“Apparently our friends decided for us.” I open my door before I have to explain further. “Come on. Let’s see what kind of disaster they created.”
The disaster is magnificent.
We stand in the doorway, taking in the scene. Candles cover every available surface—the coffee table, the mantle, the windowsills, the side tables, the floor along the baseboards. Pillar candles, votives, and tea lights in little glass holders. A candelabra I don’t even own, which means someone brought their own to this ambush.
Rose petals are scattered across the heart pine floors in a trail leading toward the kitchen.
And from the Bluetooth speaker on the bookshelf, Etta James is crooning “At Last.”
“Did they buy out every Yankee Candle in a fifty-mile radius?” Jessica asks.
“I think they raided three churches and a spa.”
“Is this romantic, or are we summoning something?”
I walk over to the Bluetooth speaker on the bookshelf. An old iPad is propped next to it—not mine—with the screen still lit. The Spotify playlist is named “Operation: Make Them Talk.”
I turn the iPad to show Jessica. She bursts out laughing—real laughter, the kind that crinkles her eyes and makes her whole face transform. I haven’t heard that sound in weeks.
She moves into the room, carefully stepping around the candles, and approaches a note on the coffee table. She lifts it and reads aloud.
“‘Don’t mess this up. This was a team effort. Grayson may or may not have swiped your key. Sorry not sorry.”
“Ohhh,” I mutter. “He pretended he needed to use the bathroom yesterday. I’m an idiot.”
“‘—Caroline designed your ambiance—’” Jessica gestures at the candle inferno. “‘Amber graciously donated your food, and Hazel provided table linens from the wedding venue. Jo selected your wine, while Mads handled moral support and enthusiasm. I planned everything because none of you children know what you’re doing.’” She looks up. “It’s signed ‘Grandma Hensley’ with a P.S.”
“What’s the P.S.?”
“‘The entire town has money riding on this. Don’t disappoint us.’”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Grayson mentioned. He has money on Christmas.”
“Of course he does.”
Jessica sets down the note and wanders toward the kitchen, following the rose petal trail. I follow as she takes in the old wavy glass in the windows, the way the late afternoon light turns everything golden, and the worn floorboards that creak in places I’ve memorized over decades.
She stops in front of the stove.
“‘Bless your heart, but get out of my kitchen,’” she reads from the hand-painted wooden sign. A smile tugs at her mouth. “I like her already.”
“That sign has been there since 1987. My grandfather tried to help her make Thanksgiving dinner once.Once.”
“Smart woman.”
On the counter are Salty Pearl containers. A handwritten note in Amber’s loopy script provides reheating instructions, complete with underlined warnings about not overcooking the shrimp.
Jessica opens one container, inhales. “Oh, this is the good stuff. Shrimp and grits?”
“Amber’s grandmother’s recipe. She only makes it for special occasions.”
“Is this a special occasion?”
The question lingers. I could deflect and make a joke. Retreat behind the walls I’ve been building since I was ten years old.
Instead, I say, “I want it to be.”
Jessica doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t look away either.
