“Better than me,” Pop said cheerfully.
“You let me have the shot,” Becky said.
“Not at all.”
“Well, thanks for helping me truss him up.” Becky pointed her sons to the table, and they raced full speed across the floor, squealing with glee as they skidded over the spots where the snow had melted. “Walking!” she chided.
As if they hadn’t heard her, they made a circle around the room and slid on their knees through the slush. In their best church pants. Maybe they wouldn’t put holes through the knees, but they’d be soaked.
“Levi Jessup! Jakob Jessup!”
Around they went again.
“Boys!”
Perhaps the exasperation in her tone penetrated their flurry of excitement, for they skidded to a stop in front of her, just far enough out of range that they could slip away if she reached for them.
She eyed them with her sternest expression, resisting the urge to rub her temple, and they both looked at her with equal expressions of innocence and question: What, Momma? What did we do? She wavered a bit just looking at them. They were such tall, sturdy boys for their age, with dark brown hair and brown eyes—not identical, but close enough to get them confused at times. Levi had fuller cheeks and his eyes were set slightly farther apart than his brother’s. From the back though, or when they were in motion—as they were much of the time—it was difficult for even her or Isaac to tell them apart. Becky often envisioned Isaac looking just like them when he was their age: tall and strong, with an unfading zeal for life and an adventurous spirit. And she thought of him now especially, seeing their serious expressions, as if they were pondering life’s mysteries.
Or, more likely, what trouble they’d get into next.
They were her “little Isaacs.” Her heart melted immediately at the thought. It was nearly impossible to remain cross with them for very long.
“Oh, come here,” she said, letting out a sigh, her heart melting a little more as they crashed into her and gave her one of their bone-crushing hugs. They might come across as rough-and-tumble little boys, but they still asked her to check under the bed at night for spiders. Most creepy-crawling things were great fun, but neither one of them cared for spiders. Thankfully, she rarely found one, as she didn’t much care for them herself, especially not in her house. And, thankfully, if she did find any, Isaac wasn’t afraid of them at all, so he could be counted on to catch the critters and release them outside. Where they belonged.
Becky quickly kissed the top of each of her boys’ heads, ruffled their wavy, dark brown hair—so like their father’s—and pointed them toward their chairs. “Please sit.”
They quickly retreated to their seats and climbed up, waiting with identical expressions of obedience and patience.
How long will that last? she wondered, filled with equal parts amusement and exhaustion.
Before he took his own seat, Isaac shot an admiring glance her way, causing her cheeks to grow warm in the most pleasant way.
Jem quickly grabbed the towel from its peg and began mopping up his mess, using the sole of his boot to push the towel around, swiping it side to side and front to back, then hanging it back on its peg to dry. He looked to Becky expectantly, and it occurred to her that he did that a lot: looked to her for approval. He hadn’t had much of that in his young life. If anything, he’d had too much disapproval and a hard life with an abusive father that she couldn’t begin to imagine. He likely hadn’t had much of anything good. Not like her boys who had everything: two loving parents, a father who was a fine example of a man, a grandfather who doted on them, and Jem, who doted on them too. Jem hadn’t had any of that growing up. Her eyes stung with sudden tears as she gave Jem a quick nod of approval and a smile.
“The turkey and potatoes are done,” she told him, “and we’ve got green beans and dressing with grilled sausage, but...I’m afraid I burned the biscuits.”
“No biscuits?” Jem repeated, freezing as he stripped off his heavy winter coat. He glanced at her, then at Pop, before hanging his coat on one of the pegs. He tugged off his boots and strode over to the kitchen basin to wash up. He wrinkled his nose as he drew close to the stove. “I thought I smelled something burnt.”
Becky’s throat thickened with emotion, and she determinedly smoothed down her velvet skirt. It was perfectly straight, without a single wrinkle, but she found the sensation of the rich nap against her fingertips had a certain soothing effect on her nerves. She prayed a quick prayer for everything else to turn out as perfectly as she’d hoped it would that day.
