Chapter 15
Shira
For the first time since we opened, I’m closing the store early today. At least, I’m trying to. Just one customer is standing in my way—an older woman in her sixties with hair that resembles a football helmet, who seems intent on reading the back cover copy of every book in the store.
She’s been telling me, “Just one more minute, dear,” for the last thirty minutes. I haven’t wanted to push, but I’ve got a gingerbread decorating party to get to.
I’m hovering as close as I can without being too obvious when Jonny walks in wearing a sweatshirt with “Santa’s favorite” written across the chest in white block letters.
He looks every bit the Fun Uncle, and I marvel at the multitudes of this man.
This misunderstood millionaire with the self-control of a saint, who positively lit me up with his magic fingers the other night.
His smile falters when he clocks the stress on my face. I shrug toward the woman and mouth, “She won’t leave.”
Jonny nods in an “I’ve got this” way and rolls his shoulders before coming around to approach the woman.
“Hello, Mrs. Matthews,” he says. “Not sure if you noticed, but the bookstore is closing early today.”
“One more minute,” she says, reaching for another book from the shelf. Before she can read the back, Jonny gently plucks it from her hands and places it back on the shelf.
“I’m afraid time’s up, ma’am. But the shop will open again at ten a.m. tomorrow,” he says, his voice kind, but firm.
Mrs. Matthews glances up at him. “My goodness,” she says, holding her hand up to her chest, looking affronted. “I can’t imagine what your poor mother would think about you rushing a lady out like this.”
“She raised me to be polite, ma’am,” Jonny says, just the slightest smirk playing on his lips. “And punctual.”
She huffs and wraps her coat tighter around her before walking toward the door. I follow behind her, barely holding back a smile. Before she walks out, she turns to me and whispers a warning. “If you’re smart, you’ll stay away from that boy. He’s a bad influence.”
Her words light a fire in my belly. I’m tired of people thinking they’re better than Jonny, talking badly about him as if he hasn’t grown up in the last decade. “He may be a bad influence,” I say, “but he’s really good in bed.”
I shut and lock the door, leaving the woman staring at me with her mouth ajar. Jonny barks out a laugh and waves at Mrs. Matthews until she walks away.
“Too much?” I ask.
“Just right,” Jonny says, kissing me. “Now are you ready to get your gingerbread on?”
As we drive toward the edge of town where Jonny’s family farm is, I look out the window at the giant bales of hay every hundred feet or so. There’s something comforting about the symmetry of it.
“Is there a reason the bales are spaced out so evenly?” I ask.
“It’s just how the baler works.” He gestures out the window like he can see the tractor in his mind.
“They cut the alfalfa with a swather first, then it lies there to dry for a couple of days. Then they come through with a baler, which rolls it up inside the chamber. Once the bale hits a set diameter—usually five feet or so—the machine automatically wraps it in netting, pops it out back, and you keep going. Wherever the baler spits one out, that’s where it stays. ”
“Interesting.”
“They’re still kind of green when they’re first rolled,” he adds. “If you stack them up before they’re dry, they’ll mold or even combust. By the time they’re that sun-bleached tan you’re seeing now, they’ve cured enough to store or haul off to the farmers.”
“Huh,” I say. “That makes sense—but I wasn’t expecting the answer to be so…logistical.”
Jonny laughs. “I can come up with a more interesting story if you want. Something about aliens, maybe the farmers are using the patterns to send a message. Like braille, but with bales of hay.”
“That would actually make a cute children’s book,” I tell him. “Finding fantastical reasons for the simplest things. Maybe that could be your next venture?”
“I’ll stick with reading books. Let the more talented people write them and the more beautiful people sell them.”
He flashes me a grin, slowing the truck as we approach a wide road with stone pillars on either side.
It’s decked out for Christmas, with white twinkle lights, green garland, and big red bows.
The black metal gate is open, and as we drive through, I notice the words “McKay Ranch” spelled out on top.
“Wow.”
It was dark the other night when Jonny brought us here, and we must have come in and left through a back way. I had a feeling the McKays had a lot of property, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this stately.
“This land has been in my family for generations—goes back to my great-great-great-grandfather,” he says. “My grandad’s the one who built the house I grew up in. My parents made a few upgrades, but it’s mostly the same.”
“Amazing to have such roots and history in one place.”
He nods, eyes on the road. “I used to resent it. Felt like those roots were trying to trap me here. Pin me down.”
