Page 6 of Christmas in Kiwi Country

I’m thankful to be able to love my daughter and be loved in return.

I’m thankful for the woman in my passenger seat who sees every piece of me and stays.

3

GWEN

“Mama?” My daughter, Cheyenne, calls from the back room. She’s practically outgrown it with all the work she’s been doing, and I’ve never been prouder. My little girl has grown up into this beautifully genuine and kind woman who never fails to bring a smile to all those she encounters.

“Yes?” I ask as I round the counter and follow the sound of her voice.

Cheyenne sits behind a large table, a slight frown on her pretty face as she holds beading against one fabric and then the other.

“What do you think?” She shows me each piece and describes what she’s thinking, her creative mind in overdrive. Her talent far surpasses my own, and it never fails to fill me with pride seein’ her in her element.

My girl was so quiet for so long, but seeing her come out of her shell and find love and happiness of her own is everything I could ever ask for and more.

“I think I like the seafoam-green with the iridescent pearls.”

“Right? Me too.” Looking satisfied, she sets both pieces aside and makes some notes on the pad next to her before returning her gaze to me. “How’s Cullen?”

“He’s fine,” I say, dragging out the second word, and Cheyenne grins. “Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”

“Can’t blame a girl for wantin’ to see her mama happy.” My heart breaks a little at her words. I’d done us a disservice of sorts after her father left, but I was never unhappy. A little lonely maybe but not unhappy.

Smiling, I give her the most honest answer I can. “I think I’ve just been waitin’ for the right man to come along.”

“Well, your lipstick looks great so there’s that,” Cheyenne says pointedly, and I blow her a kiss for emphasis.

“It does, doesn’t it?” She nods and I smile. “I’m not sure how he’ll be able to top that one honestly.”

“Knowing Cullen, he’ll find a way.” She giggles and I know she’s right.

Cullen and I hadn’t been dating long when I’d made a comment about my favorite shade of red lipstick being discontinued. He’d always loved the color on me, gave me the nickname, Red, because of it, and we’d commiserated over the loss of our beloved shade.

A while later, he’d presented me with a few tubes he’d located through his big-city connections. It hadn’t been that he’d thrown money at it—hell, Cullen could have bought the damn company and just produced my lipstick if he wanted. Instead, he’d given me so much more.

He’d given me his time and he’d listened—really listened–and dammit if it wasn’t the most thoughtful gift I’d ever received. We’d lovingly called it alipstick moment—a time when he’d done something nice for me.

I thought that’d be the end of it, but it was the beginning of a beautiful tradition of acknowledgement between us.Lipstick momentshave become an integral part of our relationship—a way for him to embrace the little things and a way for me to express my appreciation.

It is something entirely for us, and if it has been a while since we’ve had alipstick moment,one of us always goes out of our way to create another one. Most recently, I’d surprised Cullen with my take on a Chicago-style pizza after he’d said he was missing the city but felt guilty about it considering all the things he was still working through from that time in his life.

We’d stayed up late talking about his favorite foods from Chicago, places he wished he’d explored, and memories from when Isla was young and life hadn’t been so hard. I’d listened and he’d thanked me over and over as the sun came up.

My expression must be telling because my daughter’s face lights up like it’s the Fourth of July.

“Are you gonna let me make your weddin’ dress?” she asks, practically bouncing in her seat.

I throw my head back and laugh. “He’d have to ask me first.”

“But you’d say yes, right? Mama, the way that man looks at you…” Her voice trails off and she dramatically fans her face.

“Don’t be fresh,” I say but I’m only teasing. “I’ll say yes if he asks, but we’re in no rush.”

“But I get to make your dress, right?” she asks again, her smile stretching farther across her face.

“Yes, Cheyenne, you can make my dress.” I pause then say, “But it can’t be white.”

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