Chapter 38
Christmas Eve
I close the door to our apartment as softly as possible, not wanting to wake Brady or Hannah quite yet, and step out into a dark, crisp morning.
It’s early, the sun has yet to rise, but I’m full of energy for what the day holds.
I pull my wool cardigan tight as I walk the worn path from the barn to the farmhouse, anticipating a cup of coffee with Alice.
Adding an apartment to the back side of the commercial kitchen had been Alice’s idea, a way for Brady, Hannah, and me to live here, a way to co-run the Rosehill Farm B she flew in two days ago for the holiday and will stay until New Year’s. Nora and Johanna stayed home to be with family, but plan to visit in the summer.
Lucy and her daughter, Lynn, are also here for a few days.
We’ve grown quite close to them in the past months.
In addition to her hefty donation that helped saved the farm, Lucy also used her financial and business resources to locate Rose’s son Hank, who had gone missing in action.
Because of Lucy’s efforts, Hank’s remains were finally located in a common grave in Germany, and then brought back here for a proper burial.
He now rests beside Rose and Charles in the St. John’s Ferry cemetery.
Lucy said it was the least she could do to thank Rose for the love and care she’d given her, all those years ago.
Although we’d planned to bring Lucy to visit Peggy, Peggy unfortunately passed peacefully in her sleep before we made the trip.
My father and Ruth Rivers occupy the other two rooms. They drove in together from Minneapolis and seem to be getting along in a way that makes me giddy with hope.
The thought that Ruth Rivers could one day be my stepmom is surreal, but I try not to get ahead of myself.
With the five of them, plus Lenny, whom Alice goes out with every week but still calls her “friend,” we are a total of ten for Christmas Eve dinner, Christmas morning brunch, and Christmas dinner.
That’s why Alice and I are meeting this morning, to run through the game plan for the holiday cooking.
And to connect over a morning cup of coffee before the day’s work unfolds.
I step onto the farmhouse porch. So much has changed.
I see the Rosehill sign beside the door next to the bronze National Register of Historic Places plaque Lenny installed.
We learned of the farmhouse’s inclusion in the fall, after we’d already saved the farm with funds from the farm-to-table dinner and donations from Lucy and other donors, but I still count it as a win.
It’s a tribute to Rose, to the Women’s Land Army farmerettes, and to the students in Rose’s cooking class in the 1960s.
As I open and shut the farmhouse door, I catch a glimpse of the diamond ring on my left hand.
A few weeks ago, on Thanksgiving, Brady asked me to marry him.
He told me he left the recipe for his pumpkin-pecan pie in the pocket of my apron.
I had slipped my hand there to find not a piece of paper but something hard and velvety.
A ring box. I opened it to see a group of diamonds set like a rosette.
It was vintage, ornate, and delicate. It had been his great-grandmother’s ring; his mother had given it to him the last time he was back in Minneapolis.
“When did you know I was going to marry Maggie?” he asked her.
“I’m your mother,” she said. “I knew the first time I met her.”
“Really? What was it about her?” he asked.
“Oh, it wasn’t her,” she explained. “It was you. The look on your face when you introduced her. The way you act around her. She brings out the very best in you, Brady. And that is all I ever wanted for you.”
Although I wasn’t expecting the ring that particular morning, his proposal did not come as a surprise.
After the farm-to-table dinner, I went home to Chicago and he to Madison.
We tried long distance but soon found out we really couldn’t stand being apart.
Living without seeing him every day felt like walking around without the other half of my body.
And we both deeply missed St. John’s Ferry.
So we began building our life together over the phone one night, dreaming up the idea of moving here, running a full-time cooking school in conjunction with the B being with him is a lot like being with myself, in the least lonely way possible.
Next Christmas, we’re even planning to go to Sweden to meet my aunts, uncles, and cousins.
It’s hard to believe I have a whole family I’ve never met.
In another country, no less. Looking back, the Scandi Trio was right when they told me I looked Scandinavian.
Little did we know it was close to 50 percent.
“Well, should we get started?” I ask Alice, grabbing a yellow steno pad and pen and heading to the kitchen table.
“There’s something I want you to open first,” she says.
I see her reach under the table and grab a wrapped present. It must have been sitting on the chair out of sight. She hands it to me.
“But aren’t we opening presents tomorrow?” I protest, unwrapping the box anyway.
“Yes, but by then, it will be too late.”
I peel back the paper and uncover a white box. I lift the lid to see a familiar pattern. It’s almost identical to the fabric Rose used to make Lucy an apron all those years ago. I reach for the fabric and shake it out to reveal an adult-size apron just like the one Rose made Lucy, ruffles and all.
“You didn’t!”
“I did.”
“I love it!”
“I knew you would. I thought you and Hannah could be twins.”
I steal a peek at the side of the cabinet, where the matching child-size apron hangs on a hook. That day Lucy came to the farmhouse back in June, she’d taken the letter from Rose with her but gifted the apron to Hannah.
“This looks about your size,” she told my daughter, who immediately put the apron on and twirled around as if it were a taffeta gown.
“Fits like a glove,” Alice said. “Like it was made for her.”
“It was.” Lucy smiled and let her eyes flit around the room. “It was made for a girl destined to learn and grow in this kitchen.”
Now, I slip the apron Alice made over my neck and tie the strings tight around my waist, that familiar sense of duty rushing over me as I don my new uniform. Then I reach for Alice and pull her in for a long hug.
Alice quickly steals the pen and paper from the table. “So, what’s first?” she asks, taking on the stenographer role now that her arthritis has improved. She does this almost every time we plan a meal together.
And I let her.
Because while she writes, I get to talk. And ask questions. And let my eyes dance around to all the intricate nooks of this kitchen, where I seem to find more than just the inspiration to cook, but a recipe for life.