27. Willa
27
willa
When I first planned my trip, had someone told me the plans would go awry and I’d be celebrating Christmas Eve dinner—and enjoying myself—I would have laughed in their face. Yet, here I am, surrounded by people who were strangers a week ago, having the time of my life. Like old friends, Heidi and Lenny have fit me into their fold, sharing stories of growing up in Winterberry and showing me what Christmas can be. Even if I had the inkling to write about the holiday in my books, it wouldn’t have been like this. I didn’t know it could be this good.
Growing up, we barely celebrated Christmas Eve. Mom would attempt some kind of beef dish—you never knew what it would be or taste like—and after dinner, we’d maybe watch a Christmas movie, while Mom and Dad would pass out from their wine. Clem and I would often stay up late into the night, wishing and hoping for whatever gift was the “it” gift that year, only to be disappointed when there were so few presents under the tree, the one gift we wanted always absent.
Things changed when Elias came into the picture, but even then, he didn’t have any family left, so he joined ours. When my nephews were born, Clem wanted a different celebration for them. Until last year, I’d say it contrasted ours growing up, but it’s still unlike anything I’ve witnessed with the Nicholas family.
So, yeah. I haven’t always hated Christmas, but I never dared to imagine celebrations like this. Now that I have, Gibson holidays will be even more lackluster.
The beef Wellington practically melts in my mouth, an explosion of the perfectly paired flavors popping on my tongue. I’d say it’s delicious, but that wouldn’t do it justice. I don’t have the words to describe the awesomeness of the dish, though I bet Beckett could. When it’s something he’s passionate about, the words ooze from him. In his raspy tone, I could listen for hours and get high on the sound.
Throughout dinner, my eyes drift to him, watching him interact with his sister and brother-in-law, invested in their conversation, obsessed with the way he devours the food on his plate, offering compliments to the chef repeatedly. Genuine praise. As much as my sister and I are close, there’s a dynamic between Becket and Heidi on another level. Perhaps it’s the opposite genders, but their closeness is something to strive for.
Dessert is a pecan bourbon cake, another thing lacking from my life. It’s moist and nutty, and though I shouldn’t, I consume two slices. Culinary expertise runs rampant in the Nicholas family.
For Beckett’s part, his hand is always touching me. My back, my thigh, our fingers entwined.
The man is everything I never thought to ask for, anticipating my needs without me voicing them, often before they register as thoughts. I’m pushing away every notion of saying goodbye to him, living in the present, soaking up these last two days I get to call him mine.
He’s not mine in any sense of the word. Once I leave here, we’ll be a blip on each other’s radars, someone we used to know when.
I’m saved from my emotional turmoil by Beckett’s voice. “Should we call it a night, Bundy? ”
Damn him and his nickname.
Damn him for sharing it with his family.
Damn him for being a man I could love, a man I could see spending forever with.
“Yep.” I push the word out of my mouth, afraid to say more for fear I’ll let him in on my thoughts. Addressing Heidi, I start, “Thank you for this mouthwatering meal. Between Beckett and the rest of your family, I’m screwed for when I’m back home eating ramen noodles and takeout for every meal.” I don’t mean for the comment to sound so dire, but Heidi’s mood shifts.
“If Mom hears that, she’ll send you home with a dozen meals.” I can’t decipher the underlying tone. Is she suggesting I do that? Or is it merely a statement she’s making?
A giggle wiggles free, but I don’t know how to respond. Thankfully, Beckett’s got me.
“I won’t send her home empty-handed,” he assures, his hand splayed across the small of my back. There’s a wistfulness present, his voice more guttural than normal, emotions weighing heavy. When he leans down and leaves a kiss on the top of my head, it’s all I can do to stay upright and not fall into him.
I have to shake these emotions off. How will I handle brunch with his family if I’m on the verge of a breakdown? And for once, it has nothing to do with the Christmas holiday.
Hugs are shared, tears are shoved down, and we’re back in the car, heading to his cabin. It doesn’t escape my notice he turns the opposite way out of the driveway.
“You were quiet tonight,” he muses.
“You should drive down Main Street.” The words tumble out of my mouth, no regard for what I’m saying. Beckett disguises his gasp as a cough.
“Will it be a repeat of last time?” A hint of humor hides in his words.
“No.”
My idea is a gamble. Much as I want to see the lights, a residual fear resides inside. I’m not sure I’ll be able to conceal it from Beckett if it’s overwhelming. But I want to try, and who better than him?
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I confirm with conviction. I can do this. Perhaps white-knuckling it the whole way, squeezing my eyes if it gets too overwhelming, but I can do this.
Content with my decision, he drives down a street we’ve yet to explore, somehow circling back to Main Street. He slips his hand in mine, laying both on his thigh. “It’s easy enough to turn around. We don’t have to do the entire street. You’ll let me know if it’s too much?”
“How are you single?” The question arises, and I can’t keep it inside. But seriously. Here’s this man who has been nothing but kind to me, taking care of me from the moment we met, going above and beyond the role of a friend, let alone a stranger.
He blows out a breath, and I wonder if he’s going to respond to my—mostly—rhetorical question.
