Christmas Jars Page 4

  “Our business, our family business.”

  “Of course.” Hope’s palms were already sweating. “Yes, I am. But have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “Certainly not,” he answered. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a love seat across the room.

  “I was telling your wife—”

  “It’s Lauren,” the man’s wife said.

  “But you can call her gorgeous; I do,” he added instantly, as if part of a polished routine. “And I’m Adam.”

  Lauren breathed a melodramatic what-am-I-going-to-do-with-him sigh. She sat in a chair at her husband’s side. Hope sensed the chair knew her well.

  “It’s great to meet you both. I’m Hope. And thanks again for allowing me a few minutes.”

  “So what kind of college class has a doll like yourself out after dark?” Hope had met only a few people in her life she thought could pull off the risky trick of calling a strange woman “doll.” Adam was one of them.

  “I’m on schedule to graduate this spring, fingers crossed, but to get through my senior advanced writing class I need to profile a small or home-based business.” Even as the words left her lips she wondered if her departed mother would approve of the white lie. It was one of the rare occasions Hope prayed Louise was not watching from an invisible perch nearby.

  “We certainly qualify as both,” Adam said. “What kinds of things you looking for?”

  “As you know, sir, your type of business is the heart of America. It’s small businesses that make our economy go. And I’m looking to find out why. What makes them successful? What challenges do they face that, say, Fortune 500s don’t?”

  At some point during her lengthy answer, Adam playfully put his right hand over his heart. “Amen!” The deep wrinkles around his mouth gave away a healthy sense of humor.

  “Be good, Adam, for goodness’ sake.” Hope imagined his wife used that phrase rather often. “We’d be happy to help,” she added. “Sounds like a noble assignment.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Hope tried to hide an enormous exhale.

  A loud noise yanked their eyes from each other and toward a ringing coming from somewhere on the other side of the house.

  “Excuse me.” Lauren rose to answer the phone. As she kissed her husband on the forehead, Hope envisioned for the first time the headline being printed on the massive steel printer in the warehouse that adjoined theDaily Record offices. The papers are folded and stacked on a chain conveyor belt. Her co-workers gather with her at the end of the line, and she lifts from the belt the first fully assembled paper of the day. Her article is running above the fold on A1.

  “Tomorrow.” His voice scratched the silence. Hope could tell he wasn’t used to whispering.

  “Sir?”

  “Come back tomorrow, around lunchtime. Not much I can really show you tonight. Come tomorrow, and I’ll give the grand tour, show you where the magic happens for Restored. We’ll talk shop.” He was chortling before the pun was all the way out of his mouth.

  “Tomorrow, then. Thank you, sir.” She took her feet. “I can show myself out.” Hope reached down for another full handshake, and Adam held on for an extra second, smiling into her. This man has stories to tell, she thought, smiling back.

  She walked to the door, hearing in the distance his wife end her phone call with a loving good-bye. Hope wished she could hide under the rug to hear their discussion after the door shut.

  She stayed up late, writing a legal-size sheet of questions to ask the family she suspected might be at the center of the Christmas Jar tradition. Something in her said the story of Adam and Lauren Maxwell was bigger than a few random acts of kindness. This had either become something tremendous, and the Maxwells knew why, or it was about to, and they were the reason why. For now, Hope’s strategy was to keep her research—and her story—to herself and away from the Daily Record. But her reporter’s intuition insisted that a remarkable story was on the verge of appearing on the front page.

  Eight

  ~

  Hope returned as promised the next afternoon. She bypassed the front door and walked toward the converted garage. The door was open, and the sound of an electric sander buzzed. “Welcome back,” Adam Maxwell yelled and gestured through a cloud of peach sawdust. He plucked the power cord from a suspended plug and pulled caked plastic goggles from his eyes.

  “We meet again,” Hope began.

  “Indeed. Welcome to our humble operation,” Adam teased, and squeezed her arm, reaching by her for a wet rag slung over the back of a tall wooden stool. “Sit.”

