Chapter 25
[Lumi]
On Sunday, the Woolen Sock run takes place on the Locke Reserve property, just like the ice carving contest had.
From this vantage point, we have a nice view of the town, which sits a little lower than the reserve, plus the cold-looking harbor.
As the snow starts to build, the water looks sluggish but angry. The sky is gloomy and gray.
Then again, Alma and George might be laughing from their graves at all of us fools running through snow in our socks.
Our little contingent of my sisters and Saint gather near the starting point in our stocking-covered feet. Our boots are safely stored in cubbies provided for the event. Saint proudly displays his woolen socks, often lifting his foot to show willing race members the cool design, as he calls it.
His excitement over a pair of socks is absurd while gratifying at the same time. I’m tickled that he loves them so much and flattered that I’ve brought him joy. This is the very essence of gift giving, and I’ve nailed it without knowing how much he would adore a pair of homemade socks.
Neve scowls at him when he tries to lift his foot in front of her face, like a brother might do to annoy a younger sister.
Isolde chuckles beside me. “I think it’s kind of sweet how excited he is about a pair of socks.”
“Not just any socks,” Saint interjects, catching her comment. “Socks made by Lumi. She marked them with snowflakes, her namesake.”
“We’re all named for snow,” Neve grumbles as each of our names represents snow in some manner from a variety of cultures.
“Well, Snow Snowe,” he addresses Neve. “Prepare to have your tush tushed in this race, snowflake.”
Saint expands his arms, stretching them wide like he’ll need the upper body strength for a silly leg race around this reserve.
His chest puffs forward, displaying how firm he is beneath a base layer and thin outerwear made for protection against rain and wind.
Both items are forest green and coordinate with his socks.
When I glance at Neve, she’s a bit shellshocked. When she finally looks at me, my brows pinch in question.
“Daddy called me snowflake.” She glances off toward the trees, squinting at them for a second. Whatever runs through her head, she quickly shakes it off and turns on Saint.
“You’re going down, Santa-man.” She points at her eyes with her index and middle finger, then aims them at Saint.
“Challenge accepted, snow snow.”
While I could be offended that my sister has just earned a nickname from Saint, I’m tickled inside by how easily she’s taken to him and he to her. My sisters are important to me, and a barometer of a man’s worth.
“I like him,” Isolde says, slipping her arm into mine and leaning against me a second. She’s had limited interaction with Saint due to her busy schedule, but now that school is out for three weeks, she has time to be lazy.
I glance at Saint with Isolde’s declaration, and he winks at me, as if he heard what she said.
I stick my tongue out at him, and he laughs.
“You know what they say about a tongue, the cold, and a steel pipe?” he quips.
“Double dog dare ya,” Neve counters.
Saint doesn’t take his eyes off me. “I’ll show you where to put that tongue later.”
“Ew,” Neve groans.
Isolde giggles, tucking her forehead against my shoulder, but I just stare at him, cheeks flaming by his blatant admission that we are intimate.
Not that my sisters don’t have an inkling.
“Alright, Woolen Sock race fans,” the mayor calls out, and all talk of tongues, the cold, and steel pipes is forgotten.
When the run begins, Neve takes off like she’s on a mission. Isolde walks, falling in line with a teacher friend. Saint and I move somewhere in the middle. Not the sprint of Neve nor the slow pace of Isolde.
As we weave through the Locke Reserve, following the designated trail for the race, Saint tilts his head.
“Is that running water I hear?” Surprisingly, he’s not even the least bit winded from the jog in our stocking feet.
Oh no, the spring.
“What about the spring?” Saint asks, because apparently, I spoke out loud about the place shrouded with legends about true love and making babies.
“Uh . . . it’s a spring?” Surely, he’s seen it. He’s gone for an occasional run, and the Locke Reserve is a local destination.
Saint chuckles. “Sounds like a little more than just a spring.”
I explain the history of the water saving Alma and George, then add the modern take.
“People like to go there to make out.”
Saint stumbles.
“And it’s said that lovers go there for a blessing on their union. And even couples struggling to conceive have sex near it to help them get pregnant.”
The last one might be a little far-fetched, but recently Daryll and Carol Hemingway swear that’s what happened to them.
Suddenly, Saint takes my hand and tugs us off the race pathway toward the sound of rushing water. We stumble through piles of snow until we come upon a stone bridge over the slim stream where the flow of water prevents the spring from freezing.
The bridge has a wrought iron railing on both sides to prevent people from falling into the water despite the nearly non-existent depth.
The spindles of the railing also contain stacks upon stacks of locks, like the Paris Pont des Arts bridge.
Love locks on this bridge are a nod to our original settlers and all the lovers who have followed, wanting to have their union blessed or their families to grow.
On the bridge, Saint pulls me into his arms and stares down into the water.
“Strange that people have such blind faith in something, right?” He glances back at me, my face close to his, causing our warm breath to mingle in the cold air. “Like Christmas miracles and Santa Claus.”
“Saint,” I groan, tucking my head into his chest a second before popping it upright again. “I never said I don’t believe in Santa.”
He arches a brow, suggesting he knows I don’t. “But the spring is magical?”
“I’m saying the spring represents something. Hope . . . maybe.” Hope for love to endure forever. Hope for babies to happen. Or just hope for a horny night to become a sure thing.
“And I’m saying Santa represents something as well. Faith. Magic. Like a spring that blesses love unions and helps couples conceive children.” He rubs his cold nose against mine.
“If you think I’m getting pregnant by standing here with you, that sleigh has flown, along with eight feisty reindeer.”
Saint tips back his head and laughs, deep and loud. When he finally looks back at me, he says, “If only we were younger, I’d make all the babies with you.”
What a nice dream.
“For now,” Saint pauses, glancing at the water spitting out from beneath the bridge. “I want this spring’s blessing.”
“For what?” I ask before realizing what he’s asking.
Perhaps a blessing for us as a couple. Hope for a future together.
“Saint,” I whisper, as my eyes start to prickle with tears. I clutch the front of his windbreaker as he squeezes me tighter to him.
“Love is magic, too, Lumi. You can’t really see it.
Can’t fully describe it. But you feel it.
” He moves my hand from clutching his jacket to cover his heart, which thumps through three layers of winterwear.
“The great thing about love, like all things unknown, is you don’t need to see it. You just trust that it’s there.”
“I feel it,” I admit, as if preaching I believe. Because I do believe in love, the unexplainable emotion I have when I’m near this man. Despite how short I’ve known him and how brief our time together will be, I love Saint Santos.
And he loves me. Without words, I know he does. From a sensory kit to a crooked Christmas tree, spaghetti dinners, and dancing naked in my living room, Saint feels the same way I do.
We don’t need to say it.
We feel it. We believe in the magic. Believe in love.
“Promise me we’ll come back here one day and hang a lock together,” he asks, his voice quiet while he tips his forehead to mine.
He once told me he couldn’t make me any promises. The night we first kissed. So I don’t want to lie to him or myself.
“It’s a nice thought,” I whisper to his chest and close my eyes.
He pulls back and tips up my chin. He kisses me, long and deep, warming my insides. But what really heats me up is all this kiss means.
Faith, hope, and love.
Magic.
And I fall even deeper for Saint.
No double dog dare necessary.