Chapter 14 #2
In the drawing room, the fun—and the rum punch—has been flowing freely without us.
Oliver’s mother and her book club have progressed from carols to an interpretive dance performance of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” A woman with long gray hair embodies the partridge in the middle of the floor.
The rest flap around her, their alien antennae bobbing as they make various bird sounds, while the men gathered around the piano belt out the lyrics.
“Altogether now, five golden rings!” the piano player shout-sings, prompting the entire party to make a circle with their arms over their heads.
Oliver and I join in on the next round, playing the “geese a laying” with an enthusiasm that has Gretchen giggling so hard that, as soon as we’re done, Oliver offers to fetch her a lemonade from the buffet in the dining room.
“Oh, I’ll come with you, it’s nearly time for the pudding competition, anyway,” Gretchen says, nearly tripping over Nuggy as we start down the hall.
Oliver catches her arm, and I scoop Princess Nugget up from the ground, sobering at the thought of Gretchen taking a fall. She’s at an age where a tumble over her puppy could lead to serious consequences.
But she seems unfazed, beaming up at Oliver as we start toward the dining room again. “Oh, you’re such a lovely boy.” To me, she adds, “He always has been. Even when he was small. You’ve picked a good one, darling. And from such a fine family.”
“A fine family with the finest puddings in the kingdom!” Olly’s grandmother joins us, thrusting a wooden toy sword down the hall. She’s red-cheeked, sauced, and obviously having a fantastic time.
And so am I.
If I weren’t already falling for Olly, his wonderfully wacky family would have done the job.
In the dining room, the ancient wooden table groans under the weight of at least a dozen puddings. Some are architectural marvels. Others look like they’ve survived a bombing.
“Oh no, were we supposed to bring one?” I whisper once Olly has Gretchen settled in a chair near the head of the table.
He shakes his head. “Oh no, we aren’t nearly old enough yet.
Only those sixty and over have the necessary gravitas to bring a pudding.
Even my mother was only recently granted pudding privileges.
” He nods toward the table. “That’s hers there, the purple one with the silver filigree decorations.
She’s done something with vanilla and lavender, we should pretend to like even if it’s awful.
She’s terribly nervous about her performance since her peppermint pudding flopped last year. ”
“Peppermint pudding sounds good to me,” I say, joining him in the line to fetch samples.
“Sadly, it tasted like toothpaste,” he says, handing me a China plate so fine I’m instantly terrified I’ll drop it and owe his grandmother a small fortune. “But I think she might be onto something with the vanilla lavender.”
“No favoritism,” his grandmother shouts from a few feet in front of us. She turns to glare at Oliver over her shoulder. “And no poisoning the well, Olly. Let the girl taste with an open mind.”
Oliver offers her a sharp salute. “Yes, Madame. Understood.”
Once we’ve filled our plates and fetched samples for Gretchen, we find seats along the wall and begin working our way through the offerings.
Number three is, Oliver assures me, a very traditional offering, heavy with suet and dark fruit.
Number five features chocolate chips gone bitter in a sweet cherry sauce—someone’s failed attempt at innovation.
Number nine swims in so much brandy that the fumes make me lightheaded.
And then, we reach number twelve.
From the first bite, it dances on the tongue, floral notes elevating the pudding from heavy winter fare to something ethereal. It’s his mother’s lavender, I realize, perfectly balanced with vanilla and crystallized sugar.
I go back for a second taste, then a third.
Around me, I see Olly and the others doing the same, the room growing quiet as we all reach the same conclusion.
Even Susanna, who’s clearly a fan of more traditional flavors, takes multiple bites with an increasingly thoughtful expression.
Finally, she mutters, “Well, bollocks,” beneath her breath in a way that sends laughter rippling through the tipsy room.
When Edward tallies the votes, number twelve wins by a landslide. “Well done, Mum,” he says, starting a round of applause.
Vivian stands, elegant even in inebriation, swaying only slightly as she bows, clearly honored that her experiment has dethroned years of Christmas pudding tradition.
