Auld Lang Syne
(A companion piece/sequel to "Shadows
of Things That Might Be")
© 1/1/2007 by S. Faith
About 6300 words. Rated M for adult-type situations (it's probably actually a T but I am erring on the side of caution). Disclaimers? You betcha.
Funnily enough, when he thinks of "Auld Lang Syne", he now thinks of Dan Fogelberg and not Robert Burns, which feels like something of a blasphemy, but it doesn't really surprise him when all is said and done.
The approaching end of the old year and the beginning of the new is always a time for reflection, for thanks, and this year as he ruminates in front of a cosy fireplace, he is most thankful for the persistence of friends, or at least the persistence of the wife of his law partner. Left to his own devices he would have cheerfully spent the holidays on the coast of Portugal, alone and far, far away from well-meaning family and friends, but it was she who convinced him to stick around for Christmas, reminding him that his parents probably missed seeing him during the one time of year meant for surrounding oneself with unconditional love. She was deft in avoiding the subject of his ex-wife, reminding him in a very subtle way that her leaving him was not the end of his own life, and how happy she (and his law partner) would be if he were to join them for early Christmas dinner.
He wonders now, of course, if it was a calculated move to introduce her to him. Magda, his partner's wife, claimed she had no such intent when he asked her at the party, and even insists upon the exact opposite, but he still wonders.
Truth be told, he was having rather a terrible time at the dinner that evening. The attendees were all married and discussing all manner of things one would expect of happy couples. Even though it was cold and snowing outside, he could stand it no more and took refuge under the overhang of the house, sheltered from the swirling snow, in the darkness of the December night, alone with his thoughts as he intended. He wonders now what compelled him to stay at the party at all, because God knows he wanted to leave and almost did. Good manners was probably what forbade him from leaving before the meal; certainly nothing as fanciful as fate or destiny.
He remembers being intrigued by her when she came shuffling out onto the patio for a smoke. He was in the perfect position to watch her without being observed, blonde hair highlighted by the amber light diffused through the kitchen drapery. He especially remembers the dress, the way her skin seemed as pale as the snow next to the black of it, the way it was cut in a low vee in the front, the way the low heels on her shoes almost disappeared in the accumulation of flakes. As he watched her take out a lighter and prepare to touch the flame to the end of the cigarette, he was overcome by a strange sort of guilt, like it was wrong and slightly creepy to not announce his presence to her.
Which completely ruined the moment, as he nearly scared the life out of her.
He left her for the house, but decided to stay at the party. Certainly it was not that he was smitten from the moment he'd seen her. That too would be starry-eyed, romanticised thinking—something he was not in the habit of doing.
Yes, he decided to stay, and is glad he did.
It surely was a mind-blowing moment to realise that the charming, lovely woman devouring gingerbread men before him was the very same one his mother had been talking about for months previously, the daughter of one of her good friends, as a potential blind date. As nice as she was made out to be he could not help but think there must have been an unspoken reason for her single status. He truly had dreaded the subject every time it came up and dreaded the inevitable introduction even more, but had accepted the meeting as an unavoidable certainty along the lines of death and taxes, especially considering both of their mothers were involved.
He remembers like a dream when she departed for another smoke shortly after admitting to knowing his marital history, and equally dreamlike he recalls following her outside to offer her a ride home, because at least that way (he told himself) he'd have someone to talk to there at the party. He was surprised to realise that, outside on the patio once again under the falling snow, he was directly beneath a small bough of mistletoe. If he had given it a moment's thought he would have bolted for the house again, but the spiked eggnog made him slightly braver than usual. Twice.
They were chaste as kisses go, the second a bit longer than the first, but she didn't seem to object, and in fact afterward she joined him again for coffee, cookies and more conversation. She worked at a publishing house; fleetingly he wondered if the world was so small that it was possible she knew the man who ruined his marriage. But their banter was effortless, light, and quite enjoyable; the time passed quickly and before he knew it the party was breaking up. He at least had the ride home to look forward to, but leaving the party reminded him he would be soon returning to an empty house.
