by Nicole Deese
Her quivering lips nearly lifted into a flattered expression. “My big sis hates eggnog. And also that awful ‘Christmas Shoes’ song they play at the top of every hour on 106.5. It always makes her cry. Oh, and fair warning, she hoards her Draw Four cards during UNO but is always willing to share her dessert, even if it’s her favorite.”
What was she doing?
He nodded. “Good to know. Thanks for the heads-up. Merry Christmas to you all.”
She sniffed, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw tears leak from her eyes. “Merry Christmas.” She dusted the snowflakes from her sweater and ducked back inside the house. The slam of the door rattled through my frozen bones.
Joshua didn’t speak as he opened my car door for me or even after he climbed inside the driver’s seat. He simply exhaled, turned the key in the ignition, placed his hands on the steering wheel, and accelerated to the end of the street . . . all while humiliation burned a hole in my gut at the dysfunction he’d just witnessed.
Despite the dash vents pumping out hot air at maximum capacity, I shook more than I had moments ago in the December cold.
“Joshua, I’m really sorry you had to—”
“No,” he cut me off, pulling over to the curb. “Please don’t apologize to me. You asked me not to get out of the car, but I couldn’t just sit in here and watch you . . .” The tendons in his neck tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. “I’m sorry, Lauren.”
An apology I felt had little to do with him exiting the car without my permission and everything to do with my screwed-up family life. Even still, Joshua had come after me because . . . because he’d been worried. About me.
The revelation urged me to give in to the impulse my entire being craved: to lean forward and press my mouth to his, to feel the heat of his breath mingle with mine, and to allow him full access into the mess and pain and all the unsightly places I’d tried and failed to bury over the last two decades.
His gaze trailed my face, warming my lips with the idea that he might be thinking something similar. That maybe he, too, had thoughts that leapt over the friendship fence into this new, undefined territory we found ourselves in now.
“I need you to know that I didn’t invite you to Christmas because I have expectations of you—or us.”
Humiliation pinched my throat. “Of course. I know that—”
“Because I support you. In whatever you decide to do, not that you have to decide anything at all right now, but I would never want to be the reason you didn’t . . . I couldn’t be that guy, the one who pulled you away from God’s plans for you.”
All the things he didn’t ask circled around my mind the way my sister’s hostile questions had, like hungry vultures waiting to attack: “But what about all the other orphaned children in the world? Aren’t there others in need of a family?”
“Please don’t let what my sister said get to you. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” And yet even as I said those words, desperate to believe they were true, my pulse whooshed harder in my ears.
He nodded, yet remained otherwise unmoved as he searched my face for several more seconds. “I don’t want to make things any more complicated for you.”
“You haven’t. You’ve only made things better.” I touched his hand. “Which is why we should be driving to your parents’ house right now and not stuck here talking about my sister or her theories for another second.”
I straightened in my seat, deciding we needed a major morale boost if we had any hope of celebrating Christmas Eve the way it should be celebrated. I turned on his radio and found the round-the-clock holiday station, hoping against hope that it wasn’t the infamous “Christmas Shoes” song. Thankfully, it was “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
I cranked it up and began to hum along. “Have you ever been through Cherry Lane? The neighborhood is all decorated like gingerbread houses. It’s not too far from here, and I’m sure that street’s been plowed by now since it’s a major attraction.”
The concern on his face began to thaw. “It’s on our way.”
“Great, because I think we could both use a helping of holiday spirit right about now.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
And then Joshua was driving our all-wheel-drive sleigh to the Avery house—save for one tiny, but necessary, holiday spirit detour.
chapter
twenty-five
Joshua’s childhood home smelled of burning firewood and cinnamon sticks, the kind left to simmer on a stovetop for hours on end so that even your lungs were infused with holiday warmth. Much like everything in the Averys’ tidy Tudor-style home.
Unlike Robert and Gail’s house, stocked full of sentimental knickknacks, art projects, and sports equipment, Elizabeth and George Averys’ minimalistic approach to home decor and furniture still managed to be invitingly cozy.
After changing out of my snow-soaked clothing, I set my carry-on inside the guest room closet and appreciated the harmony of the soft gray duvet cover and cream-colored walls. An ivory poinsettia on the dresser was the only decoration outside of the rustic frame above the bed that read Bind My Wandering Heart to Thee.
I padded back down the hall in the direction I’d seen Joshua take Skye when we’d first arrived. He’d given me a brief verbal tour, highlighting the location of my room, the restroom, and the kitchen as he’d held on to Skye’s collar to lead her out back to meet up with Brach.
Taking a right at the first corner, I entered a quaint living area with a love seat and two classy wingback chairs before my gaze settled on a tiny Christmas tree perched on a table near the hearth. I moved toward it, feeling every bit the sneaky intruder rather than an invited guest. Still, the unique tree pulled me toward it. Adorned with miniature white lights and a couple dozen heart-shaped ornaments—most with four-digit years engraved or painted on them—the tree told a story I wished I could hear.
“Lauren? Is that you out there?” As if I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, my spine snapped straight, and I spun around to face . . . nobody. The room was empty.
