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“Money’s just been tight, Andrew. With the higher mortgage from the move…” She glances my way, clearing her throat. “You know how it’s been.”
“Yeah…” He runs a gloved hand up and down his face, then pulls off his snow-kissed hat. “I don’t think it’s safe to drive tonight. Maybe we should stay in.”
A gasp leaves me. “But it’s Christmas Eve,” I proclaim. “What about dinner?”
We were supposed to have dinner at Aunt Kelly’s tonight. I haven’t seen her since June’s sixth birthday, and she got a new cat. She told me so in a letter she wrote to me. This one is just a baby kitten, and it’s much nicer than her other cat.
Theo skips down the hallway, joining us in the living room upon hearing the news. “He’s right, Brant. I looked out my window and the car is already covered again, and Dad just cleaned it,” he says. He pulls off his snowman sweater, revealing a plain white tee underneath, and I’m certain he’s just trying to get out of wearing the new sweater his Grams made for him. “It’s not safe.”
“I want to see the kitten,” June adds, her lip jutting out in a perfect pout.
“We can’t, Peach,” Theo tells her. “What if we crash and you get hurt again?”
There’s a seriousness laced into his tone, causing the room to fall silent. Images of June lying crumpled in the grass slice through my mind, and I grind my teeth together. Theo’s been extra protective of June since it happened—we both have.
June isn’t at all charmed by his concern. She folds her arms over her chest with a frown. “What about my pretty dress? What about Mama’s earrings and Theo’s nice sweater from Grams?”
Theo grumbles.
“We must go!” she insists, rising from the couch and running toward her father. Mr. Bailey sighs wearily, plucking the gloves off his hands one by one. “Please, Daddy? We’re all dressed up, and Aunt Kelly was going to make my favorite ham.”
He shakes his head, patting her on the shoulder. “I know you were excited, June, but safety comes first. Our car won’t make it in this blizzard. Maybe we can order in?”
“No. I hate that idea.”
Mrs. Bailey unclips her earrings. “We could order pizza.”
“Yeah!” Theo agrees.
“We can’t have pizza on Christmas Eve!” June stomps her feet, acting petulant. She might even cry. “Pizza is for when Daddy watches sports all day. We need to have a feast on Christmas Eve.”
An idea swims through my mind, so I clear my throat, standing to face the Baileys. “Maybe I can help.” I shrug, tucking my hands into my khaki pockets. “I can cook Christmas Eve dinner.”
I’m not a cooking expert, and I’m still pretty young, but I watch a lot of cooking shows. I even help Mrs. Bailey in the kitchen sometimes, jotting down notes and recipes onto index cards. Last week for breakfast, I made a hollandaise sauce for our eggs, which impressed Mrs. Bailey. She said she wasn’t even able to make a good hollandaise sauce.
I want to learn more.
I want to cook Christmas Eve dinner so June will get her feast.
Hesitation ripples around me, even as June bounces up and down, pleased with the suggestion. Theo slides down to his knees by the Christmas tree, fingering the array of multicolored presents glinting beneath the lights. He chimes in with his own approval. “I like that idea. Brant is a really good cook.”
“Well…all right,” Mrs. Bailey consents. She relaxes, gifting me with a warm smile from across the living room. “I’m not sure if we have much of a selection, but I’m sure we can whip up a few things. I’ll help you get organized, Brant.”
Excitement whizzes through me. The last time I helped cook Christmas Eve dinner was the year before my parents’ deaths. I was only five years old, so I couldn’t do much, but I have a vibrant memory of standing in front of the stove on a little wooden stool, helping my mother stir a pot of mashed potatoes. I recall her being on edge that evening, worried about how the potatoes were going to turn out. They were my father’s favorite. He liked them with extra butter, not too much garlic, and with no pieces of the skin left behind. I spent a long time picking out tiny peels of potato skin, and when she wasn’t looking, I added an extra heap of butter, plus a sprinkling of pepper and seasoned salt.
My father loved them.
Mom was over the moon happy.
Smiling, I race around the sofa into the kitchen with eager steps, ready to scour through the pantry and refrigerator for dinner items.
If there’s a chance I can save the day, I have to do it.
I want to see June as happy as my mother was that last Christmas.
Homemade lasagna, potato salad, cranberry sauce, beer bread, macaroni and cheese, and gooey cinnamon buns—that was the dinner I’d created with all of the ingredients we had on hand. I know it wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly a feast, and the Baileys were stunned by my creations. Mrs. Bailey helped me swap dishes from the oven and assisted in a few various tasks, but overall, the meal was entirely made by me.
June was so happy.