She lived close to him, which he was happy to hear, and surprised that it made him so happy. He knew it probably had more to do with the attention she was giving him, for he hadn't had the attention of a lovely woman in a long time who wasn't after anything but his company. In the car the radio was already on and tuned to one of the adult contemporary stations, volume turned down low, but as he glanced to her he could still hear the telltale piano line of the Fogelberg tune in the background, like a soundtrack for this perfect winter night and her easy smile. It was never one of his favourite songs. It would be in future.
When she asked him to come up for coffee, he felt like he agreed a little too eagerly. If she noticed she said nothing; in fact she seemed equally pleased that he agreed.
As he drinks cocoa and ponders the closing of the year and the acquaintance he has made, he thinks it definitely bodes well for it to be a better holiday than he was expecting.
………
When he wakes to the sun in his eyes, a sofa cushion against his cheek and a blanket over his lap, he's mortified to think he might have offended her by falling asleep in front of the fire. He makes himself feel better by telling himself that at least she hadn't awakened him to forcibly eject him from the premises. He thinks it might be nice to have the coffee made for her when she rouses from sleep, so he makes it, and when she stumbles out of her bathroom with her hair slightly askew and looking horrified (at her perceived appearance) and grateful (for the coffee) at the same time, he has to face the fact that he likes her more than he wants to admit for having met her less than twenty-four hours prior (even if it is only because she's been so kind to him), and hopes she likes him at least a little bit.
She agrees to join him for breakfast. That's a good sign.
She runs to get dressed, and reappears, and he starts being less convinced that he likes her only because she treated him kindly. She clearly thinks something's wrong, and he tells her there isn't. Far from it. She responds positively when he kisses her again: an even better sign, considering it's not so chaste a kiss this time around. When he pulls back from her, sees the rosy glow of her cheeks, her closed eyes, her parted lips, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she likes him too.
………
"Are you humming?"
He startles out of his thoughts while at breakfast, looks across the table to meet her confused gaze. "I am. Sorry." He realises that the same song he heard in the car last night is playing quietly in the background here in the Coins Café—strangely, another thing they have in common; as it turns out, they both come here with regularity but had never managed to encounter one another—and he smiles to think of last night's car ride, of last night in general.
With effort she focuses to hear what song it is, and she looks horrified when it filters into her head. "Oh God, this song?"
"What's wrong with this song?" he asks, hardly believing he has to ask, considering he never liked it before yesterday.
"It's so corny, and God, if you really listen to the words, it's bloody depressing."
He feels heat crawl up his face. "It reminds me of last night. Of you."
She laughs. He really likes her laugh; it makes him smile. "What, I'm depressing? Or do I remind you of an—" She stops short. He knows what she doesn't say: old lover.
"Quite the opposite," he says, hoping to make her at ease. "It was just playing in the car last night as I was driving you home, with the snow falling and—" She waits for the rest of his sentence. He doesn't say your smile like he's thinking, instead finishing with "—the piano, it was just a nice moment." She looks a bit skeptical, but doesn't push it.
Her mobile—at least, he presumes that god-awful sound is her mobile—starts to ring, and with an embarrassed smile she pulls it out and answers it. "Hello? … Oh, hi Magda." He can hear the muffled sound of Magda's voice coming through the earpiece, unintelligible but rapid and high-pitched. His companion's eyes flash to him. "Where's Mark? Why do you ask?" She listens, laughs slightly nervously. "Left his mobile at your place, did he? … And not answering his home phone?"
He holds out his hand. Hesitantly, she hands it to him.
"Magda?" he says.
Stunned silence. "Mark?" Magda asks tentatively. "Where are you?"
He fixes his eyes on the woman in front of him, who still looks like a kid that's been caught stealing a candy bar. "I'm with your friend Bridget."
In a deceptively nonchalant tone, Magda continues, "What are you doing?"
"Having breakfast." Before she has an aneurysm—he is fully aware of how mother hen-like she feels towards him—he adds, "Coffee and croissant at Coins."
He can hear her release a breath. "Have you been home? I've been leaving messages all over the place, and then I found your mobile this morning in the cushion of the chair you were sitting in."
She's quite skilled at the art of interrogation, asking questions without seeming to. "I stayed the night at Bridget's, if that's what you want to know."
"Mark," she says, sounding offended. "I would never pry." After a beat she asked, her tone much darker, "Bridget's, hmm?"
