Disclaimer: The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with playing with her characters.
A/N: This story is based on Sookie's mention in DUD that as a child, at her father's request, she listened in on one of his business negotiations. I changed the scenario as I started to imagine what Sookie's childhood might have been like. For inspiration, I listened a lot to Lucinda Williams's Car Wheels on a Gravel Road. And along the way, I got to thinking about The Wizard of Oz, too.
Please note this story has a Sookie-Sam HEA. If a Sookie-Eric pairing is the only type of holiday cheer you enjoy, see the big collection compiled at the Secret Santa site (linked on my profile page) organized by Random-Fandom.
And I hope you'll check out the Sookie-Eric Christmas story/HEA I wrote last year, A Very Bubba Christmas.
Big thanks to nonto94 for beta-ing this story. Here's a Mr. Pibb for ya. Cheers! ;)
Gravel Road
I was six years-old when I went on a trip with my daddy one Saturday morning during Christmastime. We were still finding paper turkeys around the house, tucked in out-of-the-way places, as we hung garlands and Santa Clauses. But I'd gotten my Christmas dress early that year, and Mama said I should go ahead and wear it that day. Along with my fancy shoes.
They were my favorite shoes—white patent leather sandals with bows and my first set of real heels. Square ones that made me miles taller. And years more grown-up.
"Well, look at you," Mama had laughed when I'd first paraded in them, right before Easter. I'd put on one of her old gowns and a fabric scrap from Gran's curtain project, tied like a shawl, and lifted the hem of the skirt to show off the shoes.
"Good Lord, where have you been and what have you been doing?" she'd asked, rubbing at the smudges—bruises—on my knees and legs. "You keep these sandals clean, you hear?"
I'd tried my hardest, but they'd gotten scuffed somehow. Then she'd fussed, grabbing my foot as we'd been leaving for church to rub it clean with a towel as I'd hopped on the other foot. My daddy had tsked, patted her bum, told her not to worry, that she'd worked hard enough and should let it go. He always could distract her from whatever was on her mind—she'd laughed, dropped my foot, and turned to kiss him—but she hadn't forgotten about the scuffs completely.
"I suppose there's nothing to be done, since they still fit," she'd say from time to time as she'd glance at my shoes with a frown.
But when I appeared in them with my red tights and red Christmas dress, ready to go out with Daddy, a new thought flickered through her mind: candy cane.
A candy cane!
I was pleased as punch. Mama probably hadn't wanted to say it out loud because she was still irritated about the scuffs, so I hadn't gloated—See? Isn't it a good thing these shoes still fit at Christmastime?—and kept real quiet about the bows I picked for my pigtails. One red and one white. As it turned out, she was too busy smooching Daddy to notice when we said goodbye.
... c . c ...
We drove to Gran's house first.
"Adele?" my daddy called as he, Jason, and I walked straight through her unlocked front door. She'd already decorated it with the bleach-bottle-and-yarn Santa she'd bought at the church bazaar.
Jason, the last one in our line, let the banger door clap shut before running ahead. "Gran!" he yelled, his floppy bedhead bouncing.
I stayed behind to walk alongside Daddy, paying special attention to the tap of my heels on Gran's floor. Jason reached the kitchen and then looped back to us, still in the hallway. "Bacon!" he yelled. "There's bacon and pancakes shaped like letters!"
"Corbett," Gran said, following right behind. "Do you and Sookie want something before you leave? I made enough."
Gran looked funny, with wispy hair escaping from the coil at the back of her neck. And she was still wearing her bedroom slippers, though she'd put on a house dress for the day. She was wiping her hands on her tea towel, which was against the rules in her house. Tea towels were for dishes. Hand towels were for hands.
"Sookie," she said, "look at how pretty you are in your Christmas dress. Do a twirl for me?"
I turned, making sure my dress flared, and my hands were out, the way contestants do in beauty pageants. "I'm a candy cane."
She laughed. "So you are. With bows to match, even. One red and one white." She reached for my hand, changed her mind—she was worried about something—and scooted me along with her towel. "Go on and git," she said. "See what I have in the kitchen."
