Chapter 5 - The Red Glass Star
The clock on the dashboard of Reed’s suburban read 11:42 PM as he stepped out onto the quiet, snow-drenched sidewalk of his own street in Manhattan.
The city was settling into the deep, breathless quiet of late Christmas Eve. The traffic had died down to a few crawling taxis. The wind had softened, dropping fluffy, fat flakes that clung to the iron railings and brownstone steps.
Reed walked past his own building’s entrance.
Instead, he walked three blocks north to a small corner lot where a tree vendor had spent the last two weeks selling spruces and firs from the back of a flatbed truck.
The lot was mostly empty now. A few trampled branches lay in the snow, surrounded by yellow string and wooden stands.
A young man in a heavy flannel jacket was sitting on an overturned crate, smoking a cigarette, trying to warm his hands over a small portable propane heater.
"We're closed, pal," the vendor called out, his breath pluming in the dark. "Everything's gone."
Reed walked into the lot. In the far corner, leaning against the chain-link fence, was a single tree. It wasn't six feet tall like the grand trees in the department store windows. It was small—barely four feet—and its top branch was slightly crooked, bent to the left.
Reed stopped in front of it.
"That one's defective," the vendor said, standing up and tossing his cigarette into the slush. "Top got bent in the shipping crate. Was gonna throw it in the wood chipper tomorrow."
"How much?" Reed asked.
The vendor looked at Reed’s wool coat, then at the small, bent tree. "Ten bucks. But like I said, it ain't pretty."
Reed pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the man. "Keep the change."
He didn't ask for a bag. He picked the small tree up under his arm, the cool, pine-scented needles brushing against his neck, and walked back toward his apartment building.
When the elevator doors slid open on the penthouse floor, the absolute silence of his home met him as it always did. The polished hardwood floors were dark. The long leather sofas were pristine. The dining table was completely empty.
Reed set the small tree down in the center of the floor, right beside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out over the glowing grid of Manhattan.
He walked to his master bedroom closet.
He climbed up on a small stepping stool and reached all the way to the top shelf, behind a stack of unused cashmere blankets. His fingers touched a smooth, wooden box tied with a faded red ribbon.
He hadn't touched that box in seven hundred and thirty days.
He carried it out to the living room, sitting down on the floor beside the small, bent tree. His hands trembled as he untied the ribbon and lifted the wooden lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of yellowed tissue paper, were ornaments.
A silver bell. A small painted wooden rocking horse. A glass snowflake with a chipped point.
And at the bottom, wrapped in bubble wrap, was a small, round object.
Reed unwrapped it slowly.
It was the red glass star. One of its five points had a clean fracture running down the center, held together by a thin strip of clear tape he had applied himself on that terrible night in Hartford before the ambulance arrived.
Reed held the star in his palms. He didn't lock the grief down this time. He let it hit him—the sharp, unbearable memory of Junie’s laugh, Elise’s warm smile, the smell of cinnamon coffee on Christmas morning.
A tear spilled over his eyelid, falling directly onto the cracked glass of the star, glittering in the dark room.
He stood up carefully. He reached up and placed the red glass star onto the bent top branch of the small spruce tree.
It tilted slightly to the side, but it stayed.
Reed stepped back. The city lights outside caught the glass, making the red star glow as if a small, fierce flame had been rekindled deep within its heart.
His phone chimed in his pocket.
It was a text message from Vance, accompanied by a photo.
The photo showed Hazel and Nora standing in the living room of the Willow Street penthouse. They were wearing matching flannel pajamas, sitting on a huge rug in front of a roaring fireplace, holding cups of warm milk, looking at a towering twelve-foot Christmas tree covered in white lights.
Below the photo, Sarah had typed a short message:
They fell asleep holding their new boots. They asked me to tell you that they left a piece of the apple pie on the kitchen counter for you, just in case you haven't had dinner yet. Merry Christmas, Reed.
Reed looked at the photo for a long time.
He walked to the window, resting his forehead against the cold glass, watching the snow fall over the city.
May you like
For the first time in two years, the silence in his apartment didn't feel like a grave.
It felt like a beginning.
