Page 43 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Sara must sense someone behind her because she spins around and drops the ladle. “Oh!” Her hand flies to her collarbone.
“Sorry.” My shoulders slump. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You’re forgiven. At least I didn’t throw a fire extinguisher at you.” She stoops to grab the ladle. While she rinses it in the sink, I take a couple big appreciative sniffs, like the hound dog that I am.
“What smells so good?”
“Cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, and whole cloves.” She tips her chin at the smaller of the two pots on the stove. “Just like your mom does.” But when her eyes light up and her mouth curves into a smile, she looksabsolutely nothinglike my mom.
“I grabbed the spices as a surprise while you were getting the construction paper and glue,” she says. “And you’re right. This combination really does make the whole place smell like Christmas.”
“Hmm.” I nod at her, slowly. Threads of steam curl up toward the exhaust fan. “What else am I smelling?” Somethingrumbles in the larger pot, and the lid bubbles up as I move closer to the stove. “Is that popcorn?”
“Yup.” Her smile spreads even wider. “This batch is almost ready for us to make some Fuller family garland. So why don’t you wait for me in the living room?” She turns off the heat, jiggling the handle of the pot. A final few kernelspop-pop-pop. But instead of leaving, I watch her, mesmerized. After a long stretch of seconds, she turns back to me. “Go on. I’ll meet you in five minutes.”
She reaches a palm up and gently presses my chest, prompting me into the other room. I’m sure the gesture’s innocent, but my throat goes dry and my pulse accelerates. So I make my escape to the living room, hoping to distract myself by stacking logs and getting a blaze going in the fireplace.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But soon enough, the leaping flames bring me back to those summer bonfires with Sara. We’d hunker down on the sand, my arm wrapped around her, safe and warm. She’d drape her legs across my lap. Eyes sparkling. Laughter on her lips.
Keep it together, Three. By Christmas, Sara will be gone.
As if my thoughts conjure her from the kitchen, Sara appears over my shoulder, setting a stack of napkins and an enormous bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves clings to her. Like all the sweet spices of Christmas just took on a human form.
“I made enough popcorn to eatandto sew,” she chirps, dropping onto the couch beside me. Her leg brushes mine, and heat shoots straight up my spine. I might as well be a chestnut roasting on an open fire.
“Are you ready?” She pulls a velvet pouch from the pocket of her cardigan.
“What’s that?”
“Our sewing supplies,” she says. “I got these at the Five and Dime.” From the pouch she plucks two spools—one with green thread, the other red. There’s a needle stuck through the centerof both. “I’ve never actually threaded a needle, though,” she admits.
“No Home Ec for you at prep school?”
“Hardly.” She coughs out a weak laugh. “And it’s not like my mom showed me how to sew. She wasn’t exactly into darning old socks or replacing lost shirt buttons.”
I reach for the red spool. “I can teach you.”
Sara hikes her brow. “Well, aren’t you Mr. Confident.”
I try to ignore the warmth spreading up my throat. “There are plenty of things I’m not good at, believe me.”Like controlling my feelings around you, for example. “But this is my family tradition, so I’ve done this once or twice. Or a couple dozen times. And I teach teenagers, remember? Surely I can teach you.”
“Hey, now.” Sara sneaks out a tiny snort.
“No offense.” With a chuckle, I unravel at least a yard of thread, then I guide one end of it slowly through the eye of the needle. Finally something else to focus on other than Sara.
“See?” I say. “Easy.”
“Okay, my turn.” She draws her bottom lip up under her teeth in a move so tempting, I’m surprised I don’t groan.
So much for keeping it together.
She slides the needle free from the green spool, unwinds a long stretch of thread, and cuts it. After pinching the length of thread between her thumb and forefinger, she takes a stab at getting the tip through the eye. She misses completely. “Hmph. This feels like trying to push lasagna noodles through a strainer.”
“That’s because your thread’s split at the top. It’s not going to fit in the eye like that.”
She squints down at the thread. “I guess it does look a little … thick. So what do I do?”
