Chapter 1 Liv
LIV
Fletcher dragged the last of my four Christmas decoration totes into the living room, setting the red and green boxes next to his singular cardboard box. In his chicken scratch doctor handwriting, I could just make out XMAS in faded black Sharpie.
As he stood up and brushed the dust off his hands, he said, “How does one accumulate so much stuff you only use once a year?”
I adjusted my red headband decorated with enamel Christmas trees. “How does one have a child and only have one measly box?”
He shrugged. “My house in Dallas had permanent lights outside, and we did a real tree inside every year... But I’m guessing that’s about to change?”
I nodded, going to give him a side hug. My ugly Christmas sweater jingled as I did.
His muscular arm wrapped around me snugly. “I can’t wait to see the look on Maya’s face when she gets home.”
This was our first Christmas as a family. Since she was staying the weekend after Thanksgiving at her mom’s place, I thought it would be the perfect time for us to get everything set up to surprise her when she returned.
“Where should we start?” Fletcher asked, game for anything that would make me smile.
I went to the line of my storage totes, reading the notes I wrote on masking tape on the outside. “Let’s set up the Christmas tree first.”
We pulled open the lid, taking out the flocked tree I’d gotten years ago from Grandpa Griffen. He had no need for it when he downsized and moved into the retirement home, so I gladly took it off his hands.
I had so many memories with that tree. Baking salt dough ornaments with Grandma and painting them with Grandpa before hanging them on the branches just so.
Stringing a needle and thread through popcorn and cranberries to make a pretty red and white garland.
And then eating the garland and having to do it all over again.
Not to mention, the simmer pot Grandma always had going that made their home smell like cinnamon apples and anise.
That made me think… “You figure out this puzzle,” I told Fletcher. “It will be like a low-stakes operation.”
He chuckled. “You’re giving up already?”
I shoved his shoulder playfully. “I’m going to get a simmer pot going.”
“Okay...” I could already tell his mind was working to organize all the pieces. This tree was older and wasn’t as simple to set up.
I left the living room, walking to the kitchen island with the stove in the center. From here I could see him kneeling on the rug, the pieces spread around him in piles.
I had to smile to myself. If only there was a way to go back and tell my lovestruck, teenage self that someday Fletcher and I would be together–be engaged. She would do a happy dance so intense her hair would get stuck in her pink braces.
Smiling to myself, I set a pan on the stove then got out a cutting board and a few apples from the fruit basket.
It took just a few minutes to chop them up and throw them in a pot with some cinnamon sticks and a few pieces of star anise.
The sight made me smile. I snapped a pic and sent it to Grandpa Griffen.
Liv: Thinking of holidays with you and Gran. Love you.
Then I set my phone down and returned to Fletcher. He had the base of the tree together, and when I sat next to him, he said, “Hand me a piece from that row, babe?”
“Sure thing.” I passed him a branch, and we worked in tandem until the tree was standing—albeit a little crookedly.
Fletcher’s dark eyebrows drew together as he tried to adjust the base, but I giggled. “It won’t do any good.”
“Huh?” he said, frowning over at me. “Is it broken?”
“No, that’s part of the charm.”
He let out a sigh and then got up and stepped back to admire his work. “I guess we can have a wonky Christmas tree.”
I hugged him, saying, “This was my grandma and grandpa’s tree. It feels good to carry on the tradition.”
He kissed the top of my head. “Then we will–for many years to come.”
I smiled up at him, admiring his kind eyes, the angles of his cheeks and chin, his nose. His eyes were so dark, I could see a faint outline of the white tree in them.
“Now we rest?” he asked.
I chuckled, going to the next box. “Now we set up all the trinkets.”
I lifted the lid to show all the trinkets I’d inherited or purchased myself since moving out of Mom and Dad’s place.
There was everything from a white ceramic nativity scene my grandparents had found years ago at a garage sale to the bottle brush Christmas trees I’d snagged at the Target dollar spot.
“I figure these can go on our surfaces,” I suggested.
“But where will you put all your new crafts?” he teased. I’d gone through every hobby from candle-making to sourdough bread through the years.
I rolled my eyes at him and said, “I suppose we’ll have to be creative. Not that you would know much about that.”
He chuckled. “I know, I’m an L-7 square. Just ask my daughter.”
“It’s the curse of having a daughter–especially a cool one like Maya.” Smiling at the thought of her, I said, “Let’s get to work.”
He nodded. “I’ll follow your lead...” Then he paused. “What’s that smell? It’s amazing.”
I sniffed and realized the simmer pot had started to scent the air. “That’s the simmer pot! I’m boiling apples, cinnamon, and star anise like Grandma and Grandpa Griffen used to do.”
He smiled. “I love it.”
“I’m glad,” I replied. Then we got to work organizing my ever-growing Christmas decoration collection. Soon every free surface was covered with fluffed cotton batting and little bits and bobs that made the space so much more warm.
“And in the other box?” he asked.
I grinned. “The lights.”