Page 29 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
It's hard to reconcile the image of the vibrant Christmas Queen with a lonely childhood. "Is that why you're so obsessed with Christmas now? Making up for lost time?"
She considers this, sipping her cider. "Maybe partly. But it's more that I always believed in what Christmas could be, even if I didn't experience it myself. I'd watch movies, read books, see other families celebrating, and I knew it was real somewhere."
"Most people would become cynical."
"What's the point of that?" She turns to me, her expression earnest. "Being cynical doesn't create joy. It just ensures you never find it."
The simplicity of her philosophy catches me off guard. Before I can respond, she's tugging at my sleeve again.
"Chili cook-off! Come on, we have to try some."
I follow her to a row of booths where contestants are offering samples of their chili. Lettie enthusiastically tries each one, commenting on the balance of spices, the tenderness of the meat, the choice of beans. I'm surprised again by her knowledge.
"You know a lot about chili for someone who grew up with private chefs," I remark after we've tried five different varieties.
She laughs. "I didn't have a private chef. My parents were well-off, but not that well-off." She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. "And I didn't try chili until I was in college. My best friend Tomlin's husband, Densel—his grandmother makes the most amazing white chicken chili. It changed my life."
"White chicken chili isn't real chili," I say automatically, an old argument from my bartending days.
She gasps in mock offense. "You take that back, McKenna."
"Real chili has beef, tomatoes, and no beans."
"Says who? The chili police?"
"Says anyone from Texas."
"Good thing we're in Oregon then," she quips, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Around here, we embrace chili diversity."
I can't help but chuckle, surprised by how easy it is to banter with her when I'm not fighting against the pull she has on me.
As we continue through the festival, I find myself watching her more than the attractions. The way her eyes light up at each new discovery. The slight bounce in her step when she's excited. How she genuinely engages with every vendor, asking questions about their crafts or food.
We pass a booth selling handmade ornaments, and she stops to admire them.
"These are beautiful," she says to the elderly woman behind the table. "Do you make them yourself?"
The woman nods, clearly pleased by Lettie's interest. "My husband and I. Forty-three years with the old nut making them together."
"Forty-three years," Lettie repeats, awe in her voice. "That's incredible."
"Started the first year we were married," the woman says, glancing at an older man arranging more ornaments nearby. "Made a pact to create a new design each Christmas."
Lettie picks up a delicate wooden star. "This craftsmanship is amazing."
"That's Herbert's work. He's got the patience for the fine details." The woman leans forward conspiratorially. "I do the painting. His eyes aren't what they used to be, but he won't admit it."
"I heard that, Mildred," the man calls over without looking up.
The woman winks at Lettie. "Forty-three years and he still thinks I don't know all his secrets."
Lettie laughs, then looks at me with something unreadable in her eyes. "How much for two of the stars?"
"For you, dear? Fifteen each."
I reach for my wallet, but Lettie's already handing over cash.
"These are perfect," she says, carefully placing them in her bag. "Thank you so much."
