Page 17 of The Snuggle is Real
Mik hustled off to harass—er, greet—another guest and Hank took a sip, immediately grimacing. He tried to offer me the drink, but I wasn’t falling for that trap. Instead, we made a trip to the bar to grab Hank a beer and then I took him over to the table to meet Rocco and Taylor.
Despite tourism, the locals were tight-knit and we were still outsiders. There was strength in numbers though, right?
I left Hank, Rocco, and Taylor chatting at the table and went to grab a plate. By the time I returned, Hank had moved on to mingle with other singles.
I set my plate down and dug into the lasagna. “I’m so glad I came. Thanks again for inviting me. I felt…well, it’s weird to spend the holiday away from my family, it turns out.”
Rocco nodded. “Trust me, I know all about that. Mine is nuts, the quintessential Italian family who’s too big, too nosy, too involved, but when they’re not around . . .sometimes it’s too quiet.”
“Yep. Mine’s not big, but it’s been weird to be away from them.” I turned to Taylor. “What about you? What bringsyouto the single mingle?”
I wiggled my eyebrows, flicking a pointed glance toward Rocco, but Taylor had averted his gaze and shifted uncomfortably, missing my tease.
“Uh . . .well . . .my dad’s in Chicago. Doesn’t get out here much. So it just made sense.”
“Ah, that’s too bad.”
He clammed up, not too interested in lingering on the topic—and missing my mom, I could relate. Instead, we stuffed ourselves, a classic coping mechanism if ever there was one.
After I cleared my plate—or most of it, anyway; my eyes were alittlebigger than my stomach—I couldn’t bring myself to try any of the dessert. No amount of pumpkin squares would measure up to my mom’s cranberry-apple pie anyway.
I said my goodbyes, picked up my empty stuffing pan, and headed out into the cold night. It was a short drive home, my two-story house a dark spot in an otherwise brightly lit neighborhood.
I needed to get my lights up. It could go on the to-do list along with fixing my drafty windows, refinishing scuffed wood floors, and stripping aging wallpaper.
My house was charming on the outside—the latticework trim along the roofline and porch giving it a gingerbread cottage look—but it needed some major TLC indoors.
I was so preoccupied with thoughts of all the things I needed to do before Mom arrived for Christmas that I nearly stepped on a pie sitting in the middle of my front porch.
“What the—” I crouched down to pick it up, catching sight of an attached note.
Under the light of my phone, I read:“Here’s a little cheer to brighten your day. Just a reminder that you’re always on the nice list. Secret Santa.”
“Secret Santa?” I mused aloud. “Well, it’s not Christmas, but I’ll take it.”
I carried the pie inside and uncovered it. My mouth watered as the sweet sugary smell wafted from it. Maybe Icouldmake room for dessert after all.
It wasn’t a pumpkin pie or even a pecan. My heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be…could it?
I grabbed a fork and cut into it and damn, it was. It was cranberry-apple, just like Mom always made. But who had given it to me?
I’d told no less than half a dozen people about my mom’s pie, the one thing I really couldn’t re-create properly myself no matter how many times I tried. But this pie came really close.
One of the volunteers must have taken pity on me. My money was on Rebecca. She was sneaky like that. I’d have to thank her when I saw her next.
I brewed some coffee, turned on some holiday music, and picked up the phone to call my family, my spirits lighter. I was used to giving to others; it was less often I received a gift like this in return.
It was such a thoughtful gesture my eyes burned. Maybe this place really was becoming home.
“Hey, Mason!” Mom answered, voice bright and happy. “How was your holiday?”
“Really good,” I said truthfully. “I delivered holiday meals to families that needed it, then went to a Thanksgiving potluck where I met a lot of nice people.”
“Oh, sweetie, that’s so lovely.”
I slipped the fork between my lips and hummed with pleasure as the spices hit.
“And I’m a little jealous of whoever made that pie,” Mom said. “You look like you’re in heaven.”
