Kitchen Table Negotiations
The meetingwith Mrs. Peterson had gone exactly as expected—thirty minutes of enthusiastic rambling about Christmas magic and community spirit, followed by her handing us a three-ring binder that looked like it hadn’t been updated since 1987 and wishing us luck with the kind of smile that suggested we were going to need it.
“So,” I said as we stood in the community center parking lot afterward, both of us clutching our copies of the festival planning manual, “want to grab coffee and figure out what we’ve actually gotten ourselves into?”
Holly glanced at her watch. It was a delicate silver thing that looked like it might have been a college graduation gift, and then back at me with an expression that suggested she was still processing the full scope of what Mrs. Peterson had just dumped in our laps.
“Actually,” she said, “would you mind coming back to my house? Mom made lunch, and she’ll be hurt if I don’t bring youby. Plus, the kitchen table is probably better for spreading out all these papers than a coffee shop.”
The invitation was casual, practical, but there was something careful in the way she delivered it, like she was prepared for me to decline politely and suggest somewhere more neutral.
“That sounds perfect,” I said, and was rewarded with a smile that looked surprised but genuinely pleased.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at the Winters family kitchen table. It was the same oak table where I’d eaten countless meals during high school visits with Matt, while Holly’s mother buzzed around us with the kind of determined hospitality that made declining anything impossible.
“Declan, honey, you’re too thin,” Mrs. Winters announced, setting a plate of sandwiches in front of me that could have fed a small army. “Don’t they feed you properly in New York?”
“They do, Mrs. Winters, but nothing like this,” I said, accepting what appeared to be a turkey sandwich constructed with architectural precision. “Thank you.”
“Please, call me Linda. You’re practically family.” She beamed at me like I’d just announced my intention to move back to Everdale Falls permanently and marry her daughter. “Holly, get Declan some of that good mustard from the refrigerator.”
“Mom, he can get his own mustard,” Holly muttered, but she was already getting up with the kind of automatic compliance that suggested this was a familiar dynamic.
I watched her move around the kitchen, opening cabinets, checking the refrigerator, looking perfectly at home in the space while somehow maintaining the slightly defensive posture she’d worn since we’d left the community center. She’d changed out of her cardigan into a college sweatshirt, and the contrast between my button-down shirt and her casual comfort made me feeloverdressed and vaguely intrusive, and more than a bit of an idiot.
“You know,” Linda continued, settling into the chair across from me with her own sandwich, “Holly was just telling me yesterday how nice it is to have you back in town. Weren’t you, sweetheart?”
Holly’s face went pink. “Mom, I don’t think I said exactly that.”
“Well, you should have. Declan, did you know Holly organized the entire homecoming dance committee her senior year? Managed forty volunteers and stayed under budget. She’s always been so good with details.”
“Mom,” Holly said, her voice carrying a warning note.
“And she was student council treasurer for three years running. Never lost a single receipt or missed a deadline.”
“That’s impressive,” I said, meaning it, though I could see Holly growing more mortified with each maternal compliment.
“Oh, and remember when she planned that surprise party for your father’s birthday?” Linda was warming to her theme now, completely oblivious to Holly’s increasing discomfort. “Coordinated with thirty people, kept it secret for six weeks, even managed to get his brother to fly in from California without him knowing.”
“Mom, please stop,” Holly said, returning to the table with mustard and with a look like she wanted to disappear through the floor.
“I’m just saying, Declan knows how capable you are. Don’t you, Declan?”
The expectant way she looked at me suggested this was some kind of test, though I wasn’t entirely sure what answer she was looking for. Holly was staring at her sandwich like it contained the secrets of the universe rather than looking at either of us.
“I do,” I said carefully. “That’s why I was glad to hear Holly would be co-chairing with me. Planning something like this requires someone who understands both the details and the big picture.”
It was a diplomatic answer, professionally complimentary without being overly personal, but it made Holly look up at me with an expression of surprise that suggested she’d been expecting something different.
“Exactly!” Linda said triumphantly. “You two are going to be wonderful together. Just wonderful.”
The way she said it carried implications that extended well beyond festival planning, and I saw Holly’s jaw tighten slightly. I got the feeling that Linda was trying to set us up.
“We should probably start looking at the actual planning materials,” Holly said, reaching for the binder with the kind of determined focus that suggested she was eager to redirect the conversation.
“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll leave you two to your work.” Linda gathered her plate with obvious reluctance. “But if you need anything, more sandwiches, coffee, anything at all, just call.”
Once her mother had bustled out of the kitchen, Holly let out a long breath and rubbed her temples.
