Home for the Holidays

by Sara Richardson

  “Talk to him.” There was a shuffling sound, which meant Jeff hadn’t waited for an answer.

  “Mooommmeeee,” Ollie wailed through the speaker.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Dahlia peeked over her shoulder. Ike had busied himself with resuming their trash-sorting chore.

  “I hate it here! I hate it!” her son lamented. “I hate this yucky food and I hate how it smells and I hate that you’re not here!”

  “I know, honey.” The familiar sadness cracked her heart open again. With as many times as that had happened over the last year, it was a wonder she hadn’t fallen completely apart. “I don’t like that I’m not there either.” Though she had gotten more okay with not being Jeff’s wife, it still weighed on her that they were no longer a family. “Daddy said you’re at a restaurant,” she said in her most soothing tone. “What are you having to eat there?”

  “All they have here is stinky cheese!”

  Dahlia squeezed her eyes shut. “You’re eating cheese?” Seriously? She’d given Jeff a complete list of Ollie’s allergies before the trip.

  “Cheese is all they eat here,” she heard Jeff growl in the background.

  Immediately, her jaw tightened. “Can you please put Daddy on the phone?”

  More shuffling and then Jeff started in on her. “What am I supposed to do—”

  “You need to stop feeding him dairy,” she interrupted. “He’s lactose intolerant, in case you forgot. It’s no wonder he’s acting up.” The reaction in his body had always made Ollie high-strung and anxious. “You feed him more dairy and acting out will be the least of your concerns.” It wouldn’t be long before her ex-husband and his newer model girlfriend were up to their elbows in diarrhea.

  “Fine.” Jeff sighed. “I won’t feed him any more dairy.”

  “That will help.” This trip was his chance to finally step up and be what his kids needed him to be. As much as she hated being away from them, they needed to start relying on their dad. “I have to go—”

  “Wait.” Her ex’s voice softened. “I need you to talk him down, Dally,” he begged. “He always listens to you. This is a nice restaurant and I think they’re about ready to kick us out.”

  She almost hung up on him. Almost. But how could she punish Ollie for his father’s poor decision-making? “Put him on the phone,” she said instead.

  “Thanks. I owe you one.” Actually, he owed her more like five hundred, but she didn’t say so.

  “Mommy?” The anger in Ollie’s voice had collapsed into sadness.

  “Hi, sugar,” she soothed. “I know it’s hard, baby. And I know you’re not feeling good, but do you think you can do something for me?”

  “What?” he whined.

  “Do you think you can look all around that restaurant and remember every detail?” Tears sprang to her eyes. This was the longest she’d ever been away from her children, and she’d give anything to pull him into her arms right now. “I want to know what it looks like, what kind of people are there, what kind of music is playing. Because I’ve never been to France, sweetie, and I need you to tell me everything about it.”

  “It’s not a very nice place,” he grumbled. “It’s so boring. We have to walk around and look at stuff all day. And when I say my feet hurt, Daddy yells at me.”

  “No, I don’t,” she heard in the background.

  Dahlia’s throat ached with unshed tears. “I know that’s how you feel now. But maybe you’ll feel differently when you get to tell me all about it. It’ll be like you’re sharing the adventure with me.” Ollie loved a good adventure. He loved a good adventure story even more. “I know! You can make up a story. Right now, sitting in that restaurant.” That would distract him.

  “What’d you mean?”

  “Well…” Dahlia glanced around. “What if a mouse bungee jumped into the restaurant through the window on a noodle or something? What do you think would happen?”

  “Hmmm.” Her son considered the idea. “That would be kind of funny. Or what if it was a pigeon? A pigeon could fly in the window!” The idea seemed to excite him.

  “Yes, that’s perfect,” she agreed. “That would make a great story.”

  “And then the pigeon could get stuck in Jade’s hair!” Ollie exclaimed.

  Dahlia pressed a fist against her mouth to keep from laughing. “Maybe you should change Jade’s name in the story though,” she suggested.

