Her eyebrows rose. “How do you live a life without cider and carolers? What about at school? Surely you had some sort of Christmas festival with booths?”
“My school wasn't exactly the festive sort,” I admitted.
“What kind of school was that?”
“An all boys boarding academy with latin mottos and political leanings,” Braxton interjected with a shrug, his usual good cheer dampening a little.
It had been a struggle for both of us, Braxton more than I. I found myself trying to soften the moment with a bit of humor so that everyone wouldn’t be tempted to pry further. “We celebrated achievement and discipline, not cinnamon and cheer.”
She laughed, a low sound that made something stir in me I pretended not to feel. “That explains so much. You have the posture of a man who has stood in line for inspection.”
“Not since graduation.”
“I am impressed you survived.”
“I am still recovering,” I said.
Her smile lingered as we filed out to the cars and I had a warm fuzzy feeling in the center of my chest for being the author of her amusement. The morning was bright, the air cold, and the snow reflecting under the sun. Breath curled like smoke as we loaded into the van and car. I followed in the rental car with Braxton, who had recovered his good humor.
Helen and William insisted on coming with us, climbing in the back seat of my vehicle. We were treated to a blend of Christmas music requests, questions about our jobs, personal lives, and plans for the future while also having to listen to the good qualities all of their daughters possessed.
William was silent throughout it all, enjoying the view and occasionally patting Helen’s arm.
By the time we made it to town, my head was spinning from the whirlwind that was Helen Bennet. Fortunately, Braxton seemed to thrive on providing conversation, so William and I were mostly silent. I felt a kinship with the older man.
The market spread across the town square like a picturesque painting. There were canopies draped in lights, stalls dusted with snow, and the air thick with the smell of cider, gingerbread, and pine. A small band played near the gazebo. Children darted between booths holding gingerbread men bigger than their hands. I had walked through hundreds of polished lobbies and architectural showrooms, but none of them had felt half as alive as this atmosphere fit for a scene from a B list holiday movie.
In the parking lot, Lucy turned to the group, already in command. “All right. We will meet back here in three hours. No one buys anything alive, flammable, or electronic.”
“Define alive,” Kitty said.
“Breathing,” Meri quickly replied, eying her sister. “No repeats of the two guinea pigs.”
“They were cute,” Kitty defended.
“Two turned into two dozen, then six dozen, then more. They were very difficult to find new homes for,” Meri cautioned.
“But they were so cute!” Kitty said.
“No!” came all the other Bennet voices at once.
“Fine,” Kitty muttered, crossing her arms.
“Define flammable. I want to buy candles,” Lydia added.
“The flame thrower incident comes to mind,” Lucy explained.
“It was for science,” Meri muttered.
“No unattended candles at the inn. We don’t need a fire,” Jane advised.
“Relax. It’s a market, not a minefield,” Helen chastised.
Lucy shot me a look as if to say see what I deal with? “You don’t have to tag along. You could explore on your own.”
“I think I’m safer near the organized one,” I mentioned. Besides, at this point I was curious as to what the Bennets would do. What was the flame thrower incident? I would have to ask Lucy later.
She grinned. “That’s debatable.”
