Page 214 of The Woman Left Behind

“Gingerbread trifle is soooooo on my Christmas go-to list every year from now on,” she decreed, shrugging off her coat.

Harry took it and hung it in the hall closet, then he did the same with his.

“But I am so stuffed. Aren’t I, sweet Lucy? So stuffed,” she said, and Harry looked her way to see she was rubbing Lucy’s head with both hands and Lucy was staring up at her like she understood every word, and each was a morsel of absolute wisdom.

Harry took that moment to sync his phone to their Bluetooth speaker.

He then queued up the song, pushed the ottoman so it was flush to the sofa, moved to the front of the tree, and hit go on his phone.

The first strains of Michael Bublé’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” came on.

Lillian’s eyes shot to him.

Harry held out his hand and asked, “Dance with me?”

It came over her, as it sometimes did, the memories, the love, the loss.

And then there was just the love.

Lillian walked to him, put her hand in his, and he pulled her into his arms.

She rested her other hand on his shoulder and her cheek on his chest.

Bublé crooned.

They swayed.

The Christmas lights twinkled.

The dogs settled with groans and watched.

Eventually, Harry was forced to do some fancier moves, some spins, some twirls, all totally worth it considering Lillian’s smiles and giggles, and it was then he understood why Sonny pushed back the furniture as often as he could and danced with his wife.

The song segued into Bublé’s “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

And he and his Lilly kept dancing by the lights of their tree in the living room of a house bought with love, left with love…

And still filled with it.

The End

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