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“Next year?” I inhaled sharply, finally allowing myself to truly believe Zeb was here with me, not leaving, and that we would make this thing work.
“Next year.” He made the words sound like a solemn promise. “For the first time in my life, I’m truly looking forward to another holiday season. I can’t wait to spend next Christmas with you and the one after that.”
“Deal.” I kissed each of his eyelids, his nose, the curve of his upper lip, his fuzzy chin. “All my Christmases are yours, Zebediah Seasons.”
Thirty-Four
ZEB
ONE YEAR LATER: THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING
“Over the river and through the woods…” Atlas sang along with the cheesy holiday classic playing on the car stereo, seemingly uncaring that we were caught in a holiday traffic snarl of epic proportions.
“Is it possible to hate Delaware?” I stared out at the same line of interstate traffic we’d been in for what felt like hours. “Because I might hate Delaware.”
“What’s to hate?” Atlas drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the small hybrid SUV we’d piled mileage on over the last year of repeatedly driving through the many, many small towns of Delaware. We’d done the five-hour drive between Kringle’s Crossing and Virginia Beach in four hours and change with amazing traffic luck and in a seven-hour slog with the worst. The day before Thanksgiving threatened to beat that record as everyone along the Eastern Seaboard raced to make it home for the holiday weekend before the predicted snowy weather hit. We’d done the drive so much, both together and alone, that we’d made a game of finding offbeat places to stop. “It’s green, quaint, and far better than the parking lot of I-95, especially today.”
“Says the dude who hasn’t found a clam shack or chowder house to hate yet.” I laughed. Atlas, ever the world traveler, was the far more adventurous eater on these frequent road trips. I’d learned that the weirder the diner or pizzeria name, the more likely he was to want to stop. “And we’re past the pizza place I liked in Millsboro.”
“Ah. You’re hangry and missing that ham stromboli.” Atlas’s good humor never wavered. Anyone watching us would never have guessed he’d worked a long swing shift in a month filled with far more days on duty than off. He’d crashed for a brief sleep with me after coming home to our little rental in the middle of the night, but he’d been up and loading the car even before I showered. “Luckily, I packed snacks.”
“You did?” We were so into our road food game that we usually didn’t bother with more than our water bottles.
“There’s something behind you.” Traffic continued to creep along at such a pace that Atlas could easily swivel his head and point to the floor of the backseat where a legit old-fashioned wooden picnic basket sat complete with red fabric napkin and double folding handle.
“Since when do we own a picnic basket?” A delighted sound escaped my chest. Maybe I wasn’t so grumpy after all. “It looks just like my ornament.”
“Must be a coincidence.” Raising his eyebrows, he grinned at me. He usually let me do most of the driving, so his insistence on being the one to both load up and drive this morning made more sense now that he’d revealed his surprise.
“Nothing is a coincidence for a planner like you.” I waved a finger at him before hauling the small basket into my lap in the passenger seat. I carefully opened the wooden top to reveal a familiar green bottle. “Champagne? Same brand as the Zimmerman rehearsal dinner?”
“That’s for later. And Gabe says the Zimmermans are back on the schedule with a baby shower next month.” Atlas glanced over at me, eyes shiftier than usual. He was up to something, and not simply champagne for tonight at my old apartment. We were back and forth so much that it had made sense to keep the apartment as a base of operations for us. Down the road, someday, we’d buy a house in Kringle’s Crossing, but for now, the part-time apartment served us well. Atlas pointed at the basket. “Keep looking.”
“Cookies!” I revealed a cellophane package of what looked to be the first iced sugar cookies of the holiday season. But then my hand landed on a much smaller box. A velvet box. “Whoa, what’s this? “
“Might want to open that before we hit Pennsylvania.”
“Is it a ring?” I wasn’t sure whether I was closer to passing out or hurling or possibly both simultaneously. Definitely lightheaded, maybe a little feverish.
“It’s not dynamite.” Atlas made a noise that managed to be both frustrated and nervous. “Open it, Zeb.”
I cracked the little box open and, as expected, revealed a chunky but simple masculine ring. Platinum. Titanium. I wasn’t up on my metals, but it was shiny with beveled edges. Inside, an inscription lurked, and I squinted to read it: Always my favorite Season.