"Mom," my daddy said, impatient. "We can't stay. We have a drive ahead of us."
"Oh, just for a minute. See what I have."
They followed right behind, entering the kitchen with me as Jason was turning on Gran's transistor radio. Loretta Lynn crackled, "You ain't woman enough to take my man."
"Where's Michelle today?" Gran asked, motioning to Jason to turn it down.
"Oh, she's at home, getting prettied up to go out on a shopping trip. I told her to go take the day."
"Mmm. That sounds nice. Holiday sidewalk sale's going on in Clarice."
"No," my daddy said, his hands running up and down his trim belly. "I don't reckon that's where she was heading. Wanted something special for the Women's Club Christmas party." He was looking with interest at the plate of bacon, leaning over it. Something was holding him back. Too much bacon causes The Gout.
"Mr. Fortenberry got The Gout because he was eating at least a pound of bacon a week," I told him.
"What?" he said, annoyed.
I started to explain all about Mr. Fortenberry's diet when I realized my daddy was looking at me like I'd sprouted reindeer antlers. Which meant that I'd messed up again, answering thoughts instead of words.
I'm sorry, I wanted to say, though I'd found out the hard way that apologizing for that kind of mistake makes things worse. Meanwhile, Gran's thoughts had lurched, and I wanted to remind her that I knew about Mr. Fortenberry's diet because Mrs. Fortenberry had been talking about his Great Toe last week when I'd visited Gran. Didn't she remember? Heck, the news was all over town. At the same time, Jason was eyeing the orange juice—in Gran's old gold Tupperware pitcher that had lost its lid, no long-handled spoon in sight—and thinking about pouring himself a drink.
Best I could say for myself was that I sorely wanted everything to go right that morning. And that it was never easy keeping so many things straight at once.
Too late, I realized Jason was already pouring.
"Stop, you dummy!" I shouted, jumping toward him.
Jason startled and spilled everything, the mushy wad of orange juice concentrate at the bottom of the pitcher plopping into his cup and all over the counter. For a moment, shocked and embarrassed, he stood there looking at his big mess.
Then he barreled toward me.
"You made me do it!" He tripped on Gran's phone stool and took us both down; we were all arms and legs, useless and messy, like ratty socks tangled in the dryer.
"Hey, hey, hey!" my daddy yelled. "That's enough, you two!"
He broke us up and held us apart. "What in the world? Sookie, explain yourself!" He was angry that he'd been saddled with so much trouble—a weird daughter who seemed to be sigh-kick too.
What's sigh-kick? I almost asked, but stopped myself in the nick of time. He was already thinking about changing his mind about taking me along today.
But mostly, I felt awful about what I'd done; I'd only wanted to stop the spill, since it seemed like everything had to be right this morning. Special pancake letters and all.
"I'm sorry," I said. I'd have to try harder next time, put a real effort into keeping everything straight in my head. "I won't do it again. I know I have to do an extra good job today."
He waved me off, didn't meet my eyes. "Tell your brother," he said gruffly.
"I'm sorry I called you a dummy," I said to Jason. I only meant it partly. He should have seen that Gran hadn't mixed the orange juice yet. She always uses the long wooden spoon.
He was still mad, grumbling inside his head. Our fights were frustrating scrambles, often about unfairness. We'd take it out on each other whenever we could.
"Jason, that's not how you treat a girl," Daddy told him.
Gran stood there, doing her best not to stick her nose in her son's family business where it didn't belong. She stopped herself from thinking anything else, wiping her hands again on her tea towel. She was so distracted, I guessed that's why she jerked with surprise when my daddy asked her if she could help get me "fixed up."
It was worse than I'd realized. Gran was able to re-braid my hair and retie the bow on my dress, but there was nothing to be done for the gaping hole in the knee of my red tights. I shucked them, saddened I'd lost the candy cane effect.
I knew that I shouldn't complain about it out loud. "Thank you, ma'am," I said.
She nodded and studied me. "Now, let's see…seems to me you're missing something." Her eyes were smiling, she was taking my problem to heart. "You've got your white shoes and your red dress and matching bows in your hair." She reached to straighten one of them.
