Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Magnolia
“He did not say that! What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sutton was hissing from the other end of the phone while I popped her famous fried chicken into the oven.
The moment Lee left, I bounded up the back staircase and dialed her number. We’d been rehashing everything that had transpired between Lee and me over the last few months, and when my brother showed up for our annual Christmas Eve tradition, I’d completely ignored him.
“Magnolia! The movie’s starting,” my brother called from the other room.
“Alright, well, I should get going. Thanks again for dinner. And for listening to my shit,” I added.
“Anytime. Be careful not to overcook the chicken, that’s my hard work there so don’t mess it up because you, for some reason at almost thirty years old, have no idea how to use an oven, or any other appliance.
And just because Lee’s leaving—temporarily, mind you—doesn’t mean everything is changing. ”
“Everything’s already changed. It’s going to change even more after I’m Mrs. Wilder.”
“The wrong Mrs. Wilder, if we’re in the interest of being honest,” she quipped.
“We’re not in the interest. Merry Christmas, babes. See you tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone and padded into the living room, carting a plate full of cheese and crackers and a couple of glasses of wine. I handed the plate and a glass off to my brother and sat next to him on the couch.
Pickle jumped up on the table and helped herself to a piece of cheese, hissing at Charlie as he tried to bat her away. I rolled my eyes and turned the volume up on Meet Me In St. Louis.
“This really isn’t a Christmas movie,” my brother said, like he did every year.
“It was Momma’s favorite, though. Judy Garland’s ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’ was her favorite song. Don’t you remember?”
Charlie shrugged, the least sentimental of the two of us. I wondered briefly what it would be like not to have an emotional connection to every song, tradition, holiday, or person that crossed my path.
“I can’t stay all night, like I normally would,” Charlie announced when the movie ended and we were two bottles of wine in.
I couldn’t let him know how upset I was, so I just nodded. “That’s okay, who wants to have a sleepover with their baby sister anyway?”
“Me. I would. Always,” he chuckled, gulping the rest of his wine. “I have to get up at 5:00 in the morning to drop something off to a client. It’s a huge piece, so there’s nowhere for them to hide it without it being found.”
“That’s okay. I’m exhausted anyway. I don’t think I could wait up for Santa even if I thought he would really show,” I laughed, stretching out my body as I stood up.
My brother got to his feet, stretching himself. He kissed me on the forehead and wrapped me in a hug. “You never know, Magnolia. If he was going to show up anywhere, it would be here. No one deserves it more.”
After my brother left, I washed my face and climbed into bed, looking around the room I had lived in since I was a child.
A part of me would miss this place, my home, but the other part of me knew that growing up and moving on meant leaving spaces and places that brought you the most comfort.
Skirting almost thirty years old and still sleeping in the same room I had when I was twelve was a little silly and strange.
But it was my home.
It was the room my momma had slept in when she was a girl.
The room she grew up in, where she dreamed of falling in love and starting a family.
The room where her and Eunice, just like Sutton and me, had shared secrets and hopes for the future together.
Where, at separate times, the four of us talked about boys, school, outfits.
It was the same four walls where we cried together, laughed, and fell in love. I looked up at the ceiling, the same ceiling my momma had stared at when she was on the verge of making big life leaps. I batted off the tears that started falling down my cheeks.
The last thing I had left of her was this room.
But it was time for me to let it go.
***
On Christmas morning, I woke up to the sound of music coming from the bar. I grunted, rolling on top of Pickle who leaped off the bed and hissed at me. I checked my phone, hazily wondering if I missed some impromptu meet up of our friends. But there were no messages.
I threw on a hoodie and slipped into a pair of slides, making my way down the back stairs. Maybe I’d left the music on before I closed up the bar.
In the dimly lit room, the soft strumming of a guitar and the soulful, familiar voice that I’d know anywhere wrapped around me. I followed the sound, my heart quickening as I reached the stage.
There, alone under a single spotlight, Lee sat on a stool, plucking out a melody, Santa hat sitting askew on his head.
His voice was heavy with raw emotion as he huskily sang “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” eyes locked on mine.