  Hope surveyed the workshop while he wiped sawdust from between his fingers. “So this is it? This is where you make all your furniture?” Journalism had taught her to lead with the most obvious questions, slowly engendering trust.

  “Not my furniture,” he answered firmly. “Yourfurniture. We restore and refinish used furniture; we don’t actually make any.”

  “I see, so you—”

  “Actually, I guess we do make a few pieces here and again,” he continued as if not hearing her. “Like that stool you’re on. Made that.”

  “Really?”

  “And that.” He nodded at a credenza against the back wall.

  “Fascinating.”

  “Fascinating? You’re an easy sell.”

  “No, really. I think it’s neat to run your own show, from right here in your house.”

  “It has its advantages,” he replied just as Lauren entered from their home through a side door. “Like that,” he said, tossing the rag toward his wife. “Hey, gorgeous.”

  “You need help with him, sweetheart, you just call,” Lauren said to Hope. “Don’t let him wear you out with stories.”

  “Exactly why I’m here, ma’am.”

  “It’s Lauren, but thank your mother for your manners, would you?”

  “I will.” Hope doubted they would ever know her well enough to learn her mother was gone.

  “I’m off to the store. Easy day today, right, Adam?” Lauren gave him a faux dirty look. It was obviously not the first time.

  “Yes, L, easy day, lots of breaks, no loud music, no junk food.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “Good luck with him, Hope.” She shook her head. “I’ll undo any damage to you later if need be.” She turned and stepped back through the door, shutting it behind her.

  “I thought she’d never leave.” Adam wiped his forehead. Ten minutes there and already Hope saw a kind of love she’d never seen up close. “So what do you need to know to guarantee yourself an A on this thing you’re writing?”

  “I guess everything. Tell me about your family, how this all started, what it takes to make this sort of thing work. I’ve read lots of horror stories about family businesses.”

  “They’re all true.” He laughed.

  “Here? I don’t believe it. It seems so perfect.”

  “You know what they say about the weather ’round here? Same holds true in my workshop. Just stand by for five minutes, it’ll change.”

  “That’s fair. I’ll withhold judgment.”

  “Deal.” Adam rested his hands on his hips. “So this is it. This is our life here.” His long arms reached out and swept the room. “We restore furniture; we make things beautiful again. Been doing it since I was in college, before Lauren and I met. It’s all we know.”

  Adam continued talking—sometimes, it seemed, to himself—and they began their first hour together. He walked her around the crowded shop floor, introducing her to tools, stains, clamps, and more brushes than she’d ever seen in one drawer. Hope found herself more interested than she’d expected to be.

  “That’s pretty neat, working with your wife all these years.”

  “It’s a blessing that I wouldn’t trade for anything . . .” His voice trailed off. Though his voice had the distinct quaver that suggested the presence of tears, Hope saw none.

  “You all right, sir?”

  “The legacy,” he continued, ignoring—or not hearing—the quest
ion, “the legacy of a family business is that every product you sell or service you provide is a piece of you. Our family, the girls included, put our souls into each piece we restore. For the three or four weeks most pieces are in our care, they become ours. It’s a deep trust people put in you. Daycare for furniture, I call it.”

  He’s an open book, Hope thought, of very cheesy lines.She liked him already.

  “You hear that?” Adam asked, cupping his ear.

  “I . . . I don’t know. What?”

  “The lunch whistle. Sandwich time.” Adam walked to the door. “Let’s eat.”

  “No, sir, I couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t eat? Sure you could. Come.”

  Hope followed him into the kitchen and adjoining nook.

  “What can I make ya?”

  “Anything’s fine. Two of whatever you’re making yourself.” Hope watched him pull a Tupperware container of sandwich fixings from a crisper drawer and set up a mini assembly line on the longest counter. Her eyes scanned the room and stopped on the real reason she was about to share lunch with the kind Mr. Adam Maxwell. Sitting partially hidden behind an upright joke-a-day calendar was a glass jar filled with change and a surprising number of bills. Written across its front, presumably in permanent marker, were the letters “CJ.”

