“I’ll take the blame,” he said.
“Or the credit,” Meredith countered.
“No, you get all that for the years and years you’ve already worked.”
Meredith looked at Eric as if he’d grown horns. The day’s menu required a level of skill way beyond preheating an oven.
“Go,” he said again. “I’m serious.”
“But you don’t know the first thing about—”
“I’ll wing it,” he said, interrupting her. “It’ll be me, your recipe box, and Google. Between the three of us, we’ll figure it out.”
“Okay,” she said, then she slowly left the kitchen and joined the group in the front room.
The next several hours were filled with laughter as Meredith sat with the kids. They reminisced about childhood memories. The girls told her about their courtships. The young men asked Meredith about herself, something that gave them serious points in her book. After an hour or so, she wondered if they should take a break to shower and get dressed. She couldn’t deny that sitting on a sofa by the fireplace and twinkling tree lights felt remarkably comfortable.
Eric appeared around the corner.
“Need help?” she asked, moving to stand.
“Nope.” He entered with a tray of steaming mugs. He lowered it to the coffee table, revealing the fixings for hot cocoa— three varieties, mini marshmallows in a little bowl, a pressurized can of whipped cream, a bottle of cinnamon, and a piece of chocolate beside a vegetable peeler for adding garnish— just how she used to make hot cocoa trays.
He paid attention.
“Enjoy,” Eric said. “I’ll be starting the rolls if you need anything.”
Spencer and Brandon dug into the tray, but Maggie and Becca watched him leave, wearing expressions of worry.
“Uh, Mom?” Maggie gestured toward the kitchen.
“Yeah,” Becca added, turning to their mother. “Is Dad having a midlife crisis or something?”
“No.” Meredith chuckled silently and shook her head. She almost went on to say that he was making Christmas dinner so she could be out here with them, but she couldn’t form the words. Saying that much would lead to questions, which might lead to talking about the divorce. Even if it didn’t, Meredith couldn’t bear it if her girls thought that their mother had given up on a marriage that their dad had gone above and beyond for.
One morning doesn’t equate heroic measures.
A loud clank came from the kitchen, followed by a gasp and a curse, repeated several times, followed by, “I’m fine.”
Had Eric dropped an empty pot or done something messier, like splatter melted butter all over? In spite of her curiosity, Meredith casually mixed amaretto cocoa powder into a mug of steaming water. She added whipped cream and chocolate curls, followed by a sprinkling of cinnamon. Perfect. Meredith sat back, inhaling the wonderful scent, and sipped. Her daughters followed her example by making their own mugs.
The rest of the day followed a similar pattern: wonderful conversation interspersed with sounds that portended doom followed by Eric’s yelled assurances that all was well. They always continued their conversation. Meredith heard how Maggie and Spencer once got lost at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, how Becca had solved a supposedly unsolvable equation, and how that had clinched Brandon’s admiration for her. The stories included funny situations, embarrassing moments, hard times. In a few hours, Meredith felt like she knew her children better than she had since they were in grade school.
Eventually, they parted to shower and get dressed, and then they gathered again in the front room, where they played card games and talked some more. Meredith couldn’t remember a more enjoyable Christmas, although a tiny part of her had to admit that the fact that Eric was struggling in the kitchen brought a little bit of joy all by itself.
Around three o’clock— a full hour later than Meredith traditionally served dinner— Eric appeared, a dirty apron covering his pajamas, his hair disheveled, and his face sweaty.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said. He turned around and walked toward the dining room, his shoulders rounded.
Meredith tried to find some sense of satisfaction in the sight. After all, he’d gone into the adventure, thinking he could conquer it the way he’d conquered the business world— and had gotten quite an overdue, eye-opening experience. But she felt no sense of justice or triumph.
The others reached the dining room first and quickly found seats. Meredith followed behind, eying Eric, who stood in the dining room entry, looking exhausted and spent. Becca took a roll from the basket and tapped it against her plate, showing how hard it was. The girls chuckled quietly. The rolls did look a bit dark.
The table’s spread didn’t include either of the salads she’d planned or the creamed peas, a recipe handed down from Eric’s mother. A small bowl looked like it might hold gravy, but even from six feet away, she could see lumps in it. There were the mashed potatoes, and something that was probably dressing, but the most important item was missing.
Maggie turned to her father. “Where’s the turkey?”
“It’s raw,” Eric said flatly. “I thought I gave it plenty of time, but I’ve never cooked a bird before, and it’s not even close to being done. Maybe the oven wasn’t on high enough. I don’t know.” Eric ran a hand through his hair and left traces of flour behind. “Sorry I ruined Christmas. We still have some leftovers from yesterday, and more of Mom’s pies.”
“It’s fine,” Becca said. “We’ll just have to be careful not to break any teeth on the rolls.” She grinned, and Eric cracked a slight smile.
Maggie took her spoon and snitched a taste of dressing. One eye closed entirely, and her mouth puckered. She drank an entire goblet of water to get rid of the taste. At Eric’s dejected face, she set her glass down and said, “Dad, it’s okay. Christmas isn’t only about the food. It’s been a great day.” She looked at Meredith, who’d just taken her seat. “We haven’t had a chance to talk to Mom like this in a long time. It’s been awesome.”
