“DAMN!” MUTTERED MCDARVID as a spruce needle jabbed his finger.
“Father, profanity—”
“I know. Profanity is the last refuge of the inarticulate,” he snapped at Elizabeth, perched on the edge of the couch. “These needles are sharp.”
“That’s because you got a dead tree. A live tree would have been more ecologically sound, and the needles wouldn’t fall out all over the carpet. And they would have been softer.”
McDarvid growled softly and eased another light into place.
“Daddy! Daddy! There’s a package!” called Kirsten.
McDarvid climbed off the kitchen stool, carefully draping the Christmas lights on the armchair. He still had two strings to thread through the sticky branches of the Colorado blue spruce.
“Daddy, the deliveryman is coming up the walk!”
“I’m coming, Kirsten. I’m coming.”
“You have to complete the lighting,” announced Elizabeth from beside the carton of Christmas ornaments. “And you have to dislodge David from the television.”
McDarvid had ignored the play-by-play from the family room. Football bored him, but not his son, who remained glued to any football telecast.
Brinnngggg …
McDarvid winced at the tinny doorbell that he kept thinking he should replace with chimes—or anything that didn’t sound like the 1930s doorbell that it was. He opened the door.
“McDarvid residence?” asked the UPS deliveryman.
“That’s us.” McDarvid eased open the new storm door he had finally replaced the day before. A gust of cold air blew past him and into the entryway as he took the package. “Thank you.”
He shut the door and looked at the label on the heavy package.
Allyson climbed up from the basement, the last small box of Christmas decorations in her arms. “What’s that?”
“I’m not sure,” McDarvid admitted. “It’s from a client.”
“Could it be work?”
McDarvid lifted the heavy oblong package, roughly eight inches high and a foot square. “I don’t see how.”
“Then open it,” Allyson suggested.
“Open it, Daddy. Open it,” Kirsten added more emphatically.
McDarvid carried the package into the kitchen, set it on the breakfast bar, and rummaged through a drawer to come up with scissors and a knife.
Inside the first heavy cardboard box was a second package wrapped in pale silver paper imprinted with stylized evergreen trees. A small envelope was lightly taped to the package. Precise black script proclaimed: “J. McDarvid and family.”
“Maybe we should save it until Christmas.”
“From a client?” asked Allyson. “Christmas is for family, not business.”
“You’re right.” McDarvid removed the envelope, then extracted the card.
“What does it say?”
“Not much. Just ‘Joyeux Noël’ and his name.”
“Can we see what’s in the box?” asked Kirsten.
McDarvid pocketed the card, then slit the paper to reveal a thinner white cardboard box, with an imprint in the corner.
“That’s D’Arques,” Allyson volunteered from his shoulder.
“What’s D’Arques, Mommy?” asked Kirsten.
“It’s French crystal, almost as good as Orrefors.”
“Go ahead, Daddy. Open it,” prompted Kirsten.
McDarvid opened the box and parted the tissue and polystyrene beads. He lifted out a small package of colored crystalline Christmas candies wrapped within a plastic bag and set the package on the counter.
“Is that all?” asked Kirsten.
“Just hang on, squirt.” McDarvid then lifted out the crystal candy dish and set it on the breakfast bar next to the candies.
“It’s beautiful,” murmured Allyson.
“It is pretty,” admitted the littlest redhead.
“Might I see?” asked Elizabeth, finally drawn by the group in the kitchen from her station next to the largest box of Christmas ornaments.
“What is it?” demanded Kirsten. “The shape is funny.”
McDarvid studied the crystal, a rough asymetric ovoid with an extrusion too small and delicate to be a handle emerging from the narrow end of the dish. The shape was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t have said why.
“It is … strange…” acknowledged Allyson.
“Might I see?” persisted Elizabeth.
“Oh, sure.” McDarvid stepped aside.
Elizabeth looked at the dish for a long time. “What’s this?” she finally asked, pointing to the emblem cut in the center of the dish.
“That? That’s the emblem of the company. JAFFE. They’re French.”
“Why is it such a funny shape?” asked Kirsten.
“I don’t know,” McDarvid answered.
“There must be a logical reason.” Elizabeth headed for the study.
“Elizabeth?”
“I will return.”
McDarvid chuckled and shook his head, catching Allyson’s eyes. In turn, she grinned.
“When can we have the candy?” asked Kirsten.
“Not yet.” McDarvid looked around for somewhere to put the dish.
“I believe I have the solution,” announced Elizabeth, lugging the open world atlas into the kitchen.
McDarvid raised his eyebrows and looked at Allyson. She shrugged.
“Yes, Elizabeth?”
The atlas came down on the counter next to the crystal. McDarvid grabbed for the dish to keep it from bouncing off the edge.
“Observe!” commanded the eleven-year-old.
“Observe what?” McDarvid asked.
“Corsica,” Elizabeth announced matter-of-factly. “Anything that irregular could not have been geometric. You did say it came from France.”
McDarvid followed his daughter’s finger to the map of Corsica. Although the atlas’s image was considerably smaller than the dish, the outlines of the island and the dish appeared identical.
“What an odd shape to make a dish,” Allyson said quietly, “especially one so lovely.”
McDarvid only swallowed, looking out through the kitchen window.
His older daughter picked up and closed the atlas.
McDarvid grabbed for the dish again, retrieving it and looking again for some place to put it out of harm’s way.
“In the china cabinet,” suggested Allyson.
“Can we resume our decorating, Father?” inquired Elizabeth.
“In a minute.” McDarvid eased open the china cabinet and rearranged the wineglasses to make room for the crystal candy dish. Then he returned and grabbed the candies to put them inside the Corsica-shaped dish in the cabinet.
Allyson had carried the last box of decorations into the living room. “David, it’s time to turn off the television.”
“They’re on the ten-yard line!”
“David,” added McDarvid.
“But Dad!”
“Now! One, two…”
“All right, all right.”
“It’s about time,” announced Elizabeth.
McDarvid closed the china cabinet and stepped into the living room, looking at the lights he had still not finished threading through the sharp needles of the blue spruce. The dead, cut, blue spruce.