My mind drifts back to my own history and scattered roots, entire generations and their stories lost during World War II.
Even my DNA couldn’t tell me more specifics—the 23andMe test I took just came back, “Ashkenazi Jew.” And when it comes to my own family, after my parents divorced and Bubbe died, I felt untethered.
“But roots can be so grounding,” I say. “Knowing where you come from. Always knowing you have a safe place to land.”
“Yeah,” Jonny says, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t think I really appreciated it until I came back.” He clears his throat and then says, “Let’s get in there; the animals are waiting.”
We walk inside the two-story ranch house and are instantly greeted with the best kind of chaos.
Christmas music is playing, the air is filled with the scent of cookies baking and firewood burning, and it’s hard to tell who is more excited to see Uncle Jonny—the kids or the two golden retrievers circling us underfoot.
“Samson, down,” Jonny says. “Delilah, off. Come here, you.” He scoops Maggie up with one arm and gives her several loud kisses on her cheek. She squeals and wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tight.
“Finally!” Jake yells, charging toward us. “We’ve been waiting FOREVER AND EVER for you!”
Jonny gives the boy a noogie. “Never too young to learn about the virtue of patience. Trust me,” he says, looking back at me. “Good things come to those who wait.”
Good, lord. I clench my thighs together, wishing Jonny’s family wasn’t around so he could give me the whole tour, starting with his bedroom.
I follow Jonny toward the living room, where overstuffed couches are angled toward the massive stone fireplace, a roaring fire inside. Family photos line the walls, and I hope I’ll get a chance to take a closer look later.
“Jonathan!” a deep voice bellows. “You'd better introduce me to that young lady of yours.”
Jonny turns to me, a wry smile on his lips. “Ready to meet my dad?”
Nerves bubble through me. “Uh, sure.”
He leads me over to the big arched space between the kitchen and living room, where his dad is stretched out on an oversized floral recliner. He’s sturdy and broad like his sons, with a six-inch graying beard and a cast on his right foot up to his knee.
“Dad, this is Shira Schwartz,” Jonny says, then to me, “Shira, this is my father, Jed McKay.”
“Hello, Mr. McKay, nice to meet you,” I say, coming closer so I can shake his hand. He’s decked out in a fuzzy green sweater that looks like the Grinch’s scowling face.
“Likewise.” He takes my hand in his as he glances up at Jonny. “Now get out of here, son. I’m talking to my new friend Shira.”
Jonny grins and mouths, Good luck, before walking away.
Mr. McKay refocuses on me, still holding my hand between his. “You know, everyone in this house has been talking about you. I hear you’re smart, hard-working, and pretty damn brave, too.”
My cheeks flush. “Oh, I don’t know about brave.”
“Well, what else would you call it?” he says. “You moved to a tiny town where you don’t know a soul and set up a bookstore where there’s never been one before. I’d call that brave. And I bet your parents are right proud. I would be.”
Before I can think of a reply, he squeezes my hand and lets go. Then he nods at the kitchen, where Jonny disappeared to help his mom with the cookies.
“You’re also brave to take on that one. If he treats you wrong, you come talk to me, you hear? I’ll set him straight.” He smiles, a cheeky grin that reminds me of Jonny. “Now you go on and have fun, Shira. Pleasure to meet you.”
His words are still echoing in my mind as I head back into the kitchen. It’s crazy, but I feel more supported by Jonny’s family in the short time I’ve known them than I have by my own family since Bubbe died.
The McKays’ kitchen is impressive—it’s at least three times the size of my entire studio apartment.
A big island divides the cooking space from a wooden table big enough to seat more than a dozen people.
Baking sheets stacked with bare gingerbread cookies are set in the middle, surrounded by colorful bowls of candy toppings and tubes of icing.
“Shira!” Jonny’s mom sounds genuinely excited to see me. “Don’t you look beautiful. I’m so happy you could join us.”
“Thanks so much for having me,” I say, hugging her, and handing her a wrapped gift—a cookbook I thought she might like. “You look so festive,” I tell her. She’s wearing a Santa hat and a red apron that says “Head Elf.”
A realization settles over me, and I slowly look around the room, suddenly aware that everyone, even the baby, is wearing an “ugly” Christmas outfit.
I glance down at my own navy sweater and the Star of David necklace I no longer bother to tuck in, wishing I could shrink into myself and disappear. I obviously don’t have an ugly Christmas sweater, but I could’ve come up with something if Jonny had given me a heads-up.