I roll my eyes, which only makes her smile. “I want to be on the same team.”
“What team is that?”
She hasn’t turned me down yet, so this is good progress. If I’m going to make this woman my friend, having her agree to be on my team is a large step in the right direction. “Team Christmas, if you’re game?”
She looks amused. “Are we in a daytime TV special?”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Nothing. Sure. Team Christmas. Ready? Break!”
“Callie,” I say, drawing out her name.
“Yes?”
“I want to be your friend.”
She pauses and looks up at me, her brown eyes blinking softly. I’ve caught her off guard, which is slightly thrilling, but I’m burying that feeling so deep she wouldn’t be able to detect it with a ten-foot pole.
“We’re friends.” Callie swirls her hand to indicate my entire house. “After all this, I think we’re going to be besties.”
I chuckle, but it’s enough. Despite the odd temptation I have to continue this conversation so I don’t need to return to the kitchen, the food is ready, and I know she’s probably hungry. “Great. Then let’s eat.”
Dinner is set, the bread is sliced and placed in the middle of the table, and bowls are filled with stew and waiting at each chair. Snow falls on the other side of the long kitchen window. Everything is cast in an eerie shade of blue as the sun slips behind the distant mountains.
Callie and I take our seats and Mum starts the bread around the circle. When it reaches Callie, she inhales and closes her eyes. “This looks amazing. Who made the bread?”
“Our wee Gavin’s not bad in the kitchen.” Granny beams. “Knows his way around a rolling pin.”
Callie gives me a look that I can immediately read. She wouldn’t classify me as wee. “Impressive.”
“It’s just bread,” I argue, taking the plate from her. I slather my slice with butter and take a bite.
“He’s always been humble,” Mum says. “Wonderful in the kitchen, and excellent at cleaning, too.”
What is she trying to do, advertise me?
“My house was never this clean before he took over, I can say that much. I don’t think my boy ever stops moving.” She looks at Dad to corroborate her story. “Right, Don?”
“We’re messy,” Dad says around a full mouth. “Gavin was always the tidy one.”
“This was your house?” Callie asks, eyebrows inching up.
Oh, joy. The exact topic I hoped we’d all recall.
“Used to be,” Mum says brightly, but I can sense the strain around her eyes. “Now we travel. Don decorated a campervan just for me. He upgraded the entire thing exactly how I wanted it, and we’ve been on the road for years. We come home occasionally and camp for a while, but we don’t stay for too long.”
“Vagabonds,” Grandad says gruffly.
“Respectful ones!” Dad argues. “We’re communing with nature. It’s been an incredible journey. I’m even considering writing a book about our experiences.”
“Oh,” Granny says, taking another slice of bread and scooping butter onto her knife. “What an idea. A how-to book? You can teach other retired couples how to decorate their campervans and all the little tricks you’ve learned on the road.”
“Exactly that, Nessa. I’ve already written the foreword.”
Granny seems intrigued. “Ooo.”
I clench my teeth. Surely they all know that Dad will work on this project for the next twenty years. He’ll probablyonlyhave the foreword written for the next twenty years. This is what he does—obsesses over an idea, puts endless thought into it, do a little toward it, then give up and move on to the next thing.
