Page 67 of Holiday at Home
The tree throws little pools of gold across the floorboards; the garland on the mantle glitters where the first hint of dawn slips through the blinds. Coffee and the low murmur of voices whisper from the kitchen and I head that way.
Simon’s voice. Nash’s too, high and earnest in the way only six can be.
I stop at the doorway and lean against the trim, unseen. Simon stands at the counter in the pajamas he unwrapped last night, bare feet on cold tile, hair a little wild. He pours cocoa into a mug and crowns it with marshmallows like he’s performing a ceremony. Nash wiggles excitedly in his chair, more awake than I’ve ever seen him in the early hours of the morning.
“Careful,” Simon says, easing the mug into small hands. “It’s hot.”
“I know.”
“Here’s the thing, Nash.” Simon lowers himself into a chair at the table. “Something I want you to remember when you’re grown.”
My nephew nods, bending down to blow on his cocoa. I listen, grinning softly, as Simon tries to talk about women like Nash is sixteen, not six. He wobbles, but recovers as best he can, then says,
“I want you to remember, when it’s right, you’ll feel it deep inside. And whatever you do, don’t let the world tell you that other things—money, fame, success—matter more. They don’t. The most important thing in life is right here.” Simon taps Nash’s chest, over his heart. “It’s being with people who love you, taking care of them and knowing you’re taken care of too.”
I press my palm to the doorframe because something in me lurches at that, tears springing to my eyes as the conversation continues. I spent so long believing I was wrong to love Simon Holiday. Turns out, I just hadn’t reached the end of the story yet.
“Do you think Santa really came here before Minnesota?” Nash asks after a few quiet moments. “Because Dad says time zones are a real thing, but I think Santa has, like, a turbo mode.”
Simon smiles, that softer smile he saves for tender things. “I think Santa goes where he needs to go first.”
Nash considers this like a philosopher, then nods. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
I clear my throat, and both heads pop toward me. Nash beams.
“Aunt Vi!” He pushes back from the table, his cocoa sloshing over the rim as he plonks it down and rushes me. I kneel and brace for impact as he calls, “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, bud.” I kiss his temple and look up at Simon over Nash’s head. He’s watching me with that same soft smile.
“Good morning, you.” His voice is as tender and sweet as his words to my nephew.
When you find the right woman, you’ll know…
“Morning,’” I say, straightening. “I can’t believe you guys beat me awake. Especially Mr. Morning Hater over here.” I ruffle Nash’s head, and he ducks out of reach.
“There’s coffee.” Simon glances at my ancient machine with disdain. “If you can call it that.”
“It’s brown. It’s caffeinated. I think it’s safe to call it coffee.”
He pours me a mug and hands it to me as Nora and Robbie come downstairs. Nora greets us with a hearty, “Merry Christmas!” while Robbie grunts and makes a beeline for the coffee pot.
We move to the living room and someone turns on the TV fireplace. The air smells like pine and cinnamon, and somewhere beneath the Christmas music is the faintest thread of ocean from the bay.
We do stockings first.
Nash’s paper-ripping style could register on the Richter scale. Bows fly. Tissue paper drifts like confetti. He narrates every single item: “A yo-yo! A book about doctors! Dino socks! A tiny heart listener thing!” He pulls on the socks, then puts the stethoscope into his ears and evaluates Simon, who dies very dramatically only to be resurrected by a determined Nash.
From his parents, Nash gets a remote-control car that makes a sound I’m pretty sure the Geneva Conventions would frown upon; from me, a puzzle of the lighthouse and a hoodie from the bakery that says OFFICIAL CINNAMON ROLL TASTER. He wears it immediately over his puppy pajamas and declareshimself ready for duty. Robbie salutes him. Nora cries laughing. It is ridiculously perfect.
While Nash drives the car up Robbie’s leg and into the side of the couch, Nora and I exchange our gifts. I hand her the wrapped plaque I bought with Simon at the Christmas Market, my stomach doing an odd little twist. She peels back the paper and goes quiet, running her fingers over the letters like she’s praying with them. When she looks up, her eyes are bright. “Vi…”
“When I saw it, I immediately thought of Mom. And you.”
She nods once, sharp, likeyes. “It’s perfect. She would have loved it and I do too.”
We hug long and hard, twin heartbeats syncing in shared remembrance of our parents. Robbie clears his throat and pretends to dab at his eyes with a bow; Nora swats him and studies the plaque again, running her fingers along the words.
Then Simon stands and slides a big, wrapped box across the rug toward me with his toe, trying harder than he needs to look casual. My name is written in his handwriting—so familiar it makes my chest ache. Nash sits cross-legged to supervise. I tear paper. Inside is an espresso machine so sleek it looks like it could file taxes and fly a plane.