“It has been pretty great,” Meredith said.
Becca set the roll on her plate with a clunk. “Remember how we used to help you in the kitchen? Those are some of my happiest Christmas memories.”
“Really?” Meredith’s eyes burned slightly with happy tears. She blinked to clear them.
“It was fun making the food,” Maggie agree. “But we loved spending time with you, too. That’s why I’m kind of glad you got sick or whatever last night, so Dad got stuck in the kitchen. I’ve missed you.”
What had happened to the teens who’d declared Christmas ruined by an imperfect meal? Maybe that was just their teen alter egos speaking.
She caught Eric’s eye. His eyebrows were slightly raised, and he swallowed deliberately. He seemed to be asking a silent question. Almost pleading.
Maggie and Spencer leaned toward each other. He slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“I think it’s great that you two negotiate roles so far into marriage,” Maggie said. “Trying new things, filling in for each other, seeing what the other person needs, and making sure they get it— that right there is why you have a successful marriage.”
At that, Meredith had to clear her throat. She hoped her face wasn’t turning red, but it sure felt hot. Eric’s gaze never faltered; he still looked right at her with the same expression showing equal parts hope and dread, as if she were an executioner about to decide his fate.
“Is that what this is?” Meredith asked him in a voice barely louder than a whisper. She hoped he understood what she meant. Was he, at long last, trying to understand what she needed— and give it to her? Had she finally expressed her needs in a way that he understood?
A meal that was partly burned, partly raw didn’t necessarily mean any of that. It promised no permanent change, and it didn’t mean that Eric understood anything she’d said on a core level. But it could mean that he was trying to understand her needs for the first time, trying to make things better, if only for today.
He did this for me because he knows I wanted a good Christmas, even though we’re over.
In spite of herself, Meredith’s pulse picked up its pace, and she let herself really look into her husband’s eyes. Neither spoke. No one else did, either. Even the walls seemed to be holding their breath.
Suddenly, in spite of his crow’s feet and a little gray hair, Meredith felt as if she were seeing the young Eric. In that moment, she imagined that they were their younger selves, and she remembered why she’d fallen in love with him so long ago. Her eyes began to well up with tears. She fought them back but still had to dab her eyes. She turned in her seat to face him.
“Are you going to keep ruining dinners for me?” she asked.
Eric took a tentative step closer. “If you’ll let me, I’ll cook every meal for the rest of your life. I’ll try my best, but they might still end up raw or burned to a crisp.”
One side of her mouth twitched; she bit her lips to restrain the smile. “What about Valentine’s Day?”
“Dinner? Yes,” he said. “But I’ll leave truffles to the experts. I wouldn’t want to ruin chocolate for you on top of everything else.” He took another step closer and held out a hand. “Will you let me bring you truffles on Valentine’s Day?” he asked.
He had rings under his eyes; he probably hadn’t slept last night. Then there was the stained apron and the disheveled hair. In spite of all that— or perhaps because of it all— he’d never looked more attractive.
He’d spent last night and the whole day trying to make this Christmas a good one— for her. He’d done it in spite of knowing it would be embarrassing to fail in front of the girls’ boyfriends. Grasping his hand, she stood, then walked out of the dining room, pulling him behind her. The others looked at one another and followed.
When they reached the archway, Meredith glanced up to be sure they stood directly under the mistletoe. She took Eric’s face between her hands, pulling him close, and she kissed him long and thoroughly. He seemed tense at first— shocked, no doubt— but soon relaxed and wrapped his arms around her waist in a way she knew so well. The girls clapped and sighed with a sweet sound, and the boys whistled their approval.
Eric and Meredith pulled apart slightly, both blushing. Even so, she reached up and pressed another kiss to his stubbled cheek— she’d always loved him with a little scruff.
“Make me dinner for New Year’s Eve— here, at home?” she asked.
She and Eric were the only ones with any idea of what she meant. He took her left hand and admired her ring, then met her gaze again.
“Only if you’re sure that’s what you want,” he said.
“Dad,” Becca piped in. “Of course she’d love a romantic dinner.”
Maggie agreed. “Of course she would.”
But Meredith knew that Eric wasn’t referring to cooking again next week. He was asking if they could try again. He wanted to change; she could feel it. In that moment, she felt that she could learn to forgive the hurts from years past and admit where she’d gone wrong. She could change too. And if they both wanted to change, they might have a shot at working things out after all.
If they could find their old selves— really find them— if she could voice her needs, and he remained willing to listen, then maybe this wouldn’t be their last Christmas as a family. Trying again would be a big risk, but something told her it would be worth it.
“I’d like a New Year’s dinner very much,” she said.
“Are you sure?” Eric asked again.
“I’m sure that I want to teach you to cook,” she said slowly. She knew he’d understand; she couldn’t be more specific in front of the girls.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She grinned. “I think you really want to learn how.”
The pleading, pained look softened, replaced by the most genuine smile she’d seen from him in a long time. She lifted a finger and gently jabbed his chest.
