Page 132 of Fury

I was always taking notes in my head of what to do, where to go with my boy. A long, long list of items was already filed under the “maybe next year” heading.

I’d loved Christmas when my grandmother was alive. She was an enthusiastic baker and decorator. Buttery cinnamon sugar toast was the daily breakfast ritual for the two of us. The radio was always tuned to a holiday station, filling the house with an endless round of the same old carols but performed by every artist under the sun from Bing Crosby to Nat King Cole to Elvis, even elevator music versions. She made sure we watched all the children’s holiday television shows together, and she’d take me to our local bookstore where she’d buy me one special illustrated book of my choice. I would help her unwrap her collection of Christmas angels and we’d put them around the house. It was magical.

After she’d passed away, there had been no more bracing anticipation or crisp excitement to those days, no more cinnamon and nutmeg. The magic had evaporated. They’d become ordinary days. Very ordinary just like the ones before and the days that followed. A brightly colored balloon now deflated, thudding along the floor. That’s when I realized that Christmas really was about sharing traditions with special people in your life.

I was going to create new traditions for me and my son. I would bake for him and decorate and shop for him, read the right books to him. I glanced at the gingerbread reindeer, sugar cookie stars, and shortbread covered in mounds of confectioners sugar.

Yes, cinnamon and nutmeg.

I steered the stroller through the booths which showcased handcrafted ornaments, jewelry, and home decor. I bought a big three-dimensional snowflake made out of wood, painted white. Vendors sold jars of their homemade jams, jellies, and salsas all dressed up in pretty holiday ribbons, gorgeous sweet yeasty breads, a dizzying selection of old-fashioned lollipops and candies and cookies.

“Thank you!” a girl with a Santa cap on her head said as I tossed a wrapped gift into the Toys for Tots donation box.

“My pleasure,” I replied.

“Here you go.” She handed me a complimentary cup of hot chocolate.

Santa had made his grand entrance earlier, escorted by a city fire truck. A long line of kids waited to take photos with him, and I pushed the stroller in his direction. I definitely wanted him to see Santa. I didn’t want him to miss out on anything. I wanted him to always have these experiences, these memories. Although I was sure Eric would think I was a nut job for taking him out in the cold today, sun or no.

Rapid City was our home, as well as LA, but Rapid had my heart. I took a final sip of the hot chocolate, bringing the stroller to a stop by the rope barrier on the other side of the long winding line.

I grinned. Definitely next year.

I crouched down next to the stroller, my hand over the blanket under which his legs were kicking and popping against the thick fleece. “Look, honey, it’s Santa. He’s come from the North Pole to meet us. You’re excited, huh? Me too! What’s he going to bring you for Christmas this year? Your first Christmas.” I tickled his tummy, and he scrunched his mouth at me.

It sure felt like my first Christmas. It would be the first of so very many good ones.

I kissed his cheek, pulled down his hat with the bear ears on top, and stood up, pulling the stroller back a little from the extended line of kids and their parents.

“You been naughty or you been nice?” a deep, scratchy voice filled my ear.

My heart stopped. I spun around, my grip tightening on the stroller handles. Finger stood there in his colors, his huge worn leather jacket zipped to the top, a scarf bundled around his neck, a charcoal gray knit cap pulled down over his head. A dark beard covered his jaw.

I blinked. My hands clamped tightly over the curved handles. “Hey.”

He said nothing. He studied me, his one eyebrow arched, the line of his jaw set.

I last saw him in May across the field at a music festival in Colorado. I’d been six months pregnant and shocked as hell to spot him that afternoon. The look on his face when he realized I was pregnant. I’ll never forget it. Not ever.

My baby was four months old now.

Was he keeping track of me?

A choir of cheery voices swelled in the distance, “...with boughs of holly...”

His guarded eyes went to my baby, then back to me. “Boy?”

My breath shorted. “Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Beck.”

“Beck?”

“...Fa la la la la la la la la...”

“Beck,” he repeated.

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