Page 22 of Christmas Treasures (Sugarville Grove #6)

CHARLIE

C harlie lit the last of the candles just as headlights swept across the front windows.

Her stomach fluttered—more nerves than excitement—but she didn’t have time to dissect it.

She’d invited Max and Bianca for dinner before she could talk herself out of it.

She hadn’t seen them since the cookie party two days before, and she found she missed them more than she’d thought possible.

She’d dressed comfortably in a red cashmere sweater and loose jeans and left her hair down. Max had mentioned how much he liked it down, and for some dumb reason, that had been forefront in her mind as she dried her hair and put on her makeup.

Her father’s baked ziti was in the oven. Garlic knots were rising on the counter. A winter salad waited in the refrigerator. The house smelled good. Like home. Why did it always smell better when one cooked for someone else?

She opened the door before Max could knock. And there he was, grinning at her, looking like a hero in a country song. Bianca stood beside him, bundled in her coat and hat, smiling shyly at her .

“Hey, guys.” She backed out of the way to let them inside her foyer. “Welcome.”

They stepped inside, shrugging off coats and stomping snow from their boots onto the floor mat. “I brought wine.” Max held up a bottle to show her.

“I made this for you.” Bianca said it in slow, careful English, clearly having practiced.

She held out a folded piece of paper. Charlie crouched to take it, unfolding a drawing of the three of them standing in front of a crooked Christmas tree, cookies scattered at their feet and hearts floating above their heads.

Charlie’s throat tightened. “I love it. Can I hang it on my fridge?”

Bianca nodded, beaming, before glancing around the living room, her brow furrowing slightly, and asked in Italian, “How come you don’t have Christmas here?”

Charlie felt her smile falter for just a moment before she recovered.

“I don’t have decorations. But I have lots of food.

Are you hungry? I made something special.

” A soft thump interrupted them as Fig padded into the room, tail high, his green eyes surveying the newcomers like royalty assessing guests.

“A cat,” Bianca gasped, immediately crouching.

“That’s Fig,” Charlie said.

Fig blinked once, then walked straight to Bianca and rubbed against her knees with surprising affection.

“He’s not usually so friendly.” Leave it to Fig to be sweet when she really needed him to.

“Hello, Fig,” Bianca said in English.

“Are you hungry?” Charlie asked.

Bianca nodded. “Yes.” Also in English. Charlie praised her for learning so many new words.

“Smells fantastic,” Max said. “I’m starving.”

“Everything’s pretty much ready,” Charlie said. “I thought we could eat at the fancy table tonight since I have special guests.”

As Charlie led them into the formal dining room, Fig trailed behind, brushing once against Max’s leg before hopping onto the buffet to watch the show. His preferred observation post.

Bianca exclaimed over the room. “Pretty.” Also in English.

Charlie gazed at the space she’d decorated so carefully.

Pale blue-gray paneling covered the walls.

Tall windows were dressed in cream curtains.

The table was long and solid, with a warm wood surface.

She’d only set three places tonight, though she could easily have hosted eight or more.

At the time, she’d felt silly ordering such a large table, but who knew what the future held?

The chairs were graceful, with light blue cushions and lattice backs, their style more timeless than trendy.

For whatever reason, they’d reminded her of her mother.

A rug softened the room’s edges, and above the table, a brass chandelier dangled over a single large vase placed in the center of the table, overflowing with delicate white blossoms. More like an Easter setting than Christmas.

There were no garlands, no twinkle lights, no holly or pine.

For the first time, seeing it through the eyes of a child, Charlie realized how sad it must seem. How sad it was.

She handed Max the wine opener. “If you want to open that bottle, I’ll dish up dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Max grinned at her. “Whatever you’re dishing up, make mine a large portion.”

In the kitchen, Charlie ladled generous scoops of baked ziti onto three stoneware plates. The pasta was bubbling and golden at the edges, the scent of garlic and slow-simmered tomatoes curling up in the warm air. She added a second slice of garlic bread to Max’s plate.

She plated the salad next, dark greens tossed with roasted pecans, dried cranberries, and thin slivers of pear, all drizzled in maple vinaigrette.

