I break my corn bread in half. “It’s out of my control,” I say. “Every time we close on Christmas Eve, this is where we sit and eat. The only thing different is that question.”
“That’s from your perspective,” Mom says. “From this side of the table, every year looks different.”
I pull off a piece of my corn bread and slowly chew it.
“You’ve got a lot of people wanting the best for you,” Dad says. “In here, in this town, back home . . .”
Mom leans across the table and takes my hand. “I’m sure it feels like we’re all pulling you in different directions, but that’s because we all care. If nothing else, I hope this year has shown you that.”
Dad being Dad, he has to say, “Even if it ends up breaking your heart.”
Mom nudges Dad in the shoulder. “In high school, Mr. Cynical—your father—spent his summer at baseball camp here after meeting me the winter before.”
“I got to know you very well in that time,” Dad says.
“How well could you have known me in a few weeks?” Mom asks.
“Pretty well,” I say. “Trust me.”
Dad places his hand on top of mine and Mom’s. “We’re proud of you, honey. Whatever changes happen to the family business, we’ll make it work as a family. And whatever you decide with Caleb, we . . . you know . . . we can . . .”
“We support you,” Mom says.
“Right.” Dad sits back and puts his arm around Mom. “We trust you.”
I move over to their side of the table and lean into a family hug. I can feel Dad crane his neck to look at Mom.
When I return to my seat, Mom excuses herself. She goes to their room to gather the small handful of gifts we brought with us. The least patient one of us is Dad—he’s a lot like Caleb that way—so he tears into his gift first.
He holds the box at arm’s length. “An Elf on the Shelf?” He scrunches his nose. “Are you serious?”
Mom and I nearly die laughing. Dad complains about that toy doll every year, swearing he will never buy in to it. Since he spends December in a trailer away from home, he assumed he wouldn’t have to.
“The plan was,” Mom says, “Sierra and I would hide it at home when you left for California.”
“And then,” I say, leaning forward for maximum effect, “you’d spend the entire month thinking about it, wondering where it was.”
“That would drive me crazy,” Dad says. He pulls out the elf and hangs it upside down by one foot. “You outdid yourselves this year.”
“I guess if there is a silver lining,” I say, “now you may get to look for it every day at home.”
“There’s another example,” Dad says, “of not always needing a silver lining.”
“Okay, my turn,” Mom says.
Every year, she wants to be surprised with a different scented body lotion. While she thankfully loves the smell of Christmas trees, after being immersed in them for a month, she wants to smell like something else in the new year.
She unwraps this year’s bottle and turns it around to read the label. “Cucumber licorice? How in the world did you find this?”
“It’s your two favorite scents,” I remind her.
She pops open the top, smells it, and then squirts a drop onto her palm. “This stuff is incredible!” she says, and she rubs it around her hands.
Dad hands me a small silver gift box.
I shimmy the box open and lift out a bit of cotton. A car key practically glistens beneath it. “You bought me a car!”
“Technically, it’s Uncle Bruce’s truck,” Mom says, “but we’ll have the insides reupholstered in whatever colors you want.”
“It may not be sensible for long drives,” Dad says, “but it’s great for the farm and getting around town.”
“Do you mind that it’s his?” Mom asks. “We couldn’t afford what you—”
“Thank you,” I say. I turn the box over so the key falls into my hand. After feeling its weight for several seconds, I launch from my seat again and hug them both so hard. “This is incredible.”
For tradition’s sake, after the dirty dishes are piled into the sink, we climb into my parents’ bed and watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas on my laptop. As usual, Mom and Dad are fast asleep by the time the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes that day. I’m wide awake, my stomach in a million knots because it’s now time to get ready for the candlelight service with Caleb.
Tonight there’s no need to try on a bunch of outfits. Before I even move from their bed, I settle on my simple black skirt and a white blouse. In the tiny bathroom, I flatiron my hair. When I’m carefully applying makeup, I see Mom’s reflection smile behind me in the mirror. She holds up a new pink cashmere sweater.
“In case it gets cold out,” she says.
I spin around. “Where did you get this?”
“It was your father’s idea,” she says. “He wanted you to have something new for tonight.”
I hold up the sweater. “Dad picked this out?”
Mom laughs. “Of course not. And thank your lucky stars, because if he did it’d probably cover more than a snowsuit,” she says. “He asked me to get you something while you girls were putting trimmings in the bags.”
I look in the mirror and hold the sweater up to myself. “Tell him I love it.”
She smiles at our reflections. “If I can wake him up after you leave, we’re going to pop some popcorn and watch White Christmas.”
They do that every year, usually with me cuddled between them. “I’ve always admired that you and Dad never got jaded about Christmas,” I say.
“Honey, if we ever felt that way,” she says, “we’d sell the farm and do something else. What we do is special. And it’s nice to know Caleb appreciates that.”
