Page 70 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“How’s thecocoa?” Cecil asks with a wink.

Gabe takes a sip and instantly coughs. “Slightly more rum than chocolate, I think.” He tries again, more prepared the second time. “But good. Actually, excellent.”

“Come on.” I pull at his sleeve. “Let’s get out of their way.”

We’ve barely moved into the throng before a voice from the hot chocolate line behind me says, “Of course you can go first. It must be tiring getting that walker through the crowd.” If only they knew Mrs. B. has more energy than the whole of this town put together.

“Gabriel?”I say to Gabe.

“What?”

“I hadn’t processed Gabe as being Gabriel.”

“Does it make me less incredibly attractive?”

“No, but it does make you incredibly more Christmassy.”

“How?”

“The angel Gabriel.”

He snorts. “Doesn’t make me more Christmassy. But it does make me more of an angel.” He half closes his eyes and draws a halo over his head.

Then his attention is distracted by something over my shoulder. “What the hell is that?” He points to the Polly’s Produce hut.

“Hah. I’ll show you.”

We duck between a kid holding the string of a pig balloon and a man with a little girl on his shoulders—her headband has pig ears on the ends of long springs so they bob around as the man walks.

“It looks even weirder close up,” Gabe says as we approach the produce stand.

“Hey, Nat,” says Polly. “Who’s your friend who’s insulting my veggie snowman?”

“Snowman?” Gabe laughs. “I thought it was a sheep that’s been through a couple of nuclear accidents.”

“Are you criticizing my wife’s produce art?” Polly’s husband, Max, rises from under the counter to his tall, never-a-hair-out-of-place bajillionaire self.

“I’d say more gazing in wonder than criticizing,” Gabe says.

“It’s the gourds,” Polly says. “They’re a bit warty. I thought the kids might think it was funny, but a few of them have been scared. I had to give them some lavender soap to calm them down.” She points at an arrangement of her mom’s locally famous handmade goat milk soaps. She always makes a special batch shaped like pigs for the festival.

Gabe points at Max. “You look familiar. Have I seen you in the executive box atApollos games?”

“I’ve been to a few,” Max says. “But not lately because?—”

A baby’s cry attracts Max’s attention below counter level again. “Because of this little guy.” He beams at the kid we can’t see. “Hey, Marty. I promise not to show you the warty snowman.” And he ducks back down out of sight to attend to his son.

“Have a great first Christmas with Marty.” I wave to Polly as we move along.

Walking through the festival crowd always gives me a cozy tingle inside. Like I’m part of something. Something like a huge happy family. And like I’m where I belong. Like I have a home.

And tonight, with Gabe by my side, there’s a whole different edge to it. A spark, a thrill, a flutter of hope… For what, I don’t know. But definitely something exciting.

Wonder what Christmas in New Orleans will be like. Other than a lot warmer.

“Oh, here we go. This looks right up my alley,” Gabe says as we reach the hut with the ever-popular pigtail game.

There’s already a game in full swing, so we stand behind the four competitors.

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