“I’m in the kitchen . . . it’s just past the bookshelf on the left there with the oversize glass jar collection my wife insists matches her motif. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe bookshelves should be reserved solely for books.”
I stifled a laugh and made my way past the shelf in question and into the kitchen nook, where George Avery stood at the white marble kitchen counter, bent over a bag of . . . crab? He pulled out a bundle, the smell of fresh seafood quickly filling up the small space. He must have just arrived home, too.
The instant he saw me, his face lit up with a familiar grin, putting my earlier imposter-like feelings to ease—an ability that must be a special gene in the Avery family line. “Sorry for hollering at you from across the house like that, but as you can see, my hands are full of crab legs”—on cue, he lifted a handful of legs from the grocery bag and placed them in a bucket of icy water—“and as good as these suckers will taste tonight all smothered in garlic butter, they’re too stinky to go on a walk through the living room.”
That time I did laugh. “That’s more than okay. I was actually just admiring the little Christmas tree out there. It’s beautiful.”
“That’s our anniversary tree. Thirty-four years today.”
I moved in closer, leaning my hip against the counter. “Your anniversary is on Christmas Eve?”
“Sure is. Our first date was at a little crab shack downtown. It’s why we eat this meal together with our family every year.”
“That’s a lovely tradition.” Several seams around my heart may have snapped at his sweet tale. “Can I help with something?”
“As a matter of fact, I could use an extra set of hands. Mind grabbing a towel from the top drawer next to the sink there?” He dipped his head to indicate direction. “If you could toss it over my shoulder, that’d be great.”
Jenna wouldn’t even believe this right now. Me, opening drawers in George Avery’
s kitchen and draping a towel over his shoulder like an old family friend. Oh, how my life had changed in these past few months. Joshua had tilted my whole world on its axis, which led me back to why I was even here. “Have you seen Joshua? I wonder if I should go check on how the dogs are getting along.”
“Oh yes. Sorry.” He chuckled. “I saw him as I was on my way inside. I’m supposed to tell you the doggie introduction went great and that he’s down helping his mom with something in the basement for a minute. I can tell you where the stairs are if you’d like, but you’re welcome to stay here if you don’t mind listening to an old man’s corny jokes.”
“Not at all, I’m happy to help. I’ll wash up.” I turned on the tap, pumping the lemon-scented soap onto my palms.
“Great. Joel’s family should be here anytime. They only live a few houses over.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t know they lived so close.”
My comment seemed to surprise him. “Yep. Elizabeth has been harping on Joshua to buy a place in our neighborhood, as well, since he spends so much time with Joel’s kids. But between me and you, I think his real reason for not wanting to sell his condo is because he’s collected way too much tech junk over the years and doesn’t want to face the limitations of a moving truck. But we’ll see.” He shrugged. “Miracles happen, and my wife usually gets what she prays for.”
I smiled politely while my mind wandered through this conversation like the outsider I was. What would that be like? To have parents who begged me to live closer, much less choosing to live on their street and seeking their involvement in my everyday life and not just at random. My being here for Christmas had to seem very odd to the Avery family. “I’m sure living close has a lot of perks.”
He dumped another handful of legs into the bucket, then covered them up with another big dump of ice. “I’m fairly sure babysitting would be the top perk for both Joel and my Elizabeth. We love living near our grandkids.” His words swelled in my chest, creating a mini tidal wave of desire, followed by an instantaneous wake of regret. I might never know the blessing of doting grandparents, even if Noah had been mine to mother.
He shoved the bucket to the side of the counter and slung the towel from his shoulder to wipe away the moisture residue. Then he pointed to the fridge, as if I was supposed to know exactly what he wanted me to grab from inside. But I opened it anyway, because when George Avery pointed, you didn’t hesitate to obey.
“How are you at making coleslaw, Lauren?”
“I’ve never made it before.”
“Then you’ll be perfect.”
I laughed. “I’m happy to give it a try.”
I collected several ingredients from the shelves and drawers, at his request, and then he slapped a wooden cutting board in front of me. “If you can chop cabbage and spoon mayo from the jar, then you can master coleslaw.”
“I don’t know, those are some pretty high expectations. I once struggled to spread peanut butter on toast.” I’d been five, but still, it was the truth.
His eyes crinkled a breath before a belly laugh burst from his throat. “I knew I liked you.”
A compliment I’d hang on to forever.
Much like Joshua, George was the type of person you wanted to be around, the kind you wanted to collect inside jokes with and prepare a meal alongside in a kitchen on a holiday afternoon.
He gave me a quick rundown on what to chop and provided me a bowl to “dump it all into” so that I could start the mayo-spooning part of the recipe instructions. While I chopped and dumped, he asked me about my teaching experience at Brighton—how long I’d been there, what the school’s atmosphere was like, what I enjoyed most, and if I had any plans to move beyond first grade. I told him I didn’t, a response that caused him to pause his potato peeling and give me an approving nod.
“I miss it—teaching that age. First grade was always my favorite. A big part of me wanted to show up at Brighton with Joshua on that first day.” He chuckled to himself. “But it was more important for him to get a feel for the kids without me there. And from the sounds of it, I’d say you helped him out a lot. He thinks highly of what you’ve accomplished in your classroom.”