I gave my hips a little turn so my skirt would swish.
"Ah!" she said, as though I'd reminded her of something important. "Do a twirl to make sure it still works."
"Gran!" I protested, knowing she was trying to make me smile. But I did the twirl anyway, with my hands in the right pose and a bounce in my step.
"That's the spirit!" She turned to rummage through her jewelry box and came out with one of her treasures: a sparkly candy cane pin. "There!" she said as she pinned it to my dress. "Just what you needed." She topped it off with a quick hug when I thanked her and promised I'd take good care of it. I felt special and put back together again.
When we returned to the kitchen, my daddy had a big, nervous smile on his face. "There's my girl," he said, reaching his arms out to dance with me, giving me a single twirl. On the radio, Loretta was singing again, assuring us we'd have "a good old country Christmas, alright."
Jason sat at the table, eating his pancake shaped like the letter "J," with lots of syrup on it. I heard from his thoughts that he'd torn my letter "S" in half. Into two Cs for…for…craphead, he was sniggering to himself and any telepath who happened to be in the room. Craphead, craphead, craphead.
J is for Jerk, I wanted to yell at him. But I had my new pin. And I had to be mindful of Gran, who was fumbling with her plateful of dangling letters, wondering what in the world had ever possessed her to make such ridiculous pancakes and thanking goodness they were at least edible. When Daddy said, "C'mon, we're gonna go for a ride," she told me to take mine with me, though she was sorry it seemed to have torn in two.
"That's all right. Now I have two Cs for candy cane."
Jason heard me. Gran, though, had her head somewhere else.
... c . c ...
We didn't get very far down Parish Road 34 before my pancake was gone and Daddy's nervousness broke through the rumble of gravel beneath us. "You know what I want you to do today, don't you, Sookie?"
I fiddled with my seat belt, pulled it out, and let it snap back. And then did it again. Different and odd, and special and weird were all words about me that had crossed my daddy's mind often. Most times, I embarrassed him, but today, he wanted me to go with him.
"Sookie, are you paying attention? It's important that you mind yourself today, you hear? Nothing like what happened earlier."
"Yes," I said, the seat belt snapping.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
He huffed a breath, frustrated with me, annoyed that the road we were traveling on was kicking up stones that could damage the belly of his car. "Let go of that seat belt. Yes, you understand what?"
Talking about it, how I knew things about people that others didn't, was a big no-no.
I released the seat belt, noticed a Dum-Dum stick Jason had dropped on my side. Bits of blue still coated it, as though he'd crunched it.
"Earth to Sookie," my daddy prodded.
He wanted me to listen. Listening was a big picture, with lots of parts, like Gran's Wizard of Oz album, with the spoken words to the story, a few pictures, and music, too. Except that listening to people was a lot harder, because sometimes you only got the music or one or two pictures. And sometimes it was mixed up, out of order. And always there were other albums playing at the same time.
"I'll listen," I finally said, because that's what he wanted me to say.
"That's right, listen." He nodded—easy-peasy—shifted in his seat, pulled the thick wad of his wallet, full of business cards, out from his back pocket and tossed it on the dashboard. Eavesdrop, he thought.
I hated that word. When I'd first heard it, it sounded like the funniest word in the world, like it wasn't even real; somebody had made it up. But then I realized that people were using that word about me, in a mean way, when really, I couldn't help what I was doing. It just happened.
"Okay," I told my Daddy, to keep things simple. There was nothing different about today except that I was supposed to do it and tell him what I learned. The hardest part would be sifting through scads of thoughts and picking out the important ones.
I got tired and antsy just thinking about it.
We were on a long strip of road, crossing flat, boring farmlands that all looked the same, except for one rickety shack with a big, drooly dog in the front yard. Not a Toto, but just as loveable. If he was my pet, I'd name him Charlie…or Betsy if she was a girl. Something that would fit a person, too. I stuck my arm out, traced the swoop-swoop-swoop of the telephone wires hanging from their poles.
Daddy hadn't dropped it yet. "You know, because this time it's okay. It's for the family. So we can all…have a better life. We do all right, of course. But it would be nice to get a leg up."
