Page 55 of A Tinsel Tale

“Grateful to your mom for hiring the neighbor girls to watch over the smaller munchkins. Good idea.”

“She should be a party planner. Later,” I say.

I walk up to Evie and hand her the wine. She pins me with a flinty stare, clearly not over my declaration. Eyebrows arched she says, “Really?”

All wide-eyed innocence I say, “What did I do?”

She steps right up into my personal space and pulls my head down… none too gently. Her warm breath smells like the wine she just sipped. “I love you too.” She steps back with a satisfied grin as she watches my jaw drop.

“Touché,” I gulp.

She tips her glass at me and grabs the blindfold from Chance and says, “It’s your uncle’s turn.”

“Ouch,” I grumble, wincing as she cinches it extra tight around my head. “You big bully,” I complain. I hear her and Chance giggle.

“Come on Uncle Jamie,” Chance says, leading me to a chair. He pushes me into it then hands me a glass ornament. “You get three guesses,” he says, his pubescent voice cracking. I get it right on two.

Evie and I keep squaring off, doing battle with our eyeballs. We make sure to get our vote in for the ugliest sweater on time. She tries to see what number I write but I hunch over, shielding it from her view.

As Shakespeare said, “the swiftest hours, as they flew”, and we’re now gathered to find out the winner.

Mom calls out the top four. “In no particular order, if I call your number step to the front next to me. Number twenty-two.” Everyone cheers as Tank steps forward pumping his fist in the air. “Number thirty-four.” Coach takes his place next to Tank. I’m surprised to hear my number called. “Number six,” Mom says. “Last but not least, number seventeen.” Sam’s wife Jen stands next to me. “An honorable mention goes to my grandson Joseph. Come on up here dear. You get to announce the winner.” She leans down and whispers in his ear.

The tips of his ears are pink, his smile shy as he announces the winner. “The winner is Tank,” he says and the crowd goes wild.

Mom says, “Tank, the prize is a hundred-dollar gift card to La Piazza.”

Tank holds his arms overhead, fists clasped like he won a prize fight. “I want to thank everyone who voted for me. I also want the thank my dog Biscuit. I wouldn’t be here without his support.” We all laugh.

Everyone is packing it in for the night. Coach looks tired, and after goodbyes, Evie and I go fetch the coats. When we get there, I pull her one door down into another spare bedroom and shut the door behind us. I smother her lips with an open-mouthed kiss. She kisses me back.

“You drive me crazy,” I say against her lips.

“Likewise,” she replies, voice breathy.

We make out like teenagers and I push my hands under her sweater. I need to feel her soft skin. My hands splay her waist and she grips my sweater in her fists as I plunder her mouth. “Evie,” I rasp, reluctantly lifting my head. I withdraw my hands and straighten her sweater. “Your dad is probably wondering where we disappeared to. I’ll see you tomorrow night, at my place, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“It’s going to be a long twenty-four.”

Her eyes are sparkling like the most brilliant gemstones and I swallow hard. I don’t want to think about the fact that in one week and a day, she’ll be heading back to Chicago. I push that thought aside and we grab their coats and I walk her and Coach to the door.

30

EVIE

Iknock at Jamie’s front door then let myself in. I have my overnight bag packed with the essentials and gifts for Jamie and Hux. I call hello as I stomp the rest of the snow from my boots before toeing them off. The glow from the fireplace, the colorful Christmas tree, and a lamp by the couch are the only lights illuminating the room this Christmas Eve.

Huxley runs from the kitchen to greet me, the bell on his collar jingling. Soft Christmas jazz plays in the background. At the stove, Jamie has his chefs’ apron on and is stirring something. I slip my arm around his waist and peer into the pan. He’s caramelizing onions for the quiche he’s making for supper. The pie crust sits on the counter waiting to be filled.

“Smells delicious. Anything I can do, lover?” I say, biting his shoulder playfully.

“Pour us some wine,” he replies. “Everything else is under control. All I have to do is add the filling to the crust and pop it in the oven.”

“Mm. Glad I saved my appetite.”

“Me too. I made Tiramisu for dessert.”

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