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“I deserved lumps of coal,” he admitted, “but never found any in my stocking.”
“Tell me about Christmas morning at your house.”
Cole frowned. “Why?”
“Because I want to know. And don’t ask me why I want to know!” she said, pointing her empty spoon at him. “Just tell me.”
“It was me and my parents.”
“You’re an only child?”
“I was for a while. My parents divorced when I was ten, but up until then, it was the three of us. They both remarried and had more kids. Now I have four half-sisters. Two from each parent.”
“Four? Wow. That’s lucky.” Sophie sounded as if she truly believed that. “I just have Isabelle but would love to have a dozen more of her.”
Cole wasn’t sure he’d ever viewed himself lucky for having sisters. More indifferent, really. He’d been a teenaged boy when his parents had remarried, and he had joined the military as they were starting their new families. They’d written to him on occasion, the letters and postcards eventually catching up to wherever he was stationed, but he’d never been close to his siblings. Both parents had new families, and he’d never quite belonged as part of either one.
“Do you ever see them?” she asked between bites of her dinner.
“Occasionally.” He’d gone home a few times on leave but had felt awkward and out of place with his parents’ new families, as if he was the outsider, a reminder of a failed first try. “They all live in Georgia.”
“Georgia isn’t that far from Kentucky.”
“Far enough.”
“Was there a favorite Christmas morning?”
“Not that I recall. They were all about the same. Wake up, wake the parents, open presents, then spend the rest of the day playing with whatever they’d gotten me while they did their thing.”
Sophie placed her empty bowl beside her on the step. “Being an only child sounds boring.”
“I was never bored.”
“I can’t imagine not having Isabelle to spend the day with. We had so much fun on Christmas, with Mom, too.”
He noted she didn’t mention her father but decided not to ask. He wasn’t much on people asking about his private matters, so he sure wasn’t going to push into someone else’s.
“How about you? Do you have a favorite Christmas morning memory?”
Her eyes took on a sparkly faraway look. “I was six. It’s the last Christmas we spent as a family before my dad left.”
Left as in actually left, by choice? Or left as in passed away? Cole kept his questions to himself. If Sophie wanted him to know, she’d elaborate.
“Isabelle and I wanted this dollhouse with all this furniture in it. Dad worked at a local factory and Mom at the salon. They didn’t have any extra money, and this dollhouse was the Cadillac of doll houses with all the bells and whistles.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Thinking back, I don’t know how they did it, but that dollhouse, and furniture for every room in it, were waiting for us under the tree. We played and played with that gift. It’s probably still in the attic somewhere.”
“Sounds like it was a good investment on their part if you both played with it that much.”
“It was.” She stood, brushing off her backside. “Lots of happy memories associated with that dollhouse and Christmas mornings.”
They tossed her trash in the appropriate bins, then rambled through the crowds.
She hadn’t linked her arm with his again, but instead had her gloved hands shoved into her coat pockets except when she occasionally paused to point someone or something out to him.
Touching or not, he imagined they still looked cozier and closer, more intimate, than what they were as Sophie smiled frequently and chatted a mile a minute about whatever she’d last called his attention to.
Cole hadn’t meant to walk her back to her booth. But when he’d spotted Andrew, his friend had been talking with Bodie and Sarah rather than the sheriff, so Cole had steered clear. Sophie had looked longingly that way but must have sensed that Cole hadn’t wanted to go over to the church booth, and for once, she hadn’t forced the issue.
Hopefully, the trio hadn’t spotted him and Sophie walking together.
