Chapter 7 #3
“No buts. You wanted to skip tree shopping, so you’re doing decorations. Fair is fair.” Sophie groans dramatically but doesn’t fight it, and I hide my smile behind another sip of hot chocolate.
We finish our drinks, and Bob leads us upstairs to the attic access in the hallway ceiling. He pulls down the folding ladder with practiced ease, and dust motes dance in the dim light filtering up from below.
“I’ll go up first,” Bob says, already climbing. “Alexander, you follow. Sophie, you stay down there and stack the boxes as we hand them down.”
The attic is cramped and dusty, filled with the accumulated memories of years—boxes of knickknacks, unused kitchen supplies, and baby clothes, all labeled in Carol’s neat handwriting, and what appears to be an alarming number of Christmas decorations.
I have to duck to avoid hitting my head on the slanted roof beams as Bob navigates the space with the confidence of someone who’s done this countless times.
It takes us half an hour to get the boxes down.
“That’s the last one,” Bob says, taking the final box from my hands.
“Sophie, grab that end. Let’s get these outside.
The rest of them are in the garage.” As we carry the boxes out into the cold morning air, I notice Bob’s entire demeanor has changed.
There’s an eagerness in his movements, an almost childlike excitement that makes me smile despite myself.
“You’re really into Christmas,” I observe.
“Huge on it,” Sophie confirms, her earlier reluctance forgotten as she grins at her father. “He’s been dying to put these up. Usually he’s the first one to decorate the yard in the whole neighborhood.”
Bob laughs, a bit sheepishly. “What can I say? I like Christmas. Always have.” He sets down a box and looks up at the early morning sky, his expression softening.
“There’s something about this season, the way it brings families together, makes you believe in miracles again.
That feeling in your chest when you’re a kid on Christmas morning.
That nostalgia. That joy. I never want to lose that.
Every year I try to hold onto it a little longer. ”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I’ve spent so many years viewing Christmas as an obligation, I’d forgotten people like Bob exist—people who genuinely believe in the magic of it all.
“This year’s special,” Bob continues, clearing his throat. “Having Olivia home for longer than a few days.”
We start unpacking the boxes, and I’m genuinely surprised by the sheer variety of decorations. There are inflatable snowmen, strings of lights in every color, wooden reindeer, candy cane pathway markers, and an impressive collection of lawn ornaments.
“We’ll start with the small ones,” Bob decides, pulling out a box of illuminated candy canes. “Work our way up to the big stuff.”
I’m helping Sophie stake the candy canes along the walkway when I notice Bob has gone still, staring across the street at a neighbor’s house.
Following his gaze, I see an elaborate display on the roof—a family of illuminated snowmen in graduating sizes, from a massive eight-footer down to what must be a two-foot baby snowman, all glowing despite the early hour.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
Bob’s jaw tightens. “See that display?”
“Yes.”
“That’s mine. Or it should be.” His voice carries an edge I haven’t heard before. “I ordered it special from Charlotte three years ago. Had it custom-made, paid extra for shipping. It was supposed to be my crowning achievement.”
“What happened?”
“Disappeared from my garage the week before Christmas.” Bob crosses his arms. “Two days later, Danny Brookman from across the street has it up on his roof. Claims he ordered it himself, says I’m imagining things.”
Sophie leans in, lowering her voice dramatically. “They’ve been in a decorating war ever since. Dad versus Mr. Brookman. Winner gets to display this ugly Santa trophy. Like, I would lose just to make sure I don’t get that trophy, but Dad loves it.”
“It is a symbol, Sophie. And he’s won every year since he stole my snowmen,” Bob says darkly. “I can’t prove it, but I know he did it.”
I slip my hands into my pockets, keeping my tone casual.
“Do you want to steal them back?” Bob’s head whips toward me, his eyes widening.
For a moment, he just stares. Then a slow grin spreads across his face, and he lets out a bark of laughter.
He claps me hard on the back, the force of it nearly making me stumble forward.
“You’re a good man, Alexander,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “A very good man.”
Before I can respond, Olivia’s voice cuts through the morning air. “What are you all doing?”
I look up to see her leaning out her bedroom window, hair tousled from sleep, wearing what appears to be an oversized sweatshirt. Even rumpled and confused, she’s beautiful.
“Setting up decorations!” Bob calls up cheerfully.
“It’s freezing out there,” she protests. I can see her eyes land on me, worry in them.
“Then come help us warm up,” I say, meeting her gaze.
She squints at the yard, surveying our progress. “Who put up the wooden reindeer by the mailbox?”
“Me,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re doing it wrong.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face—slow and deliberate. “Then why don’t you come down here and show me how it’s done?”
Even from this distance, I can see the color rise in her cheeks. But she lifts her chin, refusing to back down. “Maybe I will.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I say, my voice carrying just enough challenge that her blush deepens. She disappears back inside with a small huff, and I hear Bob chuckle beside me.
“She’ll be down in five minutes,” Sophie predicts.
“Three,” Bob counters.
“Ten,” I say. “She’ll need to make herself presentable first.”
Bob grins at me. “You know my daughter well.” Better than you think, I want to say. Instead, I just smile and return to the decorations, positioning them exactly where Sophie indicates.
The door opens in exactly seven minutes—a compromise none of us predicted—and Olivia emerges bundled in a puffy winter coat, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
Underneath, I catch a glimpse of an oversized pale blue sweatshirt with soft fur trim at the collar and cuffs.
She’s wearing the same UGG boots from yesterday.
She looks adorable.
She marches straight to the wooden reindeer, kneeling down to inspect my work. “See? The stakes aren’t deep enough. One strong wind, and these will topple over.”
