Page 36 of Christmas Cove

“It’s sort of a tradition. Well, it used to be,” he admitted. “We used to do this every year. There was never an official day or time, but people would spontaneously gather at the shore a few days before Christmas.” Leo opened the basket. “Here you go.”

“What’s this?” America inspected the paper and pencil in her hands. “I mean obviously—but what do you want me to do with this?”

“We write down a fear and then throw it in the flames. Once it’s burned up, the fear loses its power over you.”

America considered this for a moment. If she needed a fear, she had plenty to choose from. A list ran through her head of all the things that scared her. How was she supposed to pick only one? A giggle escaped her throat, and she hoped the crackling of burning wood had masked it.

It didn’t.

“You think it’s ridiculous,” Leo said. “Never mind.”

He reached for the paper in her hand, and she snatched it back. “I think it’s beautiful. I . . . I just don’t know which to write down.”

“Would it help if I told you one of mine?”

She nodded.

As he spoke, he pulled out a bottle of white wine and two glasses. “I’m afraid I’ll never find a love as deep as my parents had.”

She noticed he spoke in the past tense.

He handed her the two glasses and opened the bottle with a simple corkscrew, metal with a wooden handle. Another couple walked towards the fire edge and caught her eye in her peripheral vision, but she held her gaze on him.

“When my father passed away a couple of years ago, my mother’s heart was so broken, she prayed every night that God would send an angel to take her to him. A few months later, an angel took her away. I like to think about them together, looking down from heaven, and guiding my path. I want that same kind of love.”

“I’m so sorry, Leo.” She placed a hand on his knee and felt a tear welling in her own eye.

“I miss them both, but I’m glad they’re together again.”

There was no hint of sadness in his voice. Only the gladness to have been part of their lives for a time. He seemed to be thankful, grateful that they had given him such an incredible example for him to follow.

“Shall we toast to that?” she said and raised her filled glass. “To a love so big, only angels can carry it.”

He clinked his glass against hers and the resonant tone filtered through the air around them. “I couldn’t have said it any better.” They sipped their wine and sat in silence for a long moment. “Now, about that fear of yours,” he said and switched her glass for the pencil.

America needed a moment to think. “Mine can’t outdo yours.”

“It’s not really a competition.”

“No,” she admitted.

She wrote the thing that scared her the most at that moment. It was a toss-up. She scribbled words on the paper and folded it into a neat square before he could see it. Leo wrote down his and crumpled the paper into a tight ball.

Over his shoulder, the couple who had arrived first stood and tossed their papers into the flames. She watched the bright orange edges of the papers char and then float skyward once small enough. The woman threw her arms around the man’s shoulders, and their lips locked together. America’s stomach fluttered, and she shifted her eyes away from the couple’s intimate moment.

“You ready?” Leo stood and helped her to her feet. They walked to the edge of the fire where a circle of stones marked its boundary, though the heat radiated out from the center as a warning of where to stop.

America closed her eyes and then immediately opened them again. “Am I doing this right?”

He nodded and closed his eyes.

She followed suit.

“On the count of three,” he said and began, “One . . .”

“Two,” she said.

“Three.”

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