Page 43 of Christmas with Holly

“What kind? Pumpkin…apple…pecan?”

“Surprise me,” he said, and stole a kiss from her, so fast that she had no time to react.

The day before Thanksgiving, Maggie picked up Holly from the house at Rainshadow Vineyard, and brought her to her bungalow.

“Am I invited, too?” Sam had asked before they left.

“No, it’s just for girls,” Holly had told him, giggling.

“What if I wear a wig? What if I talk in a really high voice?”

“Uncle Sam,” the child said cheerfully, “you’re the worst girl ever!”

“And you’re the best,” Sam said, kissing her noisily. “All right, you can go without me. But you’d better bring me back a big pie.”

Taking Holly to her house, Maggie put on some music, lit a fire in the fireplace, and tied one of her aprons around Holly. She showed Holly how to use an old-fashioned bell-shaped cheese grater, the kind with four sides. Although Maggie was going to use a food processor for most of the cheese, she wanted Holly to have the experience of grating some of it by hand. It was touching to see the child’s delight in kitchen tasks of measuring, stirring, tasting.

“Here are the different cheeses we’re going to use,” Maggie said. “Irish Cheddar, Parmesan, smoked Gouda, and Gruyère. After we grate all of this, we’re going to melt it with butter and hot milk….”

The air was filled with good smells, with heat and sweetness, and a whiff of flour dust. Having a child in the kitchen reminded Maggie what a miracle it was that a few basic ingredients could be combined and heated into something wonderful. They made enough mac and cheese to feed an army, and topped it with bread crumbs that had been lightly browned in a pan with butter. They made two pies—one with satiny pumpkin filling, one with plump pecans—and Maggie showed Holly how to crimp a pie crust. They cut the extra scraps of dough into shapes, sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon, and baked them on cookie sheets.

“My mother calls those scrap cookies,” Maggie said.

Holly looked through the oven window at the pie-dough shapes. “Is your mother still alive?” she asked.

“Yes.” Maggie set aside the flour-coated rolling pin and went to Holly. Kneeling behind her, she put her arms around the child, and together they looked into the oven. “What kind of pies did your mother make?” she asked.

“I don’t think she made pies,” Holly said reflectively, “but she made cookies.”

“Chocolate chip?”

“Mmm-hmm. And snickerdoodles…”

It helped, Maggie knew, to be able to talk about those who were gone. It was good to remember. And they continued to talk as they baked, not in a long protracted conversation, but in little here-and-there sprinkles, the spice of memories mingling with the fragrance of warm pie crust.

When Maggie dropped Holly off in the evening, the child put her arms around her waist and held on for an extra-long hug.

Holly’s voice was muffled against Maggie’s front. “Are yousureyou won’t have Thanksgiving with us tomorrow?”

Maggie’s tormented gaze went to Mark, who was standing nearby.

“She can’t, Holls,” he said gently. “Maggie’s family needs her to be there with them tomorrow.”

Except that she could, and they didn’t.

Guilt and worry began to crowd out the good feelings that had blossomed during the afternoon. As she looked from the top of Holly’s head to meet Mark’s vaguely sympathetic gaze, Maggie comprehended how easy it would be to fall in love with both of them. And how much she would have to lose then, more than she could ever survive. But if she could somehow keep from getting seriously involved, she wouldn’t have to risk having her heart broken beyond all hope of repair.

She patted Holly’s back and gently disentangled herself from the child’s enthusiastic grip. “I really have to go to Bellingham tomorrow,” she said briskly. “Bye, Holly. It was a fun day.” She bent and kissed the soft cheek, slightly flavored with cinnamon sugar.

On Thanksgiving morning, Maggie flat-ironed her hair, dressed in trouser jeans, booties, and a spice-colored sweater, and took the large foil-covered casserole dish out to her car.

Just as she began to back out of her driveway, her cell phone rang. Stopping the car, she fished around in her bag until she found the phone amid the clutter of receipts, lip-gloss tubes, and spare change.

“Hello?”

“Maggie?”

“Holly,” she said in instant concern. “How are you?”

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