“I have high standards. I like things certain ways. I haven’t found anyone compatible.” Honesty pours from him, but there’s a tinge of sadness, too. He’s going to make the best husband one day. For the right woman, she’s going to be his world.
Too bad it’s not you, my brain reminds.
After Elias died, I would have said I don’t deserve a guy like Beckett. Because I had Elias, so why should I have two loves? However, spending the last several days with him, I wish that weren’t true. I wish I was deserving of Beckett Nicholas. Even if it won’t ever work, between the distance and every other complication, I’d like the chance to see how good it could be.
“Gotcha.” There’s so much I want to say, but I keep it simple, not wanting to get into more tonight. Not when we only have a limited time.
He’ll find his woman. He’s too great of a catch not to.
We reach the beginning of Main Street, and Beckett idles at the stop sign. “Last chance to back out.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I joke. Inside, nerves threaten, but I tamp them down. “I can do this.” The words are whispered with little conviction behind them, but I’m here. I’m not going to let Beckett or myself down. I scrunch my eyes shut, count to five, and let go of the breath I’m holding. “Do it.” He’s still holding my hand, his fingers gripping tighter.
“I’m proud of you. I’m here.”
No doubt in my mind, if I backed out, he wouldn’t give me a hard time. He’d continue on the way to the cabin, dropping the subject and letting me have the space and time I needed to conquer the fear.
Even in my mind, it’s stupid to consider this a “fear.” Because there are so many more scary things in the world than Christmas lights. I suppose that’s why my therapist calls it an irrational fear. It’s not the lights I’m scared of, but what they represent.
The loss, the joy, the what should have been.
If I don’t do this now, I never will. I’ll never have the nonjudgemental support of anyone like Beckett at another time.
“Okay.” I nod, signaling I’m ready.
He turns right, the lights blinding ahead. At a crawl, he drives down the street, allowing me to take in the multi-colored lights on the different buildings. Every building is decked out in a plethora of colored lights, some blinking, others static. They’re bright because they have to be. To showcase the beauty of the colors, the luminescence of the hues.
As Beckett drives along the road, my eyes scan both sides of the street, absorbing it all. Awe doesn’t do it justice. It’s beautiful, the lights strung in a way to highlight the patterns and also the building itself. I can’t believe I would have missed this had I continued not to confront my demons.
“It’s stunning, breathtaking,” I marvel, my sight not able to concentrate on one area for too long. I want to soak it all up, catalog every bulb, every design, to commit it to memory.
“Not so blinding anymore?” He chuckles, repeating my words from last week.
“Oh, it’s still blinding, but in the best way. Not sure how I’ll be able to see anything once we leave here.” The car accelerates, but I demand, “Go slower.” I glance in the side mirror, making sure we aren’t holding anyone up.
I can’t decide which building is my favorite. Beckett’s a good sport and turns around at the end of the strip and travels back the other way, my oohs and aahs spurring him on.
“When do they shut them down for the night?”
“Midnight.”
“And when do they take them down for the season? Must be a sad day.”
“January second, the most dreaded day on Winterberry’s calendar.” Again with the chuckle, this one deeper than the last, the timbre becoming familiar and comforting.
“I can see why. This display is brilliant. Is it the same every year?” Questions flood my brain, like when I’m researching a topic for a book and need to know every detail before I can write.
“It’s similar, but the visual changes. Some buildings get different colors. Some years, there are more white lights than colored ones, more of a theme. Depends on who’s in charge.”
I tear my eyes away from the magnificence and stare him down. “What kind of person gets to be in charge?”
A twinkle fills his right eye. “There’s an election in July. Anyone can submit a proposal, and then the town committee selects a top five and the citizens vote. It’s highly competitive, as you can probably imagine.”
I let the information soak in, my brain working on follow-up queries. But first. “You ever win?” He waves his arm in front of him, and the gasp jumps from my throat. “This was yours?” I squeak, barely able to speak over my excitement. My gaze volleys between the decorations and Beckett, the magnitude of what he’s telling me staggering. “Beckett. This is amazing. How long have you been planning it?”
A flash of red crosses his cheeks, illuminated by the outdoor lights. “Too long to admit. ”
I go to force him to answer, but I think better of it and shut my mouth. “Fair.” I wonder, “Is this your first victory?”
“Yes. Town rules. You’re only allowed one win. You can submit every year, but once you’re deemed the winner, you’re done. For life.” He punctuates the last word, like it’s a life sentence in a penitentiary instead of not being allowed to enter a holiday lights contest. His smile and enthusiasm haven’t dimmed, triumph wafting off.
“That’s so cool. I love how it’s fair for everyone.” I look out the windshield, taking in the display with a fresh perspective.
The way the lights around the candy shop blink in a pattern, almost as if they’re dancing to an inaudible tune.
Oversized plastic candy canes attached to each streetlamp.
The strands of lights strung from one side of the street to the other.
It’s breathtaking and simply fascinating, a spectacle to admire. Knowing the man behind the design elevates my already heightened emotions.
“I think it’s later,” I whisper, and I’ve never seen Beckett react so quickly.