I stood, frozen in place, watching him sing while tears danced down my cheeks.
After the song ended, Lee put his guitar down and hopped off the stage, making his way toward me. He stopped, jutting his chin out toward the back wall, a nervous shadow passing over his face.
I turned slowly, and behind me, covering up most of the space between the bar and the office, was a large portrait. I recognized the photo almost immediately as a candid shot Charlie had snapped with his camera while the two of us were having a picnic in Forsyth Park.
As I inched closer, I realized that it wasn’t a photo at all, but a piece composed of tiny, delicate items coming together to make up the composition of my face. I rushed toward the canvas, inspecting the details.
Small photos of my family members, some dating back to when O’Malley’s first opened, spread across the larger-than-life cheek in front of me.
Pictures of our friends, shots of Savannah’s architecture, places that I loved, all inched across the canvas, closing in the gaps of my forehead and lips.
And, peppered gently across the entire masterpiece, were lyrics of the songs Lee had written about me, scrawled in Lee’s handwriting.
“Did Charlie do this?” I rasped, thick tears clogged in my throat.
I couldn’t stop staring. Every memory, everything that meant something to me, made up the details of my face. I finally let a sob escape when my eyes landed on a photo of my momma holding me when I was a baby, right here in this very barroom.
“I’d love to take credit for this one, but Charlie really put his heart and soul into this over the last few months,” Lee breathed out, and I felt him closing the distance between us. “Merry Christmas, Magnolia.”
Turning toward him, I wrapped my hands around his neck, pulling him in for a hug, fighting down the urge to kiss his cheek, not wanting to open up the invitation for anything further to transpire between us. “Thank you, Lee,” I whispered in his ear. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s my absolute pleasure, Maggie. And yes, she is.”
I broke our connection and turned to face the artwork again. A wide smile crossed my face, warmth filling my heart for the first time in a long time.
The detail and care that only my brother could pull off was so evident in this design. I imagined guests walking by and gazing intently at this, a conversation piece for sure, and the pride I would feel as they fawned over it.
Every time I passed by it, I would remember Lee, who gave me this amazing gift. Lee, who would be gone, living out his dreams again in Nashville. Grief hit me like a tidal wave.
I turned toward him again, staring at him through blurry, tear-glazed eyes. Of all the grand gestures, and all of the heartfelt moments we shared, this was the most genuine, beautiful moment of my life. And I didn’t want the feeling to end.
“Will you dance with me, Lee?”
He let out a sigh, pulling my messy, sleep-stricken head toward his chest. Our hands entwined, and Lee lifted them to his lips, softly humming a familiar, yet distant tune.
We swayed across the worn, wooden floor for what felt like hours, the room filled with the echoes of our shared history, of the last few months where we battled to stay apart, when all we wanted to do was this, right here.
He pulled me closer, hands finding the familiar place on my back, fingers tenderly tracing the curves he knew so well. I rested my head gently against his shoulder, my hair softly grazing his neck as I lifted my gaze toward him. I let out a soft, content sigh.
“I remember that sound,” he said, voice thick with longing.
Carefully, his hand slipped beneath my shirt, and his thumb traced smooth, soothing circles on the small of my back.
Searing, intense desire shot through me.
“I remember how you’d say my name in the dark when it was just the two of us.
I remember the way it felt to have our bodies pressed together, just like this.
I remember the warmth of your laughter echoing in my ears, the way your eyes sparkled when you were lost in thought, listening to me play my guitar and sing to you.
I remember those quiet moments, wrapped in blankets, sharing secrets under the stars. I remember everything.”
We exchanged a glance that poured over us, full of dreams we once held and promises kept, of laughter shared and tears shed.
A silent conversation played between us, brimming with everything we wanted to say over the last few months but could never quite find the words for.
The bond we shared, a testament to a love that’d only grown deeper with time and never truly dissipated, was a living, breathing thing between us.
“It’s almost time for you to go,” I whispered, pulling him a little closer, not wanting to let him go.
“You’re right, but a few more moments with you wouldn’t kill me,” he chuckled softly.