Page 8 of Just for the Holidays

“Could I wash my hands?” Teddy presents his palm, smeared with peanut butter and jam.

Max’s cheeks, hands, and belly are splotched all over.

“Max! What are you up to at this hour?” Nichol bites back a scowl.

“I’m hungry,” his spindly legs carry him up the stairs, cackling all the way to the kitchen.Max has splotches all over his cheeks, hands, and belly.

“Bathroom is up here.” Nichol leads the way, pointing Teddy toward the door.

It’s the same house Katie and Nichol grew up in. Their parents downsized into a single-bedroom condo after their father retired last year. The furniture is the same as his last holiday visit four years ago. A few new knick-knacks are sprinkled around surfaces and the family photo wall is rearranged with new additions of his sister’s little crew.

Nichol passes under the broad arch, into the disastrous mess. “Max!” he gasps. A loaf of bread is dumped and scattered over the counters with a massacre of nut butter and berry jam glopped on surfaces that make no sense. How does a nine-year-old smear peanut butter on the lace valance hanging high above the window behind the sink?

“Your parents are going to be pissed!” Nichol can’t stop laughing, erupting from his belly. He’s far too tired for this and should leave the kid to face the consequences.

“Oh my god!” Teddy chimes from the arched entry.

“We better clean this up before your mother is awake.” Nichol declares.

“Do you want some help?” Teddy grits a concerned smile.

“No. Thanks.” Nichol wings his brow. “We’ve got this.”

“Okay. I’ll get going. It was good seeing you again, Nichol.”

“Sure.” Nichol ushers Teddy back down the stairs, to the landing at the front door and presents the exit. “Thanks again.”

“Nice meeting you Max. Good luck,” he giggles, strutting out to his truck.

Nichol slowly swings the door, deeply inhaling Minnesota winter air, and soaking up a lingering gaze on the hunky baker’s backside, until the gap closes. Headlights flash in through the long side panel window beside the door, as they back out of the driveway, disappearing in the direction they’d come from. Freshbread and warm honey, soaked into his clothes, still lingers under Nichol’s nose.

He trots back up to the kitchen and ruffles Max’s hair, now seated at the table taking tiny bites of a soggy mess. He wipes up the kitchen and puts away the slices of bread he could salvage, trashing the ones tainted with sticky fingerprints. Just in time . . .

Footsteps shuffle up the hall from the bedroom that used to belong to his parents.

“Max? What are you doing up?” Katie asks groggily.

Max twists in his chair and points a soiled finger at Nichol.

“Oh! I thought I heard a car outside.” She forces a drowsy smile. “We were expecting you last night. You didn’t text me back, I figured you stopped somewhere, to sleep.”

“My phone doesn’t have service here. Surprise surprise,” Nichol snarks.

“Where’s your fancy car?” Katie is peering out the window.

“Sitting on Main Street, it ran out of juice.”

“How did you get here?” Katie yawns.

“Mrs. Monroe’s grandson. Luckily he was in the bakery and the lights were on.”

“Theodore?”

“Teddy, yeah. I had no idea who he was, but he remembered me.”

“Of course he does,” Katie says.

Nichol’s brow twitches.

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