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Her eyes widened, and his stomach rolled.
“Is something wrong?” Panic flooded him – the walls moved inwards.
“I was just reminiscing,” she said, shrugging, sitting upright. “Thinking about Christmases past,” she said, her smile apologetic. “I’m sorry. I think it’s pregnancy hormones making me so reflective.”
His relief was entirely self-interested. “Of course.”
“Anyway.” She looked away, self-conscious in a way that made him want to hold her and kiss away any lingering doubts. He didn’t. Guilt remained in his chest, holding him back.
“You got a tree?” she asked, her eyes settling on the enormous one he’d chosen. “And it’s perfect.” She wiped at her face, then stood, a smile spreading across her lips that was beautiful and captivating. She moved towards the tree, running her fingertips over its branches. It was still wet from the storm. “And you’re still soaking,” she murmured, looking back at him.
Was he? He hadn’t realized.
“Why didn’t you get changed?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I seem to have lost my senses lately,” he teased, moving to the tree, pulling it away from the wall. “Where would you like it, Mrs Katrakis?”
“Where did your mom used to put it?”
Unexpectedly, emotions fired inside of him, emotions he would have said were too rich and childlike for him to experience. “Through there.” He nodded towards a less formal sitting room.
“Would it be okay to put it there, then?” She asked, her eyes showing sympathy and sensitivity that made those same emotions stronger. “We don’t have to. Only it seems like your traditions should be honoured, even as we make our own…”
Her sweetness was like vanilla and honey and caramel, all mixed together.
“Of course,” his response was gruff. “If you would like.”
He lifted the tree, and carried it away from her, grateful he had a few moments to rally himself, to return to normal. “Here.” He nodded to a point in front of floor to ceiling windows, framing a spectacular view of the ocean beyond. “There’s a bucket over there,” he said, pointing to a deep, golden pot his mother had always used to brace the tree.
“This one?” She moved to it and lifted it easily.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.” She placed it in the center of the window and he lifted the tree, centering it and supporting it against the window frame.
“I’ll go get some rocks, for balance. Why don’t you have a look through the decorations. I can’t even remember what she had, now.”
Bella’s face lit up, as though a thousand little lights were dancing behind her eyes. She disappeared into the lounge, and as he stocked rocks into the base of the basket, to stop the tree from toppling over, she spread the decorations out, arranging them by colour and set.
On the last trip, he stilled as he past, and memories fractured his momentum, for a moment. “She used to love those ones,” he said, pointing to a row of soldiers. “She used to read me The Nutcracker Suite, and she’d point to the tree, telling me that the soldiers had all come to rest here.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, lifting one up and studying it. “She would have been a great match for my dad.”
Something about the way she said it had him pausing for a moment, studying her face, wondering if she meant anything more by the statement.
&nb
sp; “They’d have probably left the tree up, all year round,” he said.
“Probably.” She smiled, but the smile was quick, just a flicker, and a stone dropped inside of him. She lifted her eyes to his, then looked away again, and somehow, he knew. He knew she was wanting to ask him something, with no idea exactly how.
And though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, he found himself prompting her. “What is it?”
She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully, and then shook her head. “Did you spend much time with them? My parents, I mean?”
“Some time,” he answered, hiding the fact he was being cagey by moving to the tree and placing the stones into the bucket, topping it up. He lifted the tree then, straightening it in the rocks, so it was a picture-perfect Christmas tree.
“And did you think they were…”
