varying sizes, stacked close
together, each one labeled Christmas in his mother’s
clear, rounded hand.
“There are so many.” Belle sounded thrilled.
“Yeah.” He felt ridiculously proud of himself, as if he was
responsible for all this stuff. He explained, “My mom was really big on
Christmas. She always had a twelve-foot tree in the front hall. And then she had
miles of garland and lights for outside and in. And a manger scene. And little
snow scenes and angels with trumpets. I swear she covered every flat surface in
this house with some kind of Christmassy thing or other.”
Belle was watching him, her eyes so dark and deep. “You never
said how old you were when she died....”
“Nine.”
“So sad.” She watched him kind of hopefully, like she wanted
him to say more.
Why not? “It was a freak riding accident. Her horse got spooked
and threw her. She hit her head. Died instantly.” He stared at the stacks of
boxes. “My dad never had the heart to get all this stuff down again after
that.”
“Oh, Preston. You haven’t had Christmas since you were
nine?”
He gave her a shrug and a wry smile to show her it wasn’t that bad. “Sure, we did. The old man’s a good dad. He
went out the next year and bought a fake tree and some new decorations. We used
those until I was eighteen or so. And then it got seeming a little bit silly,
him and me and our fake Christmas tree.”
She gazed out over all the boxes and made a small, worried
sound. “Will it be hard for you—and your father—to decorate the house with these
things of your mother’s?”
He shook his head. “Naw. The old man’s pretty up front about
what he likes and what he doesn’t, about what bothers him, in case you haven’t
noticed.”
She chuckled. “You’re right. He’s quite direct. I have noticed.”
“If he didn’t want us to use all this stuff, he would have said
so.”
“And you? How do you feel about
it?”
“Good. It’s different now that there’s Ben. Ben is...” He
paused, seeking the right words. “Ben brings it home, what Christmas is all
about. And with you and Charlotte here, it makes the whole thing even more
special, you know?”
“Special.” She was still watching him. “I’m so glad you feel
that way.”
All of a sudden, he was kind of embarrassed. He grunted and
said gruffly, “I’m only saying it’s a good time to haul out all the decorations
and do it up right.”
“I’m glad.” She said it again, so quietly. Like it was a
secret. Just between the two of them. The bare bulb overhead cast her face in
shadow, put a bronze gleam on her hair.
He thought about her, about her real life. What did he know of
the life of a princess? “You won’t be home for Christmas this year.”
“No, I won’t.”
“I’ll bet your family misses you.”
“We’re all grown up now. We can’t all be together all of the
time. But yes, they miss me. And I think of them often.”
“You have a tree at the palace in Montedoro?”
She lifted her chin. Those fine eyes gleamed up at him.
“Several. Although I don’t live at the palace anymore, not since I returned from
college here in America. I have my own villa. I travel a lot for my work. When
I’m at home, I like having my own place.”
“A villa...” He tried to picture her there, surrounded by palm
trees, maybe on a terrace, with a view of some exotic, deep blue sea....
It made him feel rough and uncultured. Beneath her.
She said, “My father...he had a difficult childhood. My
grandfather, his father, wasn’t a nice man.”
“The one with the ranch near San Antonio, right?”
“Yes. The ranch called Bravo Ridge. My grandfather, James
Bravo, had seven sons. And all but one—the oldest, my uncle Davis—left home by
the age of eighteen. They left to get away from Grandfather James, who was both
verbally and physically abusive. My grandmother, my father’s mother, walked
around in a daze most of the time, my father always said. They never
together, each one labeled Christmas in his mother’s
clear, rounded hand.
“There are so many.” Belle sounded thrilled.
“Yeah.” He felt ridiculously proud of himself, as if he was
responsible for all this stuff. He explained, “My mom was really big on
Christmas. She always had a twelve-foot tree in the front hall. And then she had
miles of garland and lights for outside and in. And a manger scene. And little
snow scenes and angels with trumpets. I swear she covered every flat surface in
this house with some kind of Christmassy thing or other.”
Belle was watching him, her eyes so dark and deep. “You never
said how old you were when she died....”
“Nine.”
“So sad.” She watched him kind of hopefully, like she wanted
him to say more.
Why not? “It was a freak riding accident. Her horse got spooked
and threw her. She hit her head. Died instantly.” He stared at the stacks of
boxes. “My dad never had the heart to get all this stuff down again after
that.”
“Oh, Preston. You haven’t had Christmas since you were
nine?”
He gave her a shrug and a wry smile to show her it wasn’t that bad. “Sure, we did. The old man’s a good dad. He
went out the next year and bought a fake tree and some new decorations. We used
those until I was eighteen or so. And then it got seeming a little bit silly,
him and me and our fake Christmas tree.”
She gazed out over all the boxes and made a small, worried
sound. “Will it be hard for you—and your father—to decorate the house with these
things of your mother’s?”
He shook his head. “Naw. The old man’s pretty up front about
what he likes and what he doesn’t, about what bothers him, in case you haven’t
noticed.”
She chuckled. “You’re right. He’s quite direct. I have noticed.”
“If he didn’t want us to use all this stuff, he would have said
so.”
“And you? How do you feel about
it?”
“Good. It’s different now that there’s Ben. Ben is...” He
paused, seeking the right words. “Ben brings it home, what Christmas is all
about. And with you and Charlotte here, it makes the whole thing even more
special, you know?”
“Special.” She was still watching him. “I’m so glad you feel
that way.”
All of a sudden, he was kind of embarrassed. He grunted and
said gruffly, “I’m only saying it’s a good time to haul out all the decorations
and do it up right.”
“I’m glad.” She said it again, so quietly. Like it was a
secret. Just between the two of them. The bare bulb overhead cast her face in
shadow, put a bronze gleam on her hair.
He thought about her, about her real life. What did he know of
the life of a princess? “You won’t be home for Christmas this year.”
“No, I won’t.”
“I’ll bet your family misses you.”
“We’re all grown up now. We can’t all be together all of the
time. But yes, they miss me. And I think of them often.”
“You have a tree at the palace in Montedoro?”
She lifted her chin. Those fine eyes gleamed up at him.
“Several. Although I don’t live at the palace anymore, not since I returned from
college here in America. I have my own villa. I travel a lot for my work. When
I’m at home, I like having my own place.”
“A villa...” He tried to picture her there, surrounded by palm
trees, maybe on a terrace, with a view of some exotic, deep blue sea....
It made him feel rough and uncultured. Beneath her.
She said, “My father...he had a difficult childhood. My
grandfather, his father, wasn’t a nice man.”
“The one with the ranch near San Antonio, right?”
“Yes. The ranch called Bravo Ridge. My grandfather, James
Bravo, had seven sons. And all but one—the oldest, my uncle Davis—left home by
the age of eighteen. They left to get away from Grandfather James, who was both
verbally and physically abusive. My grandmother, my father’s mother, walked
around in a daze most of the time, my father always said. They never
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