"Nothing happened." He feels his mouth turning up in a smile against his will, and Bridget smiles back. There's no reason for Magda to know about the kiss. "I slept on the couch." He doesn't say fell asleep on the couch because he likes the way slept makes it sound like a choice, a mutual decision. Magda worries about him too much as it is.
"Oh." There's a beat before she asks, "Are you still going to Grafton Underwood?"
"Yes. Speaking of, I wouldn't mind swinging by your place on the way, to pick up my mobile if it isn't any trouble."
She's back to her regular self. "Yes, sure, that's fine. We'll see you later then. Tell Bridget goodbye from me. And happy Christmas."
"I will." He closes the phone and hands it to her. His fingers brush her wrist momentarily, and it's electric, reminding him of kissing her. He clears his throat. "Magda told me to tell you 'goodbye' and 'happy Christmas'."
She smiles. She looks relieved.
He looks down and sees they've finished their breakfast. He's sad that their breakfast date of sorts is coming to an end, but he remembers they're riding together to Grafton Underwood, and his spirits lift again. "Well. I should probably walk you back to your flat then get home and get my things ready for Christmas."
She looks really confused for a minute, but then smiles. He hopes it's because she's also remembered.
It's begun to snow again. The walk back to her flat is unfortunately short and they arrive on the step in front of her building far too soon, but he decides he should not go up to her flat, because he probably wouldn't want to leave and he's decided that he has one more errand to run before departure. She agrees to be ready to leave in approximately four hours' time and with that they part, he taking the step down towards his car, and she turning to unlock the building door. He gets to the car but turns back to look at her. He thought briefly about kissing her but didn't want to push his luck.
She gets the door open but before she disappears into the building, she faces him again and smiles. "See you at two, then." He thinks he could have taken the chance, after all.
………
The ride up to Grafton Underwood is punctuated with more of the same light, easy conversation they'd had at the party, and equally easy stretches of silence. She dozes off once or twice; the bright winter light on her hair keeps attracting his eye and he feels kind of strange for looking. It does not wholly surprise him when the Fogelberg song comes on again (as the ride is long, it's Christmas, and the station his radio was tuned to is predisposed to play it), and despite her closed eyes he catches her smiling when that distinctive piano line trills through the speakers.
He drops her off at her parents', helps to carry her suitcase and sack of presents to the door. Her mother looks shell-shocked to see him, but grins quite proudly to see them together, as if she had actually arranged the ride herself. His parents are equally stunned to see him looking so happy at Christmastime, but does not call attention to it, as if questioning its existence might make it disappear. After dinner he confides to his mother the chance meeting at the party last night. She smiles. She is not the sort of woman that would ever say 'I told you so', and for that, he is grateful.
………
After the opening of gifts and breakfast on Christmas morning, he tells his parents he's going out to visit a friend. He suspects his mother knows exactly where he's heading but she doesn't say anything. He dons his coat, grabs his keys, and nearly leaves when he remembers he has something to bring.
The countryside is coated with freshly fallen snow and it's beautiful and perfect. He thinks maybe he doesn't mind driving in the winter, after all.
Although surprised to see him, her mother happily lets him in, calling out to Bridget that she has a visitor. Bridget emerges from the living room and into the foyer, looking quite puzzled and saying, "Who—?" before stopping in her tracks and flushing a deep crimson. "Oh. Hi."
He realises with the clarity of hindsight that he probably ought to have called first. She's wearing a paper crown, flannel pyjamas in a sheep-patterned print and huge fuzzy slippers, and looks somewhat mortified. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hands folded behind his back, he offers, "Hello. Sorry."
"No, it's really okay," she says. When she smiles he knows she means it, isn't just saying it to make him feel better.
Her mother speaks up. "Would you like some coffee?"
"Yes, thank you."
The older woman scuttles off, looking a little too gleeful to him.
"I didn't mean to interrupt. I should have called—"
"Don't worry about it," she says more insistently, and he has no choice but to believe her. "Come on, take off your coat and sit down." He hangs his coat on the rack, keeping what he's brought with him out of sight.
She brings him into the living room. There's a man sitting on the sofa. He's also wearing a paper crown and a housecoat. He looks up with surprise. "Hello."
"Dad, this is Mark, Malcolm and Elaine's son." She looks pained as she says it, glancing to Mark. He grins, putting her at obvious ease. "Mark, this is my dad."
