"But that's forever away!"
I handed Lou and Tracy a wrapped gift. They opened it together, revealing the photograph I'd taken at the pumpkin patch in October—the four of them, Lou and Tracy and Poppy and Clinton, laughing in the autumn sunshine. I'd found a vintage frame at a thrift store and restored it myself.
Tracy beamed. "Bernadette, this is beautiful."
"It's perfect," Lou agreed, his voice rough with emotion. "Thank you."
"We're going to miss you when you go back to Arizona," Tracy said, setting the frame carefully on the small table. "You've become part of our family here."
"I'll miss you too. All of you."
Poppy hugged me fiercely. "You have to come back to visit. Promise you will."
"I promise."
Later, walking back to my van under a sky full of stars, I thought about everything that had happened since I'd arrived. In spite of everything, I had much to be thankful for.
"Merry Christmas to me," I whispered.
December 25, Thursday
wax sealdecorative wax used to seal the top of the bottle for branding and aesthetics
JETT'S PICKUPtruck turned off the main road onto a long gravel driveway lined with white fence railing. In the distance, a modest ranch home sat nestled among rolling pastures, its roof and eaves trimmed with multicolored Christmas lights that twinkled against the cloudy December sky. Cows grazed in one field. In another pasture, a herd of goats clustered near a weathered barn.
"This is perfect," I breathed, taking in the scene.
Jett smiled, clearly pleased by my reaction. "It's home. Nothing fancy, but it's ours."
As we pulled up to the house, the front door burst open and people spilled out—a crowd of siblings, cousins, and family friends, all talking and laughing at once. Jett came around to open my door, and suddenly I was swept into a whirlwind of introductions.
"This is Bernadette," Jett announced, his hand finding mine naturally.
"The tour guide!" his younger sister exclaimed. "We've heard so much about you!"
"The one who solved that crazy identity theft case," an older brother added.
"The one who's been living in her van," a cousin said with admiration rather than pity. "That takes guts."
Handshakes and bear hugs came from every direction. Jett's father—"Call me Pop, everyone does"—had the same easy smile as his son. His mother, a petite woman with graying hair andlaugh lines around her eyes, pulled me into a hug that smelled like cinnamon.
"We're so glad you could join us," she said warmly. "Jett's been talking about you for months."
"Mom," Jett groaned, but he was grinning.
"I brought you something," I said, pulling the carefully wrapped package from my bag. "It's not much, but—"
His mother unwrapped it with careful attention, revealing the crocheted trivet in shades of red and green. "Oh, you made this yourself? It's beautiful! Look at these stitches—so even and tight." She held it up for others to admire. "This is going right on my table. Thank you, dear."
Jett gave me an approving wink.
Inside, the house was organized chaos. The dining room table stretched impossibly long, with added sections accommodating at least twenty people. Heaped platters of food covered every available surface—homemade cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage gravy, biscuits, fresh fruit, hash browns. Christmas music played from a speaker in the corner, competing with multiple conversations happening simultaneously.
It was the kind of big family gathering I'd only seen on television. The kind I'd imagined other people had while my mother and I ate microwave dinners in whatever apartment we were renting that year.
And I loved every chaotic minute of it.
Jett stayed close, frequently reaching for my hand, checking with a glance or a whispered "You okay?" to make sure his family wasn't overwhelming me. But I wasn't overwhelmed—I was enchanted.
