And once she was gone, so were our holiday celebrations.
Feeling a wave of nostalgia, I look at him.“Do you mind?”
He tips his head to one side.“If it makes you happy.”
“This place is ridiculous,” I say, grinning once we’re inside, surrounded by the scent of pine and the festive ho-ho-hos coming from animated Santas.
Even as I say that, I’m already walking toward the nearest tree.
Glass ornaments shimmer everywhere—angels, snowflakes, stockings, elves, shining stars.
Then I see it.
A small ornament shaped like a globe, painted in ted soft yellow and green.Across the front, delicate script reads: Baby’s First Christmas.
My breath catches.
Dante appears beside me and follows my gaze.
Though he looks at me, he says nothing.Then he gently lifts it from the branch.The ornament is unbelievably fragile in his strong grip.
“Dante…” I can scarcely breathe.“Really, you don’t need?—”
“We’ll take this,” he tells the clerk who’s suddenly nearby.
After she wraps it carefully in tissue and places it in a small white bag, he takes it from her.
My chest feels strangely tight as we step back out onto the street.
“It matters to you.”He says the words simply.
“I…” Yes.It does.And suddenly I’m thinking about trees, and laughter, and hot cocoa with my children.
What this man does to me…
We continue on, window shopping, browsing, passing the time like any other ordinary couple.
Which we’re not.
Even though I’d like to pretend otherwise, there’s a slow-moving SUV keeping pace with us, and soldiers shadowing our every move.
“Are you hungry?”he asks when we’ve walked the entire length of the tourist area, and back again.
“I shouldn’t be.”The coffee and the crepe should have kept me going until the morning, but I can’t help but glance down the street.
“I understand Fredericksburg is famous for its German food.”
The restaurant on the corner seems to embrace its heritage completely.
White tablecloths cover the patio tables, lanterns glow softly above them, and the scent of grilled sausage and roasted onions drifts into the evening air.Laughter spills from the open windows while servers move between tables carrying enormous plates of schnitzel and potato salad.“You talked me into it.How about we go there?”
He studies the building for a moment, assessing ingress and egress points.Counting windows.
The same calculations I find myself making automatically as well.
Evidently satisfied, he nods once.
The host seats us outside, on a second, back patio, beneath a string of warm lights that sway gently in the breeze, at the table that Moretti selects.Nearby a guitarist plays something slow and country-soft.
