The One You're With

Christmas Eve:

Jack

Lake Caywood glistens beneath a blanket of snow. Everything is clean and new. Brighter somehow, as if a team of men in white coveralls had come through in the night, armed with ladders and scaffolding, brushes and rollers, to give everything a fresh coat of paint. 

The quiet, too, is magnificently surreal. It feels as though someone has turned down the volume on the town: the handful of cars that are on Main Street move slowly, their tires creating a slushy sort of crunch; store owners clear the walks in front of their businesses, their shovels scraping softly and rhythmically. 

As beautiful as the landscape is, Jack Porter can’t help but think of a line from Charles Dickens: “Christmas is a poor excuse every twenty-fifth of December to pick a man’s pockets,” for spending money is, after all, precisely what he’s on the brink of doing. 

Having waited until the last minute to begin his shopping, he’s not enjoying the snow as much as he normally would. The cold numbs his nose and eases its fingers into his collar, sending a shiver down his back. He should have worn a scarf.

Lounging on the leather sofa in his study, still clad in pajamas, is where he’d prefer to be… with a never-ending pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen and the air heavy with the scent of chicory. His mouth salivates as he imagines the aroma; his stomach grumbles as he realizes he hadn’t eaten breakfast before leaving the house. Thinking of the Tavern, he envisions a stack of Doc’s ricotta pancakes drenched in butter and maple syrup, with a side of crispy bacon and a dish of warm spiced apples. 

“Is it ridiculous to visit the Tavern twice in one day?” he wonders to himself, knowing that Doc’s annual Christmas Eve party will be held there later tonight. 

He’ll be attending with Amelia, of course. The party has become a tradition; their appearance is expected. 

It’s not just anyone who receives an invitation to the event. On New Year’s Eve, Jasper Lane will open his farmhouse to the entire town, just as he always does, but the guest list to Doc’s gathering is significantly shorter. While not a small crowd by any means, the people in attendance are folks very much valued by the Tavern’s proprietor. 

Amelia, not surprisingly, is among them.

Having waited tables and tended bar for several years now, Jack knows his wife views her employer as the father figure she’d never had. Older than she is by more than two decades, he had instantaneously taken a liking to his new hire—approaching Amelia about a job before she’d even applied. 

Never in his life has Jack ever received a job that easily, but then… he’s nowhere near as pretty as his wife. He smiles to himself, recalling the way Amelia had looked this morning when he’d exited the couple’s little cottage at the end of Sycamore Drive. She’d been filling the teakettle at the sink, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. Her rounded belly pressed against the lip of the counter. “You look gorgeous,” Jack had whispered into her ear, sneaking up behind her and placing his hands on the substantial swell. Beneath his palms, their unborn child kicked.

Amelia had laughed and placed her hands atop his. “I can’t wait to meet him,” she’d said, and the change in the curve of her cheek had been indicative of the size of her smile. Jack knew, though he couldn’t see it, that it was huge.

Now, as his feet carry him down Main Street, crunching across the new-fallen snow, that memory of his wife and unborn child warms him.