Page 9 of A Funny Thing Happened…

“We could try to get a Christmas tree tomorrow.” he suggested.

“Let’s do that. Worse comes to worst, we could chop our own.” I wandered into the kitchen and called, “Hey, Melissa left a plate of sandwiches for us!”

There was a little note from Melissa informing us she was leaving to spend the holidays with her family, and wishing us a Merry Christmas.

I smiled, unstuck the Saran wrap, and investigated. “Roast beef,” I called.

Jake called back, “Great. You make coffee, get the bedroom ready, and I’ll bring everything in from the car.”

While Jake carted our stuff from the car, I opened the master bedroom windows to give the room a quick airing, made the bed with the flannel sheets I’d brought from home, fluffed up a pair of dubious feather pillows.

I’d forgotten how quiet it was here. I stood for a moment listening to the wind whispering through the window, the scratch of rose bushes against the side of the house, a distant owl. I remembered that owl. Or his kinfolk.

After we finished setting up camp, we drank coffee laced with the last of my grandmother’s vintage whisky and ate roast-beef sandwiches in front of the fireplace. Scout slept on the rug before the fire, paws twitching as he continued to explore the ranch in his dreams, and Tompkins slept on the back of the sofa snore-purring into the back of my neck.

“Remember when we found the werewolf in the woods?”

Jake laughed.

I was joking too, though not entirely. “Well, okay, maybe not a werewolf, but there was something weird that day.”

“Yeah.” Then he said briskly, “It was a creepy place, it was getting dark. I think we both had Melissa’s stories in the back of our minds.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. It seemed pretty damn real at the time.Youthought it was real at the time.”

He shrugged. Not arguing the point, but not conceding either.

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’”

“Uh-huh. Speaking of Shakespeare, how’s the book coming?”

I scowled. “Hey, no fair. We’re on vacation.”

“Yeah, we are.” He put his arm around me and nearly dislodged Tompkins. “Oops. Sorry, cat.”

We continued to talk for a while, reminiscing about that trip and other things, and then finally turned in, flopping down on the feather mattress, spooned together beneath the soft, giant quilt of our zipped sleeping bags.

I woke thinking the night before had to be a dream.

But nope. There we were, curled up comfortably despite the lumpy mattress, furry companions, and sepia gazes of oval-framed photos of relatives I knew nothing of.

I blinked, turned my head, met Jake’s wide-awake gaze.

“Hey,” I murmured.

“Hey.”

“How long have you been awake?” I tried to smother a yawn someplace besides his face.

“Not so long. Scout wanted out.” He kissed me. “What did you want to do this morning?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” I murmured, and kissed him back.

Kissing. It’s what’s for breakfast.

Well, probably not, but it was a lazy, lovely start to what was sure to be a lazy, lovely day.

There are some things you don’t get tired of. Your favorite things. I’m not talking about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. I mean that first kiss of the day and the last kiss at night, Jake’s quiet laugh—what I think of as his private laugh—the way we know what each other’s thinking without so much as a glance. I don’t think any of this—the feel of his hands moving over my body, the taste of his mouth on mine—the heat and urgency and hunger—that need to be as close to one as two humans can get—I don’t understand how that could ever become stale or routine.

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