part tomboy, part dancer girl—feel special. My grandma made me feel loved.

That’s really why I loved Rudolph so much: I often felt like I belonged on the Island of Misfit Toys. I felt cast away and unwanted by my own strict parents.

I felt for the Charlie-in-the-Box who wasn’t Jack, the spotted elephant, the train with square wheels, the bird that swam, the boat that couldn’t stay afloat, the cowboy who rode an ostrich and, especially, the two tin soldiers who wanted to be made of wood.

All we want as children is to feel safe and loved. Feeling like a misfit can arise for a host of reasons, none of which are in our control. Maybe we are born with red hair and freckles, maybe we have brown eyes instead of blue, maybe we like to climb trees and dance, or maybe we just want our mother and father to tell us they love us more than anything in the world, that we’re the center of their universe and they will protect us no matter what.

Too often, feeling like a misfit leaves a scar that never heals.

You grow up feeling like a water pistol that squirts jelly.

I stare at the nutcrackers.

Or a tin soldier that wants to be made of wood.

I have come home with a mission. I have come home to test my misfit-ness.

I am curled up on the couch, just as I used to do with my grandma. I have a cup of hot chocolate, stacked with a mountain of marshmallows. On my TV, ready to play, is the classic 1977 version of The Nutcracker with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gelsey Kirkland.

Will I be moved by the ballet as I was a child? Or is my Christmas spirit already as dead as Jacob Marley?

I hit Play.

At first, I watch, distanced. Slowly, my fingers begin to dance on my mug, and then my feet twirl. I realize after a while that I am sitting up, spine straight, mesmerized.

I watch Baryshnikov and Kirkland dance as one, and I can hear the young barista’s voice echo in my head: “My grandma says nothing can stop the holiday spirit. But that sometimes holiday spirit is like a dance, and somebody’s gotta take the lead.”

When The Nutcracker is over, I realize I’ve had the story wrong my entire life. It’s not about Clara, first love or even the eternal fantasy of Christmas come to full life. No, this is Drosselmeyer’s story, the “sort of Santa” who makes everything happen. Drosselmeyer is the uncle of the nutcracker prince, who is then transformed into a wooden doll by the Mouse King. Every moment on stage is Drosselmeyer’s attempt to break the spell of long ago and bring his nephew back to life.

I stand up suddenly.

“I am Drosselmeyer!”

My dramatic exclamation in the quiet of my condo stuns me and then emboldens me.

“Only I can break the spell! If not, I will continue on, as wooden as I’ve always been.”

My laptop dings.

Do we have a deal? And how much for the other nutcrackers? I want them ALL! Please let me know ASAP! —nc59

Yet again, I do not respond.

Instead, I google Ingrid Wagner obituary.

Her death notice pops up. But, really, it’s the story of her life, all our lives: A family that immigrated to America for a better life. A woman who worked and sacrificed her whole life for her family. A woman who gave back to the community. A woman who loved heirlooms.

A life summed up in 250 words.

I find what I’m looking for at the end.

She is survived by a grandson, Stephen Wagner of Grand Rapids, his wife, Beth, and a great-grandson, Gabriel.

“Bingo,” I say.

I grab my cell and call Elaine.

“Merry Christmas,” she says when she answers. “How are your online holiday sales going?”

“I need a favor,” I say. “I need a phone number and an address.”

“You know I can’t do that, MacGyver,” she says.

I explain, for the first time, my story, my life, my love and my loss.

Elaine is silent for the longest time. For a moment, I think she’s hung up the phone.

“Do you have a pen?” she finally says.

I am sitting outside a stranger’s home. In the mirror, I can see the faces of the nutcrackers staring at me as if I’m about to drop my kids off at a friend’s home for a sleepover. They look excited, but a touch afraid.

“I feel you,” I say.

I take a deep breath, step out of my car, grab the box and head to the front door.

It is a lovely home in Ada, a gorgeous suburb outside the city filled with large homes on expansive lawns. I stop before I ring the bell. It is so quiet out here that I can hear the whisper of the light snow as it falls.

“You must be Debbie?”

There is a whoosh of warm air when the door opens. The woman before me is as rosy-cheeked as the nutcrackers.

“Just put everything in the oven for dinner,” she says. A man appears behind her. “Well, I can’t take credit for it. Steve cooked tonight. We take turns, now that we both work from home.”

They are both wearing jeans, black sweaters and wooly socks.

A Gap ad come to life, I think.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Beth,” she continues, extending her hand.

“Steve,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you. Come in. Please.”

