Page 52 of A South Hill Christmas Keepsake
He whispered, “That’s not the South Hill way, but I love you just the same.”
He loves me?She took the cup, her heart soaring.They found seats in the middle where the entire room came into view. At the next table, the men talked football and fixed the world in the same breath.
“You line up in a wing-T, and chew up the clock,” one declared, fork waving.
“Defense wins championships,” another said, nodding at Nate. “Back me up, Coach.”
“Balance wins championships,” Nate said, grabbing a roll. “Not too much of anything. Just enough.”
“Look at you, Mr. Neutral,” Hannah Leigh teased.
“Mr. Starving,” he corrected, buttering the roll.
Miss Sandra touched the piano keys, one bright chord that hushed the room.
“We’ll sing while you chew,” she said. “It’s the South Hill way.”
They sang “Go Tell It on the Mountain” with the gusto it deserves. People hummed between bites. Kids drifted back to the dessert table and bartered cookies with fierce negotiation. A wide-eyed boy asked Hannah Leigh if pralines were a kind of magic.
“Yes,” she said. “The kind you share.”
“Write that down,” Aunt Winnie said, plucking a card from her pocket and pressing it into Hannah Leigh’s hand. “Folks like a story with their instructions.”
“Got it,” Hannah Leigh said, scribbling.
Three ladies lined up to ask about the sweet potatoes. “Brown sugar and butter,” Victoria said, “splash of orange juice, cinnamon, and a touch of vanilla, the paste not the extract.”
Pens flew. Birdie pointed her spoon. “And salt? Do you add salt?”
“And a pinch of salt,” Victoria repeated. “Automatic.”
A blond-haired boy wearing a Santa hat and a grinch shirt leaned in. “Put my mac and cheese in there, too.”
“Yours?” His mama gave him a look. “Dylan stirred it. It’s my recipe.”
“He stirred it,” she allowed, and Hannah Leigh wrote, “Game Night Baked Mac stirred by Dylan,” and circled it to track him down later.
“Sweet!” Dylan fist-pumped and headed for the dessert table.
The evening unfolded comfortably. They started singing the12 Days of Christmassong, and by the last chorus, there were more harmonies than hymnals. A toddler slept across two chairs, sticky with ambrosia and peace.
Hannah Leigh moved table-to-table taking recipe notes and soaking up praise for the festival. Folks asked what she saw for spring, for next year. The answers came without effort.
“I’m opening my own business here,” she told Mrs. Kinney from the florist. “Hannah Leigh Events.”
“You have the talent to make it a success. I can’t wait to partner with you on the flowers. Every event needs flowers.”
“Absolutely.” Hannah Leigh jotted a quick note to follow-up with Mrs. Kinney after the holiday.
She told Mr. Graham from the hardware store she’d need supplies for a pegboard wall, and was already shopping online for good lighting, and a corner desk. Setting up an office with a view of Main Street felt so right. She promised the choir she’d plan a baked-goods fundraiser with real ribbon awards and judges nobody could fuss about. The plan slipped into place like a dress that needed no alterations—comfortable, flattering, just like it was made for her all along.
Now and then, she felt the pull of Nate’s gaze. She’d look up to find him watching with the look of a man whose prayer had come around the corner and sat down at his table. He didn’t hover. He poured tea, swapped out trash bags, teased teenagersoff the cookie trays, fixed a wobbly table leg with a folded napkin, then promised a proper shim tomorrow.
“Balance,” he told the football men again on his way by, and they groaned like he’d betrayed their love of drama.
When the dishes thinned and the choir packed up, Hannah Leigh stepped outside for a breath of cold. Snow gathered along the top of the shrubs.
Forgiveness doesn’t always sound like trumpets. Sometimes it lands like snow, sure and soft.
