By the time five o’clock rolled around and her boss insisted she leave early toenjoy her Christmas, she was in the foulest mood she’d ever experienced. On the walk home, she nearly ran into a lamppost that had burned out, which caused her to sidestep into a darkened puddle of slush.
When she finally trudged through her apartment’s door, boots wet and coat too warm, she was so lost in her own misery that she didn’t notice it at first.
The lights.
The smells.
The music.
“What…?” she said, but couldn’t get out anything else, because her apartment had been completely transformed into a winter wonderland.
No, into ahomewonderland.
“Hey, you’re early!” Lola said, scooting out of their small kitchen with an apron tied around her waist.
“I’m early,” Brighton said dreamily, taking off her scarf, her mouth still hanging open. “Lola, what is all this?”
Lola grinned, spread her hands, which were both covered in bright green oven mitts with holly berries printed all over them. “I’m taking you home for Christmas.”
Brighton felt her eyes fill, her throat close up. She looked around at their apartment, which was completely covered in all manner of Christmas lights and paraphernalia. They’d only decorated moderately after Thanksgiving, since they’d be going back to Michigan for Christmas. They hadn’t even gotten a tree, as getting a real tree into a Boston apartment was quite a feat and Brighton couldn’t stomach a fake one that came in a box.
Still, now, there was a tree in the corner of their living room. Real, going by the piney scent, and it was covered in a mix of white and colored lights, just like Brighton’s family tree at home. There were also stockings—red with white trim—hanging over their little gas fireplace and lights draped over the mantel, the window frame, the entertainment center. Little knickknacks were set up on the coffee table and bookshelves, dotting nearly every free space throughout the apartment. Nothing was familiar, so Lola must have gone out and bought every single piece, but they still made the space feel homey and cozy, like Brighton had always had that green glass Christmas tree that lit up in different colors on the end table.
There was music on too, even though Lola hated most Christmas music. Ella Fitzgerald’sElla Wishes You a Swinging Christmasby the sound of it, an album that pretty much played on repeat in the Fairbrook house from December first onward.
“Is that…?” Brighton asked, stepping toward the kitchen. “Do I smell duck?”
Lola grinned. “You do.”
“With cranberry curry sauce?”
Lola just smiled even bigger.
“Babe,” Brighton said, “what did you do?”
“I got your mom’s recipes,” Lola said, shrugging. “And I cooked.”
“You cooked.”
“I cooked.”
Bright just blinked, still processing.
“Okay, with your mom’s help,” Lola said. “I’ve been on the phone with her pretty much all afternoon.” A timer sounded, and Lola gasped, turning around and dashing back into the kitchen. “My pie!”
“Your…your pie?” Brighton followed her into the kitchen, which was warm, the air muzzy with spices and sugar.
And a total disaster.
Every inch of the countertops was covered, every bowl they owned utilized and dirty and piled in the sink. And there was duck. Right there in a pan sitting on the stove. It was a little more well done than Bonnie’s ducks, but it wasthere. It existed, along with Bonnie’s famous cranberry curry glaze. And there were green beans—a bit soggy looking—and sour cream and sweet potato pie, fresh out of the oven, the top a little charred.
It was flawed and messy, and it was for her.
It was perfect.
“Lola,” she said.
“Oh, shoot, I cooked it too long,” Lola said, setting the pie on the cooling rack. “But I did it for thirty minutes, just like your mom…Oh, shit, the oven was on four hundred! It was supposed to be on three-fifty.”
