Page 29 of A Merry Penthouse Christmas
“You’re wearing an ugly Christmas sweater,” Beau blurts.
“Am not.Thisis classy.”
He laughs.
It is an ugly Christmas sweater, only they aren’t usually made from cashmere. It is also a lovely shade of royal blue with a Norwegian design, bows in places, and the stitched lettering of a single word.
Daddy
Beau steps closer to me, marveling at the nearly two-story tree, since it’s tall enough to fill the windows, while keeping just enough room on top for a star. “It’s already so beautiful,” he says, “even without ornaments. And you decorated upstairs too?”
“That was almost a week ago.”
“I may have been avoiding going up here.”
“Ah. Then I’m sorry if I gave you any reason to avoid me or an entire floor of my penthouse, apparently.”
He glances at me shyly. “I’m sorry too. For a lot of things.”
I can sense Beau is poised to launch into another emotional and likely self-deprecating diatribe, but while talking is important, and I am glad we’ve finally started to, it’s also important to act.
I finish flinging the last of the silver and gold tinsel in my hands onto the lower bows of the tree. I have a ladder nearby that I used for the top ones. It’s the perfect starting canvas for all the boxed ornaments at our feet.
“Your bedding is in the dryer,” I inform him, “mulled wine is warming on the stovetop, Bastian is soundly asleep still, and you have a change of clothes to get to.” I nod toward the loveseat.
Slung over the back of it is Beau’s ugly Christmas sweater.
“Before you ask, I did not go rummaging through your closet. You’ve had that hanging on the back of your door since… Thanksgiving, I’m guessing?”
“Maybe.” Beau laughs again. “But can you really be doing this right now instead of working? Aren’t you still in the middle of that difficult merger?”
“I am, but someone told me to be more present whenever possible, and last night my son was admitted to the hospital. I am allowed a day off. Besides, I thought you were going to put this tree up weeks ago. No harm done though. You can make it up to me by putting on that sweater and getting us both some wine—and yourself another dose of meds. Just sip the wine slowly.” I wink at him.
The whole apartment smells like it now, like a cozy winter wonderland wrapped in berries, cinnamon, and cloves.
Beau snatches up his sweater and makes an eager dash out of the room to do as told. He seems rejuvenated after his nap, so hopefully it’s a short-lived bug.
I might get the bug too, but taking the day like this is worth it, even if I do get sick. And even if I eventually lose Beau, considering the call I received before he joined me at the hospital.
He is getting that job.
It’s funny. I was working so hard to not let this be some flash in the pan, but now, I think I’m okay if it has to be because I want Beau to get everything he deserves, even if that doesn’t include me.
I hear fussing before Beau returns, and instead of wine, he comes back first with Bastian and a bottle. “I guess someone woke hungry.”
“I’ll take him,” I say, and while I feed the thankfully no longer feverish feeling babe, Beau fills two mugs with wine and comes back looking like a Hallmark card. Or a Hallmark holiday movie, complete with the very fitting saying on his ugly Christmas sweater:
Don’t make me repeat myself.
-History
Bastian’s initial fussiness seems tempered by the sight of the tree lights when I move him closer to it. It can’t look like more than a bright blur to him, but his eyes sparkle in its direction just like Beau’s did.
Usually, after a hearty meal and a good belch, Bastian conks right out again, but his drowsy eyes stay open, and even when he’s in the swing, he remains watching the twinkle of the treelights. He’ll only get more alert from here, more active, more temperamental too, I suppose, as he learns what he likes, what he doesn’t, and just keeps getting older, and bigger, and more of a person each day.
To say I am humbled watching the lights glimmer across my son’s face is putting it mildly. And I am never humbled.
While sitting for a bit to drink our wine, I might be even more humbled catching Beau staring at me. Not luridly like my past dalliances. Not even really longingly. His expression is joyful, maybe even moved at seeing how moved I am to be sharing this season with my son for the first time. I can’t imagine Clara ever getting choked up over such a thing. Or anyone I’ve been with, as if Beau sees a version of me no one else has in decades, or possibly ever.
