"It smells like Christmas." I sigh.
"Arthur has a thicket of pine trees on his property."
I follow Brody’s line of sight and spot the small woodland in the distance.
"He bought this place fifty years ago. My brothers and many of my friends live nearby."
"That’s wonderful. It’s a community, huh?" I want to ask him if he lives close by but decide that would give away my interest in him.Strictly professional. Remember?
Brody doesn’t reply. I glance at his face to find a preoccupied expression. His mind must be on the meeting ahead. His grandfather must be formidable, if the tension in Brody’s shoulders is any indication. He guides me forward with an impersonal hand to the small of my back.
We walk up the steps to the front door.
A beautiful Christmas wreath hangs on it. It’s classic pine withgold ribbon and cinnamon sticks woven through. The scent spikes the air and makes me sigh again.
Christmas, ah!
I love that the entire place feels this festive. Apparently, unlike Brody, his grandfather appreciates the Christmas spirit. I find myself re-evaluating the picture of Arthur Brody painted for me. The fact he is happy to express his Christmas spirit is, surely, a positive sign.
Every year, I put up my Christmas tree on the last day of November. This year, I’ve been so wrapped up in job interviews, then proving myself in this new role, not to mention taking on all the wedding planning, I haven’t had the mind space to put up a single string of lights.
I haven’t lit a peppermint candle. I haven’t even bought the ingredients to bake my annual “12 days of cookies” sampler, though I have the recipes memorized.
These are traditions I created. Someday, I’ll have a family of my own to share them. Meanwhile, I cherish how the festive season brings color into almost all aspects of everyday life. I truly believe it gives us the opportunity to build better relationships with the people we encounter every day, and yes, also with ourselves.
It’s a chance to press pause and lean into something joyful.
And yet, here I am…no gingerbread-scented kitchen, no twinkle lights in the window. Just a planner full of deadlines, and a fiancé who’s AWOL, and a boss who doesn’t like carols.
The door swings open to reveal a man in suit and tie. That, along with a indefinably patient look on his face, declares he’s a butler. He half bows, confirming my guess.
"Otis." Brody nods. “This is Lark Monroe, my executive assistant.”
"Sir, ma’am." He turns to me. "May I take your coat?"
"Of course." I look around for a place to put down my purse.
Brody takes it from me. I blink, surprised because it’s a strangely intimate gesture. But he’s being polite, that’s all it is.
Putting it out of my mind, I take in my surroundings.
The foyer of the house is lined with dark wood panels that stretch at least two stories high and gleam under the soft glow of sconces. Astaircase sweeps up in a graceful curve, its polished banister catching the light. Shadows pool between the carved panels of the wall, giving the space a solemn gravity.
In the corner, a towering Christmas tree strains toward the high ceiling, its decorations glittering like precious stones under watchful eyes. The evergreen, while a festive touch, also seems to proclaim beauty, power and tradition.
It’s arranged to impress. And it does. It reflects the Davenports’ wealth and status. Good for them.
Personally, I’m more of a cozy, homemade, shabby-chic Christmas decorations kinda gal.
Three doorways open from the foyer: to the right is the living room with its velvet drapes and firelight; to the left, a cloakroom lined with hooks and boot racks; and directly ahead, is a hallway leading to a study.
"There you are," a man’s voice calls out.
We look up to find a guy wearing jeans and an elbow patch sweater approaching us. He’s as tall as Brody, with broad shoulders and biceps that stretch the sweater sleeves.
The two shake hands.
He looks from Brody to me. His eyes light up with interest. "You are?—”
