“You know, I just talked to Darlene, and—”
“Dad. I love you, I love Aunt Darlene, but I don’t love Christmas in Milwaukee. Christmas is just a day. We’ll celebrate when you get back.”
“I know we will. And we found you the best present at the Seattle airport.”
I wince
. Airport gifts. Yay.
“Sounds amazing. Now, how about you guys go do that champagne-tasting thing Mom was talking about, and I’ll go decorate my new tree.”
“Is it big?”
“Yup.”
“Crooked?”
“Always.”
“Sounds perfect. Mark help you?”
It’s technically a question, but my dad says it more like a statement, as though it’s a foregone conclusion that my best friend would be willing to help me lug home a Christmas tree. Which I guess it sort of is.
“He did. He even helped me get it into the stand.”
He hadn’t, however, taken me up on my offer to stay and decorate, but…eh. I wasn’t really expecting it. Mark’s a guy’s guy. He has his limits.
I thought about calling one of my girlfriends, but my best girl (Ivy) is a mom of two and has her own Christmas thing going on. Plus she and I are grabbing coffee tomorrow.
My other Haven bestie (after Ivy and Mark) is Krista, but she’s cozied up in a Vermont cabin with her new boyfriend.
I have plenty of other friends in Haven, but they’re more the “Hey, let’s grab a beer on a Saturday” type of friends, not the “Come decorate my Christmas tree, and don’t judge if I get teary during the song ‘The Christmas Shoes’?” kind.
My dad hands the phone back to my mom, who insists I take video of myself decorating the tree. I compromise by agreeing to send photos of each stage of the process so she can see, then send them on their way to their champagne tasting.
Then it’s just me, Dean Martin’s voice, and a whole lot of boxes of lights.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to sing along with “Silver Bells” as I tug out the first strand of lights and begin the tedious process of unwinding the coil.
I’ve just plugged the first strand into the wall and have started winding it haphazardly among the bottom branches when there’s a thump at the back door.
Probably Rigby. I’ve been trying not to let my feelings get hurt by the fact that Rigby followed Mark home after the tree setup. Mark said the dog was neurotic and just needed some time to get used to the newness of the tree. A kind way of letting me deny that my dog is perhaps starting to prefer Mark to me.
It is Rigby at the back door, but the cocker spaniel’s not alone.
Mark’s changed into clean jeans and a black sweater, his dark hair not all the way dry after his post-tree-farm shower.
He’s also got a bag of groceries in one hand and wine in the other, which I know from experience means really good things for my belly.
“Sorry to distract you from the tree project. My hands were full,” he says by way of greeting as he pushes past me and heads for my kitchen.
“You’re here to help me decorate?” I say, not bothering to keep the surprised pleasure out of my voice.
“I’m here to test a new pasta recipe on you while you decorate the tree.”
He’s started to unload the groceries, but he has to stop when I hurl myself at him, my arms pinning his to his sides. I squeeze as hard as I can.
“Thank you,” I say, pressing my cheek to his shoulder.