Chapter 14: Christmas Eve at the Farm

On Christmas Eve I rang the doorbell of a house I had lived in for three years.

It played the first four notes of "Jingle Bells" and quit, the way it had since the summer I moved in.

Craig had promised to fix it that summer.

Gene stood beside me on the porch in a red tie, leaning on his cane, enjoying himself more than a man should.

Rob's wife had texted me the night before.

Craig is bringing her. Tressa is furious. Please come anyway.

Tressa's twelve-year-old opened the door and looked at my empty hands.

"You didn't bring anything."

"I'm a guest."

"Mom said you'd be in the kitchen."

"Your mom is mistaken," I said, and walked in past the coat rack like a person with an invitation.

The farmhouse smelled of ham and cloves and the candle Tressa always bought.

I had scrubbed that front hall on my hands and knees in March, and nobody had noticed.

In the kitchen Tressa stood at the stove in a grey apron, with her sleeves pushed up.

She saw me and, out of three years of habit, took a second apron off the hook and held it out.

We both looked at it.

She hung it back on the hook slowly.

"Don't thank me," Tressa said, to the pot.

"I wasn't going to."

"Good. I'm still furious at you."

"For what?"

"I haven't decided." She stirred. "Craig is bringing his girlfriend to Dad's table. I'm going to kill him with a ladle."

"Please don't. There are children."

"There's also a ham," said Tressa, and almost smiled, and then caught herself.

Her husband came in for ice, a big quiet man in a flannel shirt.

He shook my hand.

"Merry Christmas, Jenna."

"Merry Christmas."