Page 82 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“She’s my friend,” I said. “We’re grief buddies. Her husband died.”
“And Bella is her daughter?”
“Yes. She’s seven. You’ll love her. She’s like a miniature Grace, except I think she might kinda hate me. I’m still figuring it out.”
Harry Styles is scratching at the door now.
“Are you sure you want me to be here?” Meredith asks. “I mean, I could get an Uber. I feel like I’m intruding.”
Our plan was to go to the Bluebird Cocktail Room for fancy, Baltimore-inspired drinks after Miracle on 34th Street, which is still totally doable.
“Not at all,” I say. “This’ll be like two minutes—a flyby. Ian just wants to show me what he’s doing. Then we’ll head to the Bluebird.”
“Okay,” Meredith says. “It’s nice, I guess. You helping him.”
Her body language, though, is uncertain. I get it, but the urgency here is legit. Ian’s entry is due in two days.
I texted Grace a few minutes ago, told her Meredith and I were popping over to her place for a minute for some quick art tutoring. She hasn’t responded.
“Oh, and Grace isn’t here, by the way,” I say.
Miss Nadine opens the door. She’s wearing her purple scarf again, and her hair is half in braids and half not. “Mouse Man,” she says.
I introduce Meredith, and Nadine invites us in. But then Ian bursts out from behind her in his winter coat and runs down the front walk. “Henry! Come on! It’s over here!”
“I guess we’re going that way,” I tell Nadine.
“Mhm,” she says.
Meredith and I find Ian at the curb across the street by the neighbor’s lawn.
“Ian, this is Meredith.”
“Oh, hi,” he says, like he’s just noticed her.
Meredith says hi, and now Ian is pointing at the neighbors’ Christmas decorations. “Check it out, Henry.”
Meredith looks at me like maybe she’s missing something. If she is, I am, too. The reindeer are still glowing. The unblinking elf that was leaning over the last time I was here is blinking now, but it’s fallen face-first into the grass like a drunk. It’s flurrying again, harder now.
“Not exactly sure what I’m seeing here, buddy,” I say.
Ian smiles. “That’s because you’re not looking hard enough.”
I’ve never been annoyed with him before. I’m close now. “Ian.”
“Take a step back,” he says. “Look.Reallylook.”
I do, and within a few seconds I’m reminded of those posters from when I was a kid where you relax your eyes and an image emerges, floating there like a ghost. The sidewalk between the curb and thedecorations is a little sunken, which has caused the dusting of snow, melted now from chemical salt, to become a perfect reflecting pool.
“Oh,” I say. “Ian. Wow.”
“You see it?” he asks.
I crop it in my mind and add a frame, because Ian has found art. The top half of the image features haphazard Christmas decorations—a festive bit of neighborhood chaos. The bottom half is a murky version of the top, the shimmering lights dulled, slightly out of focus, strangely ominous. “I do, buddy,” I say. “Good eye.”
Meredith squints.
“But what does it mean?” I ask.