I stop on the entry rug. The home is beautiful, a new-construction farmhouse meant to look old but eye-poppingly perfect: gleaming dark wood floors lead to an open-concept living room with a towering stone fireplace and a mammoth kitchen with two counters, white shiplap contrasted against black window frames.

“Should I take off my shoes?”

“No,” Beth says with a laugh. “We have a three-year-old. We wear socks to wipe up the messes as we go.”

I smile.

“But you already know that,” she continues. “Come, have a seat.”

She takes my coat, and I follow them into the living room. Steve gestures to the couch, where the most adorable boy is seated, eyes transfixed on a holiday cartoon on the television. I know it instantly when I hear the deep voice of Burl Ives.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

“Say hello to Mrs. Hutchins, Gabriel,” Beth says.

His eyes skew in my direction. I can tell he doesn’t like the intrusion.

“Hi,” he says with a tiny wave.

But then Gabriel sees I am holding a box. When I set it on the coffee table and take a seat, he leans forward and glances inside.

“Toys!” he yells. “For me?”

“Gabriel,” Steve says in his best dad voice. “Mrs. Hutchins is here for a very special reason. I’m going to turn off the TV for a bit so we can talk.”

“No!” he says.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Rudolph is my favorite!”

Gabriel skews his eyes at me again. “Why?”

“Well, Rudolph saves the day for Santa. And I love all the misfit toys.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re all special like Rudolph.” I nod at the box. “Like these nutcrackers.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Beth asks.

I look at Gabriel. He’s drinking hot chocolate topped with marshmallows.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” I say.

Beth laughs. “When Harry Met Sally. Loved that movie. One cocoa coming up.”

When we are all seated, we chat for a few minutes and watch the last few minutes of Rudolph. Then Steve turns off the TV.

“I can’t tell you how surprised I was to receive your call,” Steve finally starts. “I’d actually forgotten my grandmother had all these nutcrackers.” He stares at the box. There is a long pause, before he looks up at me and says, “I had no say in the estate sale. I just want you to know that. I just...”

He stops. Beth leans over in the chair next to his and rubs his leg. “He has a lot of guilt over the way things went down.”

“My parents just wanted everything gone,” he says. “My grandmother was sick for a very long time. I think they just couldn’t deal with the memories any longer, but it didn’t sit well with me.”

All of a sudden, everything around me—the fire, the candles, the lamps—seems to take on a new light. His words make me recalibrate my entire life.

Is that why my parents got rid of everything, because they couldn’t deal with the painful memories?

Is that why I did, too?

“I come from a similar family,” I finally say.

Steve reaches over and plucks the rocking horse nutcracker from the box. He holds it up and stares at it. Then, like a kid, he makes a whinnying sound, before placing the nutcracker on his lap and rocking it to and fro.

“Daddy,” Gabriel giggles.

“I used to play with these all the time at Christmas when I was a kid,” he says to his son. “Here.”

He hands me the rocking horse, and I give it to Gabriel. He mimics his father’s whinny and then rocks it back and forth on the couch. “Ride, horsey, ride.”

Steve looks into the fire and then at me.

“My grandma used to tell me so many stories about the history of our family—and these nutcrackers—when I was a boy. She said these nutcrackers represented power and strength, and that they were like a watchdog guarding our family from evil and danger. That’s why they bared their teeth. They were symbols and protectors of goodwill. What was the quote she used to say about nutcrackers? Something along the lines of, ‘Don’t be afraid, though my look is grim. I won’t bite. My heart is filled with happiness.’”

He looks at his son rocking the horse.

“She told me that nutcrackers embodied the cycle of life. When a nut falls, it grows into a strong tree that lives for many years in order to nourish not only the land but also the legacy of our ancestral woodcrafters. In the spring, she would take me out to sit under the grand, old trees in her yard and make me listen to the rustle of the wind through their leaves. ‘It’s your history whispering,’ she would say.”

Steve is silent for the longest time. When I look at him, his chin is quivering.

“I loved that woman. I miss her so much.”

“Are you okay, Daddy?” Gabriel asks.

Steve gathers himself. “I am, buddy. I’m good.” He looks at me. “I’m sorry. It’s the holidays, and I’m a little more emotional than usual this year. You said you had notes from her? May I see them?”

“Of course. I’m so sorry. That’s why I’m here.”

I reach into the box and retrieve a storage bag, where I’ve placed the notes, and hand it to Steve. He reads the notes, handing each one to his wife after he has finished. When he’s done, he lifts his head and shuts his eyes, mouthing what seems like a silent prayer to himself.

Steve stands, picks up the box of nutcrackers and sits on the floor in front of the fireplace. “C’mere, buddy.”

