96. George
George
After a night of tossing and turning, replaying Sarah’s sweet kiss until dawn, I had little time for lunch before we left for town and the Christmas Day carol service. Was she playing—or was it real? I raked both hands through my hair, but it was beyond smoothing.
Bells chimed festively from atop the white church, echoing through the crisp air as the whole town packed inside.
Still nothing distracted me from her lips.
And then she was at my side, her hand steady on my arm as we climbed the steps and slid into the well-polished wooden pew.
Her shoulder melded to mine in the crush of people. Our own bubble in the crowd.
She had kissed me. We’d hardly said three words to each other in all the bustle since, but I’d sent several smiles her way.
She said, “I’m seeing your goofy smile a lot today.”
Of course, she would notice me grinning like a fool. “I propose a change in nomenclature.”
“Propose away. I’m listening.”
“Rather than goofy, would you consider charming, devastating, endearing, or adorable?”
She studied my face. What did she see? “Smile. Let me see which one suits.”
“It’s too much pressure. My smile would be goofy, for sure.”
The opening hymn, Joy to the World, swelled triumphantly, filling the church. The pastor intoned a short prayer before we retook our seats. Except that Sarah and Viola didn’t sit. They walked toward the front of the church.
“Today, my friends, we are blessed to have two volunteers,” said Pastor Holmgren. “They will share their musical talent with us as we move into the next portion of our Christmas service.”
They launched into a hauntingly beautiful rendition of What Child Is This.
The idea of singing in front of a crowd made my stomach flip, but Sarah stood poised and beautiful without a hint of nerves.
Her gaze held mine. I let myself hope she sang to me as the music slipped under my ribs and lodged there.
We sang the next group of hymns together, and Sarah slid back into the space beside me. I found her hand, squeezed it as we sang, and shared with my touch what I didn’t understand in my heart. Side by side, our voices blended in a pleasing harmony. And her fingers tightened around mine.
People gathered to visit and socialize in the packed snow around the church, but eventually, we returned to Viola’s farm with the Jensens close behind.
A delicious feast, chocolates, punch in the parlor, a rousing game of charades, and another round of carols passed by in a whirl of high-spirited fun. Every time I glimpsed Sarah across the room, my heart lurched.
Jacob delivered his family home but walked back through the snow to sit with Viola. Viola drew him into a sweet embrace as he shrugged off his coat.
Father said his good nights, but paused to give me a serious, possibly scolding look before retreating upstairs. What did I do now?
Viola pulled Jacob toward the cozy room by the kitchen. “Come with me, my dear. I have wrapped your present and hidden it somewhere on the shelf.”
I turned to Sarah. “I have a little something for you. Let me get it.”
She stood. “Me, too.”
Five minutes later, the house stilled. The loudest sound was the quiet creak of the floorboards as we moved shyly toward the couch in the front parlor. The flickering firelight softened the air between us, and we sat close enough to touch.
“Let me see,” Sarah said, flashing a mischievous grin. “I think I remember how it went, your seven things. Lucky number seven, like our matching pennies.” She placed a neatly wrapped package on my lap. “Number one is a gift.”
I weighed the package in my hand. “I predict slippers. For my icy toes.” Sarah laughed. Inside, I found a book bound in bright blue with the title Lucky Stars stamped in gold, a collection of stories and myths.
“Thank you. It’s perfect.” And it was. I handed her a slightly larger package. “As you say, number one is a gift.”
“Perhaps it’s that dog I’ve been hoping for.”
I watched her face as she unwrapped my gift, a copy of Emma, custom-bound in olive-green suede with gold lettering. I had inscribed a short note inside the cover, but now I doubted the wisdom of the words I’d dashed off before handing the book back to the bookseller to be wrapped.
She stroked the plush cover with her fingertips. “It’s gorgeous. The binding. The color. Thank you. I love it.”
Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t read my inscription until later. Much, much later.
She flipped open the cover.
Don’t give up on finding your Knightley. Merry Christmas, 1890, George.
Sarah read the note, then her gaze met mine. I couldn’t breathe. I was the bachelor next door, the family friend, the brotherly figure who becomes something more. Damnation. I was Knightley. Did Sarah know I was Knightley?
I coughed.
Sarah said, “All right. On to number two. Would you like to go first, or shall I? Number two, in case you forgot, is truth.”
Truth. Dangerous. “Ladies first.”
Sarah turned toward the fire but appraised me from the corner of her eye. “Remember when we took our little holiday from all the serious stuff? When we went to do the tastings?”