“Will they?” I ask innocently. She adjusts them, her breath clouding in the cold air. I notice her cheeks are already pink from the temperature—or perhaps still from our earlier exchange.
“There,” she says, sitting back on her heels. “That’s how it’s done.”
“My mistake,” I say, offering her my hand to help her up. She takes it without thinking, and I pull her to her feet with enough force to make her collide with my chest. She looks up at me, and I see the shift in her expression.
“You’re shivering,” I murmur. “Go back inside. I’ll help your father.”
Her eyes flicker with surprise, and then her expression turns soft. “I’m used to this weather. But thanks.” She hesitates, and then quickly gets on her toes and presses a kiss to my cheek before moving away, the tips of her ears a bright red.
The sweet kiss throws me off, but I’m not one to let an opportunity like this go to waste. I grasp her hand and yank her towards me. She stumbles a few steps, and I quickly tuck her hand into the crook of my arm. “Come on, then, darling. Show me how to properly decorate a yard.”
Her entire face turns a brilliant shade of red, the color spreading from her cheeks down her neck. She ducks her head, but doesn’t pull away. Satisfaction curls through me. She likes being called darling. Good. I plan to say it as often as possible.
Bob chuckles, and Sophie makes a gagging sound that earns her a frown from her father.
The front door opens again, and Carol emerges carrying a tray with steaming mugs. She’s still in her robe, her hair hastily pulled back, and she’s shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.
“I just knew you’d start today, but at this time, Bob?” She sets the tray down on the porch railing. “It’s barely six in the morning! I have to make breakfast and get to the shop.”
Bob takes a mug sheepishly. “Sorry, honey. Got a little carried away.”
“A little?” Carol hands out the remaining mugs—coffee for Olivia and me, hot milk for Sophie. “I have deliveries coming in today. Special orders for the holiday rush. And Linda called in sick, so I’m alone at the shop.”
“Mom, you don’t need to—” Sophie starts reaching for the coffee mug instead of the milk.
Carol swats her hand away. “You’re too young for coffee. Drink this instead.”
“Did the baby get her glass of milk?” Olivia teases, accepting her own mug with a grateful smile.
Sophie glares at her sister. “I’m fourteen, not four.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Olivia murmurs into her coffee.
“I’ll try to get to the shop after I finish Mrs. Henderson’s job. There’s still some work left to do there,” Bob says, warming his hands around his mug. “Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
“I’ll come by if you need help, Mom,” Olivia offers.
Carol waves her off. “No, no. You and Alexander should enjoy your vacation. You two work so hard as it is.”
“I’d love to help,” I back Olivia up. “If you need an extra pair of hands.”
Carol’s face softens, and she reaches out to pat my arm. “That’s very sweet of you, Alexander. Let me see how the morning goes. If I need backup, I’ll call.”
We stand outside in the cold, sipping our warm drinks. The street is still quiet, most of the neighbors just waking up. Christmas lights twinkle on nearby houses, and somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint sound of bells chiming.
“Alright,” Carol says, collecting the empty mugs. “I need to get breakfast started. Olivia, come help me?”
“Sure, Mom.”
I squeeze Olivia’s arm gently before she can move away. “I’ve got this,” I murmur, nodding toward her father and the decorations. She glances back once with a small smile before following her mother inside.
That leaves Bob, Sophie, and me with the decorations. Bob rubs his hands together enthusiastically. “Alright, let’s get to work. Sophie, grab that box of icicle lights. Alexander, you’re on garland duty.”
The next hour passes in a flurry of activity.
We string lights along the porch railing, their white bulbs twinkling even in the growing daylight.
Bob shows me how to drape garland properly—not too tight, not too loose, with red velvet bows at strategic intervals.
Sophie handles the pathway markers, alternating between candy canes and small light-up Christmas trees that lead from the sidewalk to the front porch steps.
Bob pulls out a large wooden sleigh—clearly handmade, the craftsmanship impressive—and positions it on the lawn.
“Made this myself fifteen years ago,” he says with pride.
“Goes right here, filled with wrapped presents.” He produces a box of fake gift boxes, all wrapped in shimmering gift paper with elaborate bows.
We work on the inflatable decorations next. A massive snowman goes on the left side of the yard, a cheerful penguin on the right. Sophie insists on adding a small nativity scene near the porch steps, the figures glowing softly.
Once it’s in place, she steps back to admire the yard and gives Bob a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to get ready for school.”
She runs off, and Bob glances at me. “It’s just us men left. Now for the pièce de résistance,” he announces, pulling out strings of multicolored lights. “Roof lights. This is where we separate the amateurs from the professionals.”
As Bob sets up his ladder, he glances across the street at Brookman’s house and snorts.
“Look at that mess. Those icicle lights are uneven. The spacing on those snowmen is all wrong. And don’t even get me started on that color scheme.
Mixing warm white and cool white? Tacky.
” I hide my smile as Bob continues his running commentary, pointing out every flaw in the neighbor’s display with unmistakable glee.
I didn’t expect to enjoy myself this much.
Standing in a suburban yard, hanging Christmas lights and listening to a middle-aged plumber critique decorating techniques—it’s so far removed from my usual existence that it feels almost surreal.
But there’s something genuine about it, something real that all my billions can’t buy.
“Alexander, hold this end steady!” Bob calls from the ladder, and I move to help, falling back into the easy rhythm we’ve established.
Standing here with Bob, being included in his family’s annual tradition like I’ve always been part of it… Is this what family is supposed to feel like? I find myself wanting more of it. Wanting all of it, actually. And I find myself not wanting to lose this.