There’s a soft knock at the door. My heart pounds as Mom helps me pull the sweater over my head without messing up my hair. Before I can give her one last hug, she walks to her room and closes the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I open the door expecting to be overwhelmed at the sight of my handsome Christmas Eve date. Instead, Caleb wears a too-tight sweater of Rudolph’s huge face, pulled over a purple button-down and khakis. I cover my mouth and shake my head.
He opens his arms. “Well?”
“Tell me you didn’t borrow that from Heather’s mom,” I say.
“I did!” he says. “I really did. It was one of the few that she had with sleeves on it.”
“Okay, while I love your spirit, I will not be able to focus on the service if you’re wearing that.”
Arms held wide, he looks down at his sweater.
“You apparently have no idea why Heather’s mom owns that,” I say.
He sighs and then reluctantly tugs the sweater over his chest, but it gets stuck at his ears and I have to yank it the rest of the way off. Now he is dressed like my handsome date.
It’s a crisp winter evening. Many of the houses along the way kept their Christmas lights on late. Some look like their roofs are ringed in glowing icicles. Some have white-lit reindeer grazing on their lawns. My favorites are the homes that glimmer with many colors.
“You look beautiful,” Caleb says. He lifts my hand as we walk and touches his lips to each finger.
“Thank you,” I say. “So do you.”
“See? You’re getting better at taking compliments,” he says.
I look over at him and smile. Blue and white lights from the nearest house reflect off his cheeks.
“Tell me about tonight,” I say. “I’m guessing it’ll be packed.”
“They do two services on Christmas Eve,” he says. “The earlier one is for families, with a pageant and a million four-year-olds dressed like angels. It’s chaotic and loud and pretty perfect. The midnight mass, the one we’re going to, is more solemn. It’s kind of like Li
nus’s big speech in A Charlie Brown Christmas.”
“I love Linus,” I say.
“That’s good,” Caleb says, “because otherwise tonight would stop right here.”
We walk the rest of the way, up the gradually rising roads, hand in hand in silence. When we reach the church, the parking lot is full. Many cars are parked at the curb and even more people walk in from nearby streets.
At the church’s glass doors, Caleb stops me before we enter. He looks me in the eyes. “I wish you weren’t leaving,” he says.
I squeeze his hand, but I don’t know what to say.
He opens a door and lets me walk in first. The only light comes from candles flickering atop tall wooden rods mounted to the sides of each pew. Thick wooden beams along the walls on either side rise up, past tall windows of red, yellow, and blue stained glass. The beams touch at the center of the peaked ceiling, giving the effect of a large ship tipped upside down. At the front of the church, the edge of the stage is lined with red poinsettias. Stepped risers are already filled with a choir in white robes. Above them, an enormous wreath hangs in front of a set of brass organ pipes.
Most of the pews are packed shoulder to shoulder. We slip into a pew near the back and an elderly woman approaches us from the aisle. She hands us each an unlit white candle and a white cardboard circle about the size of my palm. In the middle of the circle is a small hole, and I watch Caleb push the top of his candle through the hole. He slides the cardboard a little more than halfway down the candle.
“These are for later,” he says. “The cardboard catches the drips.”
I poke my candle into the circle and then set it in my lap. “Are your mom and sister coming?”
He nods toward the choir. Abby and their mom are both on the center riser, smiling and watching us. His mom looks so happy to be standing next to Abby. Caleb and I wave at the same time. Abby begins to wave, but her mom pulls her hand down as the choir director now stands before them.
“Abby’s always been a natural singer,” Caleb whispers. “She’s only practiced with them twice but Mom says she blends right in.”
The opening carol is “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”
After they sing a few more songs, the pastor delivers a sincere and thoughtful talk about the story of Christmas and what the night means to him. The beauty of his words and the gratitude in how he presents them touches me. I hold on to Caleb’s arm, and he looks at me with so much kindness.
The choir begins singing “We Three Kings.” Caleb leans over and whispers, “Come outside with me.” He takes the candle from my lap and I follow him out of the sanctuary. The glass doors close behind us and we’re back in the cool air.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
He leans forward and kisses me softly. I reach up and touch his cold cheeks, which make his lips feel even warmer. I wonder if every kiss with Caleb will feel this new and magical.
He turns his head to the side, listening. “It’s starting.”
We walk around to the side of the church. The walls and the steeple loom over us. The narrow windows above are dark, but I know they’re made of stained glass.
“What’s starting?” I ask.
“It’s dark in there because the ushers went around and snuffed out the candles,” he says. “But listen.”
He closes his eyes. I close mine, too. It’s soft at first, but I hear it. It’s not just the choir singing, it’s the whole congregation.
“Silent night . . . Holy night.”
“Right now there are two people at the front of the church holding lit candles. Only two. Everyone else has the same ones as us.” He hands me my candle. I hold it near the bottom, and the cardboard circle rests atop my closed fingers. “The two people with the flames, they step into the center aisle; one heads to the pew on the left, and the other goes to the right.”
