COOPER
After we plow the Fischer’s driveway, I ask Bruce if he has any neighbors who need their driveways plowed. He seems surprised by the question, but he directs me to a few of the houses in the neighborhood, including that of a sweet old widow and a family that’s out of town for the week. Fortunately, none of the driveways are as long as Bruce’s, so we’re done after only a couple of hours.
A couple of hours with Bruce Fischer, and I’m somehow still alive. And feeling lighter than I have in years.
“I used to make fun of Canada as much as the next guy,” Bruce says when we get into the house. He’s been talking about his wife—Claire—and somehow, that’s shifted to us talking about her home country. We shake off our hats, coats, and boots in the mudroom, and then Bruce takes my coat from me and hangs it on one of the hooks in his locker. “But anyone who hatespoutineis trying too hard. It’s fries with gravy and melted cheese. How could that be bad?”
“I hear you. I get it every time we play in Toronto.”
“The food’s the best part about officiating there. I brought home boxes of Claire’s favorite chocolate and chips every time I worked a series in the MotherLand, as she called it.”
“Liese was telling me about her favorite Christmas snack being Canadian—nuts and bolts?”
Bruce looks at me like I’ve dropped a bombshell. “She talked to you about Christmas?”
“A lot, actually.”
His dark blue eyes seem to lighten a shade and he claps my back.
Honestly, it kind of hurts.
“I hope you’re as handy in the kitchen as you claim,” Bruce says. “We have some baking to do.”
He leaves the mudroom and almost runs smack into his daughter.
Liesel is folding her arms and tapping a slippered foot as she glares at her dad. “What did you do to him? He looks half frozen!”
“We had a chat,” Bruce says, giving his daughter a big hug. “And we came to an understanding.”
When he lets go, she eyes him. “Is that some kind of a threat?”
He chuckles and walks past her into the kitchen, while I smile and take her hand. I don’t bother looking at Bruce to see if this bugs him, because I imagine he’d do a pile driver on me if it did, and there’s nothing I could do to stop him. “We’re okay. We talked, and I apologized for being dumb, and he decided he approves?—”
“Doesn’t disapprove,” Bruce corrects me, opening one of several boxes of Canadian cereals sitting on the counter.
“He doesn’t disapprove,” I say to Liesel.
And that’s enough to make her break into a smile that steals my breath.
“What have you been up to?” she asks, her eyes searching mine. A small, disbelieving smile tugs at the corner of her lips. She’s not wearing any makeup, and she’s braided her hair, which is still damp from the shower a couple of hours ago.
I’ve never wanted to kiss her so badly.
“Snowplowing.”
“You and my dad?”
“Yup. And now we’re making nuts and bolts. You want to help?”
“I don’t trust my family with you, so yeah, I’m not letting you out of my sight.” She shifts her hand so our fingers are interlaced, and I immediately feel grounded. The rightness of holding her hand, of being here with her and her family on Christmas Eve when I can’t be home roots me in place.
But … it weighs on me that I can’t be home. No matter how right it feels to be here, there’s a hollow spot in my heart, a gnawing emptiness that can’t be filled without my mom’s smile or my dad’s teasing. There have been countless events in my life my mom couldn’t make, so Christmas has become sacrosanct. We’ve never been apart for the holidays.
“Are you okay?” Liesel asks. “And don’t do the fake smile. I can read it like a spreadsheet.”
“What fake smile?”
She pokes me in the stomach. “The one where your eyes crinkle. It’s so fake.”