Slowly, the party splits into factions again, some retreating to the veranda for a smoke, others to the drawing room for a drink by the fire. Oliver and I join the dancers in the sitting room, where the lights are turned down low and Bing Crosby croons from hidden speakers behind the tree.
He pulls me close, one hand spanning my lower back.
I rest my cheek on his chest with a happy sigh, and we begin to sway.
The Christmas tree lights blur into stars as my lids close and an impossible fantasy plays out behind my eyes.
I imagine Oliver and I doing this next year, and the next, and the next, carrying on the Featherswallow holiday traditions, while turning making out in the solarium into a tradition of our own.
I imagine us growing closer, older, eventually adding a puppy baby and maybe even a baby baby to the celebration.
I imagine Christmases full of love and ease and holidays we’ll “have to muddle through somehow,” and how both will be beautiful in their own way.
I imagine myself at thirty-eight, fifty-eight, then with long white hair like my Irish gran, the other redhead in the family.
I see myself working on my entry for the pudding competition, while Olly putters around the kitchen making coffee, teasing me about my thin chance at victory, sneaking a quick squeeze of my ass as he reaches for the mugs.
“What are you thinking, darling Darling?” Oliver asks as Bing Crosby fades and Judy Garland’s voice fills the room.
It’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
As if summoned by my thoughts…
The answer to his question sits on my tongue, dangerous and ready: That you feel like home. That I already hate the thought of a holiday without you. That I’m pretty sure I’m still going to want your hands on me, even when I’m old and gray, and that I wish this night could go on forever…
“About this song, actually.” It’s partly true. “And how it makes me happy and sad and heartbroken and hopeful…all at the same time.”
His chest vibrates beneath my cheek as he hums in recognition. “Whoever wrote it knew, didn’t they? That pain comes when it comes. Even at Christmas.”
“And that love sometimes makes the pain worse before it makes it better.”
“The deeper the love, the deeper the loss,” he murmurs. “But how lucky we are to love like that.”
“Yes,” I agree, my throat tightening as I lift my head. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” he asks, a sad smile curving his lips.
“I didn’t mean to remind you of hard things,” I say. “I know this is a difficult Christmas for you and your family.”
“Stop. I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot tonight. It almost feels like he’s here. And happy to see us happy.” His voice catches as he adds, “He would have adored you, Red.”
Fighting a wave of emotion too intense for a British holiday party, I smile. “I wish I could have met him and told him he helped raise someone very special.”
His lips hook up on one side. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” I roll my eyes, hopefully throwing him off my increasingly sappy scent as I add, “It’s not every day you meet someone who, after just a few days, feels like a forever friend.”
“Almost six days now,” he corrects seriously. “But I agree. This sort of thing is rare. It’s never happened to me before, actually. If I’m honest, I wasn’t sure I believed it could happen.”
“Me either,” I whisper, pulse beating faster in my throat.
If I didn’t know better, I would think he was about to…
Could he be about to?
“But I confess, I don’t really think of you as a friend, Darling,” he says, that Olly playfulness creeping back into his tone, even as his gaze remains open and honest and locked on mine. “I think about your breasts far too often for that.”
I smile, relieved. It’s too soon—and we’ve had too much rum—for any big declarations.
But it’s exactly the right time to talk about boobs.
And other body parts…
“I think about your cock an awful lot, too,” I whisper, loving the way his jaw clenches in response. He makes dirty talk so much fun, I can’t resist adding, “And the fact that I didn’t get a chance to taste you the way you tasted me. Doesn’t seem fair, really.”
“It doesn’t,” he agrees, eyes glittering with excitement for the new game at hand. “What a lout I’ve been. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug, playing along. “It’s selfish, really.”
“Wickedly selfish, Red, you’ll hear no arguments from me about that. But please, tell me what I can do to make amends? I simply must make things right between us.”
I exhale a heavy sigh. “Well, maybe if we’re in a cab in the next ten minutes…”
“Make it five.” He grabs my hand, making me laugh as he bolts for the door, dragging me along behind him.