  “I really miss you, Mom,” Ollie said abruptly.

  This time she couldn’t stop a few tears from slipping out. “Oh, honey. I really miss you, too.” Her throat ached she missed him so much. “But I want you to collect all the details and pictures and stories you can so you can bring them home to me. Can you do that?”

  “I think so.” At least he wasn’t whimpering anymore. “I’ll really try.”

  “Okay, baby. Finish thinking up that story and you can tell it to me when you call tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds good.” He gasped. “Oh! Maybe the pigeon could steal a spaghetti noodle from that funny old man’s plate over there!”

  Dahlia pictured the embarrassment that was likely on Jeff’s face right about now. “That would be so funny. Just make sure you keep your voice down while you make up the story, okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy! I can’t wait to tell you tomorrow! It’s going to be a good one!”

  “I can’t wait either,” she murmured. “I’ll talk to you real soon.”

  “Okay! Bye!”

  The line clicked, and Dahlia turned around, stuffing the phone into her pocket. The pile of junk seemed to be miraculously sorted. She walked over just as Ike dusted off his gloves. “You weren’t totally honest with me earlier,” he said, eyeing her with what appeared to be disappointment.

  “What?” She thought back through their conversation. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know—”

  “You definitely have a creative bone in your body.” A smile broke through his serious expression.

  He must’ve heard her whole conversation. “Oh, no. My son is creative.” And she’d learned how to encourage that in him. “But I’ve got nothing to offer in that department.”

  Ike seemed to take that as a challenge. “We’ll see about that,” he said, handing her a paintbrush.

  “I’m not kidding.” She went to hand the brush back to him. “Painting totally stresses me out.” Anything creative stressed her out, and Ike didn’t need to see her obsessing over paint lines and symmetry.

  “But you’ve never painted with me. I promise it won’t be stressful at all.” He waved her over to an old table set up in the corner where he’d already laid out the sign and a few cans of paint. “All we have to do is fill in the spots where the color is chipped or faded.”

  All they had to do? “You clearly don’t know me at all.”

  “Maybe not, but I’d like to know you.” His gaze intensified on hers.

  I’d like to know you, too. She couldn’t find the courage to say the words out loud.

  Ike stepped up to the table and dipped his brush into the red color, but she kept her distance. Without even seeming to pause, Ike started to flick the brush over the wood.

  “Oh, be careful.” His lack of precision with the brush moved her to the table. “You can’t go out of the lines…”

  The man stopped abruptly and grinned at her, seeming to take that as a challenge. “Oh yeah?” He refocused on the sign and slashed a big red line right through the middle.

  “Hey!” That flick of the brush had gone way outside the lines. “You messed it up.” She looked around for a paper towel or anything she could use to clean off the red paint. Ike set down his brush and walked around the table, standing directly across from her. “It’s easy to fix.” He nodded toward some sandpaper. “Once it dries, we’ll sand it down and try again.”

  That made her feel a little better. “You can do that?”

  “Sure.” Ike put his hand over hers and guided the brush into the red paint. “It’s okay to make mistakes.
It’s okay to go outside the lines.” His hand moved hers down to the sign. “Go ahead. Try it.”

  A drop of red paint landed smack dab in the center of the wood. Dahlia glanced at Ike’s face, her heart pounding a little harder.

  He nodded his encouragement but let go of her hand. “Go ahead. No one’s gonna care if you make a mess.”

  On a wild impulse, Dahlia swooshed the paintbrush over the wood, drawing a thick red line directly through the center. Straight lines were her specialty. This time she raised her eyebrows at him. “Is that what you had in mind?”

  Laughing, Ike reached up and touched the paint. “Not exactly. But I have a feeling you’re full of surprises,” he said. And somehow, he made that sound like a good thing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Magnolia

  When Dean Martin came over the loudspeaker singing “Silver Bells,” you knew it was going to be the perfect shopping trip.

