“I’ll do better. I promise.”
How? When?
He tapped his foot before turning to go. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
I rested my head back against the door. “Okay, see you.”
Maybe.
The large bulbs of the outdoor lights laced across the sky. It was my one decorating demand. To which my mother had added her flourish. White lanterns with soft bundles of baby’s breath dotted the length of the aisle. Marc’s sweet smile greeted me at the end.
My mom kissed my cheek, took my hand, and we stepped in sync past the rows of guests. Friends from high school choir, college apple-martini-sharing suitemates, and to my surprise, my dad, all stared back with bright, hopeful faces. My heart squeezed, complete, in its moment of fresh starts and fresh horizons.
Later, after the chairs had been cleared away, Marc and I danced in each other’s arms. A swaying blob with hands and feet, beneath the white glow of lights, beneath the soft glow of stars, until all that was left was breath and beating hearts.
Chapter 7
Six Months Later
Marc hadn’t wanted to leave college or hockey and the life he’d hoped to build for us with both. But he’d had no choice. His mom was sick. He had to care for her.
I’d finished with a pit in my stomach on graduation day for the what-should’ve-been. For him. But he’d shown only cheers and support for my accomplishment. It was impossible to regret his sacrifice. Especially later, when his mom’s beautiful year-in-remission face glowed more luminous than any of the lights strung up at our wedding.
He’d fought to retain her hope, her health, and to keep their house. His childhood home with all its memories, both good and bad, was the one thing he couldn’t save. He’d started working in restaurants, which suited him, but it still wasn’t enough. And though he’d lost the house, he was pleased to have found a new passion. Management was his ultimate goal, but more than anything, he’d fallen for the kitchen. He loved the pressure, the pace, the busy rush of having to pull off a perfect shift, the perfect plate each time. Maybe it reminded him of game night.
We’d moved into our apartment right after the wedding. It was a commute into the city for both of us, but it was all we could afford. We’d made it work, made it home.
Because we had each other.
His shifts at the restaurants were grueling, but his years of working while in school had only set him up for success once it was his full focus. With his mom well, and nothing in his way, he was unstoppable. One promotion after another enticed him to stay on that track instead of heading back to school. We didn’t need any more debt added to the pile, and without hockey, that’s all we could see. Dollar signs.
Our first Christmas in the apartment was a simple one. I’d been doubling up on my shifts at the coffee shop in and around my internship hours at the architecture firm of my dreams. A company established by women, they focused on building careers and family. Not that I’d spent years with babies on the brain, but my planning tendencies wouldn’t let me not think about it.
Someday. Someday I’d be glad I had.
I crashed through the door on Christmas Eve. The three flights up with even three meager bags of shopping was brutal after twelve hours on my feet. All I wanted was a cup of freshly ground coffee and a mouthful of the apple butter cookies I’d snagged before heading home. I’d picked up a few last-minute deals at the store. Waiting on presents had been risky, but clearance was my best bet. The day’s tips had to be stretched to their fullest.
With a huff, I shook off my shoes on the front mat before letting the door swing closed behind me. Some great Christmas spirit had faced the bitter chill and hauled their tree up the stairs before me. Tiny pine-scented needles taunted me like confetti by sticking to the hem of my pants, following me inside anyway. I let out a final shiver and a laugh. They only bothered me because I wouldn’t have my own this year. We’d opted to skip a tree in favor of other minor things . . . like paying rent.
I aimed for the kitchen, the little sweeper broom and dustpan my new plan of action, but stopped dead in my tracks, bags swinging, coffee and cookies tucked in a box under my arm. The living room was a picture of Christmas bliss. The fireplace crackled for the first time since we’d moved in, one of the few perks of a top-floor apartment finally put to use. It’s a Wonderful Life played on the TV, and sitting pleasantly on the worn-out couch, with knitting needles and a quiet roll of laughter, were my mother and Marc’s.
“Jillie.” My mom jumped up, laying aside her attempted Christmas creation with a giggle. “Let me help you.”
“Hello, Jill dear.” Marc’s mom greeted me with a happy slur as she wrestled with her equally messy creation. The short spiky do she’d rocked since treatment added an extra impish quality to her wide grin. She must’ve made her annual eggnog. And thoroughly taste-tested it.
“Hello, Moms.” I giggled as my mother helped grab a few things from my hands, winking at me.
We circled the corner to the kitchen, and I stopped in my tracks again. The previously empty dining room had a full table and chairs laid out with a carefully prepared meal and a Mom-light-wrapped fresh Douglas fir twinkling next to it.
“When? How?” I stared at my mother.
She kissed my cheek and pointed me in the direction of the patio, taking the bags from my arms. “He’s out there.”
Marc’s dark figure could be seen through the glass door, scaling the railing with a strand of lights in hand. What kind of decorating madness was he up to?
I slid open the door and hugged my arms to my chest with delight. I was almost warm enough on the inside to fight off the cold. Almost. “You’re going to kill yourself before I can even say thank you.”
“Nah,” he mumbled, wrapping the last of the strand around the porch pillar.
“The rail’s all icy.”
He jumped down, his cheeks shining pink in the red lights. “The ice and I go way back.”
“True.” I laughed, tugging at his sweater, bringing him in for a kiss. “How did you do all this?”
He rested his arms around my waist and leaned back so he could watch my face as he unveiled his master plan. These were his favorite moments. “Well, I switched and took the opening shifts all week. Made it to Old Man Jones after in time to help with his wood-working jobs, stayed to man the tree lot with him at night.”
“And he let you make the table set and take the tree as payment.” I smiled.
Marc smiled back. “They’re great, right?”
My chest hitched. “They’re perfect.” I held his face, kissing his lips. “When did you sleep, though?”
He shrugged. “Sleep is for the weak.”
“Marc—”
“Here. Help me.” He handed me the final strand of lights and jumped back up on the railing.
I held them up as he finished wrapping the final pillar. He’d made the most of the space, a true wonderland of Christmas. The pillars were candy canes, the railing a-glitter with shining garland. “Where’d you get the lights?”
He nodded inside. “Mother Double Trouble.”