The Holiday Series

CHAPTER 1 THE ATTIC With one final shove the seldom used attic door burst open. Six-year-old Emma Holiday was the first to enter. Becca paused at the doorway. Like most eleven-soon-to-be-twelve’s Rebecca, “Becca” Holiday was in a hurry to grow up. But there were times, such as a fall morning in the off-limits third-floor attic, childhood tugged to remain a little girl just a bit longer. Becca wanted to savor the moment. Autumn sunlight filtered through the round window, a ship’s port hole to afternoon voyages to imaginary lands. Minuscule dust fairies danced in light beams casting a magical spell across the steeply slanted ceiling. Keepsakes and castoffs cluttered the scarred plank floors. Wardrobes of discarded clothing, perfect for games of make-believe, await. The familiar musty smell of long-ago things reminds Becca of past rainy-day playtimes. The large airy space was more than attic storage; it was family history beckoning yet another generation of Holidays to explore. Despite rickety floorboards and questionable inhabitants: spiders and mice and creepy things, oh, my! The children’s guardian, Aunt Tessa (Aunt-T) had at one time been rather lenient with attic visits. Becca and twin brother Ryan had spent many pleasant Saturdays amongst the trash and treasures. Until a particularly boisterous afternoon when the twins, along with best friend Jake turned hide-n-seek into a rough and rowdy game of tag. Any self-respecting-kid knows tag has few rules. One person chases; the others escape. Not exactly a game well suited for an attic crammed with a century of antiques. Unfortunately, in poorly insulated old houses, the sound of pounding feet travels rather quickly. As the three friends dashed, ducked obstacles, and leapt boxes, Aunt-T could soon be heard calling up from the first-floor library, “Sounds like a herd of elephants up there!” Backstory Followed by a curt reminder, “No running in the house!” And when the pitter patter of not-so-little feet continued the quintessential I’ve-had-enough thundered from below: “Don’t make me come up there!” The final warning, a moment too late, as a sharp turn sent an old cane rocker violently in motion. Regrettably, the same seatless chair propping up Great Aunt Agnes’ ornately framed, oversized portrait. Agnes seldom smiled during her lifetime. The frowny face was not going to improve with what happened next. The deafening crash, accompanied by an explosion of shattered glass, freeze-framed each child mid-stride. With rapidly ascending footsteps they had only a moment to consider personal guilt or innocence. No one said a word. A trio of wide eyes said it all, “We’re busted.” Shooing them to the doorway their aunt righted the massive frame. As expected, spider webbed glass did nothing to enhance the looks of the permanently sullen ancestor. The normal household rule, you-make-a-mess-you-clean-it-up, trumped by broken glass. Aunt-T swept and scolded. The attic forevermore, off limits. For months after the friends argued over whom exactly was most at fault—the chaser, the chasee, or the one who yelled “tag-you’re-it” in the first place. Eventually, hardly able to remember who-did-what agreed, guilt was shared. Future discussions focused simply on mourning the loss of their favorite play space rather than exactly who sent Great Aunt Agnes crashing. Becca felt a bit less guilty about the “Aunt Agnes incident”, as it came to be known, when months later she overheard Aunt-T chatting with childhood friend Isabella Dewitt. Isabella often stopped, after daily walks through the park, to sit on the porch sharing local gossip with Aunt-T. Miss Dewitt lived alone but always enjoyed hearing the escapades of little Emma and the twins. As Becca returned from the library, stored her bike in the alley shed, and headed towards the adult chatter to check in. Rounding the overgrown lilac bush, heavy with faded blossoms, Becca heard her name! Normally, the polite eleven-year-old would not eavesdrop. But they were talking about her! When a child’s name is mentioned in an adult conversation kids listen. Sheltered behind drooping branches snatches of the exchange stopped Becca in her tracks. “Great Aunt Agnes...rough housing...dusty old attic …no place for running…. glass everywhere!” Ah, that embarrassing topic. Waitaminute, Aunt-T sounds…cheerful? “Remember the endless rain we had last spring? The kids had been cooped up for days.” Making excuses? She had not seemed amused picking up dustpans of broken glass. Becca recalled the should-have-known-better lecture involving the usual: ‘heirloom… family heritage…respect for property… blah, blah, blah’. Any kid who’s broken something of value knows the drill. The friends chuckled as Isabella recalled, “Remember the fit Aunt Agnes threw when we knocked over that little table chasing the Anderson’s beagle?” “It was the water filled vase on top of the table that made her throw a fit.” Tessa corrected. Laughter rang out as her aunt concluded, “To this day if I spill anything Agnes’ horrified face haunts me!” Becca had heard enough; calling out, “Going to Fullerton’s to play chess with Jake and Ryan.” Her conscience somewhat eased, Becca cut across the next-door Law Office heading to Fullerton Insurance, eager to share the perplexing conversation with Ryan and Jake. Guilt lessened; she smiled; until she remembered: they still couldn’t play in the attic. The block of stately homes, across from Town Park, in the heart of the city, were built in the 1800s as fashionable residences for prominent citizens of Clairmont. Tessa’s grandfather first purchased the large Victorian as the prefect location to raise a growing family while practicing Law in the front rooms. Multiple relatives passed down the much-loved home. Eventually, Aunt-T’s father inherited it, turning the downstairs back into living quarters to make room for his brood of four rambunctious boys. Later, Tessa and youngest brother, Thomas, would complete the Holiday family. With thick banisters to slide down and majestic oaks for forts and swings, the house was the ideal backdrop for childhood adventures. Today most families settled in Clairmont’s fast-growing suburbs. As the decades passed, the old Park Street estates became part of the town’s ever-expanding business district. Surrounding streets of stately brownstones eventually converted to downtown apartments. Until finally the Holiday’s Victorian was the only single-family residence left facing Town Park. Becca and Ryan had a kaleidoscope of memory moments with Grandpa Holiday, aunts, uncles and teenage cousins filling the house with energy and laughter. As the years passed the Holiday boys, building careers and families, scattered. Eventually, Tessa was the only one staying in Clairmont to teach English at the local college. After Grandpa Holiday passed, the home lay vacant until Tessa realized the large library--with generations of accumulated books-- would be a perfect place to embark on her “second career” as a writer. Her brothers happy to have the heart of the family inhabited by another generation of Holidays. But eventually she too found the many empty rooms a bit lonely. A family meeting was called. Reluctantly, all agreed it was time to sell the beloved old Victorian. Painters were hired to brighten the white exterior, repairs made to the sagging wrap around porch, and a For Sale sign hammered into the front azalea bed. Then tragedy struck. Returning from a business trip, a chartered plane, carrying Becca’s parents, hit a freak storm. Violent winds sent the small aircraft spiraling. There were no survivors. The sudden death of Thomas and Claire Holiday left three orphans, five-year-old twins, Ryan and Rebecca, and baby Emma.