Page 18 of Spicy Nick

“I’ll have a glass of wine,” Kate, always the smart ass, tells her great uncle.

“Not so fast,” I tell her. “You can have one drink today—that’s it. And you can either have it now, or with dinner. It’s up to you”

“Fine.” She heaves a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll wait for dinner.”

I nod. “Good choice. Now c’mon, you two,” I tell the girls. “If you’ve finished in here, why don’t you come help me with the gingerbread? All those cookies aren’t gonna decorate themselves, you know.”

“That’s notevena joke,” Kate complains. “Never mind a good one. Maybe you should join one of those online Dad Joke groups for inspiration?”

“Ooh, burn,” laughs Dan, who’s also followed us into the kitchen. “But, speaking of gingerbread, I came to tell you that I got the table in the family room all set up for you.” Then his glance strays to his wife, and he frowns. “Lucy, what on earth are you drinking?”

“Sparkling rose lemonade,” his wife informs him. “It’s really good, although I wouldn’t expect you to think so.”

“Well, no,” Dan agrees. “That’s probably because you’ve met me.” His eyes narrow for an instant, then he shakes his head and apropos of nothing says, “Forget it, Luce. You’re wasting your time. I’ll bet anything you like that I’m right on this.”

Lucy angles her chin at her husband. “We’ll see about that.”

“Yeah, we will,” Dan answers—sounding every bit as stubborn.

“So, when you say anything,” Lucy asks. “What exactly do you mean?” And judging by the sudden gleam in both their eyes, they’re about ready to lay out the terms of said bet—right here, right now. And none of us need to be on hand for that. Definitely time to peace out.

“C’mon,” I say once again. I head for the family room with Joe and the girls and—surprisingly—Dan falling in behind me. We pause at the door to the living room to collect Cole, and Lucy and Dan’s son, Seth.

“Why don’t you go ahead,” Seth urges his girlfriend, Deirdre. “And I’ll be right with you. I just need to talk to my grandma for a sec.”

“How about you, Aunt Rose?” I inquire. “You want in on this? We’ll save you a seat, if you’d like.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, dear,” she tells me. “I think I’ll go and see if Lucy needs any help in the kitchen.” She shoots a fond lookat her grandson and adds, “After Seth and I have our little talk, of course.”

I don’t know how well Lucy will like it if her mother tries to take over, but I’ve been warned about my tendency to try and fix other people’s problems when they haven’t asked me to. So…not my circus, I guess.

Anyway, Christmas Eve dinner here is always an event. And, much like with Forrest Gump’s chocolate box, you never know what you’re going to get. Lucy will tell you that she’s paying homage to the Italian ‘Feast of Seven Fishes’ tradition, but there’s nothing traditionally Italian about either her lobster mac and cheese, which is killer, by the way; or her seafood pizza piled with scallops, smoked salmon, arugula and brie. Sounds weird, I know. But trust me, it’s good.

Because her parents are visiting this year, she’s sure to have put some classics on the menu; baked branzino, perhaps. Or spaghetti with clam sauce, Frutta di Mare, seafood Fra Diavolo—you get the idea. In other years, we might get any of those in combination with fried calamari, shrimp puffs, crab bisque or stuffed clams—along with veggies and sides, and all the little extras. Obviously.

And since my aunt is just as obsessed with food as the rest of the family, we’re sure to also have an overabundance of pastries and desserts. But you know what they say: too much is never enough. So I’ve still brought my usual contributions—a mountain of Struffoli and an industrial-sized pan of Tiramisu. In addition, of course, to the gingerbread—which has been carefully packed in air-tight containers, and was stored in the refrigerator until today.

Once all the pieces to the house have been decorated, and allowed to dry, I’ll pack them back up to be assembled at home. There’s no question that it was easier in the past, without all the moving around, but this works. And since it allows more of thefamily to participate, I’m willing to make the extra effort—even though it requires me to stay up late on Christmas Eve in order to put it all together.

But hey, I can sleep when I’m dead—or, you know, in the new year, whichever comes first.

With Dan’s help, I set out jars of edible glitter, fill bowls with an assortment of candies—gumdrops, cinnamon hearts, candy canes, mint wafers—and open bags of sprinkles, some shaped like stars, others like leaves, or snowflakes. And of course, there are tubes of icing, to stick it all together.

Before you know it, we’re all hard at work creating this year’s holiday centerpiece.

Seth is smiling when he joins us a few minutes later—a giddy, excited expression that catches my attention. In other circumstances, I’d have said he’s up to no good. Deirdre notices it too, apparently. “What’s going on?” she leans over to ask quietly, once he’s taken his seat beside her.

But Seth merely shakes his head. “You’ll find out.”

“Seth,” she protests, her mouth dropping open. “How come? Can’t you tell me now?” If she’s anything like her mom (who I knew pretty well, once upon a time) I should warn Seth that there’s no point in trying to put her off. Once she sets her mind to knowing something, she’s not gonna rest until she does.

But, for the moment, he’s standing firm. “Nope. So quit asking.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because …” Seth pauses, looking momentarily stymied. I observe him from the corner of my eye, wondering where he’s going to go with this. Finally, he concludes, “It’s a Christmas thing, all right? If I told you now, it would spoil the surprise. You can wait until tomorrow, can’t you?”

That’s seems reasonable—and plausible enough that Deirdre, apparently, decides to give him a pass. But perhaps she’d havechosen otherwise had she caught the knowing glint in his grandfather’s eyes, the slight smile that, momentarily, curved his lips.

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