Page 22

Finally, James breaks down. “Are we . . . waiting for something?”

“Yep.”

Thirty more seconds pass. “Will it be much longer?”

I tilt my head in a seesaw manner. “Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“If it happens at all.” I allow for another moment of silence before I add, “But I think it will happen soon.”

I see a tiny burst of frost as he exhales in relief.

Without taking my eyes off the tree, I chuckle. “Why? Were you afraid the family tradition was to stand outside like a statue all night long until we freeze to death?”

“Little bit, yes.”

Now it’s my turn to be momentarily blinded by my own frosty, hoarse-laughy breath. I crane my neck his way. And then my grin drops. “And you’d just . . . play along?”

“I gave my word, didn’t I?” He says this as though his word, miraculously, is enough.

And suddenly I feel both a little guilty for all the years I broke my word to my old roommate, telling her I’d absolutely, most definitely stand up for myself and leave work to meet her for dinners (oh, how a little fidelity to my “word” could’ve saved me years of trouble), and also tempted to bestow some kind of charity upon this freezing, uncomfortable man of integrity beside me.

My shoulders slump. I wave a hand at the tree. “It’s nothing really, just a silly tradition my mother began when I was little.” I shrug. “It just lights up. And you visit on the first snow.”

He rocks back on his heels, hands stuffed in his pockets. Nods. It’s almost imperceptible, but the deep crease between his brows eases. He looks up at the tree with an inquisitive air. “And have you kept up this tradition?”

“The two Christmases I made it home, yes. I missed the last few years . . . with work . . . and overcommitting myself. But anyway,” I say as I survey our surroundings, “it was snowing. And we were passing. It almost felt wrong to just pass it by.”

Crow’s-feet form at his eyes. “That’s noble to keep up the childhood tradition. Sounds like you have a good mom.”

I tilt my head. “Yeah. I do.”

We both watch the tree, and I add, after a moment, “One of my earliest memories is of my mother bundling me and my little brother up on the first snow of the season and pouring hot chocolate into the biggest green thermos I’d ever seen. She stuffed marshmallows in each of our pockets for the walk, called for Sandy, our dog, and off we trekked two miles into town.”

“How old were you?”

“Six? Maybe seven?”

“Sounds like you lived in a 1950s sitcom.”

Snow dances off my hair as I shrug. “If your sister hasn’t warned you yet, they do things a little more slowly here. For better or worse, you’ll see.”

“Cryptic.”

“Honest.”

He smiles a little, and I think he doesn’t look quite so cold anymore. I guess I don’t feel that cold anymore either.

“Anyway,” I continue, “she chatted and waved at folks as we trailed along, and we spent the whole walk stuffing our faces with marshmallows and dragging sticks through the snow.” I shake my head slightly at the memory. “She managed to time it perfectly. When we arrived at the tree, the sun was just going down. We didn’t know what was happening—as a kid I was always obliviously along for the ride with Mom—but we stood there anyway as she tipped hot cocoa into our tin cans. And then, just as we took our first sips, the tree exploded with lights. It was, for a six-year-old, the closest thing to magic.”

At this exact moment, far off in my father’s old truck, the clock must be turning from 4:59 p.m. to 5:00 p.m., because the forty-foot tree suddenly bursts with what feels like ten thousand lights, just like in my memory.

To James’s credit, and mine I suppose, we both stand there soaking in the moment. It’s almost like he’s not even there, really. It’s just me and the tree. And I think it’s the first time in all my adult years I’m not rushed as I stand here. My childhood memories are magical, and I stood in awe back then, sure, but later as a teen and then an adult, the plague of fears and restlessness and busyness and life’s problems and the problems I created all on my own clouded my minutes. For a long, long time, I never gave myself over fully to enjoy a simple experience. I didn’t feel peace.

Well, I feel peace now.

For once, I’m simply letting myself live in the moment. Appreciate it. Slow down.