Wrapped Up In Christmas

“Typical man,” she accused, pulling glitter, sequins, yarn, and a bunch of other shiny things from a box, “wanting to use the tools.”

“Stick with what you know. That’s my motto.”

“What you know is impressive.” She threaded a large needle with white yarn and picked up one of the plastic pieces.

“Don’t let first impressions fool you.”

She looked up from where she was sewing the yarn into the canvas. “I shouldn’t be impressed?”

He hesitated a moment before answering, “Not by me.”

“We have a problem then, because I am impressed. I’ve never known someone to cut out that many canvas pieces without messing up a single one.”

She’d meant the ornaments. He’d meant…what had he meant? That he’d thought he was a good soldier, but if he’d really been that good his comrades would still be alive?

As if sensing Bodie’s mind was going where it shouldn’t, Harry raised his head from his paws and made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a bark.

Yeah, boy, I know. I’m having way too good a time to go down that mental highway.

So, Bodie focused on the pretty woman smiling at him, embracing her goodness. Her big brown eyes were full of merriment as she hummed along with the Christmas music she’d insisted had to be playing while they cut.

He leaned back, eyes locked with hers as he challenged, “That’s all it takes to impress you? Perfectly shaped snowflakes?”

She held up the snowflake piece she was working on and waved it in front of him. “Don’t underestimate the power of a perfectly shaped snowflake.”

“I thought snowflakes were supposed to be unique, each one different.”

“They are. That’s where all this comes in.” She gestured to the decorating bits. “But as unique as they are, all snowflakes are made up of the same basic ingredient.”

“Snow?”

“Only with our snowflakes, our basic ingredient is plastic.”

Bodie laughed. “Not nearly as eco-friendly.”

“But it lasts longer. I still have snowflakes Aunt Jean and I made when I was a little girl.”

Bodie’s brow lifted. “You’ve been making these that long?”

She nodded. “Aunt Jean loved to make things. Clothes for me, quilts, crafts of all kinds—you name it. Had she not gotten pneumonia, she’d be right here with us making these ornaments.”

Had her aunt been alive when Sarah had made his quilt? Had she helped?

“Is that what she died from? Pneumonia?”

She nodded. “Influenza that turned into pneumonia that turned into respiratory failure that turned into me losing her.”

Bodie reached out, placed his hand over Sarah’s much smaller one and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

Their gazes met, held. Sarah’s eyes held surprise.

No wonder. Bodie was surprised at what he’d done, too. He wasn’t usually a touchy-feely person. He pulled his hand away, picking up another piece of plastic canvas.

He shouldn’t have touched her, had no right to touch her. And yet he’d taken her hand instinctively, wanting to comfort her in her loss.

What made him think he could ease her grief when he couldn’t even console himself?

“You talk about your aunt a lot.” He wanted to move past the awkwardness he’d created. “You’ve mentioned your father plenty of times, but never your mother. Why?”