Page 51 of Holiday at Home
It’s like stepping into the best of memories, a time before loss and bitterness eroded the joy of being alive.
He smiles like I’m the best part of his day. Like he knows me and wants me and has been waiting for me and in that instant I feel safe. Like everything in my world is falling into place and suddenly, for no reason and every reason, everything is going to be okay.
Simon crosses the bakery like it’s been days since he saw me rather than hours. He wraps me in his arms and lovingly pushes stray tendrils of hair out of my face before pressing his lips tomine. His kiss is tender and filled with want and I lean into him, eager to erase the distance between us. Like I can somehow bridge the gap of time between who we used to be and who we’ve become.
Elizabeth pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Oh,” she says with a knowing grin. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m done in here. I’ll get out of your hair so you kids can do what you’re gonna do without worrying about me.”
I pull away with a nervous giggle. “Simon’s helping me close so he can take me out.”
She nods like she knows that’s only part of the story, then pulls on her coat with a wry smile.
“Have a good evening,” she singsongs, wagging her eyebrows, her gray braid falling over a shoulder as she steps out the door. As it swishes closed, I turn to Simon.
“Do I get to know where we’re going this time or is it another surprise?”
“Of course it’s a surprise. I can’t believe you even have to ask.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “What’s left to do around here?”
That tone—half tease, half promise—wraps around me like ribbon. He has no idea how easily I’d let him drag me anywhere right now.
“Elizabeth got the cleaning done, but I need to count and reconcile the register, run end of day reports, take stock of perishables so I can prep an inventory order, then, you know, look at numbers so I can see what’s selling and what’s lagging and make adjustments in what we offer next week.”
“How much of that has to happen tonight?”
“Most of it.”
Simon bobs his head as he considers the list. “Do you trust me with the register?”
I almost tell him I’d trust him with anything. And thatwastrue. Once. But after the way he left me three years ago, I remind myself he hasn’t earned the full weight of the statement.
But the register?
“Yeah. I trust you with the register.”
We divide and conquer, making quick work of closing the store. We laugh and joke, singing along to our favorite songs as they come on. It reminds me of the best days working here with Mom and Dad, and of how I always dreamed it would be, working with Simon.
The thought roots something both bitter and sweet in my heart.
I turn and find Simon leaning on the doorway of the office, arms crossed, eyes soft, smile light, watching me.
“What?” I ask.
“This is nice,” he replies, and while I search for something to say that doesn’t sound sad about the past or hopeful about the future, a bright poppy non-descript Christmas song ends. There’s a heartbeat of silence, our eyes locked, my thoughts churning and his terribly unclear, and then Nat King Cole starts crooning about chestnuts and open fires.
Simon holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”
“Where? Here?”
“Can’t think of a better place.”
And then I’m in his arms and we’re swaying to the music, my cheek on his chest, his head ducked protectively over me.
It’s a stolen moment.
A sweet moment.
A moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
When the song ends, he kisses the top of my head, then puts a finger to my chin. “You are something special, Violet Sterling. In case you ever wondered.”
