Page 45 of Moody's Grumpy Holiday

“Good. That’s the way it should be.”

“Yes.” I added cinnamon, allspice, and ginger. A minute or so later, I was yapping again. “My dad fell to pieces after we lost Mom. He didn’t know what to do with himself. His hobbies had been her hobbies—antiquing, gardening, cooking. He was terribly depressed, so one year, I signed up for a gingerbread house competition and asked for his help. Actually, I recall an exaggerated desperate plea. Dad agreed…grudgingly. And guess what?”

“He loved it and decided to become Santa?”

I cast a sharp sideways glance his way. “How’d you know?”

Hudson chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Just a guess. There must have been a step or two in between.”

“It began with gingerbread and a little weight gain. He let his beard grow too, and one of his students commented that Mr. Moody bore a striking resemblance to Santa Claus. My father loved it. He loved it so much, he became Santa.”

“That’s pretty damn cool.”

I grinned. “It is. My Aunt Kathy was a little concerned. But he didn’t move to the North Pole, hire elves to make toys, or wrangle a few reindeer to do some heavy lifting. Dad wore the costume—red T-shirts in warm weather, red sweaters in colder months, and he kept his beard long year-round. And…he started volunteering—food banks, hospitals, events for cancer awareness, child and domestic abuse—if he was needed, he showed up. And it made him happy.”

“He reallywasa great man.”

“Yes, and Mom was equally fantabulous. I’m lucky they chose me. I wouldn’t be me if it weren’t for them,” I replied matter-of-factly.

Hudson pushed the bowl of flour toward me and dusted his hands off. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Me too, but I’m okay. I have a lot to be grateful for, and I know it.”

“Now that sounds like something the Moody I met in October would say,” he teased, nudging my shoulder. “Not December Moody. That guy’s a grouch.”

“Hmph.”

“December is tough for you,” he stated. No judgment, no question…just a simple acknowledgment.

Silence.

But not quite. “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” was playing now. I’d always liked this song. It was silly and funny and…it reminded me of happy memories and warm kitchens that smelled like cinnamon and hope.

Just like that, I was yapping again.

“My best friend moved to Texas on December thirteenth when I was nine years old. I was devastated. My first boyfriend dumped me on December second. I was seventeen and thought he was all that and a bag of chips. I confronted him on what I thought was his erroneous “newly single” status on Myspace. Apparently, it was my Dear John letter.”

“Asshole,” Hudson huffed.

“Total jerk soda,” I agreed. “I knew it, but I was crushed anyway. Two days later, I broke my wrist. It was a woe-is-me year. There were worse Decembers, of course. My mom was diagnosed on December fifteenth, and she passed on Christmas Eve five years later. But I lost Dad in December, too…and that one broke me.”

My voice cracked and I hated it, but Hudson pulled me close, ignoring my squawked warning that my hands were dirty. I held them up but found myself slowly melting into his embrace.

“I’m sorry. I know I’m repeating myself, but Iamsorry.”

“Thanks.” I gently pushed out of his arms and sighed. “Dad died the day after Christmas four years ago. He was older and not in great health. In some ways, it wasn’t unexpected, but I miss him…so much. And I selfishly struggle with being alone.”

“How is that selfish?”

I waved dismissively. “It just is. Dad must have known he didn’t have much time. Almost every day that month, he told me how grateful he was that I was his son and how much my happiness meant to him. He’d point out a pretty bird or a beautiful sunset and just…go gaga. It was sweet and charming and…very Dad. His last words to me were ‘Be happy.’ I’ve tried, but…I have a very hard time embracing joy. The incessant pressure to smile through it all weighs on me. It’s easier for me to keep my head down and work through it, grumpy face and all.”

Hudson brushed his thumb over my cheek and cupped my chin. “I like this face just the way it is.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, but I’ve unwittingly become the opposite of my dad’s sunny Santa.”

“You seem pretty happy now.”

I cocked my head, furrowing my brow as if taking stock of my emotional state of mind. “I am. You have an interesting effect on me.”