“But there’s pie?” Jem asked, glancing at her, his expression strained now. He liked his sweets.
Becky sighed and shook her head.
Everyone paused in silence to reflect on the lack of pie. She could feel the weight of their combined disappointment, felt her own sinking sense of loss and failure.
She could easily envision the perfect meals her good friends Meggie and Catherine had prepared for their families. They were so much better at just about anything to do with cooking. Or sewing. Or, it seemed, pretty much anything to do with being a wife and mother.
Just once, couldn’t she—Becky—get something right?
“There’s lots of dressing and roasted potatoes,” she said, striving to be positive. “And let’s slice up some of that oat bread.” She hurried to the kitchen counter and reached for yesterday’s leftover bread and a knife, sawing off six thick slices and hoping the hardened loaf would take on new life warmed up in the oven a bit and slathered with honey butter.
It couldn’t have taken her more than a minute or two to warm the bread, and when she turned, all eyes were on her—all her men looking at her expectantly.
Isaac smiled encouragingly, adjusting the position of the long tongs and knife on the table, which he’d use to slice the turkey. After she and Jem brought the remaining dishes over to the table, Isaac stood and held her chair out for her. Becky tucked her skirts around her, unused to having so much fabric to contend with. Her dress was much fancier than anything she normally wore around the house, or even to church on Sundays. It took her a few moments of tucking to get everything just so, and then she smiled her thanks to Isaac. He bent and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek before taking his seat at the head of the table.
Pop was already seated across from him at the foot of the table. Becky was at Isaac’s right, with Jem across from her at Isaac’s left, because both of the boys had wanted to sit next to Pop, and that was the only way it worked out.
Jake squirmed in his seat beside her, his eyes resolutely fixed on his brother’s chair across the table. His gaze flicked first to Pop and then to Jem, seated beside Levi. He hopped down, circled the table, and pulled on Levi’s arm. “I want to sit next to Jem!”
Just as Becky said, “Jake,” in her motherly, word-of-warning voice, Levi protested, “No! I was here first!”
“Momma!” Jake took a firmer hold on his brother’s arm. “Make him move. Not fair.”
“Of course it’s fair,” she said, striving to keep her voice calm and in control, embarrassed that the boys would behave this way in front of Pop and Jem. “Sit right beside me, and you’ll have your grandpop on your right.”
Jake’s little face got tight with anger. He grabbed his brother’s arm again, pinching him.
“Ow!”
“Jakob,” Isaac scolded him sternly. “Release your brother and go sit next to your mother.”
“I don’t want to sit next to Momma. I want to sit next to Jem.”
Becky felt a slice of hurt. Both her boys loved her, she knew, but Jake had always been the one to hang by her side. Levi had done the same with Isaac, as if at an early age, they’d come to a tacit understanding: Jake claimed Becky; Levi claimed Isaac. That was just the way it was.
And now Jakob didn’t even want to sit next to her.
Levi sat more solidly in his chair and shoved Jake away. “My chair. Me first.”
Jake’s face took on a mu
lish cast. He was a good boy, but he could be stubborn if pressed. If she didn’t do something quickly he’d start to cry. It was as predictable as dark clouds before a snowstorm.
“Come sit next to me,” she urged.
“No!” Jake stomped his foot.
A second slice of hurt came then.
“Doesn’t anyone want to sit next to me?” she blurted out. Immediately her face flamed with heat as all eyes fastened on her in surprise.
Isaac clasped her hand on the table and gave her fingers a squeeze. “I want to sit next to you,” he said soothingly.
She stiffened, in no mood to be managed or treated like a child—and yet she suddenly felt very much like a young girl, hurt because no one seemed to like her very much.
Now where had that come from?
Isaac was just trying to help. He was being sweet, in fact. And she was being, well, childish.
And Jake was just a little boy. He could sit next to her anytime. Pop and Jem were only planning to stay one night.
And one morning, she realized.
