Ahead of us, Grandma is radiant, making up for all the emotions I’m attempting to strangle. Kaia has a little more pep in her step. And up front with Felix, Marilou sings off-key on purpose to make him laugh, wearing baby Adrian in a sling.
“Psst,” Hall whispers again.
I ignore him. I know what he’s up to—he’s only trying to put me in a good mood, and I won’t have it.
He leans in. Murmurs in my ear, “I’ve got a hamster in my pocket.”
My head swings. “You what?”
He slides a thumb into his pocket, stretching the fabric enough for a small, furry head to poke out, as well as two tiny paws.
There is a hamster. In his pocket.
I stare at him in exasperation. He grins, eyes lit up, andoh, what a nasty trick—I grin back, shaking my head.
“You’re something else.”
“I know. Her name is Hildy. You’ll take good care of her, won’t you?”
“Don’t you dare saddle me with a hamster.”
“Look! She loves you.” He raises her up to give my cheek a kiss, then stows her away again in his pocket. Damn, now I’m in a good mood against my will, and this is very unkind of him, and so very unfair. But it’s too late now, our arms brushing as we walk past Cheers Chocolatiers and its vintage mural of an apple-cheeked young woman in a bonnet and yellow summer dress, tasting a chocolate. Silver Mine Dining is aglow, plates and forks jangling in the kitchen as the back door opens and closes behind one of its workers, who walks briskly into the alley to throw out garbage. The roads are lined with lamps tied up with big red bows, old-fashioned clocks on posts, wreaths and multicolored lights. The sky’s silver-white with snow, bright without any sun, the shadows of houses falling across us in stripes long before we pass them.
Teller City is a strange little place for the great Bettie Watson to end up in. Small, charming, and utterly normal, just like Grandpa’s personality, with a long-closed Coca-Cola plant and a dance studio whose sign readsnow dance away, dance away, dance away, all!Surrounding mountains like enormous chunks of rough white howlite, jagged edges scraping the sky. Neighbors are delighted to be serenaded, opening their doors as we pass by in our discordant parade. Some wave and shout our names. Some get out their cameras. A man who is probably college age proclaims his love for my grandmother, who laughs when Grandpa jokingly rolls up his sleeves to square up. Mary from Mary Had a Little Boutique waves at me, and an image strikes me out of nowhere, unbidden: my strange little cards on her store’s shelves, next to homemade soap and mittens. A description tag scrawled withArtisanal greeting cards by local artist Bettie Hughes.
I can see the image so clearly in my mind that I pause for a moment, committing it to memory. Hall glances at me and follows my gaze, not seeing what I’m seeing, but something in my expression makes him smile. I fold up the thought and tuck it into my pocket for later.
On we go, past the market, the bookshop, the post office, singing “The Holly and the Ivy.” Hall, without my knowledge, has slipped elsewhere into our group, leaving me shoulder to shoulder between my sisters. Kaia throws an arm around me as she sings, pushing me over to Athena, who nudges me back toward Kaia, in a game we used to play when we were kids, walking together. I’d forgotten how it feels to be on the inside of that club again.
I study Kaia, realizing I’ve been looking out at her from a distance for a long time, seeing her as less real than she is. ThenAthena’s self-conscious mumbling gives way to a top-of-her-lungs spectacle, which makes me smile, genuinely, and I’m overcome with a strange, earnest tug to do the same. This persona we’ve all adopted, that we don’t care, that we’re untouchable, is a protective second skin that we maybe don’t take off often enough. Maybe if I let my persona rest around family now and again, they’ll feel safe enough to do so, as well.
“Have we ever gone caroling before?” Mom asks. “I feel like we have.”
“I did in a movie,” Grandma replies.“A Very Warren Christmas.”
“We’ve never gone caroling,” Felix says.
“Well, I think we should do this every Christmas,” adds Mom, who doesn’t like the spotlight but is happy to be part of a pack.
“But you’ll have to go carolinghere,” Grandpa tells her with an authoritative nod. “Where there’s snow.”
Dad shocks everyone by suggesting, “Next year we’ll all fly out to visit my parents and surprise them with caroling. Have you ever been to England, Hall?”
“Yes.” But not in person.
“It’s the loveliest country,” Mom declares. Dad throws her an amused look, as Mom has never visited England without complaining about the weather. “You two could even get married there!”
Neither Hall nor I say anything.
We pour past the Blue Moose Café, past my gingerbread town house, which is starting to grow on me, Teller City Trading Company, clanging our bells, shouting to the heavens, singing theHallpart of “Deck the Halls” extra loud. Then we sing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” and Hall changesyou’d better watch out, you’d better not crytoyou’d Bettie watch out, you’d Bettie not cry.
I slip my hand in his. “Your hands are probably cold. Thought I should keep one of them warm.” I clear my throat. “I’m very chivalrous like that.”
“You’re a saint.” He laces our fingers together. “Hmm. Is your cheek cold?”
“It’s all right.”
“Because if so, I was thinking that I should probably kiss it,” he ventures. “For warmth.”
