Page 9 of Cocoa Kisses
It’s cold in Creekville. Not Moldova cold, but it’s in the thirties, which is enough to make me wish I’d put on a coat for the twenty-yard walk from my parents’ house.
“What’s up, doc?” Dr. Bixby asks as he clasps my dad’s hand.
“Not much, doc. How’s business?” my dad asks, returning the handshake.
“Nobody ever flosses, so it’s been a good year.”
They laugh, and I roll my eyes but smile. This is what passes for humor between a dentist and a family doctor.
We file into their family room, which is already set up with games stacked on the coffee table, the Wizards game muted on the TV, and bowls of popcorn and other snacks on end tables. Sara is fiddling with a charcuterie board on the kitchen bar.
“Hey, Tafts,” she says.
“Hey. Where’s Taylor?” I ask. Our moms exchange a look, the kind of look elementary schoolers trade any time any boy talks to any girl. I ignore them like I have since they started doing this when I wasinelementary school.
“Upstairs finishing bedtime with the boys,” Sara says.
“We won’t wake them up, will we?” my mom asks. Fair question since game nights get loud.
Sara shakes her head. “No. A big upside to how hard those boys go all day is that they’re out like lights when they fall asleep.”
“Can I interest anyone in a cranberry whiskey sour?” Dr. Bixby asks as my parents descend on the charcuterie board. He gets yeses from everyone except Mrs. Bixby, who opts for a glass of wine.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell them and head upstairs to find Taylor. I hear her before I even reach the landing, singing softly. Her voice is thin but sweet, and I follow it to Taylor’s old bedroom, where Sara’s twins sleep.
I lean against the wall out of sight. I don’t know a ton about kids, but they always seem curious, and I don’t want to be a distraction when Taylor’s trying to get them down. She finishes the lyrics to “Up on the Housetop,” and there’s a beat of silence.
Then a sleepy voice asks, “Tata, we’re going to see Santa’s weindeer, wight?”
Taylor’s long sigh tells me she’s probably been trying to get them to sleep for a while.
“Yes, Rome. Creekville has a special deal with Santa. As long as we have Christmas Town, he’ll always be here to light the tree.”
“The weal Santa?”
“The real Santa,” she says, her tone reassuring. “What are you going to ask him for?”
“Something special,” he says.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
Taylor’s working so hard to sound casual that it’s obvious this is an important question.
“I’ll tellhim,” the little voice says.
“I know his address,” Taylor says. “I have to send him his Christmas Town invitation every year. If you want to draw a picture, I could mail it to himbeforeChristmas Town.” Her voice is hopeful—even cajoling—but the little guy shoots that right down.
“No. I’ll tell weal Santa myself.”
“Sure,” she says, this time with a note of resignation. “Good plan. You ready for sleep, Rome?”
“One more song.”
There’s a soft rustling, and I imagine they’re settling into the covers more. Then Taylor begins “Silent Night,” singing it slow and soft enough that I rest my head against the wall and relax. If this doesn’t knock the kid out, he’s not human.
It takes three verses, but when Taylor steps into the hall a few minutes later, she has a relieved smile on her face until she sees me and jumps.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
