outside to help Brigs dispose of more puppy poo and walk up the lane to check on Brigs’ car and to see if the neighbors are home yet (they aren’t), the cold doesn’t bother me a bit. My heart is a glowing furnace, keeping me warm, and the necklace rests against my chest like it’s always been there.
***
When the darkness starts to fall, bathing the house in twilight, I gather with Brigs in his room with Lachlan and the puppy. Christmas dinner is almost ready, the house smells absolutely amazing, and I’m gearing up to finally try haggis.
We’re also playing with the puppy, whom Brigs has already named “Winter.” I called my brothers back home earlier to wish them a merry Christmas, and while it was so good to hear their voices, it also cut deep to not be with them. But puppies are a quick fix to pain.
“You can’t give the dog a name if you aren’t going to keep it,” Lachlan tells Brigs.
“Sure I can,” Brigs says as he sits his tall frame on the edge of the bed. “You name your shelter dogs all the time. Besides, if it turns out it’s not the neighbor’s dog, then you’re keeping it, not me.”
“What?” Lachlan says as the little fluffball plays with leftover wrapping paper. “The shelter is no place for a dog that young. He needs a home. Training. Complete love.”
“You need to take him,” I tell Brigs. “The little guy already looks up to you. He thinks you’re dad. You just named him for crying out loud.”
Brigs shrugs. “I’ll try again in the morning. Then I have to leave and the dog isn’t coming with me.”
“Well aren’t you just a puppy Scrooge,” I tell him.
He doesn’t seem that phased though I can tell from the way he’s playing with Winter, that he’s far more attached to the white pup than he pretends. I just hope by the time the holiday is over, Winter is reunited with his family or Brigs comes to his senses.
Eventually we make our way downstairs ready for the feast. The kitchen table is prepped with silver candlesticks, elegant cutlery and a range of steaming dishes all laid out on a pristine white tablecloth with red trim. In the middle is a beautiful centerpiece of pine cones, ribbon, holly and fir that I have a hunch Jessica made and arranged herself. She’s a regular old Martha Stewart this one.
We take our seats, Lachlan and I beside each other with George at one end of the table and Brigs at the other. While I’m just wearing a simple black dress and maroon cardigan, my necklace the star of the look, everyone else looks done up. Even Lachlan is wearing a white shirt with no tie, unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of his tattoos.
Jessica leads us into a quick prayer and then it’s time to eat.
I’ve just dolloped out a scoop of mashed potatoes and am thinking about the haggis, which really does look like a type of stuffing, when George says, “Where the hell is the wine? Not even sherry?”
Jessica gives him a placating smile. “We have sparkling apple juice or the mulled wine from IKEA.”
“There’s no alcohol in those,” he says. “You can’t have Christmas without wine. This is ridiculous.”
Donald gets up and grabs George’s glass. “Let me get you some of the sherry, dad,” he says.
“Get me some? Bring the bottle here. There’s two bottles of red in the cupboard by the sherry, bring those too.” He eyes Jessica. “I don’t want to take from my own collection, but I will if I have to. It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake. Yes, his literal sake.”
I flinch while Lachlan has grown still beside me, holding his breath and avoiding eye contact.
I put my hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
He nods. “I’m fine. Really.” He attempts to smile but the pain in his eyes betrays it.
I believe him too, that he will be fine, until Donald comes back with the wine and George insists he pour some for everyone.
“None for me,” Lachlan says quickly, covering his glass.
“Me neither,” I add. “But
***
When the darkness starts to fall, bathing the house in twilight, I gather with Brigs in his room with Lachlan and the puppy. Christmas dinner is almost ready, the house smells absolutely amazing, and I’m gearing up to finally try haggis.
We’re also playing with the puppy, whom Brigs has already named “Winter.” I called my brothers back home earlier to wish them a merry Christmas, and while it was so good to hear their voices, it also cut deep to not be with them. But puppies are a quick fix to pain.
“You can’t give the dog a name if you aren’t going to keep it,” Lachlan tells Brigs.
“Sure I can,” Brigs says as he sits his tall frame on the edge of the bed. “You name your shelter dogs all the time. Besides, if it turns out it’s not the neighbor’s dog, then you’re keeping it, not me.”
“What?” Lachlan says as the little fluffball plays with leftover wrapping paper. “The shelter is no place for a dog that young. He needs a home. Training. Complete love.”
“You need to take him,” I tell Brigs. “The little guy already looks up to you. He thinks you’re dad. You just named him for crying out loud.”
Brigs shrugs. “I’ll try again in the morning. Then I have to leave and the dog isn’t coming with me.”
“Well aren’t you just a puppy Scrooge,” I tell him.
He doesn’t seem that phased though I can tell from the way he’s playing with Winter, that he’s far more attached to the white pup than he pretends. I just hope by the time the holiday is over, Winter is reunited with his family or Brigs comes to his senses.
Eventually we make our way downstairs ready for the feast. The kitchen table is prepped with silver candlesticks, elegant cutlery and a range of steaming dishes all laid out on a pristine white tablecloth with red trim. In the middle is a beautiful centerpiece of pine cones, ribbon, holly and fir that I have a hunch Jessica made and arranged herself. She’s a regular old Martha Stewart this one.
We take our seats, Lachlan and I beside each other with George at one end of the table and Brigs at the other. While I’m just wearing a simple black dress and maroon cardigan, my necklace the star of the look, everyone else looks done up. Even Lachlan is wearing a white shirt with no tie, unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of his tattoos.
Jessica leads us into a quick prayer and then it’s time to eat.
I’ve just dolloped out a scoop of mashed potatoes and am thinking about the haggis, which really does look like a type of stuffing, when George says, “Where the hell is the wine? Not even sherry?”
Jessica gives him a placating smile. “We have sparkling apple juice or the mulled wine from IKEA.”
“There’s no alcohol in those,” he says. “You can’t have Christmas without wine. This is ridiculous.”
Donald gets up and grabs George’s glass. “Let me get you some of the sherry, dad,” he says.
“Get me some? Bring the bottle here. There’s two bottles of red in the cupboard by the sherry, bring those too.” He eyes Jessica. “I don’t want to take from my own collection, but I will if I have to. It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake. Yes, his literal sake.”
I flinch while Lachlan has grown still beside me, holding his breath and avoiding eye contact.
I put my hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
He nods. “I’m fine. Really.” He attempts to smile but the pain in his eyes betrays it.
I believe him too, that he will be fine, until Donald comes back with the wine and George insists he pour some for everyone.
“None for me,” Lachlan says quickly, covering his glass.
“Me neither,” I add. “But
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