Page 51 of A South Hill Christmas Keepsake
He leaned a shoulder to the wall, arms crossed. “Something wrong? Lights out? Need a ladder?”
“No.” She swallowed and tried again. “Yes. Something is wrong. The important thing.”
“Oh?” He tipped his head. “You mean that job in Charlotte. I remember you saying that was the most important thing.”
The truth of that landed hard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve told you about the call. I’d applied before that job before I ever came home. And I’m sorry you heard me say that about ‘most important.’ That was me being excited about something I never thought would happen. That’s who I’ve been for a long time. Chasing accounts. Climbing the next rung like it would make me happiness.”
He didn’t move. His eyes did, softening a bit.
“I kept thinking if I proved myself, the rest would follow.” She nodded toward the hum of the hall. “This season, this town, you. Nate, you reminded me what home feels like. I don’t want to chase anymore when I’ve already found it.”
“Hannah Leigh,” he said, quiet, like her name had weight again.
“I think I want to start an event company,” she said. The words picked up, sure of themselves now. “Right here in South Hill. I’ll travel for some jobs, but this would be home. If you’d want to be part of that. If you’d want to be anchored here with me.”
He let out a slow breath that sounded like relief learning how to speak. “You sure? You never looked like the anchoring kind.”
“Maybe I hadn’t found the right harbor.”
He stepped closer. Cedar and sawdust clung to his jacket. “You mean it? You’re staying. Or at least I get a say?”
“I’m staying. I love this town,” she said, voice plain and true. “And you. I don’t want to lose you to a job or anything else.”
He didn’t answer with words. He lifted his hand, brushed her cheek, and kissed her like a man who now knew where he belonged.
Joy spilled from the fellowship hall. “Time for the Twelve Days of Christmas. Everyone come grab a card so you know what part to sing!” someone called. Aunt Winnie added a joyful, off-key painfully long ‘five golden rings’ that made the whole church feel better about singing in public.
Hannah Leigh smiled up at him. “Guess it’s time.”
“Yeah,” Nate said, his forehead resting against hers. “Time for everything.”
They went back in. Aunt Winnie stood at the serving line, tying on an apron. “Hey, you two. I like seeing those smiles.” She patted the pocket, then lifted out a neat stack of recipe cards. “I brought extras. Folks get ornery if you make them wait to copy down a good thing.”
“Every time I see you lately, you’re wearing a different apron,” Nate said.
“Oh yeah. That’s my thing.” Aunt Winnie brightened, twisting to model the one she was wearing. “This one, my sweet husband Skip gave me. I dropped a pie trying to wave at him through the kitchen window, and he thought he was being funny. He was just starting a new obsession for me. I have as many aprons as some folks have socks.”
“She’s not lying about the aprons,” Hannah Leigh said. “Did you really drop a pie out the window?
“Oh, I did. Cherry everywhere. He grabbed a towel and said, ‘That’s what happens when beauty and grace collide.’ The very next day, he brought me this apron. Said it was armor for kitchen disasters.” She waggled the recipe cards. “And this pocket is for treasures.” She raised her voice loud enough that everyone around could hear. “We’re doing a cookbook for thespring fundraiser. I expect your help. You need to get your recipes to Hannah Leigh.”
“I’m on it,” Hannah Leigh said. “I’m collecting tonight.”
She and Nate joined the line. The dessert table came first, as dessert always should. Pecan pies and chocolate chess, a lemon meringue with a crown tall as a Sunday hat, and apple pies glazed to a glassy sheen. A tin of Aunt Winnie’s pralines sat near the end. Birdie’s ambrosia was as beautiful as a stained glass window with the cherries, coconut, and oranges shining. A card read, “Ambrosia the Way My Mama Made It,” and beneath it, “If you know, you know.”
“I need that recipe,” a woman in a snowflake sweater said, eyeing the bowl. “My sister claims I don’t marinate long enough.”
“It’s patience,” Birdie called from across the table. “And a pinch of salt. Fruit’s a diva. Salt keeps her honest.”
Hannah Leigh grinned. “I’m collecting for the cookbook. Your ambrosia and Aunt Winnie’s pralines are must-haves. We’ll tuck twelve recipe cards in the back, then sell the full cookbook to raise money for the choir robes and the youth mission trip.”
“I’ll print mine pretty,” Birdie said, striking a pose with her spoon.
They reached the savory spread. Nate cut a thin slice of ham, then set a piece of fried chicken beside it like the two had always belonged together. Hannah Leigh ladled Brunswick stew, scooped sweet potatoes, and didn’t pretend she’d skip the dressing. A deviled egg rode the rim of her plate. When Aunt Winnie gave her the look—the one that said two deviled eggs was just good manners—she added another to her plate.
“Sweet tea?” Nate asked, tipping the pitcher.
“Half and half,” Hannah Leigh said.
