Page 68 of Meet Me at Christmas
“Mary Jo and I made them,” he said, holding the basket out to Stella. “She suggested I bring them over.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking them from him and letting him in.
He peered up at the ceiling. “How’s the spot? Has it dried up yet?”
“It looks like it,” she said, following his gaze. “It just needs a good coat of paint now.”
“I’ve got some scaffolding back at the house. I could put a little primer on it and then fix it right up.”
A flurry of wistfulness overtook her. “You always loved to fix things.”
His eyebrows rose with his smile. “Still do, evidently.”
Trying to stifle the thrill that snaked through her at the sight of his smile, Stella focused on the biscuits. She held up the basket. “So you baked these? I’ve never known you to bake anything.”
He raised his hands in the air like a fugitive caught in the act. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I didn’t do the baking. That was Mary Jo. I just pressed the biscuit cutter into the dough.”
She shook her head playfully. “SoMary Jomade these.”
“I was there for moral support, but Green Bay was playing Miami, and the game was tied at the half.”
Stella threw her head back and laughed. “That’s the Henry I know and love.”
They both sobered at the wordlove.
“It’s good to see you spending time with your sister and watching football. Those sound like happy moments—a lot different from when I first arrived.”
“I’m not the same as I was that day,” he said. He shrugged off his coat and hung it over the stairway railing. “You make me want to do better.”
“Why?” she asked, legitimately curious. What had she done to help him? If anything, she was messing it all up by being there, muddling both their lives.
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I don’t really understand it. When you’re around, it’s as if I’ve gotten my best friend back, and I’m whole again. I do remember how I felt about you, but even if I didn’t, I swear I’d still feel it.”
Her chest tightened with the knowledge of what he’d yet to learn about their history. “Let’s go sit by the fire.” She led the way to the living room and they settled on the sofa, the fabric warm from the blazing flames across the room. She set the basket on the coffee table. “I’m ready to tell you what happened.”
“Wait,” he said, putting his hand on her arm, his heavy grip sending a current through her. “What if you don’t?”
“I thought you wanted to know.”
“After you tell me, will I still feel the way I feel for you right now?”
Her face burned with the answer. “Maybe not.”
“Then don’t tell me.”
She stared at him, full of indecision. She’d been building up to this for so long and now that she had the courage, he’d stopped her. For what? Shouldn’t she get it out in the open? What if he remembered how she left on his own? He needed to know why.
Henry got up and assessed Pop’s old stereo. “We used to play music on this, yes?”
Adoration for that carefree time in their lives washed over her. “Yes.”
He nodded. “It’s familiar. May I?”
“Of course.”
He clicked it on and fiddled with the knobs, tuning the radio, and stopping on holiday music. “That’s better.” He seemed to have nervous energy as he walked over to the fireplace and ran his fingers along Stella’s and her mother’s stockings. He moved to the tree and studied a few of the ornaments.
“I’ll Be Home for Christmas” poured from the speakers, filling the room. He stopped in the empty space between the living room and the kitchen, scrutinizing the floor.
