A wreath that matched the one on his own home away from home was topped with a crooked, shiny gold bow. The window boxes positively exploded with holiday color—red, white and pink poinsettias intermingling as nature intended.
“Are you going to gawk at my home all day or come in?” Calliope lifted a crookedly made coffee mug into the stream of sunlight arching through her kitchen window. He could see—and smell—the steam rising into the air. His stomach growled.
“Can’t I do both?”
“I don’t know how you can do anything when you’re buttoned up as tightly as you are.” She motioned him to the table, where she set down his coffee. “Loosening one or two might make you breathe a bit easier.”
“Now you’re criticizing my clothes?”
“Merely making an observation. No offense meant.”
“None taken, then.” He touched his fingers to his throat and...opened the top two buttons of his shirt. “The scones smell amazing.”
“Thank you. They’re lemon thyme. My grandmother’s recipe. She taught me to bake them when I was a little younger than Stella.”
“Was this your grandmother’s house?” He sipped at his coffee and accepted the morning jolt happily. The tree in the corner of the sitting room displayed flickering lights and antique ornaments, most of them handmade. Sprigs of mistletoe dotted the branches and cascaded down from the window ledges on the inside of the house.
“And her mother’s, yes. Gran built on, of course.” She turned on the gas stove beneath a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet and set to cracking eggs in sizzling butter. “Originally it was just this room here. Then as the family grew, and technology improved, so did the house.”
“You’ve lived here all your life.” He reached out and plucked a persimmon from the bowl on the table. “Do you mind?”
“Help yourself.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Just save enough for Stella. She plans to make cookies for the Christmas fair.”
He nodded, retrieved a knife to cut off the top, then bit into the orange flesh. That crispy snap reminded him of Saturdays in the apple orchard with his grandfather. “My mother used to make persimmon jam. I remember coming down on a Saturday and slathering her homemade bread with it.”
“Your mother’s a baker then?”
“My mother’s a bit of everything. Dad was focused on the family business, Mom minded the family.” If only his father had paid a little more attention to the firm in the last couple of years, maybe they wouldn’t be in the situation they were in today.
“You mentioned your sister, Ophelia. Older or younger?”
“Younger. I’m the second oldest. Antony, then me, Ophelia, Dyna and Alethea, the baby.”
“Five.” Calliope breathed the word as she shook her head. “Yes, your mother would be a bit of everything. Good morning, poppet.”
“Morning.”
Xander looked over his shoulder as Stella shuffled into the kitchen. She wore knitted cat slippers on her feet and a yellow nightgown dotted with tiny pink flowers. Her long red hair tumbled around her shoulders, as if to keep her warm against the morning chill coming through the open front door.
“Hello, again.” Xander retrieved the mug Calliope held out and set it on the table for the little girl. “Did we wake you up?”
“No.” She sank onto the bench across from him and rubbed her eyes. “I had that dream again.”
“About the owls?” Calliope went about her breakfast, flipping and seasoning the eggs before stooping over to retrieve the sheet of scones from the oven. “Was it the white or brown one this time?”
“Both. They were trying to tell me something.”
Xander watched Stella’s brow furrow as she gnawed on her lower lip. “I used to dream about a talking frog named Sherman,” he offered.
The sisters looked at him, something akin to confusion on their faces.
“Frogs can be powerful omens and spirit animals,” Calliope said after she blinked a few times. “Do you mind me asking what Sherman said?”
“No, I don’t mind. But I don’t remember. I was about Stella’s age when it stopped.” Or at least when he stopped talking about the dreams. Antony had taken inordinate pleasure teasing him about dreaming about amphibians rather than baseball or soccer.