Gabriel toddles off the sofa and tumbles into his father’s arms.

“These are from Gigi, your great-grandmother.”

“Gigi?” Gabriel asks. He lifts his shoulders very dramatically, not understanding.

“She was my grandma, just like Grandma Sue and Grandma Loraine are to you. I used to play with these nutcrackers at Christmas when I was a boy your age. Gigi wanted you to have these.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because she loved you, even though she hardly knew you.”

“Why?”

“Because she was a part of you, and you were a part of her. These nutcrackers are part of our family. They represent tradition. They represent home. They represent Christmas.” He stops. “They represent love. A love that never ends.”

Steve looks at me from the floor.

“And this amazing woman knew that. She found these and found us because she knew Gigi wanted us to have them, so love and memories would always fill our home.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel says.

“You’re welcome,” I say. “I used to have nutcrackers when I was a little girl. My grandma gave them to me.”

“What happened to them?” Beth asks.

“I...” I hesitate. “I lost them. But I know these little guys were meant to come here. They were meant to come home again.”

A buzzer goes off in the kitchen.

“Well,” I say, “I best let you have dinner. I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, and I’m so grateful you allowed me to reach out to you and return these.”

Steve and Beth stand, and they walk me to the door. I put on my coat. “Thank you again,” I say.

“No,” Steve says. “Thank you.”

He opens his arms and hugs me tightly. Beth opens the door for me, and I’m about to step into the snow when I hear, “Wait!”

I turn.

Gabriel comes toddling toward me, all adorably off-kilter, holding something behind his back.

“You lost your...” He stops and looks at his dad.

“Nutcrackers,” Steve says.

“Yeah! And you found ours. So you need one, too.”

From behind his back, he produces the rocking horse. “It’s...”

This time he looks at his mom. She reads his mind.

“Special,” Beth says.

“Yeah! Like you.”

The pure innocence of this child’s gesture catches me completely off guard, and I am suddenly reduced to tears. I stand in these strangers’ home shedding decades of guilt, sadness, loss and regret. I cry even harder when the entire family embraces me as one.

“Thank you,” I say. “You will never know how much this has meant to me.”

“We can say the exact same thing,” Steve says.

On my drive home, the nutcracker horseman rocks back and forth, and back and forth, sitting on my dashboard. With the snow falling on the windshield, the nutcracker looks as if he’s riding wildly through a winter storm trying desperately to make it home for Christmas.

epilogue

THE NUTCRACKER BALLET
DECEMBER 2023

The snow dances as the Rat Pack sings. Alexa is playing my grandparents’ favorite holiday music: Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. I smile at my reflection in the mirror and then give myself a little wave.

“I’ve missed you,” I say.

I barely recognize myself, inside and out.

On the outside, I’ve certainly undergone a transformation: I am walking—and even jogging—again, along the riverfront, through Heritage Hill, even downtown. My hair has gone from gray to silver. I wanted to own my age, but I also wanted to be—as Olivia at the coffeehouse recently called me—a “silver fox.”

I am wearing makeup again. Not a lot, but enough to bring out my best features and also make me feel as if I’m not only celebrating the season but most importantly me.

I move to my little closet and scan the racks.

I am about to grab something warm and comfortable—another cute but nubby and well-worn holiday sweater—but instead pick out an all-black outfit: a tailored blouse and jacket, tapered pants and a pair of new, very high, black leather boots. I dress, tucking and lint-brushing as I go, and reach for my winter coat when “A Marshmallow World” by Frank and Dean begins to play. I smile and sing along.

I reach into the back of my closet and yank a garment bag loose, rattling hangers as I pull it free. I take it to my bed and unzip the bag.

My grandmother’s Christmas cape—as red as Rudolph’s nose—looks at me. This is the cape she wore when she took me to see The Nutcracker.

“Perfect,” I say.

I toss it around my shoulders with all the drama of a flamenco dancer and then pin it with a beautiful holiday brooch in the shape of a Christmas tree.

I head to the kitchen and grab my car keys when my laptop pings with a message.

Are you still open?

My online store, The Sugarplum Fairy Shoppe, has a flashing banner that reads:

Temporarily Closed!

Opening again soon under new management.

I chuckle at my inside joke.

I am the “new” management, of course, except this time I will do it right, offering true heirlooms at a fair price. And I will have a partner, just like Frank had with Dean.

Earlier this year, I went into business with Elaine. She actually reached out to me—fittingly—last Valentine’s Day, and we met for coffee.

“You’ve always had such a great eye, and I’ve always known you had a great heart, too,” she said, looking out at the drifts piled along the sidewalk. “It was just buried.”