“Holy infant, so tender and mild.”
Caleb pulls a small booklet of matches from his front pocket, tears out a match, folds back the cover, and strikes it. He lights the wick of his candle and then shakes out the match. “The people in the first two pews, whoever is closest to the aisle, they tilt their candles to the ones with fire. Then they use that flame to light the candle of the person beside them.”
“Glories stream from heaven afar.”
Caleb moves his candle toward mine and I tilt mine sideways, holding the wick to his flame until it begins to burn.
“This goes on, candle by candle. It moves back row by row. The light spreads from one person to the next . . . slowly . . . creating this anticipation. You’re waiting for that light to reach you.”
I look at the small flame on my candle burning.
“With the dawn of redeeming grace.”
“One by one, the light is passed and the entire room becomes filled with the glow.”
“Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.”
His voice is soft. “Look up.”
I look to the stained glass windows. There’s now a warm glow coming from inside. The glass shimmers in reds, yellows, and blues. The song continues and I hold my breath.
“Silent night . . . Holy night.”
The lyrics are sung all the way through one more time. Eventually, inside the church and out here, there is total silence.
Caleb leans forward. With a soft breath, he blows out his candle. Then I blow out mine.
“I’m glad we came out here,” I say.
He pulls me close and kisses me softly, holding his lips against mine for several seconds.
Still holding each other, I lean back and ask, “But why didn’t you want me to see this from inside?”
“For the past few years, I never felt as calm as the moment my candle got lit on Christmas Eve. For just an instant, everything was okay.” He pulls himself close, his chin on my shoulder, and whispers into my ear, “This year, I wanted to spend that moment only with you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “It was perfect.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The church doors open and the Christmas Eve service is over. It’s after midnight and the people leaving must be tired, but each face looks filled with a peaceful happiness—with joy. Most of them don’t say anything as they walk to their cars, but there are several tender wishes of “Merry Christmas.”
It is Christmas.
My last day.
I see Jeremiah hold the door open for a few people, and then he walks over to us. “I saw you duck out,” he says. “You missed the best part.”
I look at Caleb. “Did we miss the best part?”
“I don’t think we did,” he says.
I smile at Jeremiah. “No, we didn’t miss it.”
Jeremiah shakes Caleb’s hand and then pulls him into a hug. “Merry Christmas, friend.”
Caleb says nothing; he just hugs and closes his eyes.
Jeremiah pats him on the back, and then he wraps me in a hug. “Merry Christmas, Sierra.”
“Merry Christmas, Jeremiah.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he tells me, and then he walks back into the church.
“We should start heading back,” Caleb says.
There’s no way to describe how much tonight has meant to me. In this moment, I want to tell Caleb that I love him. This would be the time, right here, because this is when I first know it’s true.
I can’t say it, though. It’s not fair for him to hear those words and then have me leave so soon after. Saying it would also sear them onto my heart. I would think of those words the entire ride home.
“I wish I could stop time,” I say instead. It’s the most I can give either of us.
“Me too.” He takes my hand. “What’s next for us? Do we know?”
I wish he could give me the answer to that question. It feels too insignificant to say we’ll keep in touch. I know we will, but wh
at more?
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
When we get back to the tree lot, Caleb kisses me and then takes a step back. It feels right for him to start pulling away. There is no Christmas miracle that can keep me here or guarantee us more than we have now.
“Good night, Sierra.”
I can’t say that back. “We’ll see each other tomorrow,” I say.
As he walks to his truck, his head is bowed, and I see him look at the picture of us on his keychain. After he opens his door, he turns to me one more time.
“Good night,” he says.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
I wake with a mix of clashing emotions. I eat a small breakfast of oatmeal with brown sugar before heading over to Heather’s house. When I get there, she’s sitting on her front stoop waiting for me.
Without getting up, she says, “You’re leaving me again.”
“I know.”
“And this time, we don’t know when you’re coming back,” she says. She finally stands and holds me in a long hug.
Caleb’s truck pulls into the driveway with Devon riding shotgun. The two of them get out, each holding a few small wrapped gifts. Whatever sadness Caleb carried as he drove away last night seems to have disappeared.
“Merry Christmas!” he says.
“Merry Christmas,” Heather and I say.
Both guys give us each pecks on the cheek, and then Heather ushers us into her kitchen, where coffeecake and hot chocolate are waiting. Caleb declines the coffeecake because he had an omelet and French toast with his mom and Abby.
“It’s a tradition,” he says, but he does drop a peppermint stick into his hot chocolate.
“Have you jumped on the trampoline today?” I ask.
“Abby and I had a backflip contest first thing.” He holds his stomach. “Which wasn’t the smartest thing to do after breakfast, but it was fun.”
Heather and Devon sit back in their chairs, watching us talk. It could be one of our last conversations and they seem in no rush to interrupt.
“Did you tell your mom you’d already found it?” I ask.