Page 19 of All in for Christmas

I learn Sunday breakfast is my time to shine.

I view the carton of eggs on the counter by the stovetop, not sure where to start.

I’ve never made French toast before, though I’ve partaken of it often, slurping up its buttery, high-fat goodness.

So, butter, yes. I set a stick of that on the counter by the stove.

I know it’s got bread. Obviously. Do I toast it first?

No. That would be silly, but maybe prevent it from getting too soggy? I don’t know. I’m no cooking expert.

Truth is, I rarely cook at all. There’s only me typically. So.

Dean walks over and hands me a mug of coffee. “Feeling any better this morning?” He kisses my cheek, and I can’t help liking this domestic bliss. Until it’s my turn to do the cooking. I take a sip of coffee and am jolted awake by the sugar and cream.

“Ah yeah! Yeah, thanks.”

Dean’s got the little ones settled watching whatever it is they watch on TV. I suspect it’s educational, given that both of us work for a school. I’m a bit nervous about going into my job tomorrow, to be honest. Will I flub it up? Make a mess of things?

Doubtful.

It’s more likely I’ll be supremely organized! Yes, that. Assuming I’m here tomorrow again like I am today. At this point, it’s hard to know what to expect.

Dean extracts syrup from a cupboard and sets it down beside me.

“Er. Maybe we should have cereal this morning?” I say.

“Cereal?” He puzzles out the word. “That’s usually for weekdays, but okay. If you’re not feeling up to it—” He tries to remove the frying pan from the stove, but I clamp down on his wrist with my hand. “No, no! I can do this.”

Dean rubs his chin. “It’s not rocket science, you know. It’s just French toast.”

The skillet gleams up at me, questioning my abilities.

“Stop it,” I hiss.

“What’s that?” Dean turns toward me.

“Oh, no.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. Some of it falls forward. Right, layers. “I mean, all’s good! I wasn’t talking to you. I was addressing the—skillet.”

“The skillet?” He screws up his face and picks out a spatula from a utensil jar nearby. He holds in under his chin like a microphone. “Mr. Skillet,” he addresses the frying pan. “The public would like to have your thoughts on breakfast.”

“Oh stop!” I swat his arm but I’m laughing.

He hands me the spatula and shrugs. “I can take over if you’d like. I really don’t mind.”

He’s being so sweet, but I’m sure I can do this one thing. I mean, come on.

It’s only French toast.

I turn the burner on high. The French toast I’ve had always has a nice crisp patina.

Whisk up some eggs. Dump out several slices of precut bread and lay them on the counter in an orderly fashion.

Unwrap a whole stick of butter. I mean, we are four people.

Toss it in. Heavens! It sizzles! Splatters! Flames!

“Fire!”

The smoke detector wails and wails and wails and I yank the skillet off the burner, the melty pool of burnt sludge hissing at me.

Dean rushes into the kitchen through the cloud of black smoke. “What happened?”

Eleanor and Henry stand in the doorway. Scout’s with them.

The three of them have wrinkled up their noses.

Even the dog, I swear. Fact is it does not smell delicious in here.

It smells burnt. Dean throws open a window.

Hits the smoke detector with a broom handle. Shoos the kids away and turns to me.

I stand there by the stove and see it’s glowing, purple flames circling the gas burner. I lunge forward and turn it off. Wince at Dean.

“Ahh, want me to take over?” he offers.

“No.” I lick my lips and act like I planned this. “Just warming up.”

“Uh-huh.”

I put my hands on his back and gently push him out of the kitchen.

I will not be bested by some stupid skillet and a stove!

No! I run over to my phone to look up cooking instructions for French toast. Crap.

It’s still dead. Then I spy something unusual.

A row of hardcover cookbooks, the sort my mom never used to have.

Although I’ve seen them on television, and naturally for sale in stores.

I may not be super-duper experienced in the kitchen, but I’m, at long last, a decent reader.

I delve into my kitchen library and start again.

“Paige,” Dean says appreciatively, “I think this is the best French toast you’ve ever made.” We’re seated around the kitchen table and breakfast is almost over. After my initial false start, I did better the second go-round.

I beam proudly. “Thanks!” The kids are scraping their plates. Reading directions wasn’t that hard. I’d have thought of that earlier if I’d been more organized. Eeep. What’s happening to me?

Dean stares at my white-knuckled hold on my fork. “Everything all right?”

“Oh! Yes. Absolutely.” I square my shoulders.

