"She's asleep. Finally."
With an exhausted sigh, Kirsten sank into the sofa, wedging herself comfortably into the space between Ryan and Seth.
"Yet another cause for Thanksgiving." Sandy grinned as he strolled out of the kitchen. He carried a mug of cocoa topped with a dollop of whipped cream that he sprinkled with chocolate shavings from the dish that Seth was guarding jealously. "For the tired mama," he announced, presenting it to Kirsten with a kiss.
She wrapped her hands around the cup gratefully. "The tired, contented mama," she amended. "This--" Her smile, weary but luminous, swept from Sandy to Seth and then to Ryan, gracing each of them in turn. "Has been a perfect day. The most wonderful Thanksgiving since . . . No. I think it's been the most wonderful Thanksgiving Day ever."
Seth swiveled around with mock-amazement. "What?" he demanded around a mouthful of turkey sandwich. His mother frowned, and he swallowed hastily. "But Mom, there were no homeless people here. No squabbling ex-es. No excitement. Not even any burnt food or Chinese take-out. Just us. And Sophie didn't even cry during dinner."
"I know." Kirsten ruffled his hair fondly. "Of course, I'm sorry that Summer and Taylor couldn't make it. But I have to admit, having just family this year--I thought it was perfect." She handed Seth a napkin, gesturing at his chin. "Mustard," she explained.
He swabbed carelessly at the spot. "Dude," he pleaded, leaning over his mother to enlist Ryan's support. "Tell her. It's not a traditional Cohen clan holiday without some kind of drama—you know, an unexpected guest or a surprise announcement or something. This . . . well, this was all Norman Rockwell cozy and everything but, come on. It was a little boring."
Ryan peered up over the rim of his cup. "I thought it was nice," he said quietly.
Seth dropped his head into his hands, groaning sorrowfully, but Sandy and Kirsten exchanged delighted glances.
"Ryan thought it was nice," Kirsten caroled.
"Even better. Ryan said it was nice." Sandy stood up, raising his mug of chocolate. "You shared your feelings with us, kid. I'd say this calls for a toast. To Ryan Atwood! Still a man of few words, but meaningful ones."
"Sandy--" Ryan protested. He squirmed, blushing furiously. The red deepened to scarlet when Kirsten kissed his cheek.
"To Ryan," she echoed. Nudging her son, she prompted, "Seth?"
"Yeah, yeah. To Ryan." Seth waved his cup listlessly. Then, noticing Ryan's discomfiture, he grinned and sat up. "I mean, to Ryan Atwood, orator extraordinaire, and effusive lover of Hallmark-style holidays." He chugged the rest of his cocoa. "Speech! Speech!" he exclaimed wickedly. "Oh, wait! You already gave one, didn't you?"
Ryan glared at him. "Seth--" he growled.
"Now, now, Ryan. That is not a Thanksgiving-y tone of voice."
"No? How about this one?"
"Okay, no, that one is worse."
Sandy chuckled, his eyes dancing merrily. "Aw, sweetheart, our boys are squabbling."
"I know," Kirsten beamed. "Isn't it wonderful to have them home?" She dropped her head on Seth's shoulder, simultaneously squeezing Ryan's hand, but her radiant expression dimmed slightly. "I just wish you two didn't have to leave again so soon."
Seth draped a consoling arm around his mother. "Cheer up, Mom," he urged. "You've still got the Munchkin to pamper. Also to put in Pampers, which, as Summer would say, ewww, so yeah, a mixed blessing there." Recalling his earlier diaper-changing duty, Seth shuddered dramatically before he continued. "Anyway, Ryan and I will be home again soon. It's only a few weeks until Chrismukkah."
Kirsten brightened. "That's true! It is." With swift efficiency, she slid open a drawer in the coffee table, pulled out a tablet and pen, and shifted back in her seat, ready to write. "In fact, we might as well start making our plans while we're all together. Seth, do you have your flight information? Ryan, I know we don't have to worry about travel plans for you, but when is your last final? And Summer and Taylor be joining us, won't they? Let's see, we can move Sophie out of the nursery into our bedroom, and--?"
"Honey!" Sandy interjected. "Aren't you rushing the season a little bit? We should finish enjoying Thanksgiving before we move on to Chrismukkah."
"Sandy, you know it's more complicated this year with the boys off at school! Besides, this is Sophie's first Chrismukkah and Ryan's first Chrismukkah in Berkeley. I want it to be perfect. Now, we can put the tree right in front of the window, but we'll have to find a good place to get a buy one. Something with soft needles, I think—maybe a Douglas fir. No, a Balsam would be better." As she spoke, Kirsten began writing feverishly. Her family watched, amused and amazed, while her neat script filled the page. "I wonder if the cut-your-own farm we used to go to is still open. Remember how much fun that was, sweetheart? Oh, you boys would love it--"
"What, with the axes and the manual labor and "Timber!" and the possible loss of limb? Yeah, I don't think so, Mom. Hey . . . how about some more cocoa?"
