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"Miss me already?"

"Oh my God, I totally forgot to tell you. There was a hot guy at the beach this morning, and he's here right now," I whisper, even though no one can hear me over here, especially him. "I was so busy helping you navigate yours."

"Do tell."

"Tall, blond, hot.. Oh, and he wears cowboy boots in Florida. He's my mom's friend's nephew, so nothing to it beyond some eye candy, but I didn't want you to think you're the only one getting some hot yule views."

"Is he there now, at your bingo Christmas Eve party? Pan around so I can see."

"Why, yes, he is. He's quietly helping residents unsolicited, which is upping his hotness factor. Hold on, let me see if I can nonchalantly show you."

I start pacing and swinging the phone in a wide arc that is fooling exactly nobody.

"That's a ceiling. Mackie. You are showing me a ceiling."

"Hang on."

"Is he behind the ceiling?"

"Hang on."

I get him almost centered, and a woman in a red Rudolph sweater walks straight into the shot. She stops there to have a full conversation with the punch bowl.

That's when Shipley says Hale texted her.

So we do that instead. She reads it to me twice, two sentences that are not going to win the man any awards. Then talks herself in a circle about whether answering makes her pathetic.

I keep one eye on the red sweater and tell her to keep it short, not to explain herself, and to say she misses him if she does. I let her argue and then tell her again. There's a whoosh, and then a noise like she's been pushed off a roof.

“Oh, my God. What did I just do?"

"You responded like a big girl. Now go eat something with butter in it."

The red sweater finally moves along, but now he isn't there.

"Well, I guess our opportunity has passed. I'll try to snag a pic and text it to you if I can."

"Okay. I'll keep you posted if I hear back from Hale."

We hang up, and I scan the room for a man in boots who has apparently evaporated. The card tables are getting folded. Somebody's grandson is asleep in a wheelchair with a paper crown sliding off his head. My mother is over by the punch with her clipboard back in her hands, and the party's winding down.

The condo is quiet. It's a relief after the party. The bad acoustics from the guitar player are still ringing in my ears a little.

Neither of us wants dinner.

"I can't look at another plate," Mom says, and then she opens the fridge and starts pulling things out anyway.

We pick at a few things while standing at the counter. She arranges them, and I eat them. Cold roast chicken from two nights ago, a container of that orzo salad she makes, three olives each straight from the jar.

Mom hasn’t put up a Christmas tree since Dad died, so it’s almost hard to remember it’s Christmas Eve. I’m just glad to be with her, but I do wish there was a hint of the season here.

"You did good today," I tell her.

"I genuinely enjoy being there. Is that odd?"

"Not at all. You may have found your calling."

She swats me with a paper towel and doesn't argue past that. That's how I know she's wrung out. Her reading glasses are pushed up into her silver hair, and she's forgotten they're there.