Before she could carry everything to the table, Max arrived, asking if he could help. She asked him to bring the salads and followed behind with the plates of pasta and bread.

Max suggested they say a prayer before eating, which they did, heads bowed as he thanked the Lord for good food and new friends.

Then they dug in.

They ate slowly, enjoying each bite, with Bianca chattering away in Italian.

She told them about her old school in her nonna’s village and a boy she hated because he chased her around the playground.

Then she asked about her school here. What would it be like and would she get to ride on a school bus as she’d seen in an American book?

Charlie went between translating for Max and answering Bianca in Italian. Strangely enough, they could all communicate quite effectively.

Max refilled their wineglasses. Bianca asked for a second garlic knot, which pleased Charlie. She was her father’s daughter after all. One of her ways she showed love was through cooking.

Halfway through dinner, Bianca looked up, her dark eyes curious, and asked in Italian why Charlie didn’t like Christmas.

Charlie’s hand stilled on her glass. She felt Max’s eyes on her.

She spoke back to her in Italian. “I used to love Christmas.” She hadn’t planned to share this, certainly not tonight, but something about the candlelight and the child’s innocent question made the words surface.

“My parents died in December. My mother died on Christmas Eve when I was thirteen. My dad died in the middle of December a few years back.” She swallowed hard. “The holidays feel sad to me now.”

Bianca’s eyes widened with the solemn understanding that sometimes only children possess. “You miss them.”

“That’s right. So it’s been easier to not participate in Christmas,” Charlie said.

“Did your mama like Christmas?” Bianca asked.

Charlie flinched, startled by the question. “Yes. She loved Christmas.”

“Then she would want you to love it too. And be happy, not sad.” Bianca’s bottom lip trembled. “That’s what Nonna told me when I came to her house to live. But it’s not easy to be happy when you miss someone.”

Max reached across the table, his fingers brushing Charlie’s wrist. “You’re right, Bianca. But they’re not really gone because we can remember them. We carry them in our hearts.”

“You understood all that?” Charlie asked Max, surprised.

He nodded, shrugging one shoulder. “Enough.”

“The table would be full if they were all still here.” Bianca gestured to various spots around the table. “Mamma, Nonna. Your papa and mama. It would be like heaven.”

Charlie’s eyes filled. This child was wise beyond her years.

“Mamma wants me to be happy,” Bianca said. “She comes to visit me in my dreams and tells me it’s okay to laugh. I think your mama wants you to be happy too. She would want you to celebrate Christmas.”

“Building new memories,” Max said. “With us.”

Charlie looked across the table at his handsome face and warm eyes, and her stomach went all topsy-turvy.

With us.

Did he really mean that?

“We’ve already made a few,” Max said. “And tomorrow’s the tree lighting in town. Maybe Bianca and I could take you?”

Charlie dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, touched to the core. “I would like that very much.”

They’d walked out to the greenhouse just after dinner, the three of them bundled up once more.

Bianca had been enchanted by the glass structure, running her small fingers over the frost-laced panes and peering inside as though she was glimpsing a secret world.

Charlie had flipped on the little string of work lights above the potting table so Bianca could see the plants.

The child had asked questions about everything—how things grew, what she’d plant next, if she could come back and help.

Now they were inside sitting before the gas fireplace in the front room. They’d started by watching The Polar Express, but Bianca’s eyes had closed about halfway through. Charlie had turned the television off, replacing it with music, surprising herself by choosing a Christmas station.

Fig was snoring on a blanket in front of the fire, his round belly rising and falling in time with the quiet rumble from his throat.

Charlie glanced at Max, who stared into the fire, a contemplative expression on his face. “You good?” Charlie asked.

Max moved his gaze to her. “Yeah. Relaxed. Full. Happy. Thank you for this.”

“It was my pleasure. I haven’t had many guests over since I moved here.”

“I hope you’ll invite us again.”

Charlie looked down at her hands, then back up again. “Were you serious? About making memories with me? ”

Max’s brow furrowed slightly. “Of course I was. Why do you ask?”

“I’m afraid to have too much hope—that someone like you would ever want to spend time with someone like me.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re amazing. For lack of a more interesting word.”

Charlie folded her hands in her lap. “I think you’re amazing too.”