Page 33 of Christmas Charms
I mean, I do love charms and vintage jewelry. But why me?Why?I’m pretty sure George Bailey felt the same way at some point.
I do my best to forget about the charms for the time being, though, because my mom is clearly excited about whatever is in the bag.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Open it.”
“Now?” I eye her dubiously. Our family never opens Christmas gifts before Christmas Eve.
She nods. “Yes, now.”
I wade through what seems like a thousand layers of tissue until I finally reach something soft at the bottom of the bag. It’s a sweater, and when I unfold it, I see that it’s a slightly smaller version of the one my mom is wearing—an “ugly” Christmas sweater, complete with every form of rhinestone and holiday bauble imaginable. There are even swags of sparkly green garland adorning the front of it.
It’s…a lot. The entire garment shines as bright as a disco ball.
“I noticed you forgot to bring the other Christmas sweater I sent you,” my mother says.
I didn’t forget. My bags were packed for Paris, and it just didn’t seem like the sort of thing to wear on the Champs-Élysées.
“I thought it would be fun to wear tonight for the Christmas tree lighting,” Mom adds, and there’s so much joy in her expression that there’s no way I can refuse.
To top it off, my dad strolls in at that exact moment, and guess what he’s wearing. (Other than an expression that’s a mixture of amusement and mortification.) Yep, you guessed it.
“So this is really happening?” he says.
“It looks that way, Dad,” I say, unbuttoning my coat so I can go change out of my basic black cashmere and into the heavily adorned sweater. When I pick it up, it jingles even louder than my charm bracelet.
This is no magical sweater, though, because everyone seems to hear it. Fruitcake’s ears swivel back and forth, prompting my mom to dart over to the Christmas tree and pluck another gift from beneath it.
“You should probably go ahead and open this one, too,” she says, grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, no.” Dad laughs, and his sweater goes into jingle overdrive. “Not the dog, too.”
My dad has always been a good sport about this sort of thing, pretty much wearing whatever my mom brings home and hangs in his closet. And crazy holiday sweaters are beloved in Owl Lake probably more than anyplace else on earth. But again, this is onedecorativepiece of clothing.
“I didn’t want him to feel left out,” my mother says as I pull a dog sweater out of the gift bag.
Yep, we’re the dorky family that’s about to attend one of the biggest holiday events our town has to offer dressed in matching hideous sweaters. Strangely enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Thanks, Mom.” I hug her as fiercely as I possibly can, and the affection sparkling in her eyes tells me I’m forgiven for leaving the other sweater back in my drawer.
A half hour or so later, we’re all dressed in our matching sweaters—Fruitcake included, obviously—as we head toward Main Street. The sidewalks are bustling with other Owl Lake residents, all moving in the same direction.
For as long as I can remember, the town Christmas tree has been set up directly in front of the Owl Lake Inn, a sweeping chalet-style boutique hotel situated at the end of Main Street, at the top of a gently sloping hill overlooking the entire village. This year is no exception, and with the recent snowfall, the inn looks Christmas-card perfect with icicles dripping from the forest-green shutters and gabled roof. Swags of evergreen intertwined with twinkle lights stretch from one end of the alpine-white building to the other. A gazebo sits lakeside, and for this major Owl Lake occasion, it’s housing an old-fashioned cart selling traditional roasted chestnuts and mulled cranberry-apple cider.
The tree is a noble fir with blue-green branches that look almost silver in the twilight sky. It stretches so tall that it towers over the inn. As I inhale its deep, Christmassy scent and tip my head back to take it all in, its beauty takes my breath away.
It’s hard not to compare the tree and the surrounding scene to the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting back in Manhattan, which Maya and I have attended every year that I’ve lived in the city. But the crowds are always so thick that we barely manage to catch a glimpse of the tree at all, much less the moment when the lights flicker on for the first time. Being able to be so close to such a majestic tree is nice, and when I look around, I realize I’m surrounded almost entirely by people I’ve known my entire life instead of a mob of strangers. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like not to be just another anonymous face in the crowd.
Of course I can’t take a step without having someone compliment Fruitcake’s silly sweater. The dog clearly loves the attention, strutting at the end of his candy cane–striped dog leash with his head held high. Two identical little girls in winter-white parkas with fur trim run to greet him. They’re so bundled up that it’s not until their parents almost catch up to them that I realize these cute children are Susan’s daughters.
Aidan’s nieces, I think as I search the space around Susan and her husband. He’s not with them, though. Strange. I really thought he’d be here.
Although who am I kidding? The sudden clench in my stomach feels more like disappointment than surprise.
“We meet again!” Susan says, throwing her arms around me. “I was hoping we’d run into you here.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
Susan says hello to my parents and then introduces me to Josh and her girls, Olivia and Sophie.