He was all bound up with something big. The American Dream, he thought, right there within our reach. He turned his attention from the road and winked at me. Hope and pride billowed inside him like a flag on the Fourth of July.
I remembered Mrs. Fortenberry, draped in green bed sheets as Lady Liberty, and Mayor Norris, with his tall top hat as Uncle Sam overseeing the annual Bon Temps celebrations, awarding the Pan-a-Rama Movie Theater first prize for their float, made out of recycled cans, milk jugs and cereal boxes.
"The Land of Opportunity," I said.
Daddy's brow furrowed. "What's that, hon?"
"The name of the first-place float winner at the parade last summer. You know, the model of the United States? Mrs. Fortenberry called it a fine example of what could be done with hard work and determination and engine-uity."
He didn't remember, but he liked the idea, especially if it would help me do a better job. "Right! Just like that float. And maybe if things go well today, we'll get a flag in our front yard, like Gran's next-door neighbor. With a tall pole, circled by fancy white rocks. "
"Okay," I said, touching my candy cane pin. "I can do it." And daddy started whistling You're a Grand Old Flag and looking forward to stocking his pond with striped bass.
... c . c ...
We met the man at a diner, spotted him right away in his baseball-style wool jacket, the name and logo of his business stitched in gold across his back. When my daddy approached him, he slid off his stool at the counter and greeted him with a hearty handshake. "Corbett! Nice to see you! Thank you for making the drive here so early on a Saturday morning."
"No problem. No problem at all."
"Well, no, I mean it. I know weekends are for family time, and family's important." He cast a smile at me. "And what about you? Are you helping today?"
"This here's my daughter Sookie," my daddy said. "I hope you don't mind…"
He held his hand up to stop him. "I understand. No need, Corbett."
Turning to me, he was surprised to see I'd already extended my hand to him.
"Pleased to meet you," I said.
He nodded at my daddy. "You're doing a fine job, I see. And Sookie, you look like you are ready for Christmas, dressed just like a candy cane. Are you going to see Santy Claus today?"
"No, sir. Just coming to see you,"
My daddy was embarrassed, worried that we were looking too eager. It was one of those times I should have lied. Plus the businessman was irritated at himself for having guessed wrong; he prided himself in paying special attention to details. His brain clicked and rattled like Mama's calculator with the white rolled paper, very different from the smooth and gracious way he spoke.
The man's name was Frankie Morgan, and he always went by Frankie, not Frank, which he thought made him sound more friendly. Also, when he'd been a kid, he'd gone by another last name, which I couldn't catch. I guessed it was something that the other kids had made fun of. He waved at the waitress behind the counter to tell her he was moving, leaving a few coins and taking his cup of coffee. "Let's go find us a booth where we can talk and have some shrimp and grits. How's that sound?"
"Sounds good," my daddy said, agreeable at the moment to just about anything.
"Three coffees, too?" He winked at me as he snagged another waitress.
"No!" I protested, understanding I needed to play into his joke.
"Excuse me!" he said with great drama, his hands clutched to his chest. "All right, then, if not coffee, Miss Sookie here will have…"
"Chocolate milk, please," I said to the waitress. She had frosted hair, dark circles under her eyes—she'd been at the diner all night, and now was filling in for someone else—and sorely wanted a cigarette. She was trying to remember if she'd met Mr. Hilarity somewhere else. Jeez, she hoped she hadn't slept with him that night at Patty's house when she'd drunk too much wine.
I was torn. I knew enough that I wasn't supposed to be hearing stuff like that, but what if today I needed to? At the same time, my daddy nudged me, annoyed that I wasn't paying any attention. And that made me mad, because I really was working hard. It was confusing, too, trying to figure out who to listen to, like being at a three-ring circus.
They started off talking about football. Boring stuff that Mr. Morgan considered an icebreaker. He was a Dallas Cowboy fan, which he didn't say out loud once he learned that my daddy rooted for the Saints. I was glad I had my chocolate milk, which came in a tall glass with a long spoon. Whoever made it hadn't stirred it well, which meant there was plenty of chocolate in the bottom for scooping.
