Page 37 of Christmas Cove

The paper left her hand as though she was throwing a baseball in a World Series game. She wanted to be certain the fire would devour her fear.

“Open your eyes,” Leo whispered into her ear.

The tiny hairs perked up and tickled her neck, causing her hand to reach up and cover them. He stood close. Too close. She swallowed hard at the sight of his rapid breaths condensing and dissipating into the chilly night air. Was he going to kiss her? Because she wanted to kiss him.

The tension was as thick as fruitcake, and just as delicious. Her mouth watered, and she licked the cold from her lips.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Uh huh,” America nodded.

“I brought s’mores.”

“Some more . . .” she mumbled.

“No,” he laughed and broke her trance. “You know, s’mores. To eat.”

She shook her head and got her bearings. At some point, the two other couples had turned into three. The bonfire was hot and close. She stepped back to the blanket, where Leo sat cross-legged and dug around in the basket. Her lip licking must have made him think she was hungry. America placed a hand on her belly. It had been hours since she’d eaten anything, and her stomach rumbled as though on cue.

Leo handed her a poker with a large marshmallow positioned at the end of the tines. She held the puffed sugar to the flames. A new fear that she hadn’t considered moments earlier crossed her mind. He was like honey. She was a fly. And she feared sticking to him and never being able to get away. The thought kept her eyes trained on the toasting marshmallow and away from him.

She preferred her marshmallow perfectly golden and evenly heated. Leo apparently preferred his on fire. His whole mallow was up in flames. He turned it over and brought it to her face. “Blow,” he said.

She did as he requested with a stifled giggle. The whole scene smacked of harmless impropriety.

“Let me help.” America handed her rotisseried marshmallow to him and got two graham crackers and the chocolate ready. She used the two crackers and slid his charred marshmallow off. Then her own.

“I didn’t know I was sitting beside greatness,” he said and dropped the pokers on the edge of the fire.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she batted her eyes. “Fine. I went to a camp every summer until I was about fourteen. We ate a lot of s’mores, and I got really good at building them.”

He laughed through his nose as he ate his treat.

“And what’s your story? No one ever showed you how to not burn the sugar?” she joked.

“I like it like this, thank you very much.”

“Sorry,” she said through sticky lips and a mouthful. Very unladylike. “So, Mr. Mayor, tell me. How did you end up here?”

“That’s easy. I grew up coming here in summers, with my parents. You know, it’s funny. We never really came in the winter, for Christmas, I mean.”

“No?” she prodded.

“Once, or maybe twice.” His face muscles eased into a pleasant, wide-eyed grin. He was remembering something happy. “I did come up here during high school once. My girlfriend at the time and her family were supposed to meet me and my parents up here, but they never showed up. Later, she blamed it on a snowstorm or icy roads, but she just knew I wasn’t the one for her and didn’t want to break things off at Christmas.”

His eyes looked up and away as though another memory came to mind, and his expression shifted. His brows knitted together and formed a little u-shape crevasse above his nose.

“What is it?” America asked.

He was quiet for a long moment, his breath slowed, and his eyes shut. “The year when my father passed away, we had planned to come here for Christmas, but he passed away before our trip. Mom died in the new year.”

“How did he die?”

“Heart attack. No one saw it coming.” Leo shook his head and flicked a tear from the corner of his eye, though he tried unconvincingly to disguise it as a scratch on his cheek.

“I don’t know how you must feel.” She didn’t lie. Her parents were happy and alive, having the time of their lives in Italy, while his were reunited in heaven. The thought was a small condolence to his grief and her guilt. “So, is that why you moved here?”

“I can’t imagine anywhere else I’d rather be. My happiest memories are from this place,” he admitted. “I only wish things were the same as before.”

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