Page 31 of Meet Me at Christmas
“I made something,” Henry had said from across the street. “I wanna show you.”
She pointed to her chest, pretending to ask if he was talking to her.
He raced across the street and scooped her up, spinning her around and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Of course I’m talkin’ to you! Now come with me because I can’t wait to show you this.” He set her down by his truck and tucked her hair behind her ear tenderly.
With a giggle, she climbed in, sitting close to him on the old bench seat. He shifted the truck into gear and then put his arm around her shoulders, his other hand on the wheel.
They drove the short ride to his family farm. He stopped the truck at the old woodshed and opened the door. She stepped down into the field of buttercups.
“You ready to see what I made?”
“Yes,” she said, leaning over and kissing his cheek.
Henry took her hand and led her inside. Leaning against the work bench was a gorgeously stained, substantial maple door with a frosted window at the top and an iron handle.
She ran her fingers over it. “This is beautiful.”
He nuzzled her neck. “You like it?”
“Yes,” she laughed, wriggling away, her arms covered in goosebumps. “What’s it for?”
“To keep the cold out.”
She pursed her lips and folded her arms, making him chuckle. He went in for a kiss and she dodged him brightly.
“I mean why did you make it?” she asked.
“Oh, that…” He took her hands the way he liked to do. “It’s the door to the house I’m gonna restore for you.” He kissed her fingers. “It’s the door that’s going to pile up with snow. The door that will hold our Christmas wreath. It’s the door that will watch our little family grow over the years.”
She wrapped her arms around his strong shoulders and looked up at him. “I love you.”
“I love you.” He leaned down and kissed her lips, and it didn’t matter if they ever had a house to restore; she couldn’t imagine anything better than being married to him.
* * *
Realizing that she’d been staring at her menu for way too long, lost in thought, Stella sneaked a peek at Henry over it. He hadn’t seemed to notice her drift away to happier times. She took in the unassuming softness in his eyes and the slight breath coming through his lips as he perused the lunch choices.
Right then, the guilt came rushing in and settled like an icy spear in her heart. She couldn’t stop the reoccurring thought that this was all her fault. She’d been young, and at the time, in the haze of grief, she’d thought staying grounded in that town was a prison sentence for them both. But now she wondered if she’d been wrong. Together, they’d woven the fabric of both their lives and now, so many years later, it felt impossible to unwind it and start again.
He looked up and she quickly diverted her attention to the list of salad dressing options.
“Is it odd that from the minute I met you I’ve gotten the name ‘Marie’?” he asked.
She swallowed her remorse, keeping her surprise inside for his benefit. “That’s my middle name. I’m Stella Marie. You used to call me that sometimes.” He’d started calling her that when they moved in together. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d been fond of it.
“Stella Marie,” he said while he studied her, as if trying the name on for size. His brows pulled together, and he looked back at his menu.
“Does it jog any memories?”
He shook his head.
The waitress came over and set two glasses of water on the table. “Y’all know what you want, or you need a minute?” She reached for the pencil above her ear.
“I’m ready if you are,” Stella said, addressing Henry.
“I’ll have the double burger, hold the onions, extra tomato,” he said, clearly distracted by Stella, who’d subconsciously mouthed the last three words of his order, the feeling of them on her lips like breathing after being under water.
“And a beer,” he continued. “Whatever you have on tap.”