Meanwhile, the boy behind Mr. Morgan hoped I'd notice his car collection, which he ran across the back of Mr. Morgan's seat: first a black sedan, then a red race car, a truck, and another sedan. They all crashed except for the race car, which eventually went zooming off. And then another pickup truck appeared. He'd had it longer than any of the others, but its wheels were still on straight so it ran real good, plus it had a hitch in the back. It was his favorite. He kept them all at home in a special carrying case with plastic dividers. Jason had one just like it, but he'd taken out the slots, so all of his cars were a jumbled mess.
I ate too much of my shrimp and grits, which made me grumpy with a tummy ache. Pinned in the booth, I felt like I needed to move. The woman behind me had loud thoughts as she fretted over her list for the day. Now and then, my daddy nudged me, concerned I wasn't paying attention. Stop doing that! I wanted to shout at him, because Mr. Morgan was noticing. And then I stewed over the fact that he could have gotten my attention just by thinking my name. He didn't even consider it, which I thought was dumb.
They'd been looking at a map. Mr. Morgan sold car parts. I didn't know what kind, but I'd guessed they were special given how much he was going on and on about them.
"Listen," he said, "I don't mind telling you business is good. Real good. So good, I can't get to this whole part of Bossier Parish." It was yellow. "And, I gotta be honest with you, it'd mean a lot of driving to cover all of this area. But I know for a fact the business is there. This fellow, Jarrod Falcon, was calling me the other day wondering when I was going to stop by. I just haven't had time to develop it. Shreveport takes up most of my attention."
From what I gathered, he wanted my daddy to buy the yellow part of the map, for a lot of money, which didn't make any sense to me. Why would you have to pay that much money to buy a map to sell car parts? He was showing it to him anyway, so what did he need a map for?
They talked a lot about the yellow map. My milk got warm and yucky without the rest of the chocolate syrup mixed in. The diner filled with busy people starting their holiday rush, which meant my head crowded with their thoughts. Our waitress, Junie, had had a smoke break and remembered where she'd seen Mr. Morgan before, not even a week earlier, which went to show how tired she was. Meanwhile, my daddy and Mr. Morgan were growing more excited as it began to look like they were closing in on a deal with each other.
Eventually, I stopped trying to listen—it was all a loud mess—and folded my place mat into first a hat, and then a sailboat. Then I made another sailboat out of my daddy's place mat, which made him annoyed: dammit, why can't she pay attention?
Mr. Morgan tried to kid with me some more, asking me if I'd been naughty or nice. And would Santa put coal in my stocking. I was so cranky and tired, I wanted to tell him I knew it was all a big lie.
But that would have been rude. I must have done something wrong anyway, because my daddy apologized to Mr. Morgan, saying "he'd have a chat with me about it on the car ride home."
"No problem, Corbett. It's all part of the job, right? Next time, I hope to meet Jason, too."
And then finally we said our goodbyes in the parking lot. Once Mr. Morgan had driven away, my daddy lifted me onto the hood of his car.
"It's not good," I said.
"What?" I felt his excitement collapse, and that made me sad. "What's the matter?"
"Don't buy his map, Daddy."
"What?" he repeated, stunned.
"That's too much money to pay for a map."
His disappointment wiped clean in an instant, erased by fresh excitement. He was trying hard not to smile. "Oh, no, hon. It don't work like that. I'm not buying his map." His brow furrowed as he tried to figure out how to explain it to me. The word franch-eyes crossed his mind.
I was too tired to listen to him and decided to lay it all out. The parts that I knew, anyway. "He's really a Dallas Cowboys fan, and he was here just last week trying to sell his map to another guy. Junie, our waitress, saw them."
Impatient, he interrupted me. "Sookie, it's not just a map."
"Okay, but business is bad," I said.
"Bad?" His disappointment flared again, but still, he didn't believe me all the way. "How do you know business is bad?"
"I…eavesdropped." I didn't like using that word because I didn't want it pinned on me. Except that today, I really was eavesdropping.
"No…" he was getting more and more frustrated. "What exactly did you…hear that told you that business is bad?" He didn't like admitting what I had done, either. He was looking all shifty-eyed.
