Matt rolls his eyes.
“We'll take a vacation in January,” he compromises.
“Somewhere warm,” I demand.
“Somewhere warm,” my four husbands agree.
I grin in triumph.
They just earned themselves some holy hand jobs.
Chapter 2
A Couple of Christmas Sinners
The following morning, Matt and Luke help me decorate some ugly sweater cookies for our church. Jay's gone off to his law firm to wrap up things before Christmas, and Mark is packing. I go off to search for my son, who is missing out on the frosting disaster currently happening in the kitchen. Breezing past the living room, I finally spot Gabe standing by the Christmas tree. He’s staring at the portrait of the family archangel.
“Hey, Gabers. We’re making ugly sweater cookies. . .”
I waggle my eyebrows in invitation.
“Mom, how did you get a painting of me when I'm so old, but I've never been so old?” he asks instead of answering me.
I've been wondering when he would notice that similarity—I just didn't expect it this soon.
“This isn't a painting of you when you're old!” I laugh. “This is the Archangel Gabriel, who you're named after. He is the bringer of good news.”
“Good news,” Gabe says, lighting up. “I love good news.”
“Me, too, buddy. Me, too.”
“Tell me more!”
“That's a story for another time. We have naked cookies in need of frosting!” I tease, but Gabe deflates.
He loves stories—especially religious ones. My little guy is just like his daddies.
“Don't pout, buddy. I promise that I’ll tell you more about that particular angel.”
Gabe’s lower lip quivers pitifully.
“But daddies always tell me a Christmas story, but none of them have this year.”
I realize that they've all been so busy doing everything that no one has taken the time to sit down with Gabe and keep up with their tradition.
“You’re right, little buddy, and I'm so sorry. Here, how about I do it this year?”
Gabe looks hesitant at my offer.
“Mommy, daddy says you’re not supposed to tell me any Bible stories.”
I scowl.
“Seriously? What's that supposed to mean?! I can tell them just as well as they can!”
Being the wise boy that he is, Gabe immediately nods his head.
“That's what I think, mommy,” he attests.
“Excellent! I will tell you a Christmas story—the Christmas story of Jesus’ birth.”
I move over to sit by the Christmas tree and pull Gabe into my lap. The lights from the tree create a soft halo of luminescence around his head, making him truly appear angelic. I kiss him atop his mop of unruly hair, pouring all my love for him into the tiny smooch before beginning.
“Once upon a time, on a cold winter's night, thousands of years ago—”
“Mommy, it's not a fairy tale. This really happened.”
“Oh, right. Of course, my bad.”
“And they were in the desert—so, it was hot,” my son corrects.
I sigh in exasperation.
“Do you want to tell the story, or do you want me to tell it?”
“You, Mommy,” he confirms.
“Alrighty then, hush. Ok, so once upon a time ago—but it's a true story based in a hot desert, but it was winter—there was a man and a woman who were going to have a baby. The blessed baby Jesus Harold Christ.”
Gabe’s brow wrinkles
“Harold Christ?” he asks in confusion.
“That’s Jesus’ full name.”
“I thought Harold was the bad guy?”
“He is. That's why Mary and Joseph name Jesus it—so he would never forget it.”
“Oh!” Gabe says with understanding.
“Anyway, Joseph and Mary couldn't have their baby in their village—”
“Why not?” my son demands in affront.
“Uh, because Joseph and Mary weren't married yet,” I improvise.
Gabe’s brow furrows.
“They weren't? Well, you're not supposed to have babies out of marriage,” he announces imperiously.
“Who told you that?”
“Daddy Mark.”
Of course, Mark told him that.
“Well, I guess Joseph and Mary were a bunch of little sinners, so they needed to get out of town to have this kid. But ol’ Joe didn’t know squat about traveling in the desert at night, and so he followed some navigational star until they came to this hotel place in Bethlehem. He went to it and was like, ‘hey, can my lady-friend give birth here?’ but nobody was willing to let Mary do her baby business because birth is me-ssy and no one wanted that on their sheets. But, the Bethlehem peeps felt bad and were like, ‘you can go out in this manger and give birth because we can throw out the hay and start fresh tomorrow’.”
“Oh! So that's why Jesus was born in a barn!” Gabe exclaims.
“Exactly. It's because they didn't want to deal with the mess. So, Mary finally pops this baby out, and all these angels come down from the sky. They're all cheering, dancing, and singing because they're really happy—”
“But why are they happy, Mommy?”
“Because this was God's son.”
Gabe looks at me in question.
“I thought that this was Joseph’s son?”
“That's why they had to get out of town—because this wasn't Joseph's kid. It was God's kid.”
Gabe’s brow wrinkles even further.
“I. . . don't understand.”
“It's a mystery, dude—nobody does,” I shrug. “Moving on. A few weeks later, these three magi come to bring Jesus gifts—”
“What are magi, Mommy”
“Magi is short for magicians.”
“Oh! So, they do tricks?”
“Yep! And these magicians brought gifts of frankincense, myrrh, and gold.”
“Ooo, gold! What an awesome gift. What's the Frankenstein? And the more—more what?”
