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“Has Christmas Eve been everything you wished for?” he asks.
“It exceeded expectations.” My smile falters for a second. “I miss Nana.”
Her dementia has grown worse, and she seldom recognizes me, but she’s well taken care of. Under the circumstances, it’s the best I can hope for.
Owen comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I lean back against him. No matter where we are, his arms feel like home. His beard rubs against my cheek as he kisses the corner of my lips.
“We’ll visit Nana as soon as we get back and bring her sausage.”
“It’s called blutwurst.”
“I know. I just like hearing you say the name. It’s sexy.”
“Only because you don’t know the ingredients.”
He nibbles at my ear. We might never leave this kitchen if he keeps carrying on like this. I push him away with my elbow. “Get back to work.”
He plants a kiss on my lips before returning to the sink. “Did you notice how many applications were submitted yesterday?”
“I haven’t looked since we arrived. How many?”
“Nine. Your foundation is doing good work.”
“Our foundation,” I remind him. The foundation we set up with his inheritance from Rheta and a chunk of money he made from selling Boudron. Its purpose is to help those who struggle to financially support family members living in residential care. Every month when we disburse payments, I’m giddy with joy. We are doing good things.
Owen is on the board, but he has also begun practicing law with a non-profit part time. It gives his life purpose to help others, and he enjoys lawyering more when the goal isn’t to make rich men richer.
When the kitchen is clean, we meet back in the living room for carols. The family is talking and laughing. It’s everything I imagined a family Christmas to be. And we are family. Owen’s step-sisters have been welcoming to Marianne and her sons. Susan and Malcolm treat me like their granddaughter. Before dinner, we took a family picture with all of us in our matching pajama bottoms. I picked thepattern this year: cows wearing Santa hats. Sadie would love them, which is why I sent a pair to her and Tori in New York.
I’m about to sit at the piano when Owen takes my hand and stops me.
“Before we sing carols,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear. They quiet in record time. “It’s time for our annual pickle finding competition.”
“Really?” This is news to me.
“It’s not annual if we’ve never done it before,” Brady points out.
“Ourfirstannual pickle finding competition,” Owen amends.
“What’s the prize for finding it?” Brady asks.
Owen winks at me. “A kiss.”
“Eww.” Brady’s face scrunches with disgust as only a fifteen-year-old’s face can. “That’s not motivating.”
Owen shrugs. “Then you get the satisfaction of knowing you have the best eyesight of everyone here.”
Brady frowns. “Also not motivating.”
“Is it a real pickle or an ornament?” I ask.
“An ornament. No using your nose to sniff it out this year.”
I slap his stomach with my hand. Mmm. He’s warm and solid, and I keep my palm exactly where it is. “I didn’t use my nose last year.”
He smiles. “Prove it.” Once everyone has gathered around the tree, he calls out, “Go!”
Regretfully, I drop my hand from his abs and begin my search. I’m one hundred percent focused on winning that pickle prize. No one will steal my kiss.
