“I hope you have a wonderful time in Asheville.”
That part mattered.
I didn’t want my happiness to require his disappointment.
He hugged me before leaving.
It was slightly awkward.
But it was real.
On December 23, Daniel and Natalie came for coffee and gifts just as he’d proposed.
Natalie wore a beautiful wool coat and brought me a candle that smelled like cedar.
I gave her a scarf I’d bought before the Asheville conversation, and she seemed genuinely pleased with it.
There was no confrontation.
We sat in the living room for about an hour.
Daniel ate four shortbread stars.
Natalie complimented the tree.
They told me about the mountain house and their plans for Christmas Eve.
I wished them safe travels.
When their car backed out of the driveway, I stood at the window for only a few seconds.
Then I went into the kitchen.
I had seventeen people to feed.
The day before Christmas, I brined the chickens.
The Pfeffernüsse were already stored in tins so the flavors could deepen. The shortbread was finished. The cranberry sauce sat in the refrigerator. The ham was ready.
Carol came over to help set the table.
We opened the old red tablecloth I had brought down from the attic.
My grandmother had embroidered tiny holly leaves at the corners. The fabric was thinning in places, and the red was not as bright as it once had been.
I almost replaced it with something newer.
Then I remembered Priya holding my mother’s recipe card.
Someday someone will want them.
I spread the old cloth across the table.
Carol stood in the dining room doorway.
The main table was extended as far as it could go. A card table stood at the end, and borrowed folding chairs filled the remaining spaces.
Seventeen plates.
Seventeen glasses.
Seventeen cloth napkins that did not all match.
The pine garland ran along the mantel. White candles stood between the branches.
Carol was quiet.
“What?” I asked.
“This is beautiful.”
“It’s crowded.”
“That’s why it’s beautiful.”
She walked to the place where we’d hung the little silver bell on the tree.
Then she straightened one of the napkins.
“Last week I thought I was going to spend tomorrow pretending it was a normal day.”
I looked at her.
She kept her eyes on the table.
“I wasn’t going to tell anybody.”
“I’m glad you’re coming.”
“So am I.”
Christmas morning was cold and clear.
No snow.
Just frost on the lawns and a pale blue sky.
I woke at 5:30 without an alarm.
For several seconds, I lay still listening to the quiet house.
Then I remembered there were seventeen people coming.
I got up.
I put on my poinsettia apron.
Daniel had given it to me years earlier during the period when he believed aprons were the perfect gift for a mother who cooked.
I had teased him about it at the time.
Now I tied it around my waist and smiled.
The ham went into the oven at eight.
The chickens had been brining for two days. I removed them, dried the skin carefully, and prepared them with lemon, rosemary, garlic, and butter.
The potatoes were assembled and waiting for oven space.
By nine, Ruth arrived carrying sparkling cider under one arm and her late husband’s record player under the other.
“What are you doing with that?”
“Saving us from your radio.”
“My radio is fine.”
“Your radio has commercials.”
She set the record player in the living room.
“My husband said Christmas needed records.”
She pulled out an old Nat King Cole album.
For one second, her face changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
I touched her arm.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“Today I am.”
We put the record on.
Warm music filled the room.
At noon, Marcus and Priya arrived an hour early.
Priya stepped through the front door and stopped.
Her coat was still buttoned.
She looked at the candles along the mantel, the tree, the garland, and the dining room beyond.
She covered her mouth with one hand.
“Oh.”
Then she smiled.
“My grandmother’s house looked like this during Diwali. All the little lights.”
I took her coat.
“Then you’re home.”
She followed me into the kitchen and immediately asked what she could do.
Marcus carried in a dish they’d made themselves, roasted vegetables with spices Priya said were “not quite Christmas, but close enough.”
“Food doesn’t need a passport,” Ruth said.
Marcus grinned.
Jerome came next.