Page 50 of Savoring Christmas
Kris grinned. “Do you remember the year good old Marty Miller had a little too much of his own spiked cider and took a tumble right into the tree. Took half the ornaments with him. That was a lighting ceremonyanda floor show.”
Laughter rippled through the group.
Logan had been quiet, but Mia noticed the faraway look in his eyes. When everyone turned toward him, he smiled. “One of my earliest memories is of the tree lighting. I was three years old, sitting on my dad’s shoulders so I could see. I remember the cold on my face, the smell of hot chocolate, the sound of everyone counting down. I didn’t understand what was happening, but, when the lights came on, it felt like magic. I think that’s when I fell in love with Christmas.”
The table went quiet for a moment, a kind of collective pause around the warmth of his memory. Mia’s eyes pricked with tears, unexpectedly moved by the image of a little boy with dark eyes and a mop of hair, looking at the world like it was full of wonder.
Thelma broke the silence. “Well, then we’d better hurry, so none of us misses the magic tonight.”
“Yes, I want to get a good spot,” Reese said.
“You guys go,” Logan said. “I’ll help Mia clean up real quick. But save us a spot.”
“You got it,” Kris said. “Do you want hot chocolate or cider?”
“Cider for me,” Logan said.
“Hot chocolate for me,” Mia said.
“Excellent. I have a flask with peppermint schnapps in my jacket pocket,” Harold said.
Thelma laughed. “You’re so bad.”
“Does that mean you don’t want any?” Harold asked, deadpan.
“I’ll let you decide,” Thelma said. “A test to see if you remember what I told you.”
They were laughing as they donned their coats and went out together, with Reese and Abby following behind. Kris lingered for just a moment. “You two behave yourselves in here and focus on getting these dishes done. You don’t want to be late.”
Mia flicked at Kris with a dish towel as he headed toward the door and disappeared into the dark, snowy night. In the sudden quiet, the Christmas music she’d had playing in the background sounded much louder. Cannoli had long since curled up in her bed, having exhausted herself during the early part of class with all the sniffing and licking of hands.
“The Christmas Song” (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire) by Nat King Cole came on the radio.
Logan glanced at the clock, then at her, a slow smile playing at his mouth. “Dance with me?”
Mia shook her head with a laugh. “Really? Don’t we have to go?”
“We have a few minutes.” He held out his hand. “My parents used to dance to this. Still do, I think. Even though we used to tease them without end. My parents were always kissing or touching or dancing. We all made fun but secretly we all loved seeing them that way. I’ve been hoping to find what they have for a long time now. Come on, give me a whirl.”
Rolling her eyes but unable to keep the smile from her face, she set down her dish towel and slipped her hand into his. He drew her close, his palm warm at her back, and they moved slowly across the scuffed linoleum floor of the elementary school kitchen.
Cannoli lifted her head, eyes sleepy, but Mia could swear the dog was smiling. Who knew Cannoli was such a romantic.
For a moment, the world shrank to the soft brush of his shirt sleeve against her arm, the spicy scent of his cologne, and the steady beat of his heart under her cheek.
When the song ended, he tipped her chin up and kissed her, soft and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world.
She smiled against his mouth before pulling back with a little laugh. “We should probably clean up before we miss the whole thing.”
He released her reluctantly. “But only because of the tree. Not because I want to let you go.”
They set to work, moving in practiced tandem—she wiped down counters while he stacked bowls by the industrial sink. Their shoulders brushed now and then, each touch sending a small ripple of awareness through her.
As she reached for the last pan, she hesitated. “When you were talking about your first Christmas at the tree lighting ceremony earlier, it made me remember one of my favorite memories. The year before my dad died he gave me a wooden box he’d carved himself and filled with all his mother’s recipes from Italy. I’d just started showing an interest in cooking, and he wanted me to have a piece of her—and of him.”
Logan stilled, watching her closely.
“I’ve kept it with me ever since.” Her voice thickened, growing husky. “No matter where I cook, I always have it with me. In fact, the sauce and pasta recipe are from her.
