Epilogue
Christmas
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O n Christmas morning , Abigail opened her eyes and knew the forecast had been right. Even before she turned to peer out the window, she could tell by the muted morning light that snow had fallen while they’d slept.
Mel slept on behind her, his arm hooked around her waist and her right breast cupped in his slack hand.
He lived with her officially now; in fact, he’d never slept anywhere but here since the day he’d been released from the hospital.
Zelda Bello was renting his cabin and most of his furniture; she’d moved in during his recovery to take over of the feral cat community he’d been caring for, and when she’d found out he wasn’t planning to move back in, she’d made an offer to rent the place.
Deciding that Mel would live here with her had been such an easy decision they’d barely actually made it.
One day Mel had said, “Do I live here now? I think I live here now,” and she’d thought, well, obviously .
What she’d said out loud was, “I sure hope so.” And that was that.
Within a week everything he’d wanted or needed from his cabin was here.
They hadn’t begun planning a wedding yet, and they weren’t in a hurry about it. There was something going on with the Horde, something Mel couldn’t talk about, but it was big enough, and troubling enough, that he wanted to wait until whatever loomed finally fell out and got handled.
Regardless of wedding plans or club trouble, they were building their life together.
As soon as he was physically able, he’d thrown in with her to share the work around here.
Even so, her man was not a morning person, and she was, so the first work of the day was her own—and she was glad for it.
Her life was much more lively these days, and as happy as she was for the ways it had changed, had filled and brightened, she cherished the times that were hers alone.
As Abigail shifted, waking her body, Mel hummed softly and stirred, drawing her more tightly to him, cupping her breast more fully. For a moment, she relaxed again, burrowing deeply under their layers of quilts and cuddling more snuggly into her man’s sleepy embrace.
She was sorely tempted to stay right where she was, snug and peaceful on a frosty morning.
But she was excited to begin the day as well.
It was Christmas, the first ever of her whole life that would be full of the happy clamor of friends and family, and that would begin with the quiet intimacy of true love.
Then she heard Satyr bleat huffily and Bogie bark in response, and she remembered it didn’t matter what else the day held—every day held work, and animals did not care about Christmas or their humans’ comfy beds.
Slipping carefully from Mel’s arms, tucking her pillows into the space she’d left, Abigail rose and slipped her fluffy winter robe on and shoved her feet into her slippers.
As always, she patted the framed photo the Horde women—her Horde sisters—had given her; it had become something of a talisman, starting each day with love.
The room was crisp with winter chill, and she took the granny-square throw from the back of her rocker and spread it over the lump that was Mel. In his sleep, he curled a little deeper into his blanket burrow.
She bent over and pressed her lips to his bearded cheek.
As she stood upright again, she glanced out the window and smiled at a vista worthy of a hundred Christmas carols.
From what was stacked on the branches of the big sycamore, she estimated five or so inches had fallen, right in line with what the weatherman had said on the news yesterday.
When they’d left the Horde Christmas party last evening the night had been strangely warm, and everyone had worried about a storm like the one a few Christmases earlier.
But this time Abigail hadn’t been awakened in the night by rattling windows and howling winds.
The snow had come gently and passed well and truly, and a clear day was climbing up the horizon.
The first rays of sun already made sequins where it touched the blanket of cold white.
She tiptoed to the door and eased from the room, bringing the door closed behind her with a careful quiet.
At the foot of the steps, she turned toward the front room.
She didn’t have any work there, of course, not at this time of the day, but she went anyway.
For the first time since Granny Kate left her, there was a Christmas tree beside the old stone fireplace, with several wrapped gifts beneath it.
She and Mel had taken the dogs for a walk around the property and found the perfect tree to cut down: a balsam about six feet high and nicely symmetrical.
She’d dug out Granny’s old ornaments and silver tinsel, and the faded construction-paper-and-pipe-cleaner angel Abigail had made in kindergarten.
