Page 76 of When in December
She shrugged. “And you could’ve done all this. It just takes some thought.”
“I would’ve ruined it.”
“Like I didn’t?” She giggled. “They’re kids. That’s what’s great about planning for them. They won’t remember whether they baked the cookies perfectly or if they came out with burned edges. They won’t remember that their mom dumped them here.”
No, the two kids wouldn’t remember how crazed I was when they first arrived or when they sat looking like they were being punished in my living room. They’d remember the way they laughed whenever the gingerbread house fell and they had to piece it back together with more icing, like an unshapely shack. They’d probably wouldn’t remember how the entire thing had looked so unlike the ideal holiday vision I had seen jotted down and displayed through the homemaker’s plans. They would, however, probably remember how clear it was that the perfect homemaker couldn’t bake, charring the gingerbread to a crisp.
I wondered if she could even cook anything besides boiled water.
I smirked, oddly pleased at finding some kind of flaw in this woman who had infiltrated my life over the past few weeks. Before, I thought maybe it was her stubbornness or that she was constantly cold and wearing cheery, ruffled socks. I thought it was how she dramatic nearly all the time, but especially when she was excited. Yet, every time I thought I found a flaw, I decided, in the end when the room was completed to her exact specifications or when she plopped down on the couch in the afternoon for a snack that she never cooked herself looking the picture of cozy, it wasn’t one.
I couldn’t find one flaw.
“At least there wasn’t another tragic ginger cookie roof collapse.”
She smiled. “There is that. I can’t say I had hoped it would have gone better. Can you?”
A truck pulled up into the driveway. Another delivery? I swore there wasn’t supposed to be one today.
“What’s going on there?”
Standing up, she brushed herself off. “Tree.”
“A what?”
“Well, I figured they couldn’t start celebrating without a tree.” Poppy shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And you aren’t the only one who can pull some strings to make this house come together.”
I stared, walking after her. The kids noticed the delivery, too, and rushed back toward the house, where a man was pulling out a large pine from the back of his truck.
“How?”
She pursed her lips. “I have my ways, Aaron Hayes. Did you really underestimate me on this?”
I shouldn’t on anything. Ever again.
“The decorations are in the hall closet,” she said, a minor direction I easily followed as we raced to head inside.
For the first time, I didn’t think any of us were unhappy to be at the cabin.
“Come on.” I motioned for Oz.
His head was cradled between his dark paws on the edge of my bed. I threw the fresh comforter back as I got it ready for the kids.
He grumbled at me.
I tried to make him get off the bed to start when he started to climb in with me most nights, but after so many days of working with Poppy the past week, I wasn’t willing to exert any more energy, fighting a battle with him. Now, he thought all the spaces were his.
I was surprised Poppy didn’t mind the dog staking his claim. Instead, she took out a lint roller from seemingly nowhere and started silently swiping away the fur Oz left behind every time he moved.
That was entertaining in and of itself.
By the time everyone was here for the holiday next week, everything would be in place, including the two, small guest rooms for my sister, her husband, and the kids to share. For now, I wasn’t letting the two of them on the couch.
Oz didn’t move.
“Come on, Oz. You can’t sleep here tonight,” I told him, bending down to look at him. “Time for bed. I know I’ve been nice, but the kids are sleeping here. You can’t.”
Breathing in, the dog let out a heavy huff. He still didn’t budge.