Page 12 of Caffeinated in Amesbury
“Come on, it’s an action flick set during the holidays, not a true Christmas classic,” another countered, prompting a chorus of playful groans and laughter.
“Ah, the age-old debate. Mind if I weigh in?”
“By all means, Felicity!” Blair’s voice welcomed her, and I slid into the circle, posture relaxed but animated.
“Thank you,” she began, pausing, “but let’s not forget the real gem of the season—’Love Actually.’ It’s got the quintessential mix of love, heartache, and holiday cheer.”
“Ah, but does it have Bruce Willis crawling through vents?” Cole teased, his grin devilish.
“Or Hugh Grant dancing as Prime Minister?” I shot back, earning a ripple of chuckles. “I rest my case.”
“Fair point,” Cole conceded with an appreciative nod. The discussion fluttered on, soaring from one cinematic masterpiece to the next, with my passion for storytelling igniting each exchange like the crackling fire in the hearth.
Amidst the banter, the table of treats beckoned, a siren call to my heightened senses. I excused myself with a playful curtsy and sauntered over, my gaze sweeping across the smorgasbord of yuletide delights. I reached for a gingerbread cookie, its edges perfectly crisped and adorned with white icing that glistened under the fairy lights. As she took a bite, the rich molasses and spicy ginger burst upon her tongue, evoking memories of my mother’s kitchen—the sanctuary of comfort and creativity where my love for literature had been nurtured.
Could anything taste more like Christmas? I poured myself a cup of warm apple cider and raised it to my lips, the heat seeping into my chilled fingers, the tart sweetness mingling with a hint of clove—each sip a cozy embrace. I sighed, savoring the moment.
“Wait till you try the eggnog,” Blair said, sidling up beside her with a knowing glint in her eye. “It’s been spiked with a generous touch of rum. Tradition around these parts.”
“Spiked, you say?” I arched an eyebrow. With a flourish, I ladled the creamy concoction into a red cup trimmed with green holly designs, watching the nutmeg swirl atop the frothy surface like flurries on a winter’s eve. I took a tentative sip, the velvety liquid warming me from the inside out, a dance of flavors that felt like being wrapped in a favorite blanket.
“Blair, this could make even the Grinchiest heart grow three sizes,” I declared, my laughter mingling with the clinks of cups and the soft susurrations of shared joy. In that moment, surrounded by the quaint charm of Amesbury and its patchwork quilt of personalities, I realized some stories didn’t need to be bound between covers—they were lived, breathed, and savored right here, among friends and festivity.
The jingle of bells and the soft shush of sliding feet on polished wood floors coaxed me away from the remnants of my last sip of eggnog. A spirited rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock” had the entire room shimmying, and before I knew what hit me, Blair had snagged my arm, pulling me into the throng of dancers.
“Come on, city girl! Show us how they do it in the Big Apple!” Blair challenged, her cheeks rosy with merriment.
With a laugh, I surrendered to the rhythm, auburn hair catching the light as she twirled. The melody bubbled through me like champagne—effervescent, intoxicating. I was breathless with laughter, blue eyes sparkling, as my body remembered the carefree joy of hometown dances.
“Look at you go!” Thomas cheered, clapping along. His foot tapped out of sync, but his enthusiasm was contagious.
“Who knew?” I gasped between steps, grin wide. “Turns out I can still cut a rug!”
“Or at least fray it a little,” Cole joked, earning an elbow nudge from Blair.
My chuckle was swept up in the chorus as everyone raised their voices for the final “Hey!” In that crescendo, all pretense melted away; I was simply another soul in the tapestry of Amesbury’s holiday cheer.
As the song faded, I caught sight of Mr. Jenkins near the Christmas tree, hands full of colorfully wrapped parcels. His face was a map of wrinkles, each line a story, each crease a secret smile. He doled out gifts with the tenderness of a man distributing precious jewels, not mere boxes.
“Ol’ Santa Jenkins strikes again,” Blair whispered, leaning toward me. “Every year, he brings something for the children. Says no kid should miss out on Christmas magic.”
I watched as a young boy with a patch on his jeans received a small package. His eyes widened, and the gap where his two front teeth should have been made his grin even more endearing. “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins!” he cheered, clutching the gift as if it were a treasure chest.
“Always got room in my sleigh for one more,” Mr. Jenkins replied, his voice rough like sandpaper but gentle as a feather.
“His wife used to knit scarves for the seniors,” Cole added, his tone carrying a note of reverence. “Passed away last spring. But he keeps the tradition alive, says it’s what she would’ve wanted.”
“Here,” Blair said, pressing a small, wrapped box into my hand. “A little something from me to you.”
“Blair, you didn’t have to—” I began, touched by the gesture.
“Ah, but I wanted to,” Blair insisted, her smile as infectious as the tunes that filled the room.
Unwrapping the gift, I discovered a delicate snow globe. Inside, a miniature Amesbury town square.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, voice a hushed whisper against the backdrop of carols and laughter.
“Like this night,” Blair said, squeezing my shoulder. “Something to remember it by.”
