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“You didn’t sing in pageants as a kid?” she asked.
His heart clenched. “I did. My mom loved it.”
“Well… something good came out of it. You made her happy,” she said.
He bobbed his head. Then he grabbed a pair of scissors. “So… how do you do this?”
Heather pointed to the drawing on the table. “Follow the pattern here.” She leaned over, and he caught a whiff of her floral perfume. With her so close, his lips parted, but he cleared his throat. Then she showed him the blanket stitch as she made the hat for the elf.
“You hang these on the tree?” Allen asked.
“For the Christmas tree lighting. Are you coming? It’ll be a great way to meet more people,” Heather said.
“We’ll see.”
“So… no.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “Seems like there’s more going on.”
He didn’t answer but lowered his gaze to the pinecone in his hand.
Then Allen saw as her hand cover her mouth for a moment. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, so don’t feel pressured. I’m sorry. I said too much.”
He liked that about her. She would apologize if she thought she went too far. “Don’t be. It’s fine. There are a lot of memories I’m still working through.”
Her mouth dropped. “I’m so sorry. I know you told me already.”
“Don’t be.”
“I feel terrible.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I try to remember the good times, but some things I’d rather not bring up.”
“I know the feeling.” She sighed.
“Something on your mind?” he asked.
“My dad… left us. I love Christmas because my mom made sure we came up with new traditions once he left. I love what it represents for my family.”
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
She lowered her head back to her project. “Not a big deal.”
He wanted to ask more, but he didn’t. Based on her dropped shoulders and heavy sigh, she didn’t care to talk about her absentee father. Allen diverted his gaze to his pinecone. Taking a wooden ball to use for the head, he grabbed a black marker to draw the face. He felt Heather’s gaze on him, but he didn’t dare look up.
“Good job,” she said. “Ready for the glue?”
He held out his pinecone, and she used the glue gun. “Don’t glue my fingers,” he said.
“Never.” She giggled. “I need my physical therapist.”
“He must be a good one.”
“He’s okay.”
He chuckled. “Just okay?”