  Magnolia pushed her cart into the produce section, wandering aimlessly from the bins of apples to the pomegranates to the stacks of bananas, grabbing a selection of each as she went. Sure, she’d come in for baking supplies, but this beautiful display of ripe fruit seemed to stir up a craving. Maybe her blood sugar was low or something. Probably, since she’d been fighting off some weird stomach bug lately.

  Ohhh, look at those red pears. She paused next to the bin and picked one up, instantly caught in the memory of when she’d made Eric spiced red wine poached pears for dessert on their fourth anniversary. They didn’t have money to go out—not with all of the funds they’d spent on the latest treatment, but it hadn’t mattered. They’d both been hopeful starting a new round of IVF. Instead of going out for a fancy dinner, she’d made him filet mignon and herbed butter lobster tails. They’d spread a blanket out in the living room and had a romantic picnic right there on the floor, and when she’d brought out the pears, Eric had fed her a bite telling her it didn’t matter where they were—if they were on the floor at home or if they were at a three-star Michelin restaurant—as long as he was with her he would be happy.

  Longing pressed in against her heart, somehow sneaking past the numbness that had shut down her feelings for so long. Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t stop them from falling. She must look so ridiculous standing here staring at a pear, but she didn’t care. Eric had always said things like that to her. It doesn’t matter as long as we’re together. But they weren’t. Not now.

  Still holding the pear, she dug her phone out with her other hand and opened to the last text he’d sent earlier that morning. I miss you. That was all it said. I miss you too, she typed back, realizing it was true. She missed him. She missed them.

  As if it would help her hold on to the memory, she took one of Sassy’s reusable produce bags out of her purse and picked out more pears, then stashed them carefully in the cart. Thankfully this small-town market didn’t have the same crowds as the grocery store back home. No one seemed to look at her strangely for taking a moment to reflect on a pear. Everyone else appeared to be taking their time too, smiling as they passed, humming along with Dean Martin. Mags inhaled deeply, embracing the emotions. The longing for her husband, the hope that maybe her heart had started to thaw. It felt good to feel something.

  Magnolia steered the cart past the bakery section—because none of those cookies would be as good as her own—and veered into the baking aisle. She paused to pull out the list of what she would need to get started on the first batches of cookies—old-fashioned molasses made with browned butter, the stained-glass cookies Sassy had taught her to make the year she’d turned eight, and the chocolate-mint snowballs that would conclude round one of her baking. Let’s see… She perused each item on the list. She’d need more baking soda—

  “No! No, Mommy!” a toddler screamed nearby. “I want that one!”

  Trying not to be too obvious, Mags peered toward the teeny voice. At the other end of the aisle, a young mother knelt down to speak to what looked like a three- or four-year-old little boy. “We can’t use that mix, honey. It has gluten. That’ll make you sick. Remember?”

  “I want this one!” the boy howled stomping his foot. A tiny wail sounded from an infant car seat sitting in the cart.

  “Oh, no.” The mother scrambled to stand up. “Hold on, honey. Sissy’s awake.” She fussed with the car seat and lifted a pink bundle into her arms.

  As per usual when she saw a baby, Mags succumbed to the distinct squeeze of her heart. Oh, how she wanted to feel that weight and warmth in her arms. How she wanted to pull her crying baby in against her chest, gently shushing him or her like the young mother was doing now. Mags bent her head as though looking over her list, but really her gaze kept drifting back to the mother. The woman who was part of a club Mags so desperately wanted to join.

  “I want this cake for my birfday!” the little boy yelled, as though trying to compete with his sister’s cries. “This one! Mine! Mine! Mine!” Now he started to jump up and down, his winter boots clomping loudly on the tiled floor.

  “Honey, we can’t.” The mom’s voice had grown more frantic as she tried to sway and soothe the baby.

  Between the boy’s shouts and the baby’s heart-wrenching cry, Mags could no longer hear Dean Martin. Other people had started to stare—stopping at the ends of the aisle and then making a quick turn to avoid coming any closer. Mags, however, pushed her cart over and knelt next to the boy. “Your birthday is coming up?” she asked.