"He was giving you The Falcon."
After a moment, he figured out I must be talking about Jarrod Falcon. "What about…The Falcon?"
"The Falcon is a good customer, but the rest of the region is a piss-poor bunch of losers who don't know quality auto parts when they see them. And he thought I had funny-looking, squinty eyes."
That did it.
I guessed I shouldn't have said that last part, especially since my daddy had gotten his own bad news. I shouldn't have made it any worse. He looked down, like he could use a big hug. I stood on the bumper of his car, squirmed against him as I burrowed my head on his shoulder, and kissed his neck.
He stiffened, angry. That ain't right, he thought. "Let's go," he said shortly.
... c . c ...
We drove home, my daddy pretending once again my…specialness didn't exist. He was a stewing pot of grumbling self-pity for a while before he started to count his blessings: How many other guys did he know who had their own pond for fishing? A beautiful, adoring wife. And Jason, if he could just get him to mind his teachers at school, might be able to get a football scholarship. He was, by far, the best player in the Pop Warner league. And then he went on and on about the coaching strategy, practice schedules, and more.
I guessed there'd be no flagpole going up in our front yard any time soon. I lay down on the back seat and unbuckled my belt to get comfortable and take a nap. We must not have stopped long at Gran's to pick up Jason, because next thing I knew, he was in the car too, excited about having spent the morning playing with his army guys outside, digging trenches and setting up battles.
At home, I decided to wait for Mama before I changed out of my fancy clothes, so I could show her Gran's candy cane pin. I wandered around, restless, feeling emptied out of all the excitement of getting out to do something new with my daddy. And disappointed, too, that so much hope had been squashed. And worst of all, guilty because I'd been doing something I shouldn't have.
I tried to play. I jumped rope. I used Silly Putty to stretch and twist Marmaduke and Beetle Bailey and Garfield. I paged through old Highlights magazines, searching for picture puzzles I hadn't done yet.
When Mama finally got home, rippling with excitement, I heard her whispering with my daddy in the kitchen for a while. And then she was in her bedroom, determined she was gonna turn the mood around in this house. She came out looking all glamorous and pink-cheeked in her new red Christmas gown.
"Hotsy-totsy!" Jason said, before running off to play with his Rock'em Sock'em Robots, which he never let me play, even though the game was for two people.
Hank Williams was on the stereo singing Hey Good Lookin.' To the amusement of my daddy, Mama extended her hand to him, and then suddenly they were all wrapped up, their arms circling each other like a stack of bangle bracelets. Swaying and laughing and smooching. I got the feeling right quick I was watching something I shouldn't, but at the same time, I couldn't look away.
I kicked my fancy shoes off my sticky feet—maybe they were getting too tight—and slipped on my stuffed Snoopy slippers. Ridiculous monster-osities, my mama had called them. Jason had laughed at his smooshed nose. And Daddy had worried they were so big, they'd trip me, which had happened only once or twice. But after a day of getting dented and dinged, I felt extra good and cozy in them, no matter what anybody else said.
I squinted at the Christmas tree lights, a trick that turned them into stars. I reached for the pin on my dress, felt the hope swell in my belly. Not the flag-waving kind of hope, but a lot like fireworks anyhow. Or at least warm and fizzy. Maybe next week, Mama would let me help decorate Christmas cookies with frosting and sprinkles. Maybe I'd get to play a part besides a shepherd or a sheep in the church pageant this year. Maybe I'd get a Creepy Crawler Bugmaker from "Santa." I'd heard my mama thinking about an Easy-Bake Oven, which would be all right too. It was hard to keep Christmas secrets from me, though often, no one even tried.
I squint again as Lucinda Williams comes on, singing a resurrected Hank Williams song, her voice so tender—thanking God for love so true—it nearly crumbles. She probably had a long and bumpy ride too, and like her, I'm happy to have finally found the person sitting next to me. This morning he's antsy, though, bouncing his leg and tapping a rhythm with his thumbs that's much too fast for the song.
"Sookie," he prods, bringing me fully out of my past. "Dance with me?" He holds out his hand.