She squeezed Isaac’s hand back, took a cleansing breath, and, as she did so, said a quick prayer for peace. A sense of calm strength stole over her. “You can sit between Pop and Jem in the morning, Jake,” she promised, “and Levi will sit next to me.”
He hesitated.
“Or…” She paused for effect, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t challenge her on this one, “you may take your dinner in your room.”
The boys shared a glance—Levi’s triumphant and Jake’s resigned. His shoulders drooped, and he trudged back to his chair, scraping the legs across the floor in a way that made her wince. He plopped onto the seat.
Pop smothered a grin and helped Becky pull Jake’s chair in so he wasn’t a full foot away from the table.
Isaac nodded, and they all joined hands and bowed their heads as he said a blessing, “Lord, thank you for all your gifts. For the gift of your Son, which we celebrate this day. For the gift of my father; my good friend, Jem; and my sons, Levi and Jakob—who are sitting so patiently...” He paused with an air of expectancy, and Becky heard a soft shuffling sound. She peeked through her laced hands to find her sons sinking back into their seats. She frowned, wondering exactly which dish they had gotten their fingers into. Their heads were bowed over their own laced fingers, and their eyes were squeezed tightly shut, so there was no way to know for sure, but probably the sausage dressing. It was sitting directly in front of them, and several times earlier she’d caught them picking off crunchy bits of cubed bread from around the edges of the platter.
“We are so richly blessed,” Isaac continued. “And lastly”—he gave Becky’s fingers another little squeeze—“thank you for the blessing of my wife and for this delicious food we are about to partake in. Amen.”
“Amen!” the boys shouted.
Becky opened her mouth to correct them, but Isaac lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She took a breath to protest that they shouldn’t be allowed to be so noisy at the table, even though they were excited about Christmas morning and their presents, but Isaac captured her gaze in his, looking up at her from under his lashes. A tingle of warmth flared up her arm at the intensity of his regard. Oh my.
She pulled her hand free to discreetly fan her cheeks and settled back in her chair. “Who wants some bread?”
“Me!”
“Me!”
She winced and smiled to herself, shaking her head as she served up slices of bread to her sons. She passed the basket to Pop and Jem and watched as they took the oat bread without complaint and smeared generous helpings of honey butter on both sides.
Not nearly as good as fresh biscuits hot out of the oven, Becky thought, pulling a face.
Pop poured out glasses of the cold pressed cider he’d brought with him and proposed a toast. “To family!”
They all raised their glasses. Becky took a sip of her cider. “It’s delicious, Pop,” she said, appreciating how sweet and refreshing it was. As he was explaining his cider-making process, she moved to set her glass down. Her aim must have been off, for she heard a clink as the base of the glass caught the edge of her plate. The glass tilted forward in an alarming way. It’s going to fall, she thought, paralyzed by surprised confusion, like it was happening to someone else and not to her. She could have sworn she was setting the glass down properly, but she must have misjudged. Although nothing had moved, things just didn’t seem to be where they should be. Cider splashed onto her best white tablecloth. She gasped and tried to catch her glass, but it was too late. Every last drop had spilled out. The coppery tide seeped into the lace.
Three cloth napkins came flying in her direction as Isaac, Pop, and Jem tossed theirs onto the spill. She rose and blotted the mess, her eyes smarting yet again. Her best tablecloth. The one her mother had given her. The one that had been Aunt Mari’s—who hadn’t really been her aunt at all, but her birth mother, a secret Becky had learned when she was packing to leave Pepperell. Since Aunt Mari had died young, it was the only memento Becky had of her.
How could she have been so clumsy?
Her chin wobbled, but she was determined not to cry. It was just fabric after all, and it wasn’t as if anyone had gotten hurt.
“It’s all right, Momma.” Jake climbed onto his knees and patted his napkin into the spill, dragging his elbow through the gravy in the process. “I spilled mine too.”
