We all take a sip, and as the warm beverage hits my tongue, I can’t help the tiny groan of pleasure that escapes.
“If she’s that excited about the wine, I can’t wait to see her try the gingerbread,” Mallory says, then winks at Alex. “And thanks for the wine.”
He frowns. “Don’t tell Mom.”
“Gingerbread?” I ask, more excited than I have a right to be over a baked good.
Alex looks at me like he’s in a stupor, but he shakes it off and says, “German gingerbread. And plenty of other things too.”
The food comes out about ten minutes later, and the dishes cover the table. Alex and Mallory point everything out, using their German names, and then explain what they are in English. I try sausages, and several potato dishes—including potato pancakes, fried apple rings, a pretzel, the crepe, and even corn on the cob, which Mallory insists is a legitimate German Christmas market food. I try some of everything until I’m stuffed.
When we’ve all eaten our fill, Mallory says, “When Mom gets mad because we barely touch our dinner, I’m blaming you, Alex.”
He laughs. “I don’t remember anyone forcing you to eat half that pretzel.”
“Peer pressure,” she says.
“Riiiight.”
I’ve had a full cup of mulled wine, and most of Alex’s. He only took a sip or two and gave the rest to me when he saw I’d finished mine. I’m slightly tipsy, and warm inside. “Thank you, both,” I say, feeling emotional. “Thank you for making this an amazing Christmas.”
“Girl, it’s not even Christmas yet,” Mallory scoffs, but I can see she’s emotional too. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“I can’t wait.”
Alex pays the bill, and we gather all our packages—including the leftover food—and walk to Mallory’s car. Alex insists I sit in front again, and I wonder if he’s about to say he’s not riding with us like he did earlier, but he gets in the backseat and is quiet all the way home. Mallory makes up for his silence, telling me about growing up in Hollybrook, and how she worked at the Christmas market when she was a teenager, and during her first two years of college over winter break.
When we walk into the kitchen, Valerie is peeling potatoes in front of the kitchen sink.
“We’re having meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner,” she says as we drop our packages on the floor and take off our coats. “I hope you guys are hungry.”
Alex and Mallory laugh, and she narrows her eyes. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” they mutter, but I say, “Alex took us to a café on the square so I could try a bunch of Christmas market food.”
“You took her to the AlpenGlanz Café?” she asks in surprise. I’m worried she’s going to be irritated, but she looks pleased. “What did you have, Finley?”
I’m not sure telling her I had a bite of everything is a great idea, so I tell her my favorites. “I loved the mulled wine and potato pancakes. Oh, and gingerbread.”
“Good choices,” she says, then looks around at the food on the counter. “Maybe I should hold dinner for a bit.”
“No need,” Alex says. “We’ll be hungry by dinner time.”
I hand the bags in my hands to Alex. “Can you take these up to our room?”
“Sure,” he says, looking confused.
But I’m already halfway to the sink and take the peeler out of Valerie’s hand. “Let me do that.”
She seems reluctant at first, then hands it over as well as the half-peeled potato in her hand. “If you insist,” she says in a teasing tone.
“Alex and I will be down in a few minutes to help,” Mallory says, and then they both head upstairs.
“How did you work that miracle?” Valerie asks in amazement as she walks to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine.
“What miracle?”
“Getting those two to volunteer to help.”