There were also two stockings dangling from the mantel.
She’d never had a stocking before, but Mel had had one growing up, so she’d knitted one for each of them: red with green stripes for him, with his name in green as well, and green with red stripes for her.
On a whimsical, romantic impulse, she’d made her name “Abs” on her stocking. A name only he called her.
She noticed that the toe of her stocking was fuller than she’d left it last night. Her smile warming her cheeks, she went to her desk and unlocked the drawer above the kneehole. Collecting the wrapped gift she’d tucked in there, she took it to Mel’s stocking and made its toe sag, too.
After she plugged in the Christmas lights strung around the tree and through the balsam boughs stretched across the mantel, Abigail went to the kitchen to get the coffee started, put fresh food and water down for the dogs and cats, and prepare the kitchen for breakfast and baking for the big dinner.
Then she slipped into her winter boots and heavy coat, grabbed a basket, filled it with nuts, aging berries and dried fruits, and the last strings of popcorn, and went outside to wish the world a happy Christmas.
And what a lovely, perfect Christmas morning it was. Cold but not punishing, bright and sparkling, and full of the dense peace only a thick blanket of snow can bring to the world. Abigail stood on the porch and breathed it all in. Contentedness enveloped her, seeping into the very core of her soul.
The dogs, already on the job even while their charges were cooped up, trotted over to give and get love, and she obliged them with abandon.
The basket of goodies was for the kind of Christmas tree she’d been keeping since Granny’s death: a small fir growing near the house, dressed up with cranberry garlands and popcorn strings, and hung with wooden egg cups full of fruits and nuts.
Cardinals, finches, waxwings, even crows and jays flocked to the tree and managed to share its bounty in peace.
She let the goats out, laughing as they first stepped into the snow and immediately began cavorting like children through it. Mitch played right along with them, wrestling with the heartier, goofier adolescents. Satyr, too dignified for such antics, regarded his family with paternal indulgence.
The chickens were not fans of snow on their feet, so the elder few, always first out of the coop, scratched around for a moment, hoping the unpleasant sensation would go away. When it didn’t, they clucked in irritation and sent everyone back into the sheltered run.
“I know, I know. Sorry, ladies. I’m not in charge of the weather. But here—something to take the edge off. She strew cranberries, apple bits, and some walnut bits on the metal barrel lid and laid it on the floor of the enclosure. The hens rushed over, murmuring happily.
Everybody was having an excellent Christmas morning so far.
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~oOo~
W hen she stomped the snow off her boots and returned to the kitchen, Mel was there, swaddled in sweatpants and a hoodie, and pouring two cups of fresh coffee.
His salt-and-pepper hair pointed up in all directions, still mussed from the night.
Grinning, he picked up the cups and brought them over as she hung her coat on its hook.
“Merry Christmas, beautiful,” he murmured, handing her a cup as he bent to kiss her.
She took the cup and brushed her free hand through his hair. “Merry Christmas, handsome. Good sleep?”
“The best. Nothing better than a cozy bed on a cold night.” Leaning closer to nuzzle her ear, he whispered, “Especially when my favorite person’s in my arms, keeping me warm.”
“I love you.” Abigail tipped her head to rest it on his, and he hooked his free hand around her and pulled her close.
“We’re gonna spill hot coffee if we’re not careful,” she said with a laugh as she worked to keep her cup level and hug him back at the same time. “I’m gonna make us some breakfast.”
“Wait, though. Let’s do presents first. Christmas presents are supposed to happen first thing.”
That wasn’t her experience, but little about this kind of Christmas—or this kind of life—was in her experience, so Abigail nodded and let Mel lead her to the front room, their cups of coffee in hand.
“Damn, I love the smell of a fresh Christmas tree,” Mel said, for probably the hundredth time, as they came into the room. Abigail’s heart fluttered happily each time. The home she’d lived in and loved her whole life was changed for her now; a new, even deeper happiness filled its walls.