  Bingo, she almost said aloud.

  He put finishing touches on their ham-and-swiss hoagies, poured two glasses of grape juice, and said a quick blessing. “A Maxwell special. You’re quite a lucky lady.”

  “I am,” Hope answered honestly. “Yes, I am.”

  After lunch she picked up her plate and glass and followed him into the kitchen. “What’s this?” Hope asked, taking her chance and reaching for the jar. “Petty cash?”

  “Not exactly,” Adam answered, taking the jar from her. “It’s just a jar.”

  “A jar full of spare change. I like it. Like an old-school savings account.”

  “You could say that.” Adam returned the jar to its spot, rotating it until the “CJ” was hidden from view.

  “Sounds like there’s a story hidden in the bottom of that thing,” Hope fished.

  “Doll, there are stories hidden in every jar.” Adam ran warm water over the plates, though it didn’t appear they needed it, and then loaded them into the dishwasher. “Ready to work?”

  “Ready when you are.” The seed of curiosity was planted. Hope would wait.

  The two returned to the garage, and Hope paced him with questions about the business. “When did you start?” “How do you market?” “What other jobs have you had?” For two hours Adam played along and proudly displayed several projects-in-progress. His answers to Hope’s phony questions grew increasingly more interesting.

  Hope stopped checking her watch, and eventually Lauren returned home and put a polite end to their interview. “Come back any time you like,” she said. “If you need more, I assure you this man will gladly tell all.”

  “I’d love to come back.” Hope hid her elation. “We didn’t get much into the business side of things.”

  “Anytime,” Adam offered. “We sure hope you get an A.”

  Hope smiled big. “Been waiting for that all afternoon, haven’t you, sir?”

  “Maybe . . .”

  They said good-bye and scheduled another visit in three days. Hope drove back to the newspaper, jotting notes at stop signs and whistling “Jingle Bells.”

  The two-hour chats were repeated every three or four days for a month. On her third visit, Hope met and befriended the twin daughters, Clara and Julie, and their omnipresent boyfriends. The twins were alumni at the same local college from which Hope had graduated, though they operated under the impression Hope was still in school. No matter; Hope played the part of ragged college student like a pro.

  On her next visit, Hope was introduced to Hannah, the eldest of the three Maxwell children. She was thirty-two and newly married, and she and her husband, Dustin, had their sights set on taking over Restored when Adam and Lauren were ready to cruise around the country in their rebuilt convertible Mustang.

  Hope often expressed awe at the children’s ability to manage marriages and social lives, keep an eye on their parents, and still take a role in the family business. All this, she thought, from a family of five running a highly successful and locally respected business from a dusty garage. This would make a great college report.

  Adam’s love of storytelling helped Hope assemble an impressive dossier on the family. More than once, Hope drove home imagining her front-page story becoming a four- or five-part series, and then a best-selling book. But oddly, Hope became so ensconced in her fascination with the Maxwells that she almost forgot what originally sent her to their door—that is, until an unexpected Sunday brunch.

  Adam and Hope were sitting at a table in the corner of the garage looking at advertisements the family had run in a regional crafter’s magazine.

  “All right, you two.” Lauren’s head appeared around the doorway. “Brunch is on. The kids are here.”

  “Oh, no, you really don’t need to feed me again.”

  “Of course we don’t needto, Hope. We want to.”

  “I—”

  “You’d love to? Outstanding. Bring Mr. Sawdust with you.”

  They washed their hands and sat around a beautifully crafted dining room table. Hope could not remember her last meal with real linens and silverware. Adam offered a short blessing, thanking God for the meal before them, thanking Him for the hands that made it, and thanking Him for the gift of Hope at their table. She could tell he smiled when he said “Hope.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said humbly when he finished.

  They ate crepes with fresh fruit, hash browns, and hot rolls. “These might be the best rolls I’ve ever tasted,” Hope said.