“But I expect an amazing barbecue for the Fourth of July,” she said, “and the perfect turkey for Thanksgiving. Don’t worry about the gravy; I’ll handle that.”
“Deal.” He kissed her again.
Even though she was oh-so aware of their grown children watching, Meredith didn’t care about anything but the fact that she’d found her love for this man again.
And to think I almost threw it away.
Eric pulled back. “One more question. Before we see if anything on the table is edible.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“What do you think about investing in a paper shredder?” he said. The girls looked at each other with utter confusion, but Meredith imagined destroying their divorce papers.
“Excellent idea,” she said. “Let’s buy one first thing in the morning and break it in right away.” Tears finally spilled down her cheeks. Eric pinched an index finger and thumb across his eyes, wiping tears of his own. He held her close, and she hugged him back, breathing him in, listening to the thumping of his heart.
“I’m so, so sorry, Mer,” he whispered, so only she could hear. More tears leaked onto his pajama top.
“I know,” she said. “So am I.” As they returned to the dining room and took their seats, Meredith laughed through her tears at the others’ expressions.
“Everything is great,” she assured them.
“Let’s say grace,” Eric suggested. “I don’t think the mashed potatoes will kill anyone, but it can’t hurt to cover our bases.”
Click on the covers to visit Annette’s Amazon author page:
Annette Lyon is a Whitney Award winner, a three-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction, and a four-time publication award winner from the League of Utah Writers, including the Silver Quill Award in 2013 for Paige. She’s the author of more than a dozen novels, almost as many novellas, several nonfiction books, and over one hundred twenty magazine articles. Annette is a cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English. When she’s not writing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the spots on the kitchen floor.
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Chapter One
The spot where Jonah’s foot should have been– had been until a year ago– was hurting again. The phantom pains from the amputation came mostly in the evenings now, which always made it hard to sleep. Jonah sat in the darkness of the family room, enjoying its black comfort, how it hid the display of track and field medals and trophies he’d won in high school. With the snowstorm that had been threatening all day finally unleashing itself, it was as if Mother Nature was commiserating with him. The howling wind outside perfectly matched his mood.
Good thing his parents weren’t home to see this. His mother would frown and turn the lights on and offer to watch TV with him. Or she’d bustle around getting him something to eat or wanting to know how he was feeling. That was the most dreaded question of all. He didn’t know how he was feeling, but he did know he needed some peace and quiet. Since coming home from rehab three days ago, this was the first evening he’d been alone. His friends and neighbors meant well, but there had been a steady stream of visitors to the house, coming to tell him how sorry they were for his “accident.” Like losing his foot to a roadside bomb in Afghanistan was equivalent to a fender bender or something. But it was the pity in their eyes that bothered him the most. He didn’t want anyone to pity him.
He leaned back in his father’s recliner. His mother had instilled manners in him, so he’d smiled at everyone who came and tried to make it okay for them, but he’d never felt more alone. No one would ever understand what it was like to try to buy one shoe or have to put your pants on sitting down.
He
flexed his good leg, careful not to hit the dog sleeping at his feet. Or really, just his foot. Jonah grimaced. Would he ever get used to only having one foot? Even after a year of rehab it didn’t feel natural. Maybe it never would. His thoughts turned to the wine in the fridge. It would be so easy to numb himself, but going down that road never led anywhere good. He’d tried. It was time to get up and turn the lights on. Stop feeling sorry for himself and read a book or grab a movie to watch. Anything except more sitting in the dark.
Bending down to get his prosthetic foot, he pulled up the pant leg on his sweatpants, put the liner and sock over his stump, then strapped the prosthetic foot on and ratcheted it tight. “Wake up, Magnus.” The golden retriever didn’t even move. Jonah poked him gently in the side. “Hey.”
Magnus’s ears perked up and he turned his face toward the door as if someone were there. “Just the wind, boy,” Jonah assured him. “It’s getting bad out there.” But then he heard it, too. Something or someone was scratching at the back door.
Glad now that the lights were off, Jonah stood. If someone thought they could break into his house, they could think again. His military training kicked in and he crept to the window. With the barest movement of the blinds, Jonah squinted to see the back porch through the swirling snow. It wasn’t a human trying to break in, but a dog that wanted to come in.
He let out a breath, trying to calm the adrenaline running through his veins. “It’s for you, Mag,” he said, before he turned to flip on the lights.
His dog was standing in front of the door, pawing it. He obviously knew his visitor. Jonah walked over and opened it, letting in some snow and a smaller golden retriever who was obviously happy to see Magnus. She shook out the ice and snow from her fur and Jonah watched, amused, as they greeted each other. “You’ve been holding out on me, buddy.” He bent down to scratch her behind her ears. “And who do you belong to?”
She gave him a cursory glance before turning her attention back to Magnus. Jonah watched the dogs for a moment longer and then headed back to the recliner. They followed him and flopped down next to his chair when he sat down. The pair got comfortable lying next to each other. “A girl who likes a quiet evening at home? You’re a lucky dog, Magnus.”
Under the Mistletoe Collection Page 10
