Bennett brought out a cordless drill and changed the attachment. With a few swift spins, the bolts fell out into his hand. “A lot easier than brute force,” he said with a grin.
Shelly shrugged with exaggeration. “Not nearly as exciting, though.”
“Come on, let’s do this,” Ivy said, eager to see what was behind the cabinet. Taking the spot next to Bennett, she pressed her hands against the old wooden piece again.
With his help, the cabinet began to slide, sending up screeches of protest from years of complacency.
Shelly shrieked and waved her hands. “Eek, spider webs!”
“We were right,” Ivy cried. She wedged her fingers into a grooved space on the door and slid it to one side. Years of nonuse had made the door jerky, so Bennett helped guide it along its track.
A shaft of sunlight from the open garage filtered into the storeroom, where dust particles danced in gusts of fresh air like tiny fairies.
Ivy tried the light switch, but the old bulb no longer worked. Bennett brought out a pair of flashlights from the cabinet and handed one to Ivy and one to Shelly. Sucking in a breath of excitement, Ivy flicked on the flashlight and shone it inside the storage room.
“Wow,” Ivy said, expelling her breath. A row of shelves lined one side of the narrow storeroom that ran the width of the garage. To one side leaned old, wood-handled gardening tools—a hoe, a rake, a shovel. Assorted pots and hand-tools filled the shelves.
“Shelly, you’ll want to look at the gardening supplies.” Ivy swung the flashlight to the other side where neatly arranged wooden crates rested on the shelves. Faded labels marked the bins.
“These are old fruit boxes,” Ivy said, reading the labels. “Look at this. Sunkist lemons from Orange County. Avenue oranges from the Victoria Avenue Citrus Association. Peerless oranges from San Diego Land and Town Company.” She ran her fingers along the dusty labels, appreciating them. “The artwork is beautiful, and many are well preserved.”
“Look at those,” Bennett said, peering farther down the row of shelves Ivy illuminated. “Seven-Up Bottling Company in Los Angeles. Dad’s Root Beer. And Beech-Nut Brand Chewing Gum.”
Shelly shifted her flashlight. “Old Bushmills. Now we’re talking.”
“These are treasures, but what’s inside?” Ivy slid out a short crate marked Coca-Cola in faded cursive red lettering. “Each item is so carefully wrapped.” Some had been packed in newsprint, while thin, unbleached muslin fabric covered others.
Ivy ran her fingers over the wrapped objects. “I can just imagine the household staff packing these. These crates must have held old glass bottles of soda.” She raised her flashlight. “Look, there’s more. Nesbitt’s, Squirt, Mission. Those are old brands.”
“Let’s see what we have here,” Bennett said, picking up a Coca-Cola crate and carrying it into the light. “Looks like these held two dozen bottles. Six cubbies one way and four the other. Might be old teacups or glassware packed in here.”
“That’s not what we think,” Shelly said. “Our bet is on Christmas decorations. We saw an old photograph in that album that we found in the attic.”
“That would sure come in handy,” Bennett said.
“I’ve seen these old wooden crates at antique shops,” Ivy said, tapping her fingers on the old wood. “I’ve always liked them. Wouldn’t they look great in our kitchen?”
Gingerly, Ivy lifted a dusty, muslin-wrapped object from a little cubby hole. After unwrapping it with care, she held a shimmering, rose-colored glass ornament in the shape of a bell up to a ray of winter sunlight. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s lovely and certainly made by hand.”
“Woo-hoo! I bet we found the mother lode of Christmas decorations.” Shelly’s eyes flashed with excitement. “All these crates are probably full of the same things. We’re going to celebrate in style after all.” She flung her arms around Ivy, nearly lifting her from her feet.
Laughing, Ivy reached for another packed item. She unfolded the soft cloth, which looked like the old flour bag cloth her grandmother had used. Inside lay a cut-crystal angel with intricately etched wings. “How exquisite,” she said, examining the details.
Bennett smoothed his hand over Ivy’s. “There’s an awful lot here. Shall I take some of these boxes inside for you?”
His simple touch sent tingles through Ivy. “To the kitchen, thanks. We can clean and sort on the big table.”
Shelly pulled out another crate. “People back then were the original recyclers, weren’t they? Wooden crates, reusable glass soda bottles. That was kind of cool. Why did we ever stop? Now we have plastic bottles littering the ocean.” She surveyed the wall of colorful crates. “I can’t wait to make videos of all this to post on my channel.” Shelly started toward the kitchen, humming Jingle Bells.
Ivy smiled. Shelly hadn’t been this excited since summer. Though she and Mitch were spending a lot of time together, Ivy could tell that her sister missed the excitement of spending holidays in New York.
Happiness welled up inside Ivy. “It looks like we’ll do some extra special decorating this year.”
Bennett took a step toward her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to help. It’s been years since I put up any decorations.”
Ivy didn’t have to ask why. After Jeremy died, she hadn’t had the heart to do much for Christmas and went through minimal motions only for her daughters. After she sold their condo, she didn’t have to pretend to be interested. But now it was time for a change.
“I’d like that very much.” Ivy caught Bennett’s hand and turned her cheek into it. Though his hands were slightly rough from sanding and refinishing his boat, she enjoyed the warmth of his skin.
Bennett slid his arms around her. “Maybe it’s time to create new holiday traditions.” His voice dropped a notch. “For us.”
Ivy gazed up into Bennett’s hazel eyes that creased at the corners. Faint tan lines from his sunglasses gave him sort of a GQ look—as if he’d just stepped out of a yachting ad. His lips curved into a smile, capturing her heart again.
Her mouth felt dry, incapable of forming words, yet her heart beat in sync with his. She loved so many things about Bennett. He’d first told her that he loved her on his boat just before they continued to Catalina Island. Even then, with love in her heart, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words she’d only ever uttered to just one man.
These last few months, waiting for her to answer, Bennett had stopped telling her what she actually needed to hear, even though he showed it with every look, every touch. By the end of the summer, Bennett had earned a spot on her What-Ivy-Bay-Wants list. So why couldn’t she say those three little words to him?
Ivy pressed her cheek to his. Was she ready for such a step? She thought about Sunny’s reluctance to engage with Bennett at Thanksgiving. While concerning, Ivy was a grown woman and didn’t need to seek her daughter’s approval for Bennett’s presence during the holidays—or any other time.
Still, she had to respect Sunny’s feelings, too. Her therapist in Boston might have told her that Sunny was being manipulative, but wasn’t her daughter’s grief also a concern?