by Amanda Tru
Hank just passed his bowl and tried to work through wayward emotions. “Thank you.”
“Now, tell me what your idea was.”
“I just thought that yoga thing sounded perfect. You could do it at home or in a hotel room—anything. Our Haley said it’s just stretching positions to get the blood flowing—no rhythm necessary.” He winked at her when she set the bowl back down in front of him. “You’ve probably guessed that I don’t have much in the way of rhythm.”
The merest whiff of perfume teased him as she flicked her hair over her shoulder—just enough to tantalize the senses without being too overpowering. For all her myriad of virtues, Peg had never mastered the delicate art of perfumery. She wore hers like armor—a force field to ward off unwelcome invaders. He’d learned to love her for it.
“I thought yoga was forbidden or something—Eastern worship practices or whatever. Someone at church told me to stay away from it, so I just did.”
“Well, I’ve heard that,” he admitted. “Haley told me about it—how every pose had some worship thing attached to it—and asked my opinion. I’ll tell you what I told her.”
Ronni leaned forward, spoon hovering over the bowl, eyes locked on his as if he was about to impart some brilliant piece of wisdom. “What was that?”
“Told her not to do it if she had any doubts. There’s no reason for it. I bet there are a hundred different ways to do stretches that won’t hurt her conscience, but…” He drained the untouched glass of now-warm milk before continuing. “You sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes. Although, I was thinking you were going to tell her there wasn’t anything wrong with it. Not sure why I thought that.”
“Well, you were right. That’s exactly what I told her. I said people of all religions kneel to pray. So, should we stop kneeling? Many lift their hands up in their worshiping. Should we stop? Every religion prays in some way. Should we stop that, too?”
Ronni laughed. “So, I don’t have to give up my candle obsession because Wiccans use candles in their worship?”
“Exactly. Like I said. If you have doubts. Don’t. Nothing’s worth wrecking your conscience over. But if you can stretch and keep your thoughts on Jesus, then I don’t think He cares a whit if someone else does that same stretch with her thoughts on Buddha or whoever it is.”
“That’s what I thought! I just assumed I didn’t know what I was thinking!” Ronni stood, grabbed both of their bowls, missing the fact he wasn’t done with his, and began clearing up the table as if she’d done it every day of her life “I’m going to stretch out good before bed. I always sleep better after a good stretch, and the ones I’ve been making up just don’t offer the same results.”
What else she said, he didn’t hear—not over the scraping and running water. Instead, he watched her clean up their late lunch and wondered how someone with poor eye-hand coordination could move with such grace. He wondered why he couldn’t bring himself to look away.
Short of mopping the floor, Ronni managed to do everything she could to scrub the kitchen and put distance between herself and Hank. Snow kept the view out the window pure white and swirly, and the wind continued to howl. After drying her hands and slathering scented lotion that Hank couldn’t possibly use on them, she turned to find him watching her.
“So… what do you usually do the last couple of days before Christmas?” The words sounded accusatory—even to herself.
“Well, that depends on if it’s an off-year or an on-year.”
Ronni had never heard of “off-year” Christmases. “What are those?”
“Off years are the years the kids spend Christmas with their in-laws.”
“And on years with you. Got it.” She glanced around and noticed, for the first time, that there wasn’t a single Christmas decoration in sight. “So, you don’t decorate at all or just not in the off years.”
The way he scanned the rooms, stood, rubbed his jaw… Ronni would put good money on him not even having realized it before that moment. “I guess I don’t. Not since Peg went home.”
I thought she died.
“Well, I always do for guests, and now I’ve got a guest.” He beamed at her and moved toward the garage door. “You figure out where you want a tree. I’ll be back.”
“You’re not going out in this—”
But he’d gone. Vanished into the garage as if the temperature wasn’t below freezing, and the wind wasn’t enough to blow him halfway to Tahoe. That thought did it. She bolted for the door, saw a colossal overcoat hanging to the left of it, swathed herself in it, and stormed after him. The door to the garage slammed into something. A yowl that did not sound like the ever-faithful, or at least beloved, Piston erupted. Blood spurted, turning a white man in a green coat into a walking, gruesome portrait of Christmas.
“Oh, no!”
Hank pointed to the box that now lay at his feet. “Got it. Be right back for it.” The words came out in a grunt. “Going to stop the bleeding.”
It took only a minute, and a guilt-filled one at that, for her to decide to drag that tree into the kitchen. Hank stood at the sink, washing the blood from his face and fumbling for paper towels to the left of him. Ronni sprang into action. Inside a couple of minutes, she had the blood stopped, and his jacket rinsed free of blood. “I really am sorry…”
“It’s not Christmas until someone gets hurt decorating the tree.”
Ronni eyed him as she tested his nose for further bleeding. “Your family has strange traditions.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, if anything, my family would do everything in its power to avoid injury while decorating…”
His eyes twinkled. A smile grew. It took a moment, but understanding reached in and stole her breath. I just flirted with him… and he knows it!