  He instantly stopped screaming and stared at her with the largest pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  Finally, he nodded.

  “How old are you going to be?” Mags asked, smiling up at his mom. The young woman smiled back, still bouncing the baby.

  “Free.” He held up four fingers and then quickly adjusted them back to three. “Free days after Christmas I’ll be free.”

  “Wow.” She widened her eyes. “You’re going to be a big boy then, aren’t you?”

  He nodded again, and then looked at the cake box he held in his hands as though he’d forgotten about it.

  Mags studied it, too. It was one of those confetti cake mixes—bland and run-of-the-mill. She could do so much better. “So, you need a really cool cake for your birthday, huh?”

  “This one has sprinkles.” The boy held out the box for her to see.

  Yes, sprinkles and food dye and gluten and also a ton of preservatives.

  “Well, buddy, I happen to be a baker, and I would love to make you a very special gluten-free birthday cake.” She’d always dreamed about making kids cakes and had even taken a few custom orders for friends over the last few years.

  “For real?” The boy’s face lit up.

  “Oh, I’m not sure we could afford that.” His mom stepped forward, still bouncing the baby. She was maybe a few years younger than Mags, her blond hair tied back into a ponytail and a happy tiredness settled in around her eyes.

  “I won’t charge you anything.” Mags stood and faced her with another smile. “I love to make kids’ cakes.” She glanced at the boy. “I could easily make you a super-duper sprinkle cake. Or even cupcakes so everyone could have their own. Would you like that?”

  The boy’s nose crinkled. “Would there be red sprinkles?”

  “For sure,” Mags promised. “And we could get some blues ones and green ones…”

  “Wow.” He started to bounce as if the excitement was too much for him. “Can I have her sprinkle cupcakes, Mama? Please? Please? Please?”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that.” The mom had snuggled the soothed baby against her chest. “Not for free. It’s too much.”

  “I want to.” It would help to fill the emptiness she’d lived with since the last failed attempt at in vitro. “I happen to have a lot of extra time on my hands this week. It would be fun. Really.”

  “Are you sure?” Tears brightened the woman’s eyes. “Thank you so much. That’s incredibly kind of you.”

  Mags smiled. “I’m Magnolia,” she said, holdi
ng out her hand.

  “Jess.” The young mom shifted the baby so she could shake Mags’s hand, and then she uncovered the little bundle’s lovely face. “This is Lola.”

  “And I’m Patrick,” the boy said proudly, edging in between Mags and the baby. “Patrick Flemming.”

  “Nice to meet you Patrick Flemming.” Mags reached out and shook his little hand. “I’m going to make you the most amazing birthday cupcakes you’ve ever seen.” They were already coming together in her mind. She’d frost them with a thick white buttercream and she could make the sprinkles herself with egg whites, powdered sugar, and organic food coloring.

  “I can’t wait to see it!” The boy threw his arms around her waist, hugging her tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Wait till my friend Thomas sees!”

  Both laughing and fighting off tears, Mags hugged him back. “You’re so welcome.”

  “You have to let me pay for the ingredients, at least.” Jess settled baby Lola back into her car seat and reached for her purse.

  “No, don’t worry about that.” She reached down to ruffle Patrick’s hair. “Think of it as a birthday gift.”

  He stared up at her, his mouth gaping. “But I don’t even know you,” he whispered. Then his eyes brightened. “Are you my fairy godmother?”

  “Yes.” Jess knelt down in front of her son and planted a kiss on his nose. “I do believe we’ve both just met our fairy godmother.” She stood back up, leaning closer to Mags. “I couldn’t bake my way out of a paper bag.”

  “My mom’s cookies feel like they’re going to break my teeth,” Patrick confessed sadly.

  Mags chuckled along with Jess.

  “It’s true.” The woman shook her head. “No matter how hard I try they turn out like hockey pucks every time.”

  “Well, it’s all about the flour and baking powder,” Mags explained. “Sometimes baking soda too, depending on how the dough is looking. The altitude makes it more challenging.”