“Of course.”
“And you asked me if I’d ever been in love?” I nodded. The fire crackled and popped. She drew in a long breath and her next words came out in a rush. “And I admitted I’d been infatuated with someone?”
“Yes.”
She wrinkled up her face.
My gut twisted. Please let it not be some dud. Some fool. Someone like Bart, or?—
“It…”
My breath caught. What if it was a friend? A decent man.
“It was you.”
My chest swelled, too full.
“Ever since that pretend wedding under the wisteria arbor when we were kids.”
I’d forgotten about it until that moment. But it came back to me, a little girl with wispy white-blonde hair covered with a lacy veil and a chaste kiss. “I remember,” I said. “I kissed you.”
“I pined for you for years, along with every woman in Chicago.” All those years she’d been looking my way, and I’d been blind. I swallowed.
She covered her face, and her words came out muffled. “Funny… all that time I imagined you to be the perfect man for me when I didn’t even know the man you’d become.”
“Me? But I pulled so many pranks on you and Viola, bossed you around, and then I went away to school, and we grew up and hardly spoke.”
“I created a comfortable, imaginary Jane Austen world out of next to nothing.”
“So you thought that one day our eyes would meet across the ballroom, and I would realize it’s been you all along?”
“Well… basically.”
“But you’re not infatuated now?”
“No, George.” She let her hands fall from her face. “It’s not infatuation. Your turn. Enough truth from me.”
My head spun. Think. She had shared a significant truth. I couldn’t simply tell her how I disliked sardines. But what could I say? Was anything safe? Don’t be a lily-livered fool.
Sarah lowered her voice in imitation of me and said, “Why yes, Sarah, I would be ever so pleased to take my turn at truth-telling.”
“Guess I deserved that.” My insides churned. Deep breath. “On our holiday. Do you remember how I answered the same question? About love?”
“You said no.”
My whole body tingled. “Ask me again.”
Her pupils dilated, turning all but a slender ring black as a moonless night. I couldn’t look away.
“George,” she said, “have you ever been in love?”
“Yes.” Silence descended, except for the tumultuous pounding of my heart.
She said nothing, her face slack. Was she shocked? Horrified? And then—a slight widening of her eyes.
A riot of words spilled out of me to fill the silence. “Right. Then. Number three. Moving on. Next, please.”
I glanced around the room. The box of chocolates we had shared after dinner remained on a side table. “Next is a treat, right?” I hopped up to grab the box. “I suggest we officially change number three from treat to chocolate. What say you?”
“I’m…” Sarah gave her head a little shake. “I’m all for chocolate. Is there any left?”
There was a single remaining piece. “Share?”
Sarah plucked the piece from the box and brought it to her mouth.
“So,” I said, “that’s a no to sharing?” She bit off one end of the caramel-filled sweet.
But instead of popping the second half into her mouth, she balanced it delicately between two fingers, brought it to my lips, and pressed it into my mouth.
Her hand grazed my jaw, light as breath. The chocolate melted on my tongue.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She relaxed into me and said, “A dream. Number four is a dream.”
“You have an excellent memory.”
“You’re very memorable.”
“You are a dream,” I said. “Does that count?”
“Not letting you off that easily. In fact, you just volunteered to go first.”
“Dreamed I worked in a menagerie and couldn’t remember how to feed the animals, and the tiger almost took off my hand?—”
“George.”
I sighed. “A dream.” My fingertips traced the satiny hair from her temple to her nape as I collected my thoughts.
“I dream that when Viola marries Jacob, I’ll be able to move on.
Let go of my guilt.” I rested my cheek on the crown of her head.
“See, this wise person once told me Mother wouldn’t want me to feel guilty about her death. ”
“The wisest,” she said.
I swallowed. “And I see she’s probably correct. But knowing it in my mind and knowing it in my heart are two different things.”
She snuggled against me, resting her hand over my heart.
“You?” I asked.
“Hmm.” The sound buzzed through me. “I dream…” Her fingers curved and straightened, dragging her fingertips maddeningly back and forth over my chest. “I dream that I will stop building walls. Maybe tear some down. Let people in. Maybe if I do that, I can have what Viola has.”
I covered her hand with mine. “Maybe you needed those walls.”
“Why?”
“Keep out the Higginbothams.”
She shook against my chest with laughter.
I counted on my fingers. “Gift, truth, treat, and dream. That’s four. On to five. Number five is a favor.”
Sarah said, “I would like you to waltz with me at the next ball we both attend.”