Chapter Forty-Two
Nate
It was Christmas Eve—our first together.
The tree in the living room brushed the low beams, branches heavy with mismatched ornaments that had somehow become a theme—glass finials from Claire, a couple napkin snowmen Milo had made at the cafe, an assortment of ornaments we’d found stored in a closet, and a crooked cardboard star one of Martin’s grandchildren insisted on making because every tree needs a star.
And apparently the expensive topper Silas had didn’t match the napkins.
It was perfect.
Like a preview of years to come. My father had strung garland across the mantel, tucking pinecones and cranberries in with a sense of style I hadn’t known he had in him.
His attention to that area was why, right in the center, above the fireplace, was one solitary photo: Silas with his arm around his very pregnant wife.
Young. Ridiculously in love. And not forgotten.
“I hope you’re all together now,” I murmured under my breath.
It was likely my imagination, but for just a moment, the strung lights shone brighter and illuminated the glass on the photo. I turned to see if anyone else noticed, but they were all occupied with readying for our first Christmas Eve gathering on the farm.
My job? I’d split the wood, stacked it, and was tasked with stoking the fire. It was a job I would now do each year because I’d caught Jo watching me from the window with a huge smile. I’ll happily play out her lumberjack fantasy—anytime, anywhere.
Unfortunately, that would have to wait because all around me, the house hummed with conversation.
Jo’s laugh floated from the kitchen, threaded with Claire’s softer one.
The two of them had taken over Silas’s stove like they were embarking on an adventure.
Like me, Claire usually had a private chef.
And Jo? Her genius didn’t extend into the kitchen.
Still, they seemed to be having fun in there. And it smelled good.
Worst case? We’d have something delivered last minute. But if it was edible, I intended to scarf it down and claim it was delicious.
My father hovered in the doorway of the kitchen, trying very hard to look like he did this sort of thing every year. He normally had decorators and caterers who would handle all the details we had rushed to accomplish.
Roy sat in the armchair nearest the fire, his hands wrapped around a mug of cider Claire had bullied him into accepting.
His job had been to put out bowls of snacks.
For a man who’d seen some things in his life, I thought he accepted that task gracefully.
The absolute centering of every dish and exact measurements of their contents was probably unnecessary, but he seemed happy with the outcome, and it had given him something to do.
Now idle, he kept glancing around like he was memorizing everything—the fire, the tree, the photo of Silas, the way Jo’s voice rose unexpectedly when she got excited about something. He looked a little overwhelmed.
“Are you all right?” I asked, crossing to him.
His gaze dragged from the roaring fire to me. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” he said quietly. “Back in a cell.”
I swallowed. “You’re won’t. We’ll make sure of that.”
“I know. And I’m grateful.” His gaze swept to the mantel. “I knew Silas when he was with Melinda and I knew him afterward. Losing her broke him for a long time.”
I pocketed my hands and rocked onto my heels. “I imagine something like that would be devastating.”
Roy nodded. “I had just started out. Broke as fuck. And Silas was rich but wanted none of it. All I did was offer him the couch at my place and told him he could stay until he figured himself out. He stayed a year. On my couch. Drunk. Stupid. Looking like he wanted to join Melinda. But then I took a job in Texas and told him to get his shit together because he might not want to still be here, but he was and the bare minimum he could do was make this place better for those around him.”
“And he listened,” I said.
Roy nodded. “Seems that way.” He looked back toward the kitchen. Jo’s silhouette passed the doorway, hair pulled back, hands moving as she talked. He didn’t smile exactly, but he softened. “Jo’s different here.”
“How’s that?”
“Happy. She laughs more. Like she believes this will last.”
“It will. I’m going to marry her, Roy.”
He smiled.
Before I could say more, the front door blew open like a storm hitting a beach.
“Ho ho holy hell, it smells amazing in here,” Libby announced, stumbling in under the weight of two enormous foil-covered pans and a tote bag that appeared to be made entirely of glitter. “Merry Christmas! Who’s ready for carbs and questionable decisions?”
“I brought the eggnog!” Bibi exclaimed, right before she hit the doorframe with her shoulder and bounced off it, laughter following her inside like confetti. She was loaded down with three more dishes, her purse, and a grocery bag that rustled ominously. “It’s not Christmas if you’re not tipsy.”
Behind them, Mr. Carlisle stepped in at a much more reasonable pace, shutting the door gently against the cold. He wore a dark wool coat and although his resting face was harsh, it lit with a smile whenever he looked at Bibi. He kept offering to take a plate, but she waved him off.
