Absinthe & Angels
“Aproper reading of Dickens requires absinthe,” Michael says as he lifts his glass. “The nectar of the muses.”
Ava shakes her head. “There’s no way anyone could drink this and still write.”
“All those old writers did. How do you think they penned prose like this?” He lifts the book and reads a few lines from the arrival of the first ghost. “Trust me. That required chemical intervention.”
“Just tell me our Christmas tree isn’t actually on fire,” she says.
He chuckles. “Nope, just your brain.” He refills her glass. “Unless the tree really is on fire, andI’mhallucinating that it’snot.”
She tugs out her gifts, saying, “Just in case,” and he laughs and kisses her cheek before he resumes reading.
The absinthe isn’t actually so bad. It makes things clearer, sharper…and occasionally weirder. Nothing wrong with a little head tripping for the holidays.
Ava takes another sip and rolls onto her side to watch Michael readA Christmas Carol. Her favorite holiday story, proving perhaps that she does indeed enjoy the weird. But rightnow, the words float past, and she just watches him as she basks in the warmth of the fire and the gift he’s given her.
Whatever is in the boxes under the tree, they aren’t her real presents. This is. Her perfect holiday getaway.
Start with a cabin in the snow. It can’t be some resort-property cottage, either. Out here, their nearest neighbor is a mile away. They’re even far enough from the road that they’d never have made it without four-wheel drive.
No neighbors. No Wi-Fi. No cell service. Just peace and quiet.
The isolation is Michael’s way of making this holiday season easier on her. As a child, Ava had wonderful family Christmases. Even after Dad took off, Mom held it together, especially at the holidays. Now Mom’s gone, stolen by cancer two months ago, and Ava’s brother Jory called last month to say he wouldn’t be flying home for Christmas.
So Michael gave her this—a quiet cabin ten miles from the ski chalet where their friends are staying.
It’s Christmas Eve; snow is falling; the fire’s blazing; absinthe is making her head spin, and her fiancé is readingA Christmas Carol.
It doesn’t get better than that.
Ava looks out the window. As snow swirls through the darkness, she envisions a moonlit stroll through the woods, the perfect cap for their evening. Maybe even more than a stroll, if it isn’t too cold.
She smiles at the thought and sips her drink and watches the dancing snow and imagines endless evergreens laced in white. Their own private winter wonderland. When Michael pauses to turn the page, she thinks she hears…music? Singing?
Oh, angels we have heard on high…
Angels or absinthe, singing through her veins.
Michael raises his voice to play the part of Scrooge and then lowers it for?—
A sharp rap sounds, and Ava jumps, absinthe spilling. Michael frowns at the cabin door.
“Did you hear…?” he says.
She nods, clutching her glass.
“A bird?” Michael says as he gets to his feet.
When he heads for the door, Ava scrambles up and grabs him. “Don’t. Please.”
He lifts his brows. “Pretty sure it’s not the Ghost of Christmas Past. And if it is, it must be for you. I’ve been a very good boy.”
He smiles, and she relaxes her hold on his sleeve. “Just…be careful.”
He continues toward the door. “Let’s lay bets. A bird or the wind?”
The rap comes again, and this time there is no mistaking it for bird or wind. It’s three distinct raps, knuckles on wood.
