Page 22 of Savoring Christmas (Sugarville Grove #8)

MIA

O n the class held the night of the tree lighting, Mia’s intrepid students arrived aglow with the magic of the season.

The tree lighting was a much-loved tradition in Sugarville Grove.

So much so that Mia agreed to have class the same night so they could all head out after class to enjoy the festivities together.

Mia smiled as everyone found their stations. Cannoli completed her evening rounds before claiming her usual spot, dark eyes scanning for any changes.

Mia clapped her hands lightly. “All right, everyone. Tonight’s dish is Holiday Risotto with roasted butternut squash and sage. Cozy, comforting, and exactly the thing to have before heading to the tree lighting.”

Thelma adjusted her glasses. “Out into the snowy night with full bellies sounds like a good plan to me.”

Mia held up a cube of golden-orange squash. “I roasted the squash earlier so we wouldn’t have to wait on it tonight. But here’s the process—tossed with olive oil, salt, pepper, and roasted until tender and caramelized. Golden edges mean flavor.”

Kris leaned in to peer at the tray she’d brought out. “That’s a lot of squash.”

“You’ll be surprised how it shrinks,” Mia said with a grin. “Risotto has a reputation for being fussy, but, really, it’s just about patience.”

Logan’s brow arched. “Patience? That may be hard for some of us.”

“Yes, but it’s important in cooking, as it is in life,” Mia said.

“Some of us are a work in progress,” Logan said, his answering grin sending a flutter through her chest.

She moved to the center station where everyone could see her, setting a pot of broth to warm on the stove. “Step one: warm broth. Arborio rice needs it hot so it can release starch without shocking the grains. Arborio is short-grain, high-starch—that’s what gives risotto its creamy texture.”

Reese tilted her head. “Is it true you have to stir it the whole time?”

“Not the whole time, but you do need to keep an eye on it.” Mia held up a wooden spoon. “Risotto is like friendship—it thrives with attention.”

“How true,” Kris said.

“Romance too,” Harold said, with a wink at Thelma, who blushed like a teenager.

As the onions softened in the butter, the scent of sage and roasted squash filled the air. Mia demonstrated adding the rice, stirring until it looked translucent at the edges. “This is called toasting. It deepens the flavor before we start adding liquid.”

She glanced up to see Logan staring at her rather than the pan. It was hard to focus with him looking at her as if she were a delectable treat.

Regardless, she kept it together, deglazing the pan with wine, the hiss of steam curling upward. “This is my favorite moment. The wine goes in, the rice drinks it up, and suddenly everything smells so good.”

By the time the first ladles of broth went in, conversation flowed easily around the room—Thelma and Harold debating the merits of sage versus rosemary, Abby asking Reese about her children’s Christmas recital at her studio, Kris telling Logan about a funny exchange with a six year old who had visited Santa’s village earlier.

The risotto slowly thickened, silky and fragrant. Finally, they were ready to share their first attempts at Risotto. As they plated the risotto, each bowl crowned with golden squash and fresh sage, Mia instructed them to taste one another’s.

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Harold said, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “My mouth’s been watering for ten minutes.”

Thelma’s risotto was creamy and well-seasoned, though she gave a self-deprecating sigh as she handed it to Harold. “It’s a little thicker than it should be. I think I was afraid of undercooking it.”

Harold tasted and gave an approving nod. “If this is a mistake, it’s the kind I could eat a lot of.”

Abby’s had the right texture but leaned a bit heavy on the salt. She grimaced when Mia took a bite. “Too much salt, right?”

“Just a touch,” Mia said gently. “But the texture is beautiful — silky—and the rice is cooked perfectly. You’ve got the technique down.”

Kris’s bowl was a little looser than the rest, more like a risotto soup. “I think I got nervous and added too much broth,” he admitted.

Logan, who had the misfortune of tasting it first, grinned. “It’s delicious. Perhaps drinkable would be a good way to describe it.”

Kris laughed, shaking his head. “I’m going to have to try this one again at home.”

Logan’s risotto was hearty but slightly clumpy, like the rice had decided to stick together.

Mia suspected he’d gotten distracted talking to Kris about the high school football team’s record year.

She scooped a forkful, the flavor rich and balanced.

“The taste is perfect,” she said, smiling at him.

“Just a little more stirring next time.”

As usual, Reese’s risotto was the picture of textbook excellence—creamy, glossy, the grains tender but still distinct. The golden squash was folded in perfectly and the plate finished with a delicate scatter of sage.

