have loaded a truck with what I bought. And then I unloaded that truck into Will Garrett’s shop for storage. I am not going to go make merry tonight.”
He stated it all in a calm and pleasant voice. They were good reasons. That should be the end of it.
Except it wasn’t. Lucy Mead did not look delighted. Not at all.
“You don’t have to.” She got to her feet. Excellent! This was the part where she would call Big Mama and beg off. But she went on. “After all, I can’t make promises for you. I shouldn’t have. But I thought since it’s your family—well, never mind.
Well, here it was. He had not expected it this soon; he had hoped it wouldn’t come at all. This was their first argument. Except he didn’t argue. Ever. Arguing led to death and he would never be a party to that again. That’s why he had walked away from so many relationships. That’s why he had just let Rita May walk away, even in the early days when he’d thought she was sweet and he’d liked her.
It had infuriated Rita May that he wouldn’t argue with her. But he never had. He’d always let her go and, that last time, he’d gone.
But this wasn’t Rita May. This was Lucy—his salvation, his calm. He couldn’t let her walk away.
The time was now. He either had to argue with her and try to get his way or he had to go with her. Or there was a third option. What if he told her the truth, told her that he was not mentally prepared for Kincaid-Brantley Christmas rituals? She would understand; of course she would. And she would fix it for him. But how would he even start? No. Better just to go do it and get through it.
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, hell, Lucy Mead. You slay me. After those boots, I just can’t tell you no. Any chance I can get you to go commando? At least give me something fun to think about?”
And she laughed. The moment passed.
By the time they left Miss Caroline’s house, Lucy was pretty mad at herself. She was also a little mad at Caroline Brantley for making her a party to getting Brantley to that tree trimming party. She sighed as Brantley helped her into the car. On the other hand, it was hard to blame the woman. Clearly, Brantley needed healing and she was trying to make that happen.
And it had been clear, almost from the moment they’d walked in that this was the first time Brantley had participated in this little ritual since his mother and grandfather had died. Miss Caroline was trying to recreate past memories. Brantley was fighting not to panic. Charles was just trying to keep it between the lines for all of them.
Miss Caroline had asked Brantley to play the piano and he had refused in a tone that was respectful but adamant.
Just in case she might press the point, Charles had intervened. “Son, come help me with these lights. Miss Caroline, why don’t you put on a CD?”
After that, things had gone well enough. There had even been some laughter.
“Brantley,” Lucy said as soon as he took his place behind the wheel, “I should not have pressed you to do this thing. I did not realize it was the first time since—”
He cut her off, but not in a hateful way. It was as if he wanted to stop the words from coming out of her mouth. “I don’t live here anymore. Or I didn’t. When would I have been decorating Christmas trees?” he asked lightly and started the car.
“I don’t know. You come and go. Or you did. Christmas break when you were in college. Sometime. But I am sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said as he drove.
“I guess I just don’t think that ‘I don’t want to,’ is a good enough reason to say no, when someone who loves you asks you to do something. And there’s no denying how much Miss Caroline loves you. It didn’t seem to be such a large thing that she was asking for. But it was. I see that now. Next time, just tell me the real reason for saying no. I promise I’ll be on your side.”
He pulled into Lucy’s driveway and turned to her. “When I said it was okay, Lucy, I meant it. It really was okay.”
“I can see,” she said carefully, “that you are going through fresh grief. You haven’t been back here, living with the memories, since it happened. And, Brantley, it was such an awful time. I was a kid, but even I could see that. I wish you would think about seeing someone.”
“Here’s the thing, Lucy.” He took her hand and his demeanor was so earnest, so different from the usual Brantley. There was that openness again. “It really was okay. It turned out good. I didn’t want to go, but I’m glad I did. And do you know why? Because of you. You ground me, Lucy. You make it all okay. I don’t need to talk to someone. I just need you.”
Wow. That was heady stuff, to be needed by Brantley. But it niggled at her. Even if it was true, she might be able to help him but she couldn’t be the total solution. No one could.
“And it helps everyone to have you there,” he went on. “You make things
Maybe. She wasn’t convinced, but this time of year it was so easy to put things off until “after the holidays”—even worrying.
“Are you ready to go inside and have your surprise?” she asked.
His eyes widened. “The boots weren’t my surprise? How could there be anything better?”
“Oh, this is better, way better.” And she led him in the door and straight to the kitchen.
“Lucy Mead, better is in the bedroom, not the kitchen,” he said.
“Wait until you see.” She pulled the pie and the can of whipped cream she’d bought out of the refrigerator. “I made it myself. Last night.” She didn’t plan to tell him it had almost been a lost cause. “Would you like a piece?”
“Well, yes I would!” he said enthusiastically.
She carefully cut a wedge, squirted a few rosettes of cream on it, and reached into the drawer for the silver Francis I fork.
“Open up!” She fed him a bite of the pie, praying it would be good.
If it wasn’t, he gave a good performance, complete with moans and shudders. “Best pie I have ever had. I have eaten pumpkin pie in many establishments, fine and otherwise. And I declare there is no finer than this one.” He let her feed him another bite before he took the plate and fork from her. “But as fine as this pie is, it does not quite come up with those boots.” He set the pie on the counter. “But I know how to even the score a little.”
And, to her surprise, he stripped her to the waist, laid her across the kitchen counter, and placed a dollop of pie and whipped cream on each nipple.
After lots of messy fun and a trip to the shower, Brantley stood up from where he sat on the side of the bed and snapped his fingers. “I forgot. I brought you something from my little trip.”
“Good.” She looked up from her dressing table where she was sitting combing out her wet hair. “I’ve been needing a shot glass that says
He threw on a t-shirt and some flannel pants. “Be right back.”
The night had been such a roller coaster of good and bad, but was ending so good that she refused to fret about him going to his car wearing sleep clothes.
Soon, he returned and set a square cardboard box on the dressing table. “Salvage stores don’t wrap. Sorry,” he said.
Expecting some cheesy t-shirts and coffee mugs advertising the store, she opened the box.
What was inside took her breath away. Antique glass doorknobs. And there were so many—clear faceted crystal, milk glass, smooth translucent green glass with bubbles, and more crystal in jewel tones—emerald, ruby, amethyst, and sapphire.
And she began to cry—because it was the perfect gift, because he knew her so well and not at all, because he was grieving and broken, because she was almost touching happiness as perfect as this box of beautiful history that so many hands had touched coming, going, coming back, and leaving again.
