“Oh, Pa. You don’t need to drink. You have everything any man could ever hope for.”
“Whatever you say, Mary.”
Mary’s father had bounced back from his health ordeal. He was slower and used a cane, but Mary didn’t mind, as long as he was there to lead the family.
“Don’t let that man drink!” Mrs. Bennet said, coming down the stairs one at a time, gripping the bannister.
“I’m not, Ma.”
“Damn stairs. I will die without the benefit of an elevator.”
“The stairs are good exercise,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Your new room will be ready after Christmas,” Mary promised her.
“You know I don’t deal well with change,” Mrs. Bennet groused. “And I don’t know if I’ll like the back parlor as a bedroom.”
“But you will,” Mr. Bennet assured her.
“Do I have a choice?”
“No,” Mary and her father said in unison. The three of them laughed.
The door from the garden behind them blew open. Joe carried a cord of wood into the old house to the fireplace. He began to stack the wood.
“A fire! I love a fire!” Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Bennet,” Joe said. Joe wore the flannel shirt that reminded Mary of her blanket. They had spent Christmas Eve in New Jersey with the Tarantellos. Mary had never experienced the Feast of the Seven Fishes, and now she hoped she always would.
“Ma, Pa, sit down.” Mary helped her parents to the sofa.
Mary had put up the Christmas tree in the back parlor, as was the tradition. A tall blue spruce, fragrant and full, shimmered with lights and ornaments. Gifts wrapped in paper and ribbons were stacked underneath it. Mary closed the pocket doors between the front and back parlors.
“Whatever you’re cooking smells divine,” Mrs. Bennet said.
“I cooked all the traditional dishes—your recipes, Ma.”
“I wish I could help.”
“You made more than thirty Christmas dinners, Ma. I’m happy to do it.”
“I did my share, that’s for sure.” Mrs. Bennet sipped her punch. “One never knows when they’re in the midst of all that hard work if anyone notices it. I’m grateful you did, Mary.”
Joe smiled and lit the kindling. Soon, the logs roared, with flames of orange throwing heat and light.
Mary leaned against the mantel she had decorated with candles and branches of pine. “It’s a beauty,” she said.
Joe pulled her close. “And so are you.”
Joe kissed her, but it was quick and chaste. After all, Mary’s parents were sitting a few feet away. But Mary didn’t care. She kissed Joe again. She was in love, and she didn’t care who knew it.
“Of all the wonderful sons-in-law I have, and believe me, I have them, and yes, I know it’s a sin, but Joe is my favorite. I never thought one of my girls would marry an Italian, but here we are. And I am so happy for it.”
“My wife likes your skill set with wire cutters and pipes and a hammer and nails.”
“I’m happy to help,” Joe said.
The doorbell rang. Mary excused herself. She threw open the front door. Her sisters, their husbands, and their children poured into the house, filling the place to the brim.