“This is gorgeous, Reese,” Mia said honestly.

Thelma leaned over to get a bite for herself. She groaned. “Reese, this is wonderful. I don’t know how you do it.”

Reese flushed, ducking her head but clearly pleased. “I just followed the directions.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Mia caught Logan glancing at her, that subtle look they shared when one of them was about to say something difficult.

“Reese, there’s something I wanted to tell you,” Logan began, setting his fork down. “Before you hear it from someone else.”

Reese’s brows drew together. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s about my cousin, Roan,” Logan said gently. “My suspicion is that it’s the same Road you spoke of recently since it’s the only Roan I ever knew of in these parts.”

Reese nodded slowly, “Yes?”

“My mother told me he’s coming back to Sugarville Grove. To live.”

The color drained from Reese’s face, her spoon clinking against her plate. “You’re joking.”

Mia reached across the table and touched her arm. “We didn’t want you blindsided.”

Reese’s voice stayed calm, but Mia noticed the way her shoulders had gone rigid. “When?”

“My mother said sometime next year,” Logan replied. “He’s been injured, apparently, so has to give up his work as a stuntman.”

“How sad for him,” Reese said, with a bitter twist to her mouth.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Thelma asked.

Reese drew a slow breath, her chin lifting. “It’s been nearly fifteen years since I’ve seen him. It’ll be fine.”

It was the kind of statement that dared anyone to argue, but everyone at the table could see in her eyes that it was anything but fine.

Thelma gave Reese’s hand a squeeze. “Whatever his reasons for leaving, you’ve built a beautiful life here. And you’ve got all of us.”

“Absolutely,” Harold said. “We’re your family now.”

Kris offered a warm smile. “You’re ours to look after now. What’s it called? Imprinting?”

Harold shook his head. “That’s ducks, my friend.”

“Well, then consider yourself a very loved duck,” Kris said to Reese.

Some of the tension left Reese’s shoulders, but the shadow in her expression lingered. Sensing she’d had enough on the subject, the group let the moment settle before drifting back toward their dishes.

“I’m mad at myself about the salt,” Abby said mournfully.

“Don’t be silly,” Mia said. “Remember, this is for fun. And the good news about cooking? There’s always an opportunity for a second chance.”

“Again, like life,” Harold said, glancing at Thelma.

As plates were passed back to their rightful owners, conversation shifted naturally to what awaited them in the town square.

Thelma’s eyes softened as she set down her fork. “You know, I went to the very first tree lighting we ever had in Sugarville Grove. I must have been six. I can still feel the excitement—standing there in the cold, bundled in my best coat, watching that tree light up for the first time.”

Harold nodded, smiling at the memory. “I was there for the first one too. It was magical. I thought it looked like the North Pole had landed right in Sugarville Grove. After all these years, I still feel the same way.”

Reese’s expression warmed. “I looked forward to it every single year growing up. It didn’t matter how hard things were— that night, everything felt beautiful and full of possibility. Still does.”

Kris grinned. “Do you remember the year good old Marty Miller had a little too much of his own spiked cider and took a tumble right into the tree. Took half the ornaments with him. That was a lighting ceremony and a floor show.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

Logan had been quiet, but Mia noticed the faraway look in his eyes.

When everyone turned toward him, he smiled.

“One of my earliest memories is of the tree lighting. I was three years old, sitting on my dad’s shoulders so I could see.

I remember the cold on my face, the smell of hot chocolate, the sound of everyone counting down.

I didn’t understand what was happening, but, when the lights came on, it felt like magic.

I think that’s when I fell in love with Christmas. ”

The table went quiet for a moment, a kind of collective pause around the warmth of his memory. Mia’s eyes pricked with tears, unexpectedly moved by the image of a little boy with dark eyes and a mop of hair, looking at the world like it was full of wonder.

Thelma broke the silence. “Well, then we’d better hurry, so none of us misses the magic tonight.”

“Yes, I want to get a good spot,” Reese said.

“You guys go,” Logan said. “I’ll help Mia clean up real quick. But save us a spot.”

“You got it,” Kris said. “Do you want hot chocolate or cider?”

“Cider for me,” Logan said.

“Hot chocolate for me,” Mia said.

“Excellent. I have a flask with peppermint schnapps in my jacket pocket,” Harold said.

Thelma laughed. “You’re so bad.”

“Does that mean you don’t want any?” Harold asked, deadpan.

“I’ll let you decide,” Thelma said. “A test to see if you remember what I told you.”