I laugh.
“Not Frankenstein—frankincense and myrrh. They're types of oils that smell nice.”
My son makes a face.
“I get gold—gold’s a cool gift, but who wants oils? Why didn’t they bring him a stuffed animal and a baby toy?”
“They didn’t have those back then, Gabers. And frankincense and myrrh are very expensive gifts like gold. They are priceless oils with unique scents—we'll get some so that you can smell them,” I offer.
“What happened next, Mommy?”
“Well, after that, they all just packed up and went back home.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Gabe interrupts, throwing up his hands. “How come they had to leave town to have a baby, but they could come back to town with the baby?”
“I don't know, kiddo. Apparently, the village peeps weren’t going to stone Mary or anything at this point. Maybe everyone thought they left and got married. The villagers just accepted that this was Joseph's son and J.C. grew up a humble, but masterful, carpenter.”
Gabe is silent while digesting this.
“If it's Jesus's birthday, why don't we celebrate it with cake?” he finally asks.
“Wow—excellent question.”
I, too, wonder this.
“I mean, we do have Christmas cookies,” Gabe continues “But cake would be better.”
“All right. We’ll add ‘cake’ to the list for this holiday.”
“Hooray!” Gabe cheers.
Matt and Luke come down the hall.
“Where have you two been? The cookies are cold without their frosting,” Luke teases.
“What's all the excitement about?” Matt asks our son.
“Mom was just telling me about Jesus Harold Christ.”
“Harold?” Luke questions, but Matt just groans.
“Yup, so he would remember the bad guy,” Gabe cheers.
Luke looks over at me, shaking his head.
“Her
od—the king’s name the ordered all the firstborn Jewish babies’ deaths was Herod. Not Harold.”
“How do spell that?” I question.
“H-E-R-O-D.”
“He-rod? Like his weiner?”
Gabe loses it at the word ‘weiner’, and I send him a wink while Matt and Luke just roll their eyes.
“Tell us more about this story your mom told you,” Matt prods, and I slip out of the room.
Hopefully, it’s close enough to the real deal to appease my priestly husbands.
Chapter 3
Blackmailed by a Wanna-Be Priest
I dip into the kitchen for a quick snack when the phone rings. I answer it while shoveling in a mouthful of ugly sweater cookies.
“Hmphlo?” I ask in a muffled shout.
“Mother Evangeline!” an excited voice cries on the other end.
I quickly swallow down my sugary treat in delight—I would know that voice anywhere.
“Sister Mary-Francis! How good to hear from you—but you do remember that I’m not that kind of mother, right?”
“Oops,” she giggles. “It's so hard to think of you as anything else.”
I smile at the warmness and welcome in her voice.
“So, what's up?” I ask her.
Her voice turns serious.
“Mother Agnes is sick and can't do this year's Christmas charity.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that.”
She pauses before continuing, “We, ah, were all wondering if you could do it.”
I pull the phone away in confusion and look at it.
“Me? Why me? You have a whole monastery full of sisters—why don't you ask somebody else to do it?”
“They’re all too nervous and don’t think that they can! Poor Mother Agnes has left to recover—to not infect anyone else—and left me in charge, and. . . and. . . I’M FAILING!” the distraught nun wails.
“Sister Mary-Francis!” I shout to get her attention. “I highly doubt that you are failing.”
“Well, maybe not failing, but Mother Agnes didn’t have anything planned for the charity, and we need direction. The only other person to give us that is you. So, you see Mother Evangeline, The Immaculate Heart of Mary needs your leadership once more. Come back to us just for this Christmas, please?” she begs.
I’m torn between laughing and groaning.
After everything that they've done for me, I want to help them—but I don't want to leave my boys!
“Please, please, please,” she begs prettily.
“Ah, ok,” I concede, and she cheers. “But I need to talk with Mark, Matthew, Luke, and Jay. Let me get back to you.”
Sister Mary-Francis says thank you and hangs up. Sighing, I go wander into the other room looking for Matt and Luke. I find them sitting around the Christmas tree, still talking to Gabe.
“What's up?” I ask, calling their attention.
My husbands give me sour looks.
“We're correcting your Christmas story.”
“Well, in my defense. I think that I told it pretty well. . . considering.”
Luke just puts a hand to his face and raises a brow.
“Considering what?”
“That I wasn’t raised knowing it how you two do!. Besides, it was just a different interpretation—same ending, same outcome, right?”
Both of them roll their eyes.
There’s a lot of eye-rolling in this house.
“Who is on the phone?” Luke changes the subject.
“It was Sister Mary-Francis.”
“What did she want?”
“Me—to be their Mother once more.”
“Come again?” Matt laughs.
“Mother Agnes is sick, and they need help running their Christmas charity—actually, it sounds like they need someone to organize the whole freaking thing! She asked me to go all the way to Cali to help,” I explain.
“They must be desperate,” Matt remarks, and Luke snickers.
I glare fiercely at the two smartasses.
“Are you going to do it?” Luke presses.
I bite my lip.
“I really don't want to leave you all this close to Christmas—and what about Gabe?”
