A rapturous applause erupts throughout the room. The sweat stops and the lump subsides. I ease back into my body and this exquisite moment. For once, faces staring back at me are all in support, not looking to tear me down.
“This year’s theme is Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Hector Martinez and I came to this idea through a mutual love ofA Christmas Carolby Charles Dickens.” There are numerous nods of recognition and adoration. “I hope you enjoyed the walk down memory lane. The tree, generously donated by the Bishop Family Farm, with its display of presents reminds usthe presentis the most important present of all. And the projection photo op was created in part with Let’s Get LIT Productions in New York City.
“Before we move on to the food, brought to you by local hot spot A Very Fine Vine, I’d like to turn the microphone over to Patricia Myerson, president of the Small Business Association, to give you a bit of background about what they do for your—our—community and how your donations will help,” I say.
Patricia takes the mic with a wide smile. Hector and I find our table with the other young people who preferred not to be seated with their parents. Noelle looks amazing in a romper and cardigan combo. She’s wearing the dangly snowflake earrings she wore on the first day I met her. That feels like a little infinity ago. I’m so happy to know her now.
“For you,” she whispers as she pulls out the chair next to her. Hector claims the seat on the other side of me. “This place looks stunning!”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Hector better not hog you all night. Save me a dance later?” she asks.
“I think you might have your own dance partner,” I say, nodding toward the double doors across the way. Siena stands there clearly trying not to make her demure glances so obvious. Noelle fights a smile, while squeezing my elbow.
We all tune back in to what Patricia is saying. Hector finds my hand under the table.
This night couldn’t get any better.
Chapter 32
After the dessert plates are cleared, the children’s choir does their annual performance, followed by the swing band again with a slower set to round out the evening. I meet Mom over by the bar where I ask for the signature cocktail, a Christmas Mule (the secret is a splash of cranberry juice and the cheapest vodka imaginable).
“It goes without saying that I’m proud of you, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m proud of you,” she coos uncharacteristically, ruffling my fluffy hair. The simple act is transportive. For a second, I’m the kid from the photo in the hallway again.
“It’s nothing like what your publisher throws.”
“No, you’re right,” she says. When my eyebrows go up, she adds, “It’s better.It’s better because it’s personal. There’s so much of you and your passions in this place. I–I wish I had seen this in you sooner. I’d have had you do all my book launches.”
I cackle at that even though her bevy of compliments is more than welcome. After years of negative press, it’s nice to hear encouragement straight from her plum-colored lips.
“No, seriously. You have an eye for design and detail.” She fiddles with her sparkly clutch, overwhelmed but I can’t tell by what specifically. “I was wrong for pushing you into NYU when you so clearly had a talent going unnoticed. I guess I always thought your parties were about likes and comments. It never occurred to me that they could mean something more.”
Based on her questionable tone, I decide not to mention my mini revelation. I’ll go to Nan in my own time and on my own terms. I take a sip of my drink out of the plastic, faux-copper mugs Christina happily helped us get.
“Though I was interested to find out that, according to a Pierce Brosnan–looking man in a white jacket, I’m delivering the commencement speech for Havensmith College next spring,” she says.
“I meant to tell you about that…” I give her an innocent shrug as her nervous tic intensifies. Her fabric clutch is nothing but a ball in her hands.
“Did you get a chance to look through all the photos out in the entryway?” I ask, attempting to pull her out of her head. I’ve never seen her this flighty before. She prides herself on public composure. Part of the reason why even I, her son, never know what she’s thinking.
I suppose returning to your hometown after so long will do that to a person—dig up old habits—so I grant her the grace of a distraction.
She nods sharply. “I did. It was a throwback I wasn’t expecting.”
I can’t tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing. “It was a lot of work, but I think it paid off. People seemed to enjoy it. I think it reminded everyone how magical Wind River can be around the holidays.”
I pause, giving Mom the space to agree and validate what I’ve come to know, but instead she briskly says, “Would you like to come home with me tonight? Oksana will do cinnamon buns tomorrow morning.”
I don’t answer right away. I knew this possibility was coming, but somewhere inside my head I’d convinced myself I’d fuck this up like I’ve fucked up countless times before. This gala was destined to be yet another misfortune brought upon the Prince family name. Yet somehow, someway, with a little help and a lot of heart, I aced the assignment.
Except this isn’t the prize I once thought it to be.
“Your father and I want to do Christmas right this year.” Mom’s tone is persuasive. “You don’t need to decide right this second. Maxim should be here in about an hour. Take your time.” Though I’m not sure how much patience she’s willing to spare. She hastily kisses my forehead and I notice her sight line land on Arthur across the way. He’s standing alone, shuffling to the music. “Come find me when you know.”
I can’t help but allow my eyes to follow her over to him. The bag-squishing halts, and her supernova shine intensifies in his presence. I think about my own supernova shine, and the way it intensifies each time I’m beside Hector.
Hector. Hector. Hector.
