By the time we cleaned the kitchen and retreated to the living room, the storm had passed; though lightning still flickered on the horizon, the rain had stopped and a light fog had begun to roll in. Aunt Linda had poured herself and Gwen a glass of wine—it was the first time I’d ever seen either of them drink anything with alcohol—and we began opening gifts. My aunt loved the gloves; Gwen exclaimed over the music box, and I opened the gifts that my parents and Morgan had sent. I found a nice pair of shoes and some cute tops and sweaters that were one size larger than I usually wore, which I supposed made sense considering my situation. When it was Bryce’s turn, I handed him the envelope.
I’d picked a fairly generic card, with room to write my own message. Because the light was so dim in the living room, he had to turn on the reading lamp to see what I’d written.
Merry Christmas, Bryce!
Thank you for all your help, and in the spirit of the holidays, I wanted to get you something I knew you would love, a gift that just might keep on giving for the rest of your life.
This card entitles you to the following:
My aunt’s super-secret biscuit recipe; and
A baking lesson for the two of us, so that you can learn how to make them on your own.
Obviously, this gift is from both my aunt and me, but it was my idea.
Maggie
P.S. My aunt would like you to keep the recipe secret!
As he read the card, I stole a peek at Aunt Linda, whose eyes were glittering. When he finished, he turned first toward me, then toward her before finally breaking into a grin.
“This is great!” he declared. “Thank you! I can’t believe you remembered.”
“I wasn’t sure what else to get you.”
“It’s the perfect gift,” he said. Turning to my aunt, he said, “I don’t want you to go to a lot of trouble, so if it’s easier, we can go to your shop early and watch you prepare them like you always do.”
“In the middle of the night?” I said, my eyes widening. “I don’t think so.”
Both Aunt Linda and Gwen laughed. “We’ll figure it out,” my aunt said.
Next were the gifts from Bryce. As my aunt carefully unwrapped the gift he’d given both of them, I caught a glimpse of the frame and knew immediately he’d given them a photograph. Curiously, my aunt and Gwen both stared at it without speaking, causing me to rise from my spot on the couch and peek over their shoulders. I suddenly understood why they couldn’t stop staring.
It was a color image of the shop taken early in the morning, and from the angle, I suspected that Bryce had to lie in the road to take it. A customer—I guessed he fished for a living based on his attire—was leaving with a small bag in hand just as a woman was entering. Both were bundled up and you could actually see their breath frozen in space. In the window, I spotted the reflection of clouds, and beyond the glass, I could see my aunt’s profile and Gwen placing a cup of coffee on the counter. Above the roof, the sky was slate gray, accentuating the faded painted siding and the weather-beaten eaves. Though I’d seen the shop countless times, I’d never seen it appear so arresting…beautiful, even.
“This…is incredible,” Gwen managed to say. “I can’t believe we didn’t see you taking this.”
“I was hiding. I actually went out there three mornings in a row to get just the shot I wanted. It took two rolls of film.”
“Are you going to hang it in the living room?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?” my aunt replied. “This will be front and center at the shop. Everyone should see this.”
Because my gift came in a box similar in shape and size, I knew that I’d been given a photograph as well. As I unwrapped it, I silently prayed that it wasn’t a picture of me, something he’d sneakily taken when I hadn’t been paying attention. As a general rule, I disliked photos of myself, let alone a photo taken while I was in baggy sweats or ugly pants with my hair being blown in every direction.
But it wasn’t a photo of me; instead, it was the photograph I’d loved, the one of the lighthouse and the giant moon. Like me, Aunt Linda and Gwen were stunned by the image; they both agreed it should hang in my room where I could see it while lying in bed.
With the gifts opened, we visited for a little while, until Gwen announced that she wanted to go for a short walk. Aunt Linda joined her at the door and we watched while they bundled up.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” my aunt asked. “To help digest dinner before the rain comes back?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I think I’d just like to sit for a while, if that’s all right.”
She finished wrapping the scarf around her neck. “We won’t be gone long.”
After they left, I looked from the photograph to the glowing tree, to the candles, and then to Bryce. He was beside me on the couch, not wedged against me but close enough that if I leaned, our shoulders would brush against each other. Music continued to play on the radio and beneath that, barely detectable, was the sound of gentle swells lapping against the shoreline. Bryce was quiet; like me, he seemed content. I thought back to my first few weeks in Ocracoke—the fear and sadness and the ache of loneliness as I lay in my room, the notion that my friends would forget me, and the conviction that being away from home for the holidays was a wrong that could never be righted.
And yet as I sat beside Bryce with the photograph in my lap, I knew already that this had become a Christmas I would never forget. I thought about Aunt Linda and Gwen and Bryce’s family and the ease and kindness I’d found here, but mostly I thought about Bryce. I wondered what he was thinking, and when his eyes suddenly flashed toward me, I wanted to tell him that he’d inspired me in ways he probably couldn’t imagine.
“You’re thinking about something,” Bryce stated, and I felt my thoughts drift away like vapor, leaving only a single idea.
“Yeah,” I said. “I was.”
“Care to share?”
I glanced down at the photograph he’d given me before finally turning to meet his gaze.
“Do you think you could teach me photography?”
The Christmas Tree
Manhattan
December 2019
When the waitress came by with the dessert menu and an offer of coffee, Maggie used the opportunity to catch her breath. She’d related her story throughout their meal, barely noticing as her mostly untouched plate was cleared. Mark ordered a decaf while Maggie declined, still nursing her original glass of wine. There were only a handful of occupied tables left and conversations had dropped to a low murmur.
“Bryce taught you how to take pictures?” Mark exclaimed.
Maggie nodded. “And he introduced me to the rudimentary basics of Photoshop, which was relatively new back then. His mom taught me a lot of darkroom technique—dodging and burning and cropping, the importance of timing in the development process…essentially, the now-lost art of making prints the old-fashioned way. Between the two of them, it was like a crash course. He also predicted that digital photography was going to replace film and that the internet was going to change the world—lessons I took to heart.”