Page 224 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

I pay for our dinner as Mary checks the to-go box the waiter brought with the bill—a piece of chocolate cake for Aidan. Then we walk hand in hand into the cold December night. I press her back against the car, covering her body with mine to block the wind. She lifts her chin, leaning back to look up at me. I kiss her softly, but when she sighs her contentment, I increase the heat, my tongue parting her lips.

Her body sags, but I’ve already wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her close.

“I’m not a believer in PDA,” she says when our lips part.

“I can tell,” I say with a grin.

“Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself these days. I brought fortune-telling tea to my boss’s secular Christmas party today, and now we’re making out in a parking lot like two teenagers.”

There’s wonder in her voice, but her words give me pause. “We can slow down, Mary. I’m not going anywhere.”

She weaves a hand into my hair, drawing me in for another kiss, her lips branding me with their heat. When she pulls back, there’s a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Absolutely not. I happen to like who I’m becoming. Still, I’d rather not get arrested for public indecency. Let’s go home.”

Home.

Mary and Aidan’s house is beginning to feel like home, and sometimes, when I let myself, I imagine a life with them. Marriage, a baby—Mary confessed that she’d wanted another child, but given Glenn’s disinterest in parenting, she’d already felt like a single parent to Aidan. The thought of parenting two had overwhelmed her.

I can see this glorious future full of love and peace, but I don’t let the fantasy go too far. While I’ve never been a superstitious man, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that part of me is terrified this promising new life could still slip through my fingers.

Worry comes into her eyes—she’s noticed the shift in me—so I offer her a smile. “It’s freezing. Maybe we can make some hot chocolate with Aidan.”

Given the amount of hot chocolate made in her house—home, I hear her saying—it’s always a sure bet.

We’requiet most of the way home, our fingers entwined while we listen to an instrumental Christmas song, but there’s no tension in the car. Not even the sexual tension that drove us from the restaurant. Instead, it feels like we’re surrounded by a cloud of contentment. I feel a sense of belonging I’ve never experienced before, and somehow, I know she feels it too. I might have gone into this holiday season feeling annoyed by every Christmas tree and shining light, but now I’m like a kid on Christmas morning.

When we’re two blocks from the house, Mary’s phone rings. Her eyes widen at the sight of the number, and she almost drops the phone in her haste to answer. “Dottie? Is everything okay?” There’s a pause. Then her body stiffens. “What?”

I don’t know what’s happening, but I automatically press on the gas pedal, driving slightly over the speed limit to get us back faster.

“We’re almost home,” Mary continues. “Just keep him outside if you can.” She hangs up, her jaw clenched, and squeezes the phone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my hands gripping the steering wheel.

“It’s Glenn. He’s here. Then, before she can tell me more, I notice the shiny Mercedes-Benz sedan in the driveway as I pull up in front of her house.

“How did he find out where you live?” I ask. “Have you told him the address?” Even as I ask the question, I remember that his parents pick Aidan up every other week. They could have given it to him, or he could have found it written down somewhere.

“No,” she says, her fingers fumbling with her seat belt latch. She’s clearly panicking, and I notice that, while she told Dottie to keep Glenn outside, he’s neither in his car nor on her front porch.

Before I can comment on this, she’s out of the truck, running across the front yard to the door, but the stiletto heels she borrowed from her sister Molly keep sinking into the lawn.

I’m next to her within seconds, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her up, practically hauling her to the front porch. Her hands are shaking, so I reach for the front door, but she puts her hand over mine and looks up at me in alarm.

Why is she so scared? Sure, she’s still legally married, but Glenn signed away his parental rights, and she’s planning to officially file for divorce the first week of January. Is Glenn capable of violence? I don’t think so. I’m sure she would have mentioned that by now, and besides, he seems too cowardly—not that it’s stopped cowardly men before. That’s when it hitsme: this prick has been dismissive of Aidan for his whole life, long before he walked out on him, and now he’s in there alone with him. No, not alone. He’s with Dottie, but she’s in her eighties. How can she protect a six-year-old boy from a bully?

Mary throws the door open, and I scan the living room to get my first glimpse of Glenn the Prick, but there’s no sign of him. No sign of Aidan or Dottie either. Panic takes hold, and I experience a moment of pure terror before I hear a man’s voice coming from the kitchen. “I suppose if you consider this tea—”

“It’s a special blend, young man,” I hear Dottie say, “made expressly for you.”

“If you don’t like it, we could have hot chocolate instead,” Aidan says as Mary and I lunge through the living room and the attached dining room toward the kitchen. “But Mom’s not here to make it.”

“Because she’s out on herdate,” the man sneers.

Mary and I reach the doorway, and Glenn comes into view, sitting on a chair at the kitchen table as if it’shistable. No doubt it was, once upon a time.

I’m not sure what I expected him to look like, but he’s about an inch shorter than me, with dark hair and a pinched-looking face. It’s the expression of a man who’s permanently displeased, or maybe I just think so because I already loathe him. Despite the fact that he’s presumably not here for work and his job is currently in Northern Virginia, at least seven hours away, he’s in a dress shirt and tie and still hasn’t taken off his dark gray wool overcoat. From the look he gives me, I gather he wore it for my benefit.

“With the ex-con,” he says, unnecessarily.

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