about her life, he asked, âWhat have you done in the past on Christmas Day?â
âOnce, when I was younger, we went hiking in the woods while the turkey was cooking. It was great fun. Both my parents went. My mamm was healthy then,â she explained, her tone wistful. âAnother time, I visited all my friends. A few of us went ice skating. Sometimes now we all get together at each otherâs houses and have a Christmas potluck.â
âHmm.â
âWhat about you, Chris? What did you used to do on Christmas Day. Before . . .â
âBefore I couldnât go home? Well, most Christmases my brothers and I received too much and played too hard. We used to love to get Hot Wheelsâthose are little metal cars. Weâd race them around the house.â
âAnd who would win?â
âMy oldest brother, of course. Thatâs how it goes with brothers, Beth. The oldest always wins.â
Because she was there, he gave himself permission to think about things that he usually made himself forget. âMy mom makes a beef tenderloin for Christmas dinner. And some kind of potato casserole that probably has about a thousand calories in it, which is so good. And green beans. And squash.â
She chuckled. âYou wrinkled your nose at the squash.â
âI donât care for it. At least I didnât use to.â Now, though, he imagined that heâd probably lick his plate clean, heâd be so grateful for the comfort of a familiar meal. For the life of him, he couldnât remember the last time heâd had a meal like that. A homemade Christmas meal served on china.
âWhat else?â
Since Beth seemed so interested, Chris continued, his voice warming at the fond memories in spite of his best intentions to forget his past. âMy mother gets out her fancy wedding china and we eat at the dining room table, trying not to break anything or spill gravy on the white linen tablecloth. But of course, we always do.â He chuckled. âMy fatherâs the worst. He canât keep a tablecloth clean to save his soul. He always apologizes and my mother always looks irritated but pretends it doesnât matter. We all try to use the manners she taught us, but it all goes out the window about five minutes after we say the blessing. Next thing you know, weâre arguing and giving each other grief.â
âYour Christmas dinner sounds wonderful-gut ,â she whispered.
âIt is. I mean, it was. I havenât been there for dinner in a long time. I wish . . .â Hating to sound so weak, he let his voice drift off.
But of course Beth prodded. âWhat do you wish?â
âI wish I could see it all again one day.â But more than that, he wished he could take her to his parentsâ home for Christmas dinner.
Heâd be so proud, bringing her in through the front door. Instinctively, he knew sheâd love the tree in their living room and the bands of garland wrapped around the banister with wide silver ribbon. Sheâd love the big marble fireplace decorated with stockings, lights, and yet more garland and ribbons. Sheâd enjoy his motherâs pecan pie and almond tarts and would no doubt love Beasley, his parentsâ old English sheepdog. Beasley was too big and too furry and, worse, he loved to sit on the couch and cuddle and get dog fur and dog slobber all over everyoneâs clothes.
He was a wonderful dog.
Just as important, he knew that his parents would love her. After all, who wouldnât love Beth? And his brothers? Well, theyâd probably curb their cussing and become almost gentlemanly. And when she wasnât in the room, theyâd most likely jab him in the ribs and ask how a beautiful woman like her would ever look twice at a guy like him.
Yes, if he brought someone like her home for Christmas? He would feel like he had finally done something right. Getting a woman like her to love him
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