Page 97 of Mistletoe & Magic
We walk the hall to our room with our shoulders touching. I look back once, because I want the picture in my head. The look on Pete’s face tonight when he felt the love of a town that treasures him.
Chapter 29
Ivy
Christmas Day
The house is so quiet I can hear the snow. It touches the windows in soft little ticks, like the day is tapping to come in. I slip out of bed and into a sweater that smells like cedar and the laundry soap Donna swears by. Remy’s side of the bed is cool. A faint line of cold air curls under the door from the mudroom. He is already out with Tate, plowing the drive so the town can reach us later. I picture the two of them under the gray-blue sky, headlamps cutting through the drift, Remy’s mouth set in that focused way he gets when he is taking care of people. It makes my chest ache in a good way.
I pad to the living room first and plug in the tree. The lights blink on in a wave, warm and steady, and the whole room seems to come alive. I stand a minute and let it sink in. First Christmas morning in this house. First Christmas as a family. The words are still new on my tongue. I don’t want to rush a second of this day. Last night Remy and I had fun playing Santa for Junie, getting her stocking ready and putting all of her presents out. I can’t wait to see her reaction when she gets up.
The kitchen waits like a station I know by heart. I gather bowls and flour and sugar without looking, set the butterby the stove to soften, light the candle that smells like orange peel and clove. The playlist plays low, an old crooner singing to nobody in particular about coming home for Christmas, and I hum along as I whisk eggs and milk. Two casseroles, because one is never enough. Sausage, eggs, sourdough torn in ragged chunks, cheddar grated in curls that melt just watching me. Then a bacon one with caramelized onions, roasted peppers, spinach, a dusting of cheese on top. I slide both into the oven. The warmth of the oven whooshes out against my legs.
Cinnamon roll dough is ready in a covered bowl from last night. I flour the counter, turn the dough out, press it flat with my palms. It is soft and elastic and alive. Brown sugar, cinnamon, butter. I roll the whole thing tight, cut with dental floss because my mom taught me the trick, and line two pans with spirals that look like little galaxies. They rise while I make icing. Cream cheese, vanilla, a splash of milk, more powdered sugar than any person should admit to using.
I grin to myself. It is Christmas. I can do what I want.
Boots thud on the porch. The door swings open and cold air gusts in, sharp and clean. Remy comes in, cheeks pink from the wind, eyes bright. “Smells amazing in here,” Remy says, voice warm even with the cold still in it. He kisses my cheek, then pulls me in for a hug like he cannot decide what to do first. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I tell him as I kiss him. “I need you to try this.”
I hand him a bite of casserole to test, “You’re the best.” He takes a bite and closes his eyes. “Oh, this is magical. Marry me.”
“That better not be a real proposal,” I say low, with a frown. “I want romantic gestures, Remy.”
His eyes sparkle. He winks.
“Is it time?” Junie’s voice squeaks from the hallway. She is all pajamas and bedhead and wide eyes, clutching Lola like astuffed toy. Lola tolerates exactly three seconds of that before she hops to the back of the couch, tail high, queen of this kingdom.
“It is time for stockings,” I say, and Junie’s feet drum a little tap dance against the floor.
We settle in the living room. Remy pulls the knit stockings down from their hooks. Junie climbs into the space between us on the couch and does not stop bouncing. The tree lights glow on her face. She looks like a storybook illustration of a child on Christmas morning. I reach for her hot chocolate, add a second cloud of whipped cream just because, and hand it over. She beams.
She dumps her stocking in her lap and gasps at every single thing like each one is the first. Fuzzy socks with tiny trees. A pack of glitter pens. Chapstick that smells like peppermint bark. Stickers. A little plush goat that screams when you squeeze it. She squeezes it eight times and cackles every time.
“It is like the goats at the farm,” she says. “I am going to name him Sparkle.”
Remy hides a smile behind his mug. “Perfect.”
I watch her fingers open each little bundle I wrapped, slow when it makes sense to be slow, fast when she cannot help herself. Art supplies, a set of watercolors that travel in a neat tin, a charm bracelet with pinecones and stars. I tucked these small things away all fall, stashing them in drawers and under the bed and once in the flour bin for two days because I ran out of hiding places. It feels like magic watching them land in her hands now.
Remy leans in. “You nailed it,” he whispers.
“You think?”
“She is over the moon. And so am I.”
Junie’s big present sits under the tree, all paper and ribbon and a tag she reads by sounding out each letter. When she tearsit open and sees the sled, she screams. Then she hugs the sled, which is an experience I did not realize my life was missing until now.
“There is more,” Remy says, and his voice gets funny and soft. He is trying to play it cool, but his eyebrows give him away. He reaches behind the tree and pulls out a giant gift bag and sets it in my lap.
“Remy,” I say, already laughing a little. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
Inside are a dozen small gifts, each wrapped in brown paper with a tiny piece of twine around it. My heart pounds for no reason at all. I open the first. Gloves. Soft and lined, the kind I picked up in shop in town and put back because I was saving. The second is a pair of earrings I admired at the craft fair when we were both pretending not to fall in love. The third is a thin bracelet, warm brown leather and a tiny brass clasp. My breath catches. The fourth is a stack of journaling notebooks, cream pages and gilded edges, the exact brand I once said in passing felt like writing on something kind. Then books. Four of them. A botanical field guide, a new novel I have been waiting for, a cookbook with hand pies on the cover, and a hardcover I held at Willa’s bookstore and sighed over without meaning to let anyone hear.
I set the books in my lap and shake my head. “Did you not already get me enough books with the library?”
