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Evie looks from one to the other like she doesn’t know what to think, but her expression is curious, not upset.
“They’re mine, and I’m taking them back.” Bill doesn’t sound upset either, but Paige looks even more annoyed when he pulls the plywood from the ground.
“Good morning,” I say, walking over and wishing I’d taken time to put on shoes or at least socks. It’s probably in the forties this early in the morning. “What’s going on?”
“I’m taking my Christmas stuff back,” Bill says calmly.
“Is there a problem?” I ask with a glance at Paige’s exasperated face.
“Noah tipped me off that maybe she didn’t want these displays after all. And Evie mentioned something about a petition.”
Paige looks down at Evie. “You knew about that?”
Evie shrugs. “I know about lots of things.”
“The thing is, Henry,” Bill continues as if they haven’t spoken, “we’ve recently discovered that Paige doesn’t think she can tell us honestly when she does or doesn’t like something or we might quit loving her, as if that’s a thing.” He snorts. “So I’m making it easy on her and taking back my Christmas paintings.” He pats the plywood. “I missed them more than I thought I would.”
“I love them, Poppa Dub,” Evie says.
“Then you can come over and help me put them up in my yard while your mama is at work for no reason.”
“Bill, come on. You don’t have to take them back,” Paige says.
“Do you love them?”
“Well, I don’t hate them.”
He snorts again and totes it to his truck.
Right then, Connie and Walt reach us, clearly returning from their corgi’s morning walk as he pants and plops to the ground.
“Morning, Paige,” Connie says. “Reverend Huff says they’ve gotten five hundred dollars in donations in the last two nights from Christmas light peepers.”
“That’s great.” A smile lights Paige’s face, though it fades as she watches Bill positioning the plywood in his truck bed.
“Can I ask what’s happening here?” Connie continues. “You aren’t taking it down, are you?”
Paige’s mouth drops open in surprise, and Connie has the grace to look abashed. “I know I’m the last person you’d expect to ask that question, but honestly, I’ve—we’ve—gotten used to it,” she says when her husband clears his throat.
“Um, well, I’m glad to hear that,” Paige tells her. “But honestly, they’re Bill’s to take if he wants to.”
“I’ll leave them if you say you love them,” he calls.
She presses her lips together.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, sounding cheerful. He walks back to the yard and pulls on the next one.
“Bill,” Paige says, her voice firm.
“Yes, honey?”
“I would please like to keep the lights.”
He pauses in his tugging. “You would?”
“Yes, please. All of them. I love them.”
His face creases in a grin. “You bet.”
