Page 68 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Only five?” Jake doesn’t look up from his plate. He pushes eggs around for a moment before laying his fork down. Then he meets my eyes. “I guess we’d better make the most of them, then.”

* * *

Jake falls asleep an hour or so before I do. I lie beside him, his thigh stacked over mine, the gentle sound of his breathing a counterpoint to my own heartbeat. I watch the dim embers of the fire shimmer and shift on the ceiling of the cottage, and I listen to the lonesome howl of the wind in the eaves. Outside the window, bare branches rattle like bones.

I’ve never felt anything like this. This soul-deep peace born from safety and stillness. Maybe the reason this is so perfect is because it’s not meant to last. Often the most ephemeral things are the most beautiful, aren’t they? Could a single snowflake possibly be more lovely if it lingered longer?

“I think I’m in love with you.” I whisper the words directly over Jake’s heart. I’m not ready for him to hear them, but maybe this way, he’ll feel them.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Christmas Day

The morning is as bright as a Dreamsicle against my closed eyes. Jake stretches, murmuring something incomprehensible against my temple. Then he’s up from the bed, taking all the warmth of the room with him. I nestle deeper in the quilts and try to cling to sleep.

Jake tiptoes around the cottage. Water trickles from the bathroom faucet as he brushes his teeth. There’s a rustle of a bag, a crinkle of paper. He puts the kettle on, and I hear the dainty tink of empty teacups snugged into saucers. Then he comes back, crouching in front of the hearth, nurturing last night’s embers into the crackle of a merry fire. He lets out a barely audible grunt as he gets to his feet, and I hear a tiny creak in his knees. It makes my heart ache a little.

I open my eyes to watch him return to the kitchen. Lacy swirls of frost on the windows melt like tears down sun-warmed glass. Beautiful. Temporary.

I’m a year older today. And a day closer to leaving Jake.

I’m not sure which one is more depressing.

Sitting up in bed, I stretch my arms overhead and softly say, “Merry Christmas, Jake,” because I know how much he loves this day.

He pours the tea and joins me in front of the fire. I criss-cross my legs in front of me and bundle the quilts around my waist and my lap, then I gratefully take the tea and breathe in the spiced steam. Even with a swirl of milk, it smells delightfully strong, scented with cinnamon, cloves and creamy citrus.

Jake has something small tucked behind him. He reaches over to nudge a lock of hair behind my ear, letting a knuckle trail down my cheek before he withdraws his hand. But he doesn’t wish me Happy Christmas back. Softly, he says instead, “Happy birthday, Evie.”

My insides warm, my throat tightens. Jake’s eyes are gem-bright as he watches my face. They remind me of an Adirondack lake in winter—clear, honey-colored water, tinted green by ancient pines and balsam reflected from shore. Sometimes shot with gold when sunshine glazes the surface. I’ll never be able to visit one of those lakes again without remembering this moment.

Jake hands me a flat rectangular box wrapped in ivory damask paper and a cream velvet ribbon. I set my tea aside on the hearthstone so I can hold the bundle against my chest with both hands. I give him a playful, stern look. “I thought we agreed, no gifts.”

“This isn’t—”

“I’m kidding, Jake,” I laugh. “I got you something, too.”

“Love, this isn’t a Christmas gift,” he says gently. “It’s a birthday gift.”

That lump in my throat is back, this time spreading deep into my chest. I want to savor this moment, slowly lifting the folded edges of the beautiful paper until it falls open on its own.

It’s a hardback book. A very old one. Bound in faded blue cloth, with a castle vignette on the front. There’s some discoloration on the edges, and light fraying at the corners.

It’s a first edition of I Capture the Castle. “Jake,” I whisper.

“I know you’ve read it many times. There’s some new material in this one.”

As I open the cover, an envelope slips into my lap. I open it slowly. It’s a handwritten letter by Dodie Smith, the author, to one of her friends. All about how the book came to be.

It’s extraordinary.

“Jake, this is—”

“Do you like it?” He sets his own tea aside.

“It’s the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.” I lean over and kiss him, long and slow.

Smiling, he mumbles against my lips. “What’s this about a gift for me, then?”