Henri must note this because she asks, “Not a fan of ornaments?”
“They were waiting for us. None of us were able to agree on how to decorate the tree when we grew up, so now we have onefor each of us. We’ll probably get to it in the morning,” I explain. “It’s a whole thing. Mom lets guests vote on their favorite in the lodge and whoever wins gets to open presents first.”
“How many times have you won? I mean, you have an eye for detail.”
“Never.”
“I’m sorry, but your family doesn’t really seem all that aesthetically inclined.”
It takes me a moment to realize that she’s not directly behind me anymore and instead is lingering on the stairs. “I’m fine with going last. It’s more important to them.”
It’s always been worth it, to sit back and watch while my sisters tear into their presents.
“That doesn’t really seem like your responsibility,” Henri says, as she climbs the last two steps and joins me.
“I’m the oldest. I like taking care of them.” I need to.
We stop at the two rooms at the end of the hall, my room and the guest room being across from each other.
“Virgin loser,” she whispers as we stand in front of the solid oak doors.
“Don’t corrupt me, temptress.” I make a cross with my fingers as if to ward away evil, before slipping into my room.
Once freshly clothed in jeans and a thick fisherman’s sweater, I knock on Henri’s door. Here’s the thing, she could be wearing anything and knock the breath straight out of me, and the off-the-shoulder body-hugging black shirt and dark jeans are no exception.
“Should I change?” she asks, adjusting how her sleeves fall.
“What?” I ask, coming back to my senses.
“If this is too much or not enough”—she continues to pick at the fabric—“I can change. I just thought your family didn’t seem super formal, but I didn’t want to be in anything too casual the first time sitting with all of them.”
“No. It’s perfect.”You’re perfect.
“Great. Then, shall we?”
Mom has gone all out with dinner. Pepper-crusted roast. Creamy mashed potatoes. Caramelized carrots. A vat of stew on the side. Beyond that, she’s brought out the good plates, hand-painted with little bows and wreaths.
“Oh my God.” Henri moans around a bite. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Hughes, you’re an amazing cook.”
“Thank you, and call me Ally,” Mom tells her. She’s the one we inherited freckles from. They splash across her sharp cheeks and down her neck, but her hair is blonde, compared to our brunette.
“Just be happy you weren’t here three years ago,” Pen says.
“The pork.” Juniper shivers. “So dry.”
“Mom’s been taking cooking classes from the chef at the restaurant,” I add.
“I didn’t need to be a good cook when I was younger. I was happy with bland chicken and rice or undercooked pasta from the training facility cafeteria,” Mom explains. “Now I have the time and it’s fun. Speaking of which, I’ve prepped some gingerbread dough. Just say the word and I’ll pop it in the oven.”
“Can I have that?” Pen asks, reaching across the table for the gravy boat.
“No. You’re still training while you’re here,” Dad says and Pen’s hand retreats back to her lap. He’s a large man with weather-worn features from decades outside. Tonight he wears one of his usual flannel shirts and jeans. His phone is on the table next to his plate just in case he gets called back to the lodge for an emergency. “You can’t let your diet slip just because it’s a holiday. You have just a few months before the World Championships, and that new Wagner girl is improving faster than you are.”
“June has some,” Pen whines.
“She didn’t qualify this year.”
“I chose to take the year off. One of my kids needs a coach with her—she’s got a good shot at the U16 Nationals,” June says, tersely, as tension feathers through her jaw, making me think this has been a point of contention for a while. “And I’ve been busy with the fundraiser.”
