Page 16 of The Holiday

His eyes flick to her face. “I think a little boy might be nice,” he says shyly.

Warmth spreads through Sunday’s body. She’s been thinking the same thing. Raising daughters was a wonder and a joy, but now that she’s held her grandson, she’s thought a lot more about the baby boy she’d given up. Maybe this could be her way of experiencing that, of paying homage to him. She nods excitedly. “A boy would be incredible,” she says.

“And not necessarily a baby,” Banks says, still holding her hand to his cheek. “Like we discussed, maybe a preschooler? I’m thinking of our ages as well. If we adopt a four-year-old, I’ll be in my mid-sixties when he graduates from high school.”

“I’ll be almost seventy,” Sunday says wistfully. That’s the only part that gets her: that something age-related could happen to her before the child is grown, or that she might not be able to give him the active, fun mom that he deserves to have.

“But look at us, Sun,” Banks says. He’s still holding her hand and he puts it in his lap. “We’re healthy and fit, and we have the love to give. That’s the important part, isn’t it?”

She nods as her eyes mist over slightly. It is the important part; he’s not wrong. “We could have a back-up plan,” she says. “I could make sure my girls are totally on board, and if anything happened to us, maybe they could step in and help with…their brother.” Even saying it makes Sunday want to cry happy tears. Her girls could have abrother! “But, Banks, you need to understand that a little boy who has been in the system could have some issues—behavior or otherwise. What are we willing and able to handle?”

Banks shrugs as he looks at the tree, considering this. “I think given our remoteness here on Shipwreck Key—where, for the record, I’m happy to stay—probably a serious medical condition is out. We just don’t have the doctors for it.”

“And I’m willing to love a child until he grows to trust us and love us back,” Sunday says, “but major behavior issues are out for me. God love every child who needs a home, but I know my own limits, and at fifty-five I don’t think I have the energy to put into a boy who has severe anger problems or something of that sort.”

“Are we open to disabilities?”

“I am,” Sunday says readily. “Again, nothing that will require weekly doctor’s visits simply because we live where we do, but I’m open to exploring our options.”

Banks looks at her again, his eyes filled with joy, anticipation, excitement, and a little fear. It’s a big step, becoming a parent. No one goes into it lightly, no matter how it happens for them.

“We’re doing this,” he says, putting a hand over his mouth as he looks at the woman he loves.

They stare wide-eyed at one another. “We are.” Sunday is nodding her headyesand feeling the overwhelming sensation of love, possibility, and the vast unknown. “We’re really doing this.”

Banks pulls her close, wrapping an arm around the woman he loves as she curls into his side. They sit there on the couch on Christmas Eve morning, both lost in their own happy thoughts as they watch the lights of the tree in silent wonder.

Ruby

Ruby sleeps. She sleeps and sleeps and sleeps, and when she finally wakes up, it’s late on Christmas Eve, and daylight is waning.

“Dex?” She sits up in her bed, feeling the room spin. “Athena? Harlow?”

The house is not quiet, but the upstairs is; she can hear faint music and voices from downstairs.

“Can anyone hear me?” Ruby croaks. She tries to swing her feet around and put them on the floor, but this results in the world shifting beneath her, so Ruby falls back on her pillows and reaches for her phone on the nightstand.

“You’re up,” Dexter says, responding almost immediately to the text she sends. He walks into her room, turning on a lamp as he does. “How are you?”

Ruby runs a hand over her hot face and tries to look at Dexter through what feels like swollen eyes. “I’m not good,” she says. “What’s going on?”

Dexter pulls her curtains open so that she can see outside. “It’s snowing,” he says.

Ruby can’t help herself this time—she sits up, propping her upper body up on the mound of pillows behind her. “No way,” she says. “Snow? On Shipwreck Key?” Sunday had told her that snow was in the forecast, but there was no part of her that believed it would actually happen. “And I’m sick,” she adds, putting one hand to her raw throat.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” Dexter says, sitting on the foot of her bed and watching her with concern. “Seems like the flu, but one of the guys I talked to last night at the cocktail party in the bookstore is a doctor, so I’ll run down to the dock and find him if you get any worse.”

Ruby chuckles at the image of Dexter rousing a bunch of wealthy retirees on their yachts on Christmas Eve in a panic just to find a doctor who will come to her house and tell her to drink lots of fluids and take it easy.

“No need for that,” Ruby says, sniffling. “I’ve had the flu plenty of times in my life. I’ll get through it.” Her eyes drift to the snow that’s falling outside her bedroom window, and she watches in wonder as it sticks to the fronds of a palm tree on the beach. The sight of it is so bizarre that her brain almost won’t accept it. “What are you guys doing?”

“Sunday and Banks are over. We’re having chips and dip, and Harlow is mixing cocktails. They’re headed over to Sunday’s house soon so that they can have dinner with her family, but we thought we’d entertain a little and make things feel as festive as we can.”

A rush of guilt washes over Ruby. “I’m sorry,” she says, reaching in Dexter’s direction. “I had such big plans for this holiday, and then I went and got sick and ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Rubes,” he assures her. “People get sick. It happens.”

Ruby nods, but she’s still feeling terrible about the fact that she’s not in the kitchen, peeling potatoes or pulling a juicy turkey from the oven to serve with homemade cheese biscuits and green bean casserole. Instead, she’s stuck in bed craving ice water and Advil.

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