“Did the party just arrive?” Jo called, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she came around the corner.
“You know it,” Bibi chirped.
“Sweetheart,” Libby breathed when she saw her. “Look at you. Domestic goddess in her natural habitat.”
“Oh, please. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m actually having fun.” Jo rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed. “You brought the potatoes?”
“And the macaroni and cheese that will make your arteries cry,” Libby said proudly, thrusting a pan at me. “Nate, is your father here?”
My father didn’t miss the opportunity. He rushed forward and took one of the pans from Libby. “I am. And I was hoping you’d come tonight.”
“Well, that’s a little forward,” Bibi joked and Mr. Carlisle coughed back a laugh.
“I’ll just go put this somewhere,” I said to be anywhere but there.
“Do not put it on the table without a trivet,” Aunt Claire called from the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said automatically.
Bibi slid around me, nearly taking out Roy’s knees with her bag. “You must be Jo’s father,” she gasped, letting everything land on the coffee table in a pile. “You don’t look bad for someone who’s been in prison.”
Roy blinked but surrendered to her assessment. “You must be Bibi,” he said.
“Must I?” she asked, then grinned. “Come meet Mr. Carlisle. He loves to make new friends.”
Behind her, Mr. Carlisle cleared his throat. “I don’t.”
Roy nodded at him. “I’m quite particular about who I spend my time with as well. I’d rather be alone than forced to entertain someone.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Carlisle responded.
They nodded at each other again . . . and just like that were friends.
My father dipped his head toward Libby, lowering his voice. “Is there a reason everyone is so formal with Mr. Carlisle?”
Libby’s eyes widened. She glanced at Mr. Carlisle, then tugged Ethan a micro-inch closer by his sleeve. “Okay,” she whispered—loudly enough I was fairly certain the next town overheard. “So when he was born, his parents were very . . . enthusiastic . . . about dairy.”
Ethan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“They named him Butter,” Libby stage-whispered. “That’s his legal name.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course it is.
Ethan choked on nothing. “You’re joking.”
Across the room, Mr. Carlisle’s jaw flexed. “Libby,” he said in mild reprimand.
Bibi touched his arm. “Relax, Butter. It’s Christmas.”
He sighed. “Bibi is the only person allowed to call me that,” he announced, giving the room a look that could have curdled milk. Then, deadpan, “Because she says I’m smooth.”
Roy made a strangled sound. I realized a half second too late that it was a laugh he was trying—and failing—to smother.
“See?” Bibi patted Mr. Carlisle’s chest like he was a skittish horse. “He pretends to be intimidating, but he’s just churned-up cream inside.”
“Bibi.” He gave her a long-suffering stare that didn’t quite hide the fondness.
My gaze met Jo’s across the room and we both grinned. We chose this.
The door swung open again and a very welcome face appeared through it.
“Is this where all the Bostonian movers and shakers are hanging out this season?” Tanner called, striding in as if he knew this place and this circus.
Jo snorted. “Depends. Did you bring dessert?”
He stepped into view, hair sticking up like he’d run a hand through it one too many times, glasses fogged from the cold. He held a bakery box in one hand and a thermos in the other.
“I come bearing pecan pie and something approximating coffee,” he said. “Also, I drove here despite spotty GPS, so I’m staying regardless.”
“Good to see you, Tanner,” I said. “Surprised you came alone.”
He shrugged.
Bibi’s eyes immediately narrowed like she’d spotted fresh prey. She crossed the room in three strides that looked like they should’ve involved choreography. “Hello,” she said, planting herself in front of Tanner. “I’m Bibi. I make questionable life choices and excellent pie. Are you single?”
Tanner stared at her, mouth opening and closing twice. “Define single,” he said finally.
Bibi pursed her lips. “He’s tall, looks like he knows the inside of a gym. But I don’t like the attitude. Karen can do better.”
Tanner’s mouth dropped open.
I gave him an encouraging back smack. “Sorry, Tanner. You must prove yourself in these parts.”
Libby clapped, delighted. “We should give him a chance. He might be perfect.”
“Perfect for what?” Tanner asked warily.
“For Karen,” Bibi said. “My niece. Lovely girl. Still has all her teeth. Very smart. Well, smart-ish. She’s the one I call when I can’t figure out where I saved a screenshot.”
Tanner looked at me, betrayed. “Am I being recruited into a breeding program?”
“This is what happens when you save people’s fathers,” I said. “You get fed and matched.”