Determined to regain her sense of balance, Ronni tossed the paper towels in the garbage and asked where to find a hanger. Hank took the jacket from her. “I’ll just lay it on the dryer for now. It’ll dry soon enough.” He’d only taken two steps toward a door she’d assumed was a pantry when he turned back to her. “Ronni, don’t worry about this. Accidents happen. We’re about to have fun, and I don’t want you ruining it by feeling bad about it.”
“Well, it was—”
“Ronni…”
Half a minute later, she found herself staring at his retreating back, having conceded his point—not to mention without any idea of how he’d managed it. Not dating men with families… it was a good idea. This guy knows how to play women.
A puddle of lights and wires pooled at his feet as Hank tested each one and swapped out dud bulbs on command. Spotify provided a grand mix of Christmas songs and carols recorded over the last seventy or eighty years as the soundtrack to an otherwise silent decorating party. While Hank untangled lights and ensured working perfection, Ronni sorted ornaments into an order only she understood and worked as hard as he did to ignore the burgeoning attraction between them.
I don’t fit even one of her criteria. I probably have never made more than half what she does, I certainly don’t have a degree in anything, I have a family, and… He couldn’t remember the others.
When they both reached for the end of the light strand on the coffee table, and his hand wrapped around hers for just a moment, it became even more obvious. She definitely felt it. He definitely liked it, something he’d examine later when he had a moment alone. They definitely needed to address that awkward elephant before it became a raging bull and his living room a display case for Ma Meers’ Hummels.
“Ronni?”
She’d taken that string of lights while he ruminated. “Hmm?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ about your list—the one for the kind of man you think you should marry.” The woman stammered something about it not being important, but he continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “My Peg had the girls make out lists like that when they were in high school.”
With the attention she gave those lights, the tree would have
a perfect display, and possibly before the new year. “Oh?”
“Yep. Hannah said she wanted only three things. A Christian, a good kisser, and a hard worker.” He waited for her to look up at him before he added, “She also decided she didn’t want to kiss anyone before marriage.”
That did it. Ronni stared. “How would she know if he was a good kisser if she didn’t kiss him?”
“We asked that question, too. She said if she didn’t kiss anyone else, and he was a Christian and a hard worker, then she’d have to assume he was a good kisser, too.”
That got a giggle out of her. Most women their age sounded ridiculous when they giggled, but something in Ronni’s deeper tones made it more attractive than annoying. “Give her credit for thinking ahead. What about the others.”
“Heather wanted a man who didn’t like drama. The list went on from there. Blond. Scruffy look. Athletic, but not a jock. Musical. Ambitious but not a workaholic. Good looking, of course.”
“Not worried about him being a Christian?”
Hank couldn’t help but chuckle over the memory of that one. “I believe that made the list between hating the Los Angeles Rams—St. Louis back then, I think—and being thoughtful about special dates.”
“Oddly specific, but…” She tweaked a branch to poke in the direction she wanted. “I guess when you know what you want…” She reached for more lights—white ones. “What about your other daughter? I see three girls up there in that photo.” She pointed to the Easter photo from the year before Hannah entered junior high.
“Haley changed her list so often that I don’t know if she knew what was on it half the time. When her husband heard about it, he wrote one up for her—with all his best and worst qualities mingled together. Said she’d better decide that because she wanted him, she wanted them, too.” Hank nearly held his breath after that, waiting.
Ornament boxes shifted and moved in a flurry that only a woman on a mission can create. The response eventually came in a whisper. “What’d she think about that?”
He sagged a little. “She tore it up.”
“Good. Life’s too short to spend it with a messed-up person.”
“Which is why she tore it up. She said, ‘I should be more focused on where I need to work on my faults and how we can work together. Me trying to create the perfect guy who has to live with an imperfect me is just stupid.’” Hank winked at Ronni’s dumbfounded expression. “That’s when Peg said her work as mama was done. She’d hoped one of the girls would get that point, at least.”
Ronni didn’t let it go. She held a box of tinsel in one hand and a gold garland in the other and waved them about as she argued against the idea of ignoring compatibility. “It’s a vegan marrying a cattle rancher or something.”
As much as he wanted to ask what would be wrong with that, Hank figured it might push her a bit too far over the edge. “By your standards, Peg and I would never have married. I wouldn’t have had thirty wonderful years with her. I wouldn’t have my three beautiful girls.”
The way Ronni demanded he choose garland or tinsel hinted that she’d had her fill of the discussion, but when he pointed at the garland, telling her the tinsel was left over from before they’d gotten Piston, she pounced on that. “So, where were you incompatible?”
“Well… Peg grew up with money—quite a lot of it. Her father was head of the bank here. She was also brilliant. That girl was valedictorian of her class. I barely passed half of mine. I never did test well.” The memory of some of their discussions on the subject prompted him to add. “Peg always insisted that I had panic-induced dyslexia. I never had trouble reading things unless there was a test. Then all the words and letters jumbled—especially in algebra and grammar.”
“It didn’t hurt your relationship when you couldn’t provide the sort of lifestyle she was accustomed to?”
“Did she like not being able to buy a new outfit whenever she liked? No. But her Daddy had a good talk with her about realistic expectations, and we grew together over the years. Even on disappointing days like the Easter we didn’t have the money for her to buy a new dress, she always made sure I knew that as hard as it seemed, it would be harder if we weren’t together.”
