Page 33 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
Our faces are inches apart, her breath visible in the cold air. Snowflakes catch in her hair, on her eyelashes. She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
For a moment, we just stand there, neither of us moving away. Then she reaches up, brushing snow from my hair with a gentle touch.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"For what?"
"For this. For today. For not fighting me on everything."
I should step back. I should maintain the distance I've so carefully constructed. Instead, I offer the truth. "You make it hard to say no."
Her smile is warm enough to melt the snow around us. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Don't get used to it."
She laughs, then turns to examine our fallen tree. "Let's get this inside and decorated."
Back in the cabin, I set up the tree in an old bucket filled with rocks from outside. It's not pretty, but it's stable. Lettie immediately goes to work, searching through my kitchen drawers.
"What are you looking for?" I ask.
"String, thread, anything like that."
I rummage through a drawer and find some fishing line left by the previous tenant. "Will this work?"
"Perfect!" She takes it, then spots the popcorn on the counter. "Can I use this?"
Twenty minutes later, she's sitting cross-legged on my floor, threading popcorn onto fishing line to make a garland. It's ridiculous and childish and somehow exactly what my stark cabin needs.
"My friend Tomlin and I used to do this in college," she says as she works. "We'd sneak a tree into our dorm room, eventhough it was against the rules, and decorate it with whatever we could find. Popcorn, paper chains, earrings, dried orange slices."
"Why was it so important to you?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She pauses, considering. "I think... because it was mine. My parents' Christmas was always about appearances, about impressing clients and society friends. Perfect decorations that were untouchable. But this—" she holds up the popcorn strand, "—this is real. Imperfect. Made with my own hands."
I understand that better than she knows. The need to create something that belongs only to you, after having so much taken away.
While she works on the garland, I dig through a storage closet and find a string of battery-operated lights left over from some construction work. They're not fancy, just simple white LEDs, but when I show them to Lettie, you'd think I'd handed her diamonds.
"These are perfect!" she exclaims, immediately starting to wrap them around the small tree.
I help her arrange the popcorn garland, then stand back as she adds the finishing touch—the wooden star ornament, perched slightly crookedly on the top branch.
"It needs something else," she declares, looking around the room. Her eyes light on my bourbon collection. "May I?"
I nod, curious what she has in mind.
She takes an empty bottle, one of our special reserve bottles with a deep blue glass, and places it near the base of the tree where it catches and reflects the light.
"There," she says, satisfied. "What do you think?"
It's not a traditional Christmas tree by any means. It's lopsided, with sparse branches unevenly covered in popcorn and utilitarian lights. The star tilts slightly to the left, and an empty bourbon bottle serves as its only real ornament.
Yet somehow, it's perfect.
"It's not bad," I admit.
She beams at me, knowing that's as close to enthusiasm as I'm likely to give. "It's beautiful."