The men shake hands.
"Mark, good to see you again. My, but it's been an age—"
Her mother's voice echoes through the house. "Colin! Could I have a hand in the kitchen please?" He bets she thinks she's being subtle. Even her husband rolls his eyes at the obviousness of it, but he leaves all the same.
She sits where her father had been, and he takes the armchair just to her left. "What brings you here this morning?" she asks.
"I came to wish you a Happy Christmas."
She smirks. "Happy Christmas to you too. But you know, there are these things called telephones, and you needn't have braved the snow." Even as she says the words, the tone of her voice is light, even playful, which makes him think she's glad he's come, despite being caught in a Christmas cracker crown and pyjamas.
"But I couldn't give this to you over the phone." He hands her a small wrapped present. She looks genuinely stunned, mouth open in a slight O.
"I… don't know what to say. Thank you."
"Don't thank me until you actually open it."
She tears the paper off. A smile passes over her lips, then a full-blown grin, then a hearty laugh. "You're joking. The Very Best of Dan Fogelberg." But she looks sincerely touched, and she reaches to briefly place her fingers on his forearm. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She chuckles, flipping the CD over to read the track listing. She looks up to him suddenly, quite horrified. "But I don't have anything for you."
"Meeting you has been gift enough," he says before he can really stop to think about it.
She blushes again.
He can honestly say that Christmas this year is the best in recent memory.
………
Boxing Day passes uneventfully. He goes back to the city in the evening, once again in her company. They discuss the worst gifts they'd ever received. She laughs when he tells her about the horrendous jumper from his mother this year—huge cartoon reindeer face across the torso—and she tells him about the children's ballerina music box a well-meaning relative had given her at age seventeen. She insists on playing the CD he gave her as the conversation moves to best gifts ever: she decides hers must have been the Christmas after she turned twenty-one, when her mother gave her the necklace she always wore, a heart pendant on a chain. "And this CD, of course," she jokes.
He has to think for a while about what might be the best gift he'd ever received. He's gotten some pretty nice gifts in the recent past, but they've been from his ex-wife, and it's hard to separate the gift from the giver. At last he decides, "Probably my first attaché case after graduating law school, from my parents."
She scoffs. "That can't possibly be the best."
"It was a significant milestone, and it meant a lot to me," he says.
She laughs. "Come on, surely someone's bought you a really great watch, or fun boxer shorts, or even cufflinks—"
"Yes," he interrupts. He says it more gruffly than he intends to. He looks to her. She gets it. "Sorry."
"I should be the one to apologise," she says. "I really should think before I speak sometimes."
The last thing he wants is for her to start walking on eggshells or censoring herself around him. He likes her sense of spontaneity. "No, Bridget," he says. "I am the one who needs to get over it already." He turns to her and grins. She smiles, relaxes again.
Too soon he is in front of her building. He offers to bring up her bags, and she accepts. He drops the bags on the floor at the top of the landing, turns back to her. "Well. I suppose I'll be seeing you on New Year's," she says, then adds, "if you still plan on going."
"I do." He safely puts his hands in his pockets. "You know, I could pick you up."
"Sure." Then she chuckles. "I'm starting to feel like you're my chauffeur."
He smiles.
"Want to stay for dinner?" she asks suddenly. "I was going to just make some pasta with meat sauce, but I can make double just as easily."
He does not hesitate to answer: "Yes."
She isn't the best cook. Her pasta is slightly mushy, the sauce is a bit overcooked and verging on burned, and she doesn't have any fresh parmesan, only the kind in the jar that's mostly filler. He doesn't care; he's not eating alone. It might as well have been dinner at Le Pont de la Tour.
"Do you have to work tomorrow?" he asks abruptly. He's had some wine, not enough to inebriate him, but enough that his own internal editor has slipped.
"Sadly, yes, I do."
"Ah." He looks to his watch. It's almost nine P.M. "I should probably head home."
She nods. They both rise from the table.
"Thanks again for dinner. It was good," he says as he pulls on his coat.
"Don't lie," she says with a smirk. She walks him to the door. "I really appreciate the ride home and back."
"It was nice to have the company. Took my mind off of the harrowing road conditions," he replies with a smile.
