He holds the angel over his head as he delivers his speech to an invisible crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, we gather here todayto resurrect this fine, heavenly creature who’s survived more Christmases than any of us combined. Let us give thanks to this magnificent artifact and bestow its Christmas joy onto all of us.”
“Put it down before you break it,” Grant cuts in, his tone dry but his mouth twitching.
Cal snorts, still kneeling on the floor beside me as he works on a knot of lights. “If you break it, you’re gonna have to beg forgiveness for your sins to Richard. Or console Noelle when you make her cry.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up my throat. “Yeah. You don’t want to see that. I’m an ugly crier.”
Dean shoots me a wink before carefully setting the angle on top of the tree. “Ta-da!”
The terrible Christmas movie he eventually puts on the TV as background noise is some overly dramatic romance with fake snow that falls in almost every scene with an animated elf that looks somehow both cheerful and terrifying in every scene it’s in.
Still, I find myself not being able to look away from it as we decorate the tree.
Eventually, Grant sets up the box he’d been carrying earlier when he came into the kitchen, which turns out to be an old record player he’d found under his guest bed.
Old timey Christmas carols play as the soundtrack to the movie.
He then takes over the ladder to string lights across the crown molding around the living room with a precision that would make an engineer proud.
His hands are sure and practiced, his brow furrowed just enough to make him look even more serious than usual.
Dean insists on handling the rest of the ornaments, turning each one into a grand ceremony while hooking them onto the branches. “Ah yes, the sacred ceramic snowman. Circa two-thousand-and-eight, survivor of at least four tree collapses from what I hear. Oh! And here is the straight-out-of-the-cereal-box ice skater circa two-thousand-and-two. The only one of its kind and courtesy of a Kellongs’ campaign gone rogue. ”
I nearly drop a handful of tinsel from laughing too hard.
Meanwhile, Cal stays near me on the floor, untangling the rest of the string lights with the same calm patience he’s had all evening.
His hands are deft and steady, refusing to rush the process.
Every so often, he passes me a cleared section to hand over to Grant, his fingers brushing mine just briefly before retreating again.
The more we work, the more natural this all feels.
The house, once too still and empty when I arrived, begins to fill with the sounds of life and laughter bouncing off the walls.
The fire crackles in the hearth, its glow casting everything in shades of gold and amber.
By the time we’re done, the living room looks transformed.
Garlands hang from the banisters, lights twinkle across the ceiling beams, and the tree, slightly crooked but beautiful, is draped in childhood memories.
I stand back, taking it all in.
For the first time since I left, this house feels alive again.
I can almost picture Dad walking in, his eyes widening at the sight of it all, his tired expression breaking into that quiet, proud smile he always tries to hide whenever he’s overwhelmed with emotions.
The men have gone quiet beside me, their words softening into a kind of silent, collective satisfaction.
Even Dean, who’s been narrating everything like a sportscaster, falls still. We all just stand there for a breath, admiring the work.
“He’s going to love it,” I murmur.
“Where’s the wine?” Dean asks. “We should celebrate.”
I’m already up and moving before he finishes the sentence.
Right as I’m crossing the threshold into the dining room to retrieve the bottle, a gasp startles me.