“Me too,” Levi said, not to be outdone. He climbed to his feet on his chair, napkin in hand, as if determined to reach across the table and join his brother—through the platter of dressing and the dish of green beans. Jem and Pop reached out in unison and tugged him down into his seat before any damage was done. And, for whatever reason, watching it all unfold like a scene in a play, Becky felt the ball of unhappiness in her chest pop like a soap bubble. Her two boys could certainly go from hot to cold in a matter of seconds, couldn’t they? And...she wasn’t much different, evidently. The world seemed suddenly brighter.
She handed her glass to Pop for a refill, mashed all four napkins—hers, Isaac’s, Jem’s and Pop’s—into the squishy puddle of cider, and turned to Jakob, smiling. “Thank you, Jake,” she said, mopping his sleeve with his cider-soaked napkin, which had a ridiculousness all its own. She nodded to everyone at the table. “Thanks to you all. I’m afraid that’s the last of the napkins.”
Jem leapt up. “I’ll get some dish towels?” he said, ending on an upward note, as if asking her permission.
“Thank you, Jem. That will do nicely,” Becky said, taking her fresh glass of cider from Pop. What a mess, she thought, as she pushed aside the heap of napkins so she’d have a place to put her glass.
Her beautiful Christmas dinner.
She sighed.
It was nowhere near as nice as she planned it to be. It seemed perfection had decided not to show up for dinner. She finished the meal with a dishrag on her lap, a huge coppery stain before her, and all the delicious turkey and gravy she could eat in her stomach. To be honest, it was better than she’d feared, but she still wished she’d had biscuits for everyone. And she mourned for her ruined pie. Or rather, pies.
THREE
After dinner—after all the dishes were cleared and the leftover food was placed in the icebox—Isaac pulled Becky aside, practically cornering her between the kitchen and the dining room table.
“Becky, what is it?” he asked peering into her face. “Are you tired? You’ve been on your feet all morning. Do you need to lie down for a bit?”
“No, it’s just...it’s just...I wanted everything to be perfect.” She sighed with disappointment. Another Christmas where she ruined something or other.
“Everything doesn’t have to be perfect for it to be perfect.”
She looked up at him quizzically. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” Isaac looked pointedly around their cabin. The fire was snapping merrily in the hearth, glowing with red and orange flames. The bear rug lay o
n the floor in front of it, inviting the children to roll around, which they were doing. Pop was stretched out in one of the rockers with his legs stuck straight out. His eyes were shut, and he was snoring softly. Jem stood at the basin whistling as he washed dishes. Not so long ago, he’d been a boy in terrible circumstances. Now he was safe. With them. As close as a brother. Becky’s heart warmed at the thought. Her letter from home was propped up on the mantel, reminding her of what she’d left behind—a loving family who missed her. And Isaac beside her—what she’d found. And a hand on her belly—what was to come.
Isaac waited patiently for her to take all this in, then asked, “Wouldn’t you say this is good?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Good enough?”
“What?”
“Maybe everything didn’t turn out ‘perfect,’ but this is ‘good enough,’ isn’t it?”
“Good enough?” she repeated thoughtfully, studying Isaac and seeing him as with fresh eyes.
As she looked him over, he stood at attention, bracing his shoulders. He was the same Isaac, and yet he was different too. If anything he’d grown more handsome. Perhaps love had clouded her eyes, but she didn’t think so. He was the same confident, hard-working man who valued honesty and integrity, but now... He was just more so. His face was more manly, his stride more self-assured, and his manner a tad more tolerant with his men. It was rare, but a few men chafed under their boss’s high standards and would move to another operation. Isaac simply paid them, wished them well, and didn’t waste time with sentimentality. Nor did he second-guess his convictions. He did his job. He expected others to do the same.
And he loved his boys. They often demanded his time and attention and sometimes followed him when he told them to stay put. He was known to scold them rather passionately when this put them in danger, much as she scolded them herself. An accident with a falling tree could be deadly, one of the many dangers of living on this mountain. He protected them—and he protected her—fiercely.
Sleigh Bells & Mistletoe: A Short Story (The Brides Series 1.5) Page 2