Chapter 52
Cherry was still getting ready when Tom showed up at eleven.
She was wearing an expensive cherry-pink batwing sweater with wide-legged jeans and ridiculously twee high-heeled oxfords.
The shoes were patent leather—juniper green and candy pink—and the jeans were just short enough to reveal an inch of pink fishnet stockings.
She’d braided her hair into a crown and was taking time with her cherry-red lipstick and silver eyeshadow.
Cherry hadn’t slept well, but she looked bright-eyed and Christmassy.
Tom rang the doorbell, then let himself in. “Cherry?” he called up the stairs. “I’m going to take Stevie for a walk!”
“All right!” she called back.
The squash casserole was in the oven. The cookies were on platters on the kitchen island. Cherry had decided to wait and flip
the Jell-O out of its mold at Honny’s house, so it wouldn’t slide around in the car.
She was still wrapping a gift for one of her nieces when Tom and Stevie got back. “That was a short walk!” she shouted from
upstairs.
“I didn’t want to make you late!”
“I’ll be right down—I’m wrapping a present!”
“Did you bring down the tablecloths?”
“Yeah! On the dining room table!”
“I’ll start loading up the car!”
She heard him coming and going. She finished the gift. When she went downstairs, Tom was just coming in the door.
She saw his eyes widen when he saw her. She stopped on the staircase.
The corners of his mouth turned up. “You look . . . like the girl on the front of Target’s holiday sale circular.”
Cherry put her hand over her heart, pretending to feign delight. “That’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever given me.”
Tom laughed, softly. “Sorry,” he said, glancing down at himself. He was wearing another T-shirt and cargo pants. “I didn’t
have time to shop.”
Cherry’s smile faded. “You could . . .” She glanced upstairs.
“No.” Tom shook his head. “A T-shirt’s fine, right?”
“Yeah,” Cherry said, “it’s fine.”
“Can you see if there’s still some kraft paper in the upstairs closet? With the wrapping paper?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that casserole ready to go?”
“Yep—the carrier’s in the drawer by the sink. And I made coffee.”
Tom nodded and headed for the kitchen. “My second choice after ‘girl on the Target circular’ was ‘Santa Claus’s high school
sweetheart.’ ”
Cherry smiled. “That also would have been good.”
She went upstairs to get the kraft paper. Then into her room, and to Tom’s dresser. She opened the bottom drawer and took
out a navy fair-isle sweater with a bright geometric pattern banded across the shoulders.
When she came downstairs, he was in the kitchen. Drinking coffee and looking out the window above the sink.
He glanced over his shoulder at Cherry, then turned around.
She held out the sweater.
Tom looked down at her hands, like he wasn’t sure he was going to take it.
It was silly. This wasn’t a gift; it was his own sweater. If it wouldn’t have been a huge scene, Cherry would have brought
all his clothes down. It was embarrassing now that she hadn’t given them to him.
“Thanks,” Tom said.
He set down the coffee and took off his coat. She watched him pull the sweater over his wide chest.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” Cherry said.
Tom smiled a little. “Okay . . . Gingerbread, butter cookies, cheese balls . . .”
“I’m waiting to do the Jell-O after we get there.”
“Pastieri . . . tablecloths . . . Do you have your presents?”
“I’ll grab the rest.”
“And I’ve got the squash casserole.”
“We’re ready,” Cherry said.
Tom huffed out a dry laugh. “Are we?”
He picked up the casserole dish, in its handmade quilted carrier, and Cherry went for her coat and the laundry basket of gifts.
She always bought gifts for her mom, one of her sisters, and two of her nieces and nephews. (They drew names at Thanksgiving.)
When they got out on the porch, Tom took the basket and said, “Wait here. I’ll help you down the steps.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your shoes are reckless.”
“My shoes are really cute,” Cherry said, waiting on the top step. “I have boots in the car if I need them.”
Tom came back for her, his hand on her elbow as she walked down the steps, and hovering near her elbow as she walked to the
car. He opened the passenger door for her. She hadn’t even told him he could drive.
They were both quiet on the way to Honny’s. “White Christmas,” Cherry said unnecessarily, looking out the window.
Tom only hummed.
When they were almost there, he asked, “Do they know I’m coming?”
“Yeah,” Cherry said.
He looked pale. His lips were tense. “Did you tell them we’re not . . . that it doesn’t mean . . .”
Cherry clenched her teeth. She swallowed. “Yeah, of course. I told them that I invited you. And that we’re not fighting.”
He threw her a concerned look. “I guess that’s true.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Go figure.”
Tom dropped Cherry off right in front of the house. “Could you wait for me?” he asked.
“Tom, I’m fine. I’ll walk like a penguin.”
“No, I just . . .” He squinted one eye. “Could you wait for me? To walk in?”
“Oh,” she said. “Yeah.”
