Page 33 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

He chuckles. “Would you rather take the train and a bus? Tonight’s date is an hour’s journey. And I’ve got snacks.”

“You’ll let me eat in this car? What if I drop a crumb?”

“Jesus Christmas, it’s just a car, Evie.”

My laugh echoes down the street. “It’s a goddamned Aston Martin, Jake.”

“Like I said. It’s a car, and it’s the only one I’ve got.” He pops a kiss against my temple, then he gives my butt a pat and a squeeze. “Get in.”

* * *

We’ve been driving about an hour when we turn off the main road down a paved lane, darkness pressing in all around us. We come to a wrought-iron gate, where Jake enters a code. It closes behind us as we pass through.

“Jake. Don’t tell me this is your home.”

Jake laughs softly. “Hardly.”

“Whose is it, then?”

“Friend of mine, Bowen. One of my best mates from uni. I called in a favor, and the place is ours tonight.”

The driveway is bordered by evergreens, so the property reveals itself in teasing glimpses through the boughs—a hint of spotlit stone here, softly glowing windows there. When we emerge from the tree-lined lane, the grounds stretch outwards and upwards as far as I can see. A pond reflects a moon so bright it might be a festive bauble in the sky. God, what in the world is a person like me doing somewhere this grand?

Inside, instead of the stately entrance hall of a residential home with rugs and furniture and a sense of embodiment, it’s empty. It reminds me of a medieval antechamber or the central hall of a monastery, with a soaring double-height ceiling and rounded alcoves on either side. There’s an odor of stasis here. Mineral dustiness and the tang of some volatile oil or polish, the faint powdery scent of dried flowers. If an echo had a scent, this would be it.

I half-turn to glance over my shoulder at Jake, uncertain. He extends his hand forward again with a soft smile, silently saying, Go, explore, I’m with you.

Then, I see them.

In the alcoves sits a sculpture on a pedestal, each depicting the human form in marble, all illuminated with warm spotlights in a range of undertones of living skin. A figure on their knees, arm outstretched with a palm planted flat in front of them. Another glancing over a shoulder, a foot mid-step. The poses are so dynamic, the detail so realistic, it feels like they might wearily exhale and relax into a slouch once we’re gone.

A sculpture of a woman stands straight, her hand subtly turned backwards with a single forefinger outstretched behind. I’m compelled to connect with her. Jake moves in beside me when I hesitate. “It’s all right.” He drifts his fingers along the sculpture’s forearm, her wrist, the knuckles of her hand. The marble there has a faintly darker, shiny patina, as if it’s been touched innumerable times. “You can touch her.”

The marble is cool where my fingertip makes contact with hers. She’ll endure for centuries, forever trapped in this state of longing.

It’s suddenly hard for me to breathe. My body doesn’t know what to do with this experience. I’m not simply feeling emotion. Emotion is embodying me. I can’t dislodge the lump in my throat, and my face feels flushed and sweaty. Tears well in my eyes, streaking down my cheeks when I blink.

Jake’s hand slides against mine. Our fingers engage and lock like the pieces of a puzzle. I wonder if he’s feeling the same turbulence I am. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t need him to say anything, and he understands.

Silently, we explore together. Time seems to slow, like we’re moving through warm molasses. Smaller drawing rooms off the main hall showcase other pieces, all embodying the passage of time. A half-torso turning into tattered windblown cloth, a leg from the knee down, with pointed toes turning into tangled tree roots. Two forearms with hands clasped just below the other’s elbow, muscles and veins sculpted in a way that conveys a desperate grip. There are even tiny indentations where each fingertip presses into marble skin.

Once we’ve explored all the exhibit rooms, Jake leads me to two tall paneled wooden doors that open on sliding tracks into pockets in the wall. “This is Bowen’s atelier. It was originally an orangery.”

The walls are high, and solid stone, but the ceiling is a domed network of glazed glass panels in iron frames. Motes of dust shimmer in the air like tiny snowflakes. It smells of raw clay, like soil after spring rain. Oils and wax, mineral spirits, sweet woodsmoke from a small cast-iron woodstove that someone lit before leaving the space to us. There are an astonishing number of half-done pieces along the edges of the room, imperfect and a bit haunting, but still beautiful. Sensual. Sketches are stuck to the walls, dropcloths hang from hooks.

An unfinished bust has a crooked Santa hat on its head, the only sign of levity in the entire estate. It makes me smile.

“Shall we?” Jake says.

We slip off our shoes and sit on quilts, cushions, and layered rugs on the floor. A picnic has been prepared for us—fresh bread, salty butter, olives, grapes, dates, and figs. Cold roast chicken, chocolate-dipped strawberries, actual French champagne. A plate of Brie, creamy mild Cheddar and sweet Red Leicester cheeses with chutney. English pears and English apples, and a few pomegranates pretty enough to decorate any Christmas tree.

Naturally, our conversation drifts to the more personal.

“I was my parents’ last attempt for a son, so I’ve been a disappointment since they saw me on the ultrasound.” I chuckle to myself, but Jake doesn’t smile. “That sounds more dramatic than I meant it to. It’s just that most of my happy memories happened at school, or camp, or whatever. With friends, rather than family. I think big families have a hard time making sure there’s enough love to go around.”

Gently, Jake says, “Not all big families.”

“You’re lucky. I’m happy for you. Truly.”