Elaine then pulled out her laptop along with a business plan. My name was listed at the top. Her idea: we merge our businesses. Her estate sale company was growing and needed additional power and funding.

“I’m losing a large percentage of every sale,” Elaine explained. “The clients take a huge chunk, then I invite my favorite customers who buy the rest of the quality items at a good price, before the lookie-loos come to nickel-and-dime me. I thought, ‘What if I were to take the best items from the estates and sell them online, where most people are shopping these days?’ You’ve done such a great job at this, Debbie... It just hasn’t always been the most, shall we say, ethical? What if we teamed up for an exclusive shop that listed heirlooms of only the highest quality? Furniture, holiday decorations, clothing, home goods? We could be unstoppable.”

I am now very cash poor, but—for the first time in decades—emotionally rich.

Check back soon! I write. Prepare to have your mind blown!

I jump into my car and point it toward Ada.

“You’re late,” Beth says when she opens the door. “But I can see why. You look amazing.”

I spin. Twice.

We hug, and I hear a squeal. Gabriel races toward me. I pick him up and twirl again. He giggles.

“You look very dapper,” I say, touching his adorable little bow tie.

He looks at me curiously.

“Dapper means handsome,” I say.

He looks at me again.

“I missed you!” I say.

“Me, too. C’mon!”

I look at Beth, and she shrugs. Gabriel grabs my hand, and I follow him into the living room, past all the guests the Wagners have invited to their holiday open house, waving at Steve as I go.

“Sit!” Gabriel tells me. “On the floor!”

I do as instructed.

“Shut your eyes!”

I hear rustling. “Okay! You can open them now.”

A gift, wrapped only as it could be by a child, sits on my lap. The wrapping paper is already coming off, and a bow has been slapped onto the top. It couldn’t be cuter.

I open it, and my face breaks into a huge smile.

“I got to make a Christmas present for someone in my family at school,” he says excitedly. “So I made this for you!”

It’s a drawing of a nutcracker, done in crayon, with lots of glitter and glue. Gabriel has glued nuts and acorns in the shape of a heart around the nutcracker.

Something about this simple gift and the words Gabriel has used—especially family—makes tears spring to my eyes.

“Are you sad?”

“No, I’m happy.”

I hug him. When I look up, Beth and Steve are standing with their hands on their hearts.

“I will treasure this forever,” I say.

For the last year, I’ve seen Gabriel and the Wagners every month or so. They’ve invited me to dinner, and I attended Gabriel’s preschool class’s fall concert. We’ve gone to the zoo. We’ve, of course, gone junkin’ for nutcrackers. I feel like I have a family again.

“You changed us,” Steve told me last spring. “You made us remember who we are as a family and what matters most.”

“No, you changed me,” I told him. “Forever.”

I stand, and Steve offers me a drink. I check my watch.

“I’d love to, but I have to go,” I say.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Beth asks.

“I have a ticket to The Nutcracker.”

“Well, if that’s an excuse to get out of here, it’s the best one I’ve ever heard,” Steve says.

I laugh and give them all big hugs. “Merry Christmas!” I call on my way out the door.

I listen to the ballet’s music as I drive to the theater. My heart pounds with excitement as the lights flash and the crowd is seated. And then my seat begins to shake. I turn, and a little girl is kicking the back of my chair with her foot.

“I don’t want to be here!” she says.

The little girl is fidgeting with the bow on her head.

“I’m so sorry,” the mother mouths to me.

“It’s okay,” I say.

Because I’ve been there. Because I know.

“Did you know nutcrackers bring good luck?” I ask the little girl.

She gives me a look and crosses her arms with complete indignation.

“And that if you believe in the magic of Christmas, then all of your dreams will come true?”

She drops her arms. “Really?” she asks.

“Really,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Molly.”

“What a beautiful name.” The lights dim. “Oh, it’s about to start. Enjoy!”

The mother looks at me, and her face eases. “Thank you.”

An usher standing guard in the aisle mouths the mother’s words to me, too.

The lights go down and the ballet begins. After a few numbers, I turn as quietly as I can in my chair. The little girl’s mouth is wide open. She is still. Her hand flutters like a butterfly to the music.

The magic of Christmas has come to life in front of her very eyes.

I turn back.

Mine, too.

Also by Viola Shipman

THE EDGE OF SUMMER

THE SECRET OF SNOW

THE CLOVER GIRLS

THE HEIRLOOM GARDEN

THE SUMMER COTTAGE

For a complete list of books by Viola Shipman, visit his website, www.violashipman.com.

ISBN-13: 9780369734662

A Sugarplum Christmas

Copyright © 2022 by Viola Shipman

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