The gold garland sparkled and twinkled with the lights as Ronni liberally frosted the tree with it. Hank untangled a knot at one end and tried to fluff it a bit, but decorating hadn’t ever been on his list of Christmas to-dos. He got it ready, the women did the rest. “Hot chocolate?”
“That would be good.”
He’d just put the kettle on when Ronni’s voice reached him. “My mother was a spoiled little rich girl. Dad was an accountant—professional, but he never made anywhere near Grandfather’s money. Mom spent most of my childhood complaining about all the things we couldn’t do, couldn’t have, couldn’t even dream of because Dad didn’t make enough.”
“Sounds like a recipe for divorce.”
“That’s exactly what it was. Freshman year, Mom went home to Grandfather’s house, and I stayed with Dad. I promised myself that I’d never put myself in that situation. Ever.”
That’s what he’d needed to hear. Hank said nothing at first. He found a couple of the little candy canes that Peg liked to hang over the side of a mug and fixed them up with whipped cream and everything—just as nice as she would have. Lord, thank her for me, please. Tell her I appreciate her teaching me how to make the little things special.
He carried the mugs to the tree and held hers until Ronni stopped. A smile lit her face. “Oh, thank you. That’s… well, thank you.”
“I want to say something that might not sit right with you at first, but please just think about it for a bit, all right?”
As expected, she stiffened. “What’s that?” After a sip, a bit of whipped cream clung to her nose.
“Your mother’s problem wasn’t that she married someone who wasn’t as well off as her daddy. Her problem was discontent. She couldn’t change her husband’s income, but she could change herself. She chose not to. Don’t reject something beautiful because you’re afraid of something that doesn’t have to be.”
Everything in her insisted the tree was as ugly as it could be. Even Charlie Brown would’ve rejected it. The gold garland—cheap and tacky. A hodgepodge of ornaments that ranged from handmade children’s crafts to delicate blown glass that had to have been expensive had made arranging things in a way that didn’t look ridiculous nearly impossible. And yet, after all the lights were dimmed so only the tree and the fire glowed, somehow… it was beautiful.
Hank stood beside the fireplace, leaning against the mantel and beaming. “You’re a wonder, Ronni. That mess of stuff looks perfect.”
“Memories have a way of making the commonplace exquisite.” The moment she spoke the words, Ronni knew she meant them. A star hung cockeyed. Not one point stood upright, so she fiddled with it until it rested on a branch and stood tall… proud… in all its aluminum foil glory. When she stepped back, she bumped into something, or rather someone. Hank.
Gentle fingers caught her arms. Words she hadn’t expected filled her ear. “Thank you for encouraging me to be festive, Ronni.”
I could get used to that voice. I’ve never heard such a strong, firm voice that was so gentle. Kind. Everything in her screamed for her to put distance between them, but she couldn’t do it. Just for a moment.
Did he squeeze her arms before stepping away, or did she just imagine it? Music still played over Spotify—Bobby Darin’s “Christmas Auld Lang Syne,” according to Hank. It became her new favorite song. And as if prearranged, when the last note ended, the clock struck eight-thirty.
“I think I’ll turn in…”
Hank eyed her. “Feeling all right? Need some cold and flu medication?”
“I’m fine, but it’s been a long day.” She began cleaning up the mess of storage boxes and abandoned lights. “I’ll just say goodnight…”
“Leave that. I’ll get it.” When she didn’t listen, he stepped closer… too
close. “Ronni, really. I’ll take care of it.” Even without touching her, she could feel the intensity—of his gaze, of his words, of him.
Ronni almost bolted for the door to the garage. “Well, then. See you in the morning. Goodnight.”
Her hand froze on the doorknob when he called her name. “Ronni?”
“Yes?”
“I have one question for you.”
Without turning, she asked what it was. Please don’t say it…
“Is your list of qualifications God’s list for you?” When she started to speak, he stopped her. “That’s not for me to know. But I know you made it before you knew Him, so I have to ask. Is it His desire for you?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge the question at all. Instead, Ronni bolted through the freezing garage and into her toasty little suite. No one but her would know she did it, but she locked the door, too. The memory of his question prompted her to amend that thought. “At least You know, Lord. And I’m not asking You that question. Not while I’m here. Something about Hank gets under my skin.”
Her usual nightly routine did little to calm her spirit. Praying through face washing usually made sense—true multi-tasking. However, prayer stopped there. Something about talking to the Supreme Rule of All while scrubbing, gargling, and spitting never sat well, but she always returned to her prayers once she started stretching to relax. The routine had served her well for almost four months. This time, Hank’s questions got in the way of every attempt to communicate with the One she called Lord of her life.
That drove her to her journal and to the list of qualifications. Was it God’s list for her, too? Just hers? Part of it both of theirs? Would she ever know?
Cuddled under fresh sheets—how that was possible, she couldn’t imagine—Ronni went over the list again.
1. Intellectual equality—any man I date must not be significantly more or less intelligent than I am.
2. Professional equality—any man I date must be in a professional field. I do not date men in service industries or manual labor jobs.