Page 93
He took the box, the paper crinkling in his hands. He unwrapped it to find a used copy of “Advanced Fire Scene Methodology—Revised Edition.” The book was battered, but the spine looked untouched.
He grinned. “Where did you even find this?”
“I have my ways,” she said, lifting her chin. “Check the cover.”
He flipped it open. On the inside was a note, written in her precise block script:
For Brandon,
Because you never let go of anything until you figure out how it works. Merry Christmas.
—Love DG
He barked a laugh, just once, loud and involuntary. “This is perfect,” he said, and Desiree smiled, letting her hair fall to cover half her face.
His mother caught the exchange, her mouth twitching in a secret smile. She sipped her coffee and shook her head. “I’m just glad you kids are here. Even if you make me feel ancient.”
“I have something for you, too, Mrs. Holloway,” Desire said as she pulled out another package.
His mother’s eyes widened with surprise and delight. “For me? Oh, honey, you didn’t have to.”
Desiree held the package out, suddenly looking shy. “It’s nothing fancy, just something I thought you might like.”
Brandon watched as his mother carefully unwrapped the gift, revealing a beautifully framed photograph of the Sweet Bloom wishing well surrounded by spring bluebonnets. The image captured the essence of their small town perfectly.
“Oh, my goodness,” his mother breathed, bringing the frame closer to her face. “I haven’t seen bluebonnets that thick in years.”
Desiree smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”
Brandon looked around the room—the tree, the photo, and the mess of wrapping paper under the table. He felt something uncoil inside him, a tension he hadn’t realized was there.
They spent the rest of the morning sitting in the living room, telling stories about past Christmases. When they made it through both their childhoods, and the coffee had gone cold, his mother stood up and declared, “I’m going to take a nap before the next round of baking. You two behave or at least don’t burn the house down.” She winked at them, then shuffled down the hallway, humming a carol under her breath.
Brandon and Desiree sat in the quiet, just the ticking of the old clock and the sound of snow starting to tap against the windows.
He looked at her, really looked, and saw the way she belonged there. Not as an outsider, not as a guest, but as part of something that might actually last. He reached over and rested his hand on hers, the gesture unforced and easy.
“Merry Christmas, Desiree,” he said, and she squeezed his fingers back.
“Merry Christmas, Brandon.”
The afternoon cut the wind with a sharper edge than the morning, but Sweet Bloom’s town circle still brimmed with people. It seemed like every kid, grandparent, and retriever in a three-county radius had found their way to the heart of town, boots stamping frost into the dirt as they crowded near the gazebo. From a distance, it looked like a snow globe you could shake by the handful.
Brandon parked the truck behind the station and walked with Desiree to the event. He saw the bandstand first—lit up with strings of LEDs and half a dozen amateur musicians doing their best with “Sleigh Ride” and “Deck the Halls.” The gazebo’s railings were wrapped in green and gold, the town tree rising out of the center, big enough to be seen from the far side of Main Street.
The mayor stood at the base of the gazebo, red-cheeked, in a coat that looked two sizes too small, reciting a list of community sponsors and holiday donors. He paused every so often to wipe his nose and wave at the clusters of families, then called for “a round of applause for our very own Sweet Bloom Fire Department, and the heroes who kept us safe this year.” The crowd clapped, the sound surprisingly loud in the open air.
Brandon and Desiree navigated the press of people, shaking hands and accepting every “Merry Christmas” and “Bless you, Chief” that came their way. Old Ray Calhoun found Brandon, clapped him on the back so hard he almost knocked his breath loose, and said, “Knew you had it in you, boy. Your daddy would’ve been proud.” Brandon grinned and ducked his head, the praise almost stinging, but in a good way.
Miss Ruth from the Cozy Cup grabbed Desiree with both hands, her grip strong as a vise. “You’re a miracle worker,” she gushed, “and if you ever want a cinnamon roll that isn’t ruined by a Holloway, you come see me, honey.”
Desiree laughed, awkward but genuinely pleased, and promised she’d stop by some time soon.
A group of kids from the pageant, still in their makeshift angel wings and tinsel halos, ran by waving a sign painted in big red letters:
THANK YOU CHIEF B AND MISS D.
One of the kids, the youngest, tripped and face-planted in the snow, but popped up unhurt, only more enthusiastic. The crowd cheered.