  “Thank you, dear. But the recipe belonged to Adam’s mother; she gets the credit. It wasn’t easy, but I wrestled it from her. Believe it or not, I actually had to practice with her. It took years of Thanksgiving dinner rehearsals before she entrusted me with it.” Lauren finished the story, which led to another by her talented storytelling husband, and one more by each of the children. Hope saw the perfect opportunity to fish.

  “Speaking of stories,” she began, and the chatter around the table came to an abrupt end. “May I ask about the jar? What is the big, secret story of the change jar in the kitchen?”

  For a family of so many words, the inquiry was met with surprising silence.

  “Curious are we?” Adam twirled his fork and stabbed the largest strawberry left. “We could tell you, but then we’d have to—”

  “It’s a family thing,” Lauren interrupted.

  “I apologize. I didn’t know.” Hope wiped her mouth with her cloth napkin, even though there was nothing there, and replaced the napkin on her lap. She looked down and readjusted it, waiting to be rescued.

  “Come on, Dad,” Hannah implored.

  “Yeah, Dad, tell it, tell it.” The twins chanted like playful young children.

  “You think she’s ready?” Adam sat back in his chair and grabbed the table on either side of his plate.

  “That’s up to you, sweetheart,” said Lauren.

  “Ready for what?” Hope could hardly contain herself.

  “To the family room!” Adam shouted, and pointed across the table and into the next room.

  “Here we go,” Hannah said to her husband, taking him by the hand and leading him to the love seat. Lauren and Hope cleared the table, and Adam staked out his chair next to the fireplace.

  “Enjoy this. It’s special,” Lauren said to Hope as they stacked plates next to the sink for washing. “And rare . . .”

  Hope feared her heart was beating loud enough for the neighbors to hear. They left the dishes for later and joined the rest.

  Adam Maxwell, master craftsman of both words and wood, began to weave a story that would forever change the way Hope viewed her place in the world.

  Nine

  ~

&nb
sp; Honey, don’t forget the Crisco for my hips.” Frank Maxwell made the same joke every year. “We’ll need it to get me out from this chair.” As he’d done twenty-six times before, he called out to his wife, Dora, as she walked into the kitchen with an armful of dirty dishes.

  “Yes, dear, the Crisco. Coming right up.” The response—and courtesy chuckle—were always the same.

  For the Maxwell family, Thanksgiving dinner was an annual eating contest. They ate their own weight in turkey, mashed potatoes with skins, Waldorf salad, and hot homemade rolls with real butter. There was never concern about weeks of lingering leftovers. After dessert they gathered in the TV room for pro football and Christmas planning—who was going where, who wanted what, and who was tasked with visiting the lovable and loony Cousin Gregg, forever a guest at the Greenbrier Adult Developmental Center.

  Adam and Lauren, the newlyweds, spoke first. “If it’s all right, Mom,” Adam said, “we would really like to do our thing this year. It’s our first Christmas, and we’d like to sorta be alone.”

  “And miss my Christmas dinner?” his mother said, delivering a mild dose of guilt.

  “No, Mother, just Christmas Eve and morning. We’ll come by later.” As the oldest of four, Adam felt a sense of responsibility for his mom and dad that his younger siblings did not entirely grasp. Avoiding them altogether was never an option.

  One by one the others laid out their plans. Steven, the second oldest, would be out of town, visiting in-laws in Pittsburgh.

  “Taking my grandbaby with you?”

  “Yes, Grandma, we’re taking the baby,” answered Steven’s sweet wife, Lisa. “But don’t worry, you’ll still get your sloppy Christmas kiss on the way out of town.” Lisa loved her mother-in-law like her own mother—almost.

  Terri, the only daughter, was alone this year. Her husband, Marshall Young, an army chaplain, was stationed overseas and not set to return for another eight months. She worked double shifts as a nurse at a Veterans Administration hospital two towns away, and since Terri would have no reason to be home, her mother expected to see a lot of her during the holidays. “I’ll be here, Mother,” she said, grinning with sarcasm, as if she were the only one who cared.