Ignoring her son, Kirsten frowned thoughtfully. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "We need a stocking for Sophie, and a new family portrait with all of us! And we should get new outdoor lights and decorations, Sandy. The ones we used in Newport won't work on this house. It needs more color, I think—maybe some red and gold instead of all white. Don't worry though, Seth. We'll still put up your rooftop reindeer . . . But I'm getting ahead of myself."
"Right, Mom, you are. So . . . Thanksgiving! What about more of that scrumptious pumpkin pie? I think I could manage a fourth piece. Dad? Ryan? You in?"
Seth started to get up, but Kirsten caught his elbow, simultaneously, flipping to a new page.
"Before we can plan anything else, I need to know your schedules, boys. Seth? You have made your reservations already, haven't you, sweetie?"
Raising his hands in surrender, Seth sank back on the couch. "Sorry, guys," he sighed. "I tried to slow her down, but you know The Kirsten when she's in Manager-Mom mode. There's no stopping her . . . Yes, Mommy dearest, I already made my reservations. I'll be flying home on the nineteenth, seat 14A, Continental Airlines, seat arriving at 2:40 p.m., gate 26C . . . Okay, I made up the seat, gate and time, but the date is right. I don't have the rest memorized. Does that mean I'm fired?"
Kirsten blushed. "All right," she chided, "I know you all think I'm silly, but I just want Chrismukkah to be as wonderful as Thanksgiving has been. So you are coming home on December 19, Seth?" He nodded, and she jotted the date in a column labeled with her son's name. "Ryan? What about you?"
Ryan didn't answer. The Cohens all looked at him expectantly, but his eyes were downcast, studying the circle his thumb made as it traced the rim of his mug.
"Kid?" Sandy prompted. "Don't you know yet when you'll be ready to come home?"
Ryan took a deep breath. "Actually--" he set his cup precisely on a coaster, keeping his gaze fixed on the coffee table as he spoke. "I'm, um, not going to be home, or—here for Chrismukkah this year. Well, not for Christmas anyway."
Four seconds of stunned followed his announcement. Ryan licked his lips nervously. His voice had a brittle edge when he spoke again.
"My mom—Dawn—called and, well, she asked if I could spend the holiday with her this year."
"Oh," Kirsten said numbly. "Oh."
"It's just that . . . her boyfriend is scheduled for a cross-country haul so he'll be on the road and her boss is closing the diner over the holidays. So she'll be by herself. And she just sounded so lonely . . ."
"Ryan."
Sandy placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. At the touch Ryan glanced up, his expression pleading.
"She's been doing so well, you know? Not drinking, staying clean--"
"You don't have to explain. Dawn is your mother. If you want to spend Christmas with her--" Sandy swallowed hard before he continued. "We'll miss you, but we understand. Don't we? Kirsten? Son?"
Seth jabbed his spoon into the bowl of shaved chocolate, stirring the contents pointlessly. "I guess," he muttered. "But it sucks."
"Don't say 'sucks', Seth." Sandy forced a smile, but no one responded to his weak joke. Sighing, he kneaded the back of Ryan's neck. "Sorry, kid. It's just tough to imagine Chrismukkah without you."
Ryan ducked his head. Then he turned to Kirsten, brushing her arm with his fingertips. Reluctantly, she met his gaze, her lips crimped tight, her eyes, like his, a clouded, hollow blue.
"I don't want to go," Ryan admitted softly. "But if I don't Dawn will be all alone, and I'm afraid . . . She's been trying so hard, and she's still . . ."
Kirsten nodded, blinking back tears. "Your mother. I know. It's just—this is Sophie's first Christmas, and not to have one of her big brothers there--"
"Sophie is eight months old, sweetheart," Sandy chided gently. "She doesn't understand anything about the holiday. So we can just celebrate after Ryan gets back, can't we Seth?"
"Right." Seth yanked his spoon out of the bowl, scattering flakes like chocolate snow. "After all," he declared with strained enthusiasm, "one of the joys of Chrismukkah is that it lasts more than one day. Hence, more cookies, more eggnog, more dreidels, more presents. So. We'll just exchange them on, what, the 26th? The 27th? When exactly will you be home, dude?"
Ryan shook his head absently. He didn't answer, his attention still fixed on Kirsten. "I don't want to ruin anything for you," he said. "Dawn . . . she is my mom. But--" Pitching his voice lower he added, for Kirsten alone. "You are too. If it really bothers you—
"Oh, Ryan!" Kirsten touched his cheek tenderly. "No. No, of course, you should go." Her voice quavered, but she managed a wan smile. "Seth and Sandy are right. Chrismukkah is our family holiday and we make the rules. So we'll just wait and celebrate when you come home."
TBC