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Shaking her head, she filled his with the silly gifts, his favorite candy, a Turn The Page gift certificate, and the annual lottery ticket, because you never knew.
She stepped back, smiling, hugged herself.
Just two stockings, she thought, but they were full, they were close, and they mattered.
In her thick socks and flannel pajamas, she went into the kitchen, one no bigger than the one in her apartment.
She’d learned to cook here, she remembered, on the old gas stove. Out of necessity at first. Willy B could do a great many things, and do them well. Cooking wasn’t on the list.
He’d tried, she remembered. So hard.
When her mother walked out, he’d tried so hard to bridge that gap, to keep his daughter level, happy, to make sure she knew how much he loved her.
He’d succeeded there, but in the kitchen? Burned pans, undercooked chicken, overcooked meat, singed vegetables—or vegetables cooked to mush.
She’d learned. And what she’d begun out of necessity became a kind of love. And maybe a little compensation, she thought now as she opened the refrigerator for eggs, milk, butter.
He’d done so much for her, been so much for her. Making a meal meant she could give something back. God knew he’d praised her early efforts to the skies.
She prepared to fix him Christmas breakfast, as she had every year since she’d been twelve.
By the time she had coffee brewed, bacon draining, the little round table in the dining room set, she heard his footsteps, and his booming Ho, ho, ho!
Every year, she thought with a grin. As dependable as the sunrise.
“Merry Christmas, my beautiful little girl.”
“Merry Christmas, my big, handsome father.” She rose to her toes to kiss him, burrowed into his bear hug.
Nobody, she thought, wallowing a little, but nobody gave hugs as wonderful as Willy B MacTavish.
He pecked a kiss on the top of her head. “I see Santa came, filled the stockings.”
“I saw that. He’s sneaky. Have some coffee. We’ve got OJ, fresh berries, bacon, and the griddle heating up for pancakes.”
“Nobody cooks like my girl.”
“Nobody eats like my dad.”
He slapped his hand on his belly. “Big space to fill.”
“That you are, Willy B. But you know, when a man has a girlfriend, he has to watch his figure.”
His ears went pink. “Oh now, Avery.”
Adoring him, she drilled him playfully in the belly, then sobered. “I’m happy for you, Daddy. For both of you, that you have each other. You know Tommy would be happy, too, that Justine has you, and you have her.”
“We’re just . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is having each other. Drink your coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took the first sip. “Never tastes as good when I make it.”
“You’re kitchen challenged, Dad. It’s a curse.”
“It sure missed you. I like seeing you in here, baby. You were always a natural cook. And now you’re going to have two restaurants.”
“And a pub.”
“You’re a dynasty.”
She laughed as she ladled batter on the hot griddle. “A tiny one, but I’m pretty excited. It’ll be a while, but I need a while to finish planning it out.”
“Justine’s excited, too, and real pleased it’s you moving in there. She sets a lot of store by you.”
“As I do with her, with all of them. Wasn’t it great being at Clare’s last night?” Happy as Christmas morning, she flipped the pancakes. “Seeing everybody there, seeing how the kids are with Beckett, with all of them. All that noise and sweetness and . . . family.”
As she looked over at her father, her smile went wistful. “You wanted a big family.”
“I’ve got the best family any man could have, right here in the kitchen.”
“Me, too. But I wanted to say, I know you wanted lots of kids, and you’d have been great with a big family—just as great as you were with just me.”
“What do you want, baby?”
“It looks like I want two restaurants.”
Willy B cleared his throat. “And Owen.”
She flipped the pancakes onto a platter, glanced over her shoulder. As she suspected, her big guy blushed. “It looks like I want him, too. You’re all right with that?”
“He’s a good boy—man. You always had an eye for him.”
“Dad, I was five. I didn’t know what having an eye meant.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I just . . . you let me know if he doesn’t treat you right.”
“And you’ll crush him like a worm.”
Putting on a fierce scowl, Willy B flexed his considerable biceps. “If I have to.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” She turned with the platter of steaming pancakes. “Let’s eat so we can go rip into those presents.”
* * *
IT WOULDN’T BE Christmas to Avery’s mind without a crowd in the kitchen. She’d always appreciated Justine for opening her house, and the big kitchen in it, to her, to her father. And this year with the addition of Clare and the kids, Clare’s parents, and Hope, crowds milled everywhere.
And kids, she mused. Clare’s boys, Carolee’s two granddaughters. Squeeze in Justine’s two dogs—who managed to do just that as often as possible—Ryder’s D.A., and the two puppies, and Christmas was, to Avery, as perfect as it got.
She loved her one-on-one time with her father, but this—the noise, the overstimulated kids, the excited dogs, the smell of ham baking, sauces simmering, pies cooling—plucked a chord deep inside her.
She wanted this, had always wanted this, for herself. For her own.
She stopped mincing garlic long enough to take the glass of wine Owen offered her.
“You look happy.”
“If you’re not happy on Christmas, when?”
Curious, he peered into the mixing bowl beside her. “Smells good.”
“It’ll taste better when it’s inside the mushroom caps and baked.”
“Stuffed mushrooms, huh? Maybe you can make some of those for next week.”
She took another sip of wine, set down the glass, and went back to mincing. “I could do that.”
“How about those little meatballs you do sometim
es?”
“Cocktail meatballs.”
“Yeah, those.”
“It’s possible.”
“I tapped Mom for a ham, thought I’d slice it up for sandwiches, maybe get a couple of party platters of cheese and dipping vegetables, like that. And—”
“Don’t get platters. Just get the stuff. I’ll show you how to tray it.”
He’d hoped she’d say that. “Okay. If you give me a list of what you need for the other stuff, I’ll pick it up.” D.A. snuck up, sat delicately on her foot to get her attention. Avery gave him as solemn a look as he gave her.
“You don’t want this,” she assured him.
She heard wild laughter—Harry’s?—roll up from the lower-level family room. “I’m number one! Number one, suckers!”
“Wii.” Owen shook his head with mock sorrow. “Brings out the best or the worst in us.”
“What are they playing?”
“Boxing when I walked up.”
“I can take the kid in that. I can take him.” She looked over where Clare layered a huge casserole for scalloped potatoes. “I’m taking your firstborn to the mat. It’s going to be a KO. I’ll show him no mercy.”
“He’s sneaky, and he’s been practicing.”
Avery flexed her biceps much as her father had that morning. “Small, but mighty.”
“He hits below the belt,” Ryder snarled as he came through. “You’re raising a ball-puncher,” he said to Clare.
“Beat you?”
“In three rounds—but he cheats.” Ryder opened the fridge for a beer, frowned. “What’s this fancy deal in here?”
“Trifle.” Hope reached around him, took out a vegetable crudités.
