“Yep. Can’t have you guessing too soon.”
He cut the tape on the lid and pulled open the flaps. Eyes wide, he lifted one of a dozen leather bound novels in the box. He turned the spine to the light. “Gunslinger, Stephen King. You didn’t!”
“Keep looking.” He pulled out book after book, read the titles, then dropped back on the sofa by her.
“I couldn’t get all of them obviously. But I inventoried your bookcase and all of his have pages loose which means you read them all the time. A fact I know since there is always one out.”
“Thank you.” He kissed her cheek. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Well, you aren’t expecting a few other things either.”
“That one over there is socks, and that one is probably new utensils for the barbeque.”
She huffed, as he expected her to. “You keep your guesses to yourself until you open. That’s half the fun.”
“Yes, it is. I apologize. And thank you for the books. I never thought of getting his in leather bound.”
“You’re welcome. My turn?”
And so it went, through little and big. Some he guessed and some he hadn’t. Some she had and some she hadn’t. But she sat speechless with his final gift. The medium size art palette was covered with splashed paint and was decades old.
“You told me once you didn’t like the bare walls in your art studio but you didn’t want to hang your paintings.” He fingered the rough surface. “It’s circa 1962. I found it in Amarillo. This could start a collection. You could mount them on the wall.”
“This is gorgeous, Tom. It’s like it was purposely painted this way, but it wasn’t. Most now are prefab. This is wood. Like a cutting board. There are so many layers here, and the color blending can’t be duplicated. It’s beautiful.”
“How many do you go through?”
“A couple a year depending on the project. Honestly, I have a few set aside in the back closet. Never got around to throwing them out. I get attached to them.” She leaned back against the sofa and laughed. “A strange thing to say, I know.”
“No, it’s convenient. A hanging of one was going to be pathetic, but I couldn’t find any others, and I didn’t have time to scroll eBay.” He smiled, his eyes tracing over her face. “You like?”
“Yes. Oh my god, yes. What a great idea.” She carefully set the box aside. “You’re the best. Have I told you that lately?”
“Once or twice.” He studied the tree, a smile settling on his face. “Good Christmas.”
“Oh, it’s not done yet, mister. There’s one more.”
Eyes on the empty space under the tree, he murmured. “Do tell.”
“I have one for you that’s not under there.” She rose, stepped over him, and hurried to her purse, nerves causing a shake in her fingers. She felt the same way when she’d given him the baseball drawing in high school.
Carefully lifting the package from her purse, she moved back to him, but didn’t go to her same seat. She cleared a spot and sat on the coffee table so she could watch his face.
“What’s this?”
“Something special. From me to you.” She handed him the gift before she dashed back to her studio to mess with it some more. She could have painted or drawn him many times in the years they’d been together, but she hadn’t. Too emotional, too involved, and positive she wouldn’t get it right. But this one she powered through and hoped against hope that he’d love it.
He took the small gift and studied her face. “There’s a story to this?”
“Oh yeah. You’ll understand when you see it.” She mimed locking her mouth shut.
Again, Mr. Careful, but she didn’t tease him this time. He released the tape on the paper on either end, then removed the frame. It was upside down which prolonged the moment.
He turned over the frame. Surprise crossed his face. He carefully turned the drawing to the light. “It matches my baseball picture.”
“Yes.”
“How?” He stopped, at a loss for words.
