Page 5 of An Unexpected Christmas
“See you later, Scrooge,” I call, skipping down the steps before he can retort.
Sam
I don’t even like cookies
I close the door behind me, the box of cookies still in my hand, and let out a long breath.
What was that? My shoulders drop, but the rest of me doesn’t quite follow. There’s a pulse under my skin that wasn’t there five minutes ago, and I’m not really sure what to do with it.
The house feels quiet again, insulated from the cold and the faint hum of Frankie’s ever-present Christmas lights. But her visit lingers, bright and persistent, like the afterimage of a flashbulb.
Fitting really.
I glance at the tin, debating whether to set it aside and forget about it. Cookies. Ridiculous. I don’t evenlikecookies. And I don’t want Christmas cheer forced onto me either. Wallowing is what I do best.
Except the snowman one I just ate wasn’t bad. Actually, it was good. The perfect balance of sweetness, the frosting not too heavy, the texture light and soft, it practically melted on my tongue. I roll my eyes and carry the tin to the kitchen, settingit on the counter next to a stack of unopened mail and a lone teacup from this morning and the one thing that sticks out the most in my barely decorated house...
The Christmas tree.
It’s a pathetic excuse for one, really, tucked away in the corner out of view of anyone, especially my overzealous neighbor. Just two feet tall, it sits on the edge of the counter near the window, its sparse branches unevenly spaced. I’d found it in the back of a hardware store a week ago, and for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, I brought it home along with a small box of ornaments.
Staring at it for a moment, I debate whether I even care enough to decorate it at all. It’s not like anyone’s going to see it.
Certainly not Ms. Christmas across the street. I can’t ever let her see that. She’d ask questions, I know she would. And I’m not about to tell her my sob story during her favorite time of year. Besides, she’d probably take it upon herself to decorate my house if she really knew why I hate the holidays. And the worst part is, I’m not entirely sure I’d stop her.
The cookies catch my eye again. I pop open the lid, and the scent of sugar and butter wafts up. My mouth instantly fills with the need to taste one again. Maybe another won’t hurt. I pluck out a reindeer this time, biting into its head with a little more satisfaction than intended.
Without making a conscious decision, after telling myself I wouldn’t bother, my hand finds the box of baubles next to the tree. Tiny silver trinkets, a few snowflakes, and one or two small figurines make their way onto my branches. I hook a bauble before taking bites of the cookies. And before I realize it, I’m already reaching for another. This time, it’s a Christmas tree, complete with tiny green frosting branches and little red dots for holly berries.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t even like Christmas, and here I am decorating a tree, eating festive cookies like some kind of...normal person.
Or maybe she really did lace the cookies with something. Probably.The thought makes me laugh, which then makes me scowl at the thought that I haven’t done a whole lot of laughing lately.
I glance toward the window. Frankie’s house is still glowing, her sleigh and reindeer casting long shadows over the lightly falling snow. She’s probably busy, oblivious to how her relentless cheer has wormed its way into my day. Not that I’d ever admit that. I’d also never admit that I just looked for her again, despite her leaving me only minutes ago. Desperate much, Sam?
Another ornament goes on the tree, a snowman with a crooked smile. It dangles precariously from the thin branch, and for some reason, I chuckle.
The irony that will die with me is that with each bauble I hang, I can feel the weight in my chest lightening, just a little.
It’s been years since I decorated for Christmas. Years since I even acknowledged the holiday beyond the bare minimum. It always seemed easier to avoid it, to push it aside like some unwelcome guest. But standing here now, surrounded by the faint smell of her cookies, something shifts. It’s not a revelation, because then I really would assume she laced the cookies, but it’s a thought that maybe she’s really a good person, and I haven’t given her enough credit.
I hang the last ornament and step back as Frankie’s voice echoes in my head,“Christmas isn’t just about decorations or cookies or presents. It’s about... connection.”
I shake my head, brushing the thought away. The cookies must be messing with my brain. That or she is… I’d wager both.
Frankie
How not to electrocute yourself
The problem with having a house covered in Christmas lights is that things sometimes… spark. Literally.
I should’ve known there was a problem when I plugged the new reindeer in this week and the outlet made a sound suspiciously like it was choking. But did that stop me? Of course not. Frankie Thompson, bringer of holiday cheer, does not back down from faulty extension cords.
So here I am, crouched on my porch in three layers of thermals, a knit hat with a pom-pom the size of a grapefruit, my favorite one actually because Lainey knitted it for me at work, and a determination that could power Santa’s sleigh all on its own.
“Okay, little guy,” I mutter to the intermittently glowing reindeer, giving its plastic nose a pat. “Stay with me.”
Something pops out again. Sparks hiss, thankfully without actually shocking me, but my little antlered friend loses all his light. I yelp and fall backward, my butt smacking the cold grass.
