The offer is tempting, and I’m on the verge of giving in, when I spot a few smaller trees near the lot’s business office. The trees are only two or three feet tall, but they’re healthy.
“There!” I point.
“You want a Charlie Brown tree?”
“A what?” I ask.
He stares at me. “And I’m the one who doesn’t do Christmas, right?”
The lot gives us the tree, which pleases Sterling, and because it’s so small it takes no effort to carry it back to his place. We spend the afternoon crafting ornaments from some of the old racist history books he never got rid of—it’s obviously the best use for them—and watching the Charlie Brown Christmas Special.
When we’re finished with our homemade decorations, we stand back to admire our work.
“It’s actually awesome,” Sterling says.
“It’s perfect.”
“What else am I supposed to do on Christmas?” he asks. “What do you do at home?”
“We unwrap presents on Christmas Eve, and then we have breakfast the next morning before we go on a trip. Mom always planned them.” My voice breaks as I realize that this tradition is gone forever. Being in New York is distracting me, but it doesn’t change it.
“Let’s open presents then,” he says.
“Really?” I say. “You got me a present?”
“Of course I got you a present,” he says, groaning. “I’m not a complete amateur—but it’s not much.”
“I got you something, too. Something small,” I say quickly.
“I haven’t wrapped it yet.”
“Me either.”
“We’re not very good at this, are we?” he asks.
“It’s just practice for next year,” I say.
“Keeping me around that long?” He manages to make this sound like a joke, but there’s an edge of something to it.
“Give me a second to get yours.”
We meet back in the living room a few minutes later and sit in front of our tree.
“You first.” I thrust the bag from The Strand at him.
A bemused smile cracks his mouth.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ll see.” He takes out the novel slowly, and I can’t get a read on him.
“I saw you looking at it,” I say when he remains silent. “So I cheated and bought it.”
“It’s wonderful,” he says in a quiet voice. “Better than my old library copy.”
I can’t tell if he actually likes it. Maybe he’s disappointed to receive a book he already owns. Maybe I misread his interest. I break the silence, tugging on his hand. “My turn!”
“Um, I should really…” He scoots a little and I realize there’s a brown paper bag next to him—and he’s trying to hide it.
“Is that it?” I snatch it before he can stop me.
“Just… I thought of you, and it’s stupid.”
The brown paper bag is stamped with The Strand logo, and I realize it’s the ‘reading material for the plane.’ Sneaky. That’s what he found funny. We both found a way to buy each other a book without the other one noticing. I open the bag and draw out a used copy of The Great Gatsby. It’s not a fancy one from the rare books room we visited. Most of its age is down to shelf-wear, like it had been sitting for a long time, unread. The cover is older, a simple illustration of eyes, and not much else. When I open it, I actually hear the spine crack. Inside the pages are slightly yellow but otherwise pristine save for notes scattered throughout.
“I did that,” he admits. “This morning. I thought it would be cool for you to see what I thought. It’s dumb.”
“I love it,” I say honestly.
“It’s not nearly as nice as this,” he says.
“It’s the words that matter. That’s what you gave me—its heart.” I crawl over to him and kiss him.
“That’s all, I’m afraid,” he says. “Told you Christmas is pretty fast at my house.”
“That’s all?” I repeat, pretending to be confused. “I could have sworn you had something else to give me.”
He catches on quickly, and we spend the rest of the day giving each other our hearts.
Francie’s shift turns into a double and by the time she makes it home, Sterling has crashed on the couch. He doesn’t even wake up when she tosses her keys loudly on the counter. I untangle myself, eager to have a minute alone with her.
“You’re awake,” she says when I walk into the kitchen.
“I’ve been watching Christmas movies. My mom loved them,” I explain, grabbing a seat at the kitchen table. Somehow it helps me feel closer to her to remember the little traditions. The ones that didn’t involve party guests and boarding passes. I’m finding she lives on in the spirit of the holiday more than in the grand gestures.
“Sterling around?” She opens the fridge and pulls out a plastic container.
“He fell asleep during It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“You must have worn him out.”
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about our day and not anything she might have overheard last night. “I made him get a tree.”
“That will do it. Being happy always makes him tired,” she says as she presses buttons on the microwave to reheat the leftovers. “He’s not used to it.”
She does know him.
“I’m hoping to change that,” I confide in her.
“As long as you’re realistic, hon. Sometimes love makes you a better person, but it always accepts you when you’re not.” She joins me at the table. “He’s had a rough life.”
“He told me—about his parents and his sister.”
She seems surprised by this. “He doesn’t like to talk about his family. Most of what I know is from files and court appearances,” she says. “I’m glad he finally opened up about it with you.”
“I was thinking that maybe I could help him find his sister while—”
“That’s not a good idea,” she cuts me off. When my face falls, she continues on, quickly, “He went looking for her a few years ago, and he found her.”
“And?” I ask breathlessly. He’d left this part of the story out. “Was she okay? Are they in contact?”
“She wound up with a really nice family—well off, happy.