They're standing there, she a step above him on the stairs down to her flat door, and he can't help it: he reaches forward and kisses her. She's certainly not surprised, and in fact seems to welcome his mouth covering her own because she most ardently responds. Rapidly surpassing where they left off on Christmas Eve morning, she surprises him by catching his lip gently between her teeth in a most tantalising manner. He feels her hands slide underneath his coat and around his waist, pulling him closer to her. Automatically his arms return the embrace. His hand reaches to stroke her hair, and he runs the backs of his fingers along her cheek before cupping her face in his hand, his fingers curling around to the nape of her neck.
She breaks away, her breath hot against his cheek. "You could stay."
She raises her head, turns her eyes to meet his; they bore into his soul and he wants to stay, God he wants to. He's been attracted to her from the moment he first saw her. This he's learned to admit to himself. She's interesting and funny, and is some of the best company he's ever had. Kissing her is sublime and stirs passions in him that he had thought long dead; she's the first woman he's wanted to bed in a very long time. But he thinks things are moving too fast already, and he doesn't want to ruin what they have, not to mention he's unsurprisingly gun-shy about being intimate with a woman when the last one broke his heart so thoroughly. "I… don't think I should."
The hurt is evident in her eyes.
"Not that I wouldn't like to," he adds, his voice husky.
"Oh," she says quietly. She looks down.
He leans in and kisses her again to underscore the point before releasing his embrace. She does the same.
Softly he says, touching her face again, "Good night, Bridget."
"Good night," she says as she closes the door behind him.
………
Since he's in London and not as his parents' as originally planned, he gets back to work, and the week after Christmas flies by faster than he can believe. He thinks frequently of Bridget but has not called her, which he knows is cowardly but he doesn't quite know what to say. He wonders if there is something wrong with him after all, because any other man would not have thought twice about taking her up on her offer.
Working at the desk in his home office, he glances at his watch and realises it's ten P.M. on New Year's Eve. He feels like the world's biggest heel for not firming plans sooner for the party. He pulls out his mobile. "Jeremy, it's Mark."
"Mark, old man! I hear you're actually coming to the party tonight."
He smiles and thinks Only if Bridget's coming with me. "Is your wife available? I need to talk to her."
She is, and she has the number he needs. He calls it.
"Yes, what do you want?" comes the harsh voice on the other end.
He doesn't speak right away, convinced he's dialed incorrectly. "Bridget?"
There's a pause as she struggles to determine who it is. He hears other voices there. He wonders what's going on. "Mark?"
"Yes." He clears his throat, waiting for the verbal reaming he deserves. It doesn't come. The background voices go quiet.
"Oh," is all she says.
"I know I should have called you sooner. I got tied up in work and… well, I have no good excuses to offer. I'm really sorry."
"Oh," she says again.
"Shall I pick you up then for Magda's?"
"I'm not going."
He can't disguise the disappointment in his voice as he says, "You're not?"
"Well… hold on," Everything goes a little muffled, like she's put her hand over the receiver. He hears the murmur of voices. "See, the thing is, I made other plans. When I didn't hear from you…" she trails off.
He furrows his brow. He feels bad about not calling her during the week. How has this changed going to the party? "But I thought the plan was for me to pick you up tonight."
She's quiet for so long that he wonders if she's still there. He's about to ask when she lets out a breath. "Okay. Come on over."
He hears voices raise behind her.
"To your flat?"
"Sure."
He listens to the sounds of voices. "Is someone else there?" he asks.
"My friends. We're having Chinese takeaway." One of the friends shouts something and she adds, "Yes. And wine. There's lots of both. Come over."
He thinks, Why not.
He drives because of the falling snow and the temperature, even though it isn't that far of a walk; he doesn't want to risk a fall on the icy sidewalk. He's wearing a navy blue jumper and khaki trousers, which is pretty casual for him. When he arrives fewer than ten minutes from their phone conversation, he is immediately aware of the fact that he is under intense scrutiny by her friends, all clad in strange, glittery cardboard hats and wearing plastic leis around their necks. Bridget's dressed in an old Bangor sweatshirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms, the sheep print ones he remembers from Christmas morning, and her hair's down and slightly shaggy around her face. On her feet are a pair of shearling slippers, making her feet look like two miniature sheep. She looks embarrassed, apologises for her appearance, and tries to explain that she hasn't been feeling that great, hence the lack of dressing up. He doesn't say so but he thinks she looks beautiful, fresh-faced, unlaquered.
