Page 99 of Mistletoe & Magic
“You don’t have to do this by yourself,” I say, stepping up beside him to take a dish towel.
“You already made half a feast and played Santa,” he says. “Let me do the boring part.”
“I like the boring part if you are in it.”
He sets the plate down and turns. Wet hands touch my waist where the sweater lifts. I shiver and move closer. He smells like coffee, cold air, and a little of the pine that seems to cling to him even on a day off.
“Why do you look at me like that,” he asks, soft and curious.
“Because you are mine,” I say.
He kisses me like a seal on a promise. Someone wolf whistles in the living room, and Donna yells to get a room and then follows it with a comment about eventually giving her grandbabies, and I laugh into his mouth because I love this family, and I love this man and I am not afraid of wanting things anymore.
We load the dishwasher together, moving in a little dance we have not practiced but always know. When he reaches for a stack of bowls and I beat him to it, he smiles like the soup at the center of winter just got richer.
When the last guest finally leans a shoulder into my shoulder and says thank you, when they leave with leftoverplates and hugs that take longer than normal, when the house settles and the air still glitters with something I cannot name, I wrap both arms around Remy’s waist and press my face into his chest.
He runs a hand down my back. “Thank you for making this house a home. Why don’t you go read in your new library? Put your feet up. I’ll finish.”
I tilt my head back to see his eyes. “I will, after. I want to be with you.”
He searches my face for a second that feels like forever. Then he kisses my forehead and nods. “Okay. Then be with me.”
We wipe the counters and fold the cloth napkins. We step into the living room together and right a pillow that fell. Lola lifts her head and pretends she was not snoring. Junie sprawls on her stomach with her new books, reading aloud words she is maybe guessing at and still making true. The tree twinkles. The radio plays a quiet song that must have been written before any of us were born.
Later, when the kitchen sighs in that particular after-dinner way, he takes my hand and draws me down the hall. I know where he is going before we turn the corner. The library waits, golden in the winter afternoon. The canvas of the three of us catches the glow and throws it back.
We sink into the oversized chair by the window, our legs tangling in the blanket across our laps. I open one of the new books, the one with the pressed flowers on the cover, and read a page aloud, then read the same page again because he likes the sound of my voice on words. He kisses my wrist every time I turn a page.
After a while, we stop reading. We stare at the snow falling and talk about nothing and everything. What to make for dinner if we are ever hungry again. When to take Junie sledding. Howmany people Rowan will recruit for her New Year’s Day plunge in the cove and how many will regret it immediately. Whether the lights on the tree can stay until February if we pretend the season still needs them. We are soaking up every last ounce of holiday joy.
“I want a hundred more Christmases like this,” I say.
“You are going to get them,” he says.
I believe in the way Remy looks at me, like the lights came on for the first time, and he never wants them to go dark again.
Chapter 30
Remy
A month later
The house smells like garlic and whatever dessert magic Ivy has going on in the oven. The tree is gone now, decorations are packed carefully into boxes and hauled out to the attic of the barn until next year, but the living room still feels magical. Junie is sprawled on the rug with her colored pencils, Lola watching her like a furry best friend chaperone.
Pizza night is still our thing every Friday, rain or snow, and I look forward to it every week. There was a time I would have been in the barn until dark, eating cold leftovers over the sink. Now, I’m standing in a warm kitchen, flour up to my elbows, waiting for my girl to tell me what toppings she wants.
The sauce is simmering when Ivy slides onto a stool at the island with her notebook. I wipe my hands on a towel and raise a brow. “That looks serious.”
“It is,” she says, smiling, but there’s a nervous edge to it. “I’ve been working on a business plan. I am finally ready to tell you about it.”
I turn off the mixer and lean on the counter, curious. “Why haven’t you told me yet?”
She chews her lip, then says, “I kind of wanted to prove to myself that I could do this before I said anything out loud.”
I flip the towel over my shoulder and grin. “Ivy, this is amazing. Whatever it is, I’m in. Tell me.”
She lays the notebook flat and starts talking, flipping pages she’s filled with neat handwriting and little sketches. It’s an idea for a kids’ program with farm tours, seasonal workshops, even summer day camps where they can learn about trees, animals, nature. She’s mapped out costs, schedules, even a list of local sponsors she could approach to get it going.