“Glad you like the French toast.” I enjoyed it quite a bit myself, having had four pieces.

I relax my grip, set down my fork. It’s not like I need it any longer anyway.

My plate is empty. Oh, wait. Except for that last, syrup-drenched nibble.

I stab it with my fork and gobble it up.

This recipe really is to die for. It’s got a touch of vanilla in the egg batter and the finished product is dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon.

The doorbell rings and I jump. Stare down at my bare legs and fluffy fur-lined slippers under the table. With my prolonged cooking efforts, I’ve neglected to change out of the big T-shirt I slept in. Dean checks his watch. “That must be your mom and Roger.”

He’s not dressed either, though slightly more presentable than I am. Eleanor scoots out of her chair and races to the advent calendar, nabbing the fabric poinsettia out of its pocket for Day Twenty-One. “Can I put this up?” She clearly fears she’ll miss her opportunity otherwise.

Dean nods hurriedly and scoops Henry out of his booster seat. “I’ll get the door,” he tells me. “You go and change, then we’ll switch.”

“What about all this?” I survey the messy kitchen. Dirty dishes, bowls, and utensils are everywhere.

“We’ll pick up later,” he says, holding Henry in one arm.

Eleanor huffs loudly because we’ve forgotten about her standing there.

Dean and I both stare at the child and say, “Yes!”

She presses the poinsettia to the felt Christmas tree near the bottom of the advent calendar, which is about as high as she can reach, and I scoot past her out of the kitchen, scurrying back toward the bedroom, when I see Mom peering through the glass panel in the front door.

I change quickly into a sweater and jeans, forgoing my shower until later, run a brush through my hair, and emerge in the living room to spell Dean.

He’s visiting in the entryway with Mom and Roger as they peel off their coats. Through the window by the rocker, I see they’ve left open umbrellas on the porch. Eleanor and Henry watch Scout busily sniff Roger, who keeps trying to push his doggie nose away from several strategic areas.

“Mom, hi!” I rush toward her and give her a hug while Roger holds their coats.

“Darling,” she says, “so good of you to have us over.”

Dean takes their coats from Roger to hang in the coat closet, and I smile at the older man with a reddish beard and hair. He looks younger than Mom but not by much. One of his cheeks is scarred and he’s got another narrow scar by one of his bushy eyebrows. “Roger, I’m Paige. So nice to meet you.”

He smiles with uneven teeth. “Same.”

A man of few words. Okay.

I shoot Mom the side-eye, but she doesn’t respond.

Roger lifts something off the entry table he’d apparently set down earlier. He hands a big leafy plant with bright red petals to me. Green foil covers its flowerpot. I glance at Dean.

He raises his eyebrows, but it’s probably just to humor me.

“What a beautiful poinsettia!” I turn to Roger and Mom. “Thank you.”

Dean points to the back hall. “I’ll just go and, um, change.”

Mom seems to notice for the first time that the kids are still in pajamas. “Did we come too early?” She checks the clock on the bookshelf. It’s a quarter past ten.

“Not at all,” I tell her. “Please come on in and have a seat.”

As she walks past me she leans closer and whispers, “Looks like everything’s all better?”

“What?”

“You know.” She keeps her voice down and darts a glance at the hall. “Between you and Dean?”

“Oh, uh. Yeah.” I can’t help being deflated by her question. When I confessed my time-travel troubles to her over lunch, she clearly didn’t believe me, chalking up my distress to more mundane marital woes. I point toward the kitchen. “I’ll just—go start a fresh pot of coffee.”

Dean pokes his head back into the living room from the hall. “Might want to grab some of those Christmas cookies from the freezer, too.” His sunny smile sparkles and Mom gives me a satisfied look.

“Mm-hmm,” she says, taking a seat beside Roger on the love seat.

“Christmas cookies,” I repeat. “Right!”

Dean beams at my mom and Roger. “Paige and the kids made some really yummy ones.”

“Ooh,” Mom says. “Sounds great!”

Roger rubs his thick hands together and nods.

When I open the tin from the freezer, I can hardly believe my eyes.

There are snickerdoodles smelling deliciously of nutmeg, slightly lopsided gingerbread people releasing heady bursts of ginger and spice into the air, and chocolate-dipped pretzel sticks with green and red sprinkles on them.

Some sort of white chocolate covered sandwich cookie, too.

Each one of those has two chocolate coated candies on top, one red and one green.