Page 59 of Theirs for the Holidays

“It’s not silly,” Rhett says quietly from the back seat. “There’s nothing wrong with being excited about traditions that aren’t hurting anybody.”

Lennox snorts. “If Mrs. Henderson still does her rendition of ‘Santa Baby’ every year, that might count as me being hurt,” he says.

We laugh, and I don’t tell him that even years later, she still insists on singing it every year. That can just be a fun surprise for later.

At the head of the square is the town hall. It’s a big, old building, and all the elders of the town like to say that Sweetwater Lake was built around this one building, in an effort to preserve it.

It’s where town hall meetings are held, and the yearly produce auction, and pretty much every other important thing that happens here.

It’s also heated, so it keeps the worst of the cold out during the holiday festival.

Some of the vendors have set up around it, but most of the festivities are inside.

The four of us park and head in, making our way through the throngs of people heading in the same direction. It’s hard to say if people are looking at us or not. I know there are some people, like those who saw us out when we were running errands, who already have some speculation, but I don’t know if anyone else has figured it out.

Do people in town know about our supposed relationship? And if they do, what are they saying about it?

As always, the town hall is just about bursting with people. The decor is an amalgamation of the town’s own supply of decorations and whatever has been donated since the lasttime, giving it the appearance of several Christmases slapped together. But that has its own kind of charm to it, if you ask me.

There are at least six different Christmas trees, in addition to the real one the town puts up every year. Each is strung with lights and circled with piles of wrapped boxes. More lights hang from the rafters, twinkling merrily above us all. Garlands of greenery and tinsel loop along the walls, and up on the raised stage, there’s a setup of a family of deer in lights, which I know for a fact used to be in someone’s yard a couple years ago.

Lennox smiles as he looks around, and there’s something almost like nostalgia on his face. “This hasn’t changed at all,” he murmurs.

“Nope,” I say, smiling back. “Same as every other year. It’s great.”

“Hot cider?” someone calls, and I turn to see a woman with a bright smile, ladling hot apple cider from a crock pot at her table.

“Depends,” Sawyer asks her, stepping closer. “Is it just cider, or is there anything to make it a little more fun?”

She laughs, her eyes sparkling up at him. She’s definitely old enough to be his mother, but she gives him a flirtatious look. “Are you looking to get merry this holiday season?”

“Isn’t that what it’s for?” he asks back.

She doesn’t confirm or deny if there is alcohol, but at Sawyer’s word she pours four cups of steaming cider and takes his money.

We each take a cup, and I wrap my fingers around the Styrofoam, feeling the heat seeping through. The steam smells good, like cinnamon and apple pie, and I inhale deeply before taking a sip.

“Sorry, Sawyer,” I say. “This is pretty un-merry cider.”

He just shrugs, taking his own sip. “Still good, though.”

We wander on, looking at booths and tables where people are selling all kinds of things. Handmade wooden ornaments,Christmas stockings that are soft to the touch, hats and scarves and gloves that are hand knitted and crocheted.

Tradition dictates that the best way to approach the Holiday Festival is to do a lap of everything first, so you can see it all, and then go back and check out the stalls and tables that interested you the most. Then you can avoid the crushes of people trying to get at everything all at once.

The table laid out with fresh pastries and holiday cookies is harder to walk away from though, and I eye the apple hand pies and the brownies decorated like yule logs with interest.

“Which one should I get?” I ask the guys, biting my lip.

“Chocolate,” Rhett says.

“Apple pie, obviously,” is Sawyer’s pick.

“Why choose?” Lennox asks.

The other two pause and then nod their agreement. “No such thing as too many pastries,” Sawyer says.

“I don’t know about that.” I’ve definitely heard otherwise. Mostly from my mother.