I stand in my fuzzy bathrobe and slippers to face him; he's looking all sweet and rough and wild from his Christmas Eve ramble on my property. When he pulls me into his arms, he starts with a simple sway, only barely holding back the urge to break into a Texas two-step. It's nearly killing him.
"Oh, go ahead." I laugh, breaking out of his embrace after only a few shuffles.
"Really?" He grins. "Now?"
I nod, just as much in danger of bursting as he is. Something is pressing him: he wants very badly to give me one of the presents under the tree. I know it because his intent has been so clear, though he's managed to hide the exact contents from me. I love him for caring so much.
"Merry Christmas, Sookie," he says as he hands me a small box. He's vibrating with so much excitement, I'm surprised it hasn't gone flying out of his grasp like a tiddlywink.
I pry open the lid…and immediately start crying.
"Aw, cher," he says, starting to pace. "You didn't think…"
"No." I stop him and swallow back more tears. "It's beautiful. Of course I wasn't expecting a ring." We both agreed to take things slowly so we'd be sure. But this gift…this gift chokes me up in a different way.
How did he know? Or was it big a coincidence?
He notices the hesitation. "You told me one time you'd lost one like it. Right? It seemed special to you, I thought."
"That's right." Vaguely, I remember mentioning it to him one time, years ago and so much in passing, I don't know how he ever remembered. "It's one of the most thoughtful presents ever," I say.
He grins, happiness and relief releasing in such sincere waves, I feel lucky to be a telepath. "It has a safety clasp," he says. "I made sure of that."
The collar of my robe is the perfect place for it. I admire it again—the sweetest sparkling candy cane pin—before fixing it in place. The journey to this moment has been a long one, reason neither to wallow in sadness, nor to pretend the hard parts never happened. One day soon, I'll tell him the whole story of that morning out with my father, but for now, there are more important things to say.
I run my finger across the rough surface. "It reminds me what an old friend you are, of how much we've shared over the years without even knowing it, while we were busy looking somewhere else."
He pulls me close to him, his fingers tickling at my waist.
I laugh. "And how much you snuck up on me."
He wraps me in his flannel-clad arms, surrounding me with that scent that is only Sam: wood stove and damp, cold air; laundry detergent, and something musky that vibrates up and down my spine. He starts to kiss me when Bubba from a bygone era interrupts us on the radio, singing "Merry Christmas, Baby."
The timing is so perfect, we have to do a few ridiculous spins and dips right there in front of the tree. But Bubba could seriously do the blues, grinding and rocking, drawing us into his rhythm. Sam, for his part, shows off a few new dance moves he learned, as well as a few he's…improvising. He's busy working a miracle at my neck as something closer to a growl than any word comes out of his mouth.
I twine my fingers in his wiry red-gold hair, recalling the time he stood next to me as a lion, helping to take down the wolves. And barged into Hooligans with me to demand answers from the fairies. And shared his bar with me in gratitude for my help. And countless other gestures. He would never intimidate me into doing something for him.
Hope blooms wildly.
Straightaway, I feel like I'm at home more than ever before, here in front of the Christmas tree in my family's farmhouse. Later today, after we open more presents, I'll bake a sweet potato casserole, and then we'll join Jason and Michele for Christmas dinner. Tomorrow, Sam and I'll go back to the bar and start gearing up for New Year's Eve; among a list of other things, there are a few drink specials I've been meaning to talk about with him.
It all feels right. Well, I'll have to think more about it later when I'm not so distracted, but I guess I have one or two things in common with Dorothy, returned to Kansas after being chased by an army of winged monkeys and a wicked witch. Though things definitely changed around here—for me and the community—and I'm lucky that some of Oz came to Bon Temps to stay. I only have to look out my front door at my rosebush mailbox to remind myself. Boring and staid? Never again.
And then there is Sam, feeling the joy too, as fleece and flannel pool at our feet. This gentle, loving man is less than a moment from sabre tooth tiger. Just thinking about it gives me the shivers.
"I love you, Sam."
His wandering kisses and hands—warm, covering goose bumps on bare flesh—answer me enough. We forget about everything but us for a while, as Bubba rocks on.
~ Thanks for reading!~