Luke wraps an arm around our son.
“He'll be with us. We'll have some ‘man time’, and you can have some ‘girl time’ with the sisters.”
I almost laugh out loud—girl time with the nuns.
“You’ll only be gone a few days at the most,” Matt reassures.
I waffle between my indecision but decide that I really do miss the girls—also, any excuse to get out of this winter snow. . .
“Ok,” I finally decide. “I’ll go.”
“Do you want to drive?” Luke wonders. “It would probably be quicker if you flew.”
I agree—I don’t even want to deal with driving through this nightmare that we call a season.
Sister Mary-Francis’ shriek of joy nearly deafens me when I call and give her the good news. Tugging on my ear, I able into my room. Luke, the darling man, has already laid out a suitcase and packed all my favorite clothing. I swear that man knows me better than I know myself. Matt comes in behind me carrying something—my old habit.
“You kept that?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes, ma’am—in case you ever wanted to roleplay,” he adds with a wink.
“Oh, you are such a bad priest,” I breathe.
Matt stalks over and pushes me down on the bed.
“I'll show you what a bad priest I am,” he growls, coming down on top of me.
He kisses me hungrily, and I stroke my tongue across his with the same savage passion. Matt’s hand comes down to cup my aching pussy. I arch up into his palm, loving the delicious friction that it causes. I moan softly when his thumb starts circling my clit through my pants. My desire spikes—as does my need for us both to be naked. I reach down to pull my shirt off when, suddenly, a voice calls from the doorway.
“Daddy, why are you on top of mommy?”
Matt groans into my throat while I laugh uproariously. I hear Luke join Gabe at the door.
“Daddy, why is other daddy on top of mommy?” I hear our son ask him.
“I don't know, son. Matt—why are you on top of mommy?” Luke teases.
“You two are unbelievable,” Matt mutters under his breath, pushing off of me.
He gets up—but that's not the only thing standing at attention.
Matt swiftly grabs my habit and puts it in front of him before turning around to address Gabe.
“Can we have a moment of privacy, please?” he directs in a polite strained voice.
Gabe promptly turns around.
“Ok, it's private now.”
I howl with laughter.
“No, son. Daddy means can you leave,” I finally manage.
Gabe pouts as he walks away, and I hear him shuffling his feet, stalling. Matt rolls his eyes heavenward.
“That boy is just like you,” he sighs.
“You're welcome,” I purr.
Matt tosses me my habit as I blow a saucy kiss at his still erect penis.
“Maybe I can take care of that with my mouth when I get back,” I joke.
Matt snorts.
“You better, you little vixen, or else I’m telling Mark about your “Christmas story”,” he threatens.
I scowl.
Did my wanna-be priest husband just blackmail me for a blowjob?
Huh.
I guess that I’m rubbing off on him, too.
Chapter 4
Getting Back into the Habit
It almost breaks my heart to say goodbye to my boys, but I know that I'll see them on Christmas Eve. Each one of them gives me a kiss goodbye, and Gabe clings to my neck—it's almost too much to bear.
“Here, mommy. It’s an early Christmas gift,” he tells me, pushing a package into my hands.
“Should I open it now?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he nods solemnly.
Slowly, I ope
n the child-wrapped box and find a rosary inside.
“I made that myself,” he announces proudly.
“Gabriel Andrew Brothers, you’re an angel.”
I give him one more kiss before quickly turning away. I know if I don’t leave now, I never will. Once I make my way through security, I decide to dip into the bathroom and change into my habit. I attach the adorable little rosary that my son made me and put on my game face.
It's time to be a Mother.
I plaster a serene look on my face and nod graciously at everyone who passes me as I make my way to my gate. I find it easily enough and find a seat, watching everyone pass by. The airport is busy with holiday travelers.
A woman comes to sit down next to me. It surprises me—considering that there are plenty of other open seats. She holds a small suitcase in her lap and fiddles her thumbs on top of it. Her obvious anxiety is making me anxious. I notice that she keeps glancing at me and opening her mouth. Then, she closes it and looks back down quickly, like she's too afraid to speak to me.
“Hello,” I offer softly, to break the ice.
“H-h-hi, Sister,” she stutters
“It's Mother,” I correct cheerfully, falling right back into my role. “Is everything all right?
“No,” she confesses. “I'm very, very nervous.”
I wait a beat, but she doesn’t elaborate; so, I just do my best to comfort her.
“Have you had anything to drink? There's a tax-free store right down the way,” I suggest, pointing.
Her startled gaze finally meets mine.
“Are. . . are you suggesting that—”
I cut her off.
“You get drunk? Yep—that's what I do when I'm nervous.”
Her jaw drops open at my admission.
“Listen, God made liquor. There's nothing wrong with it. Besides, Jesus drank wine all the time—even at the last supper. So, it’s ok to booze up once in a while.”
She quickly closes her mouth and nods.
“Yes, but I don't need alcohol,” she affirms.
“Oh, well, what do you need?” I ask.
“I suppose that I just need some advice.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place!” I announced. “I am the best advice giver there is at my nunnery.”
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