The tips of my ears grew hot. “He didn’t need much help. He’s a natural with the kids.”
“Pretty sure he told me the same about you.”
Several seconds of silent cabbage-staring later, after my cheeks had finally started to cool, I switched the subject of questions to him. “How many years did you teach in the classroom?” If I remembered right from all the training documentaries, it was somewhere close to the thirty-year mark.
“The first time? Just three years. And then back for another twenty-six.”
“Oh?” I scooped up more chopped cabbage and dropped it into the bowl. “I don’t think I knew you took a break after the first three years. Did you switch schools? I thought I remembered you saying you were in the same district for the duration of your classroom time.”
His eyebrows revealed his surprise at my knowledge. “I didn’t switch schools, I actually quit teaching after that third year. I’d convinced myself it wasn’t my calling, or rather, my wallet had convinced me.”
The knife stilled in my hand, the blade halfway through the onion he’d given me. “You quit teaching?” I’d definitely never heard this story before, and I’d heard dozens of stories about his early teaching days on documentaries and simulcasts at teacher conferences, sharing his failed attempts at helping kids connect to literature. I simply couldn’t imagine him as anything but George Avery, Teacher Extraordinaire.
He rinsed several potatoes in a strainer, then selected one to peel. “Elizabeth and I were struggling to make ends meet, so much so that we’d actually considered moving into her parents’ attic.” He shook his head and plopped a naked potato on the counter. “Elizabeth was newly pregnant with Joel, and her morning sickness was something terrible. Should have been called all-day sickness. She couldn’t work for months, and our bills were piling up. A newly hired resource-room teacher in a district where thirty percent of my kids’ parents were either incarcerated or on parole definitely didn’t come with a shiny paycheck.”
I’d stopped cutting now, watching him intently.
“I left work one afternoon and made a few calls to some buddies, asking them for any job leads. One of my buddies had lined up a managerial position for me at a local hardware store. I knew how to structure teams and schedules and enjoyed working with my hands, so it felt like a good enough fit. Plus, with the overtime they promised, I would practically double my teacher’s salary. It all made sense on paper, and yet . . . when I walked out of my principal’s office that day . . .” A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “There are some days you’ll remember for the rest of your life, and the day I quit Lincoln Elementary is near the top of my list.”
The sinking statement pulled at my insides. “But you still went to work for the hardware store?”
“Yes.” The word dripped with regret. “It was easy to justify why my way was better. After all, God wouldn’t want us to struggle, right?” An uncomfortable chill crawled up my spine at his sarcasm. “There had to be someone else meant to teach those kids, someone more qualified than I was, because trying to get those kids to connect to the alphabet seemed like a foolish effort when their worlds had been shattered over and over again.”
I pictured the faces of a few of my past students, the ones from less-than-desirable home lives. Much like my waiting child across the world. I immediately redirected my focus to the coleslaw carnage around me. “What changed your mind? What made you go back to teaching?”
“We had Joel, and as my wife likes to say, he removed the scales from our eyes. All those things we thought we needed, we thought life owed to us, maybe even that God himself owed to us . . . were actually just wants. Not needs. Joel brought us a lot of sleepless nights, but he also brought us perspective. The extra money had been nice but . . . there was this missing peace. That’s p-e-a-c-
e. So Elizabeth and I started praying together in the evenings. And after about a year, I went back to the school and asked for my old job back. Five years later, after working up a thousand failed plans for connected reading and starting an after-school club for safe adults to read to kids in need, Reading Connection Express was born. My testimony can be summed up in one phrase: God’s way is rarely easy, but it’s always better than mine.”
Though I knew the end of his story—published books, reputable documentaries, national conferences, college commencement speeches—my throat still tightened with emotion. Hearing the personal details, the struggle, the regret, the victory . . . it turned on a faucet of feelings I hadn’t realized I’d shut off until now.
“There you two are.” Joshua strode into the kitchen, placing a hand on my back as I blinked away the moisture in my eyes. “Sorry I abandoned you to this guy—he can be unruly.”
“Nonsense. She’s enjoyed hearing all about your embarrassing childhood moments. I made sure to tell her about the time you used your Superman underwear for a surrender flag in the front yard.” George winked at me before adding, “But I better pick up the pace in here before Mom sees that the potatoes aren’t ready.”
A commotion in the other room distracted me. Joel’s family had arrived.
“That story is inaccurate,” Joshua said matter-of-factly. “They were Lego underwear. And I’ve already told Mom that no one cares about the side dishes served with this meal. We’re here for the crab legs. And the butter.”
“No, silly head,” a cute female voice exclaimed. “We’re here for Christmas Eve!” Emma, decked out in a darling red and gold holiday dress, tapped her way across the kitchen in shiny black shoes.
“But mostly for the crab,” Joshua mumbled under his breath with a wink shared only with me a second before his mom entered the kitchen, carrying a giant stainless steel pot. “You’ll see.”
Joshua wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t even in the same stratosphere as wrong. The Avery Family Anniversary Christmas Eve Crab Feed could easily be considered last-meal-on-earth material. I’d never buy crab in a can again.