She did wait. Holding on to the hood of someone’s SUV. Tom parked the car and grabbed as much as he could carry in one arm.
Cherry hadn’t taken anything—because she really might need both hands to get up to the house, these shoes were idiotic—and
because she was already taking Tom’s arms for granted. Tom’s endless, unspoken willingness to be helpful.
He took her elbow as she climbed the stairs from the driveway, and then again when she stepped up to the porch.
She glanced up at him when they got to the door. He looked like he was at his own arraignment.
“Let’s just have a nice Christmas,” Cherry said. “We both deserve a nice Christmas.”
Tom looked in her eyes. His brow was furrowed. He nodded.
When they walked in, everyone shouted, “Cherry!” And then, louder, “Tom!” The younger kids called out, “Uncle Tom!” and ran
to grab on to his legs. (A childless uncle was a precious commodity; was anyone ever more fun?)
“Hey, hey,” Tom said, patting their heads and hugging them.
Cherry took the squash casserole from him, feeling suddenly uncertain. Did Tom actually want one more day with these people?
Knowing it would be his last?
“Who’s going to help carry in the cookies?” Tom was saying. He drafted a few of the older kids and told them to put on their
coats.
Honny and Joy were standing outside the kitchen, mutely watching.
Cherry walked past them, holding the squash casserole in both hands.
“You look cute, Cherry,” Joy said, following her.
“Yeah, you look really cute, Cherry,” Honny said, like it was an accusation. As soon as they rounded the corner into the kitchen and out of sight, she
said, “What in tarnation?”
“We are not doing this,” Cherry hissed under her breath. “We’re being normal.”
“We are being normal,” Joy said. “You’re the one who brought your ex-husband to Christmas!”
“They’re still married,” Honny said. “The weird part for me is that she brought a different guy to Thanksgiving.”
Faith came into the kitchen, still wearing her coat, and rushed over to Cherry, slapping her arm. “Oh my god,” Faith whispered. “Are you and Tom back together?”
“No,” Cherry said. “We’re just . . . getting along. He’s moving to California next month, and he was going to be alone on Christmas,
so I invited him.”
“You look really cute,” Faith said, like she was just noticing.
Honny’s arms were folded. “Doesn’t she.”
“This casserole should stay warm in the carrier,” Cherry said. “It’s insulated.”
“Oooh, did you make squash casserole?” Joy asked.
“Yeah,” Cherry said. “Sorry, it has Ritz crackers.”
“Pfft”—Joy waved a hand—“I’m taking the day off from worrying about gluten.”
“You’re what?” Honny said.
“Are you serious, Joy?” Faith said. “I made gluten-free potica.”
“I made gluten-free pastieri,” Cherry said.
“I made gluten-free chocolate cake,” Honny said.
Cherry frowned at Honny. “Did it turn out?”
“No!”
“Well . . .” Joy was pouting. “You all told me I was being stupid.”
“You were being stupid,” Honny said.
A line of kids was coming into the kitchen, carrying Cherry’s dishes.
“Here.” Cherry took a plate of cookies from one of her nephews. “Let’s set everything on the counter for now.”
Tom came in at the end, carrying the box of table decorations.
“Tom!” Faith said, reaching up to hug him.
Tom shifted the box to one hip to hug her back. “Hey, Faith.”
Joy was right behind her. “Merry Christmas, Tom.”
Honny waved from the other end of the kitchen. “Hey, Tom.”
“Hey, Honny. Did you guys redo that retaining wall?”
“Yeah, in the spring.”
“It looks great.”
“Cost us an arm and a leg.”
“I’ll bet.” Tom looked at Cherry. His eyes were a little too bright. “You want me to set up the tables? I was going to have
the kids help me with the paper tablecloth.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll do the adult table. Mallory will help me.”
He nodded and waved at the room at large before he headed out. Cherry waited for her sisters to start haranguing her again.
But when she looked around, everyone just looked awkward and sad.
Normally Tom spent a few days illustrating the paper tablecloth for the kids’ table. Obviously, this year, he hadn’t had a
chance.
Instead he rolled the kraft paper out on the folding table and quickly drew a long mantel, like the top of a fireplace, with
black marker. Then he drew stockings with each kid’s name. He gave them all crayons to decorate their stockings, and he moved
around the table, drawing gifts peeking out of the stockings and adding details to the mantel. He drew candlesticks and a
clock. He called Cherry over to draw a Santa mouse peeking out from behind the clock.
He helped the toddlers. He joked with the teenagers.
Hope came into the house with Cherry’s parents.
Cherry’s mom had clearly been briefed about Tom—but it didn’t stop her from being weird.
She put her hand over her heart when she saw him. Then she came and took both of his hands in hers. He was still holding a
Sharpie.
“Tom,” she said. “It’s so good to see you.”