He is introduced to her friends, two women and one man. One of the women, Jude, actually recognises his name, says her company has worked with his firm and instantly warms to him as she shakes his hand. Bridget seems almost hesitant to get near to him. Following Jude's cue, the remaining two friends smile and warmly take his hand, though look slightly skeptical.
He has a generous serving of sweet and sour chicken and pork fried rice. It's actually quite good if a little greasy. Sharon, the other female friend, offers him chardonnay. It's cheap and a little too sweet but goes surprisingly well with the food. As the wine hits his system he feels a little more relaxed, and he sits back on the sofa, resting his head against the back. Bridget takes the chair opposite; Tom, the male friend, takes the spot next to Mark while Jude and Sharon top off their wineglasses in the kitchen.
Tom asks him a little about what he does, and as Mark's speaking he realises Tom's interest is beyond curiosity; Tom's checking him out quite thoroughly. Mark's actually a little flattered though not interested, and turns to look at Bridget, who offers a small, almost apologetic smile, as if to say We can't take him anywhere.
Jude and Sharon return and initiate a discussion about the big celebrity news of the past year. Mark quietly rises and brings his plate to the kitchen, realises Bridget has followed him in. He turns to her. "So," he asks quietly, "do I pass muster?"
She chuckles. It's a sound he's glad to hear. "I wasn't trying to make you run the gamut, I swear." After a pause during which she pours more wine, she adds, "But yes. I think you have."
"I'm glad to hear." He looks to his own glass as she pours some more for him. "I really am sorry about not calling. I didn't know quite what to say after walking away from such an appealing offer."
"I thought—" She stops, looking to make sure her friends weren't listening. "I thought maybe I'd gone too far too fast and scared you off." She laughs nervously, testing the waters.
"Believe me, it had nothing to do with you."
She smiles again, a little more genuinely this time. "You know how Magda's words of warning tend to get stuck in a loop in your head… Well. Maybe you don't."
He chuckles. "No, I do."
The shouting and blaring of noisemakers from the couch tells him that it's almost midnight; in fact, the three friends are now counting down the seconds from sixty. Boldly he reaches forward and takes her hand. "Whether at Magda's or here, I'm glad to be ringing in the New Year with you." He raises his glass in a gesture of toast. She does the same, and after touching glasses they both take a lengthy sip. Their eyes meet and at once he doesn't care about her friends being there; he knows what he wants to spend the first moments of the new year doing. He sets his glass down on the kitchen counter, pulls her towards him, takes her glass from her, and places a hand on her face.
"Wait."
She looks to the window. It's still snowing. She looks back to him with a glint in her eye, then leads him to a door and out onto a small balcony. The flakes are caught up in the air current and float almost magically in circles. "The atmosphere out here is much nicer," she says.
It's true despite the cold, and quickly, almost desperately, he takes her in his arms. For the pitifully few times she's been there it's amazing how good, how right it feels to have her in his embrace. And as the echoes of five four three two one reach the balcony, he lowers his head while she raises her own, and they meet for a kiss to welcome the new year. Her hands grasp his shirt front, then release it to slide around to his back as the kiss deepens. He moves his hands down to her waist, tightening his hold.
If she asks again, he thinks, he won't refuse.
They are suddenly interrupted by the loud, close sound of three voices hooting and hollering and the rattling of noisemakers. They break apart to see that her friends are in the doorway to the balcony. Bridget hides her face in his chest but he can feel her laughing against him. He has his arms around her shoulders and he smiles, feeling his own face flush. "Happy New Year, you two," says Sharon with a smirk.
"Looks like we may need to find another party," observes Jude dryly. She's grinning too. She cocks her head and as if on cue the three retreat back into the flat, leaving the two of them alone again.
"Happy new year," Mark says quietly. "May it bring you everything you want."
She smiles. "You too." He can't help but think that he already has what he wants. "But right now, I just want back inside," says Bridget. She's trembling with cold, so he keeps his arm about her as they walk inside.
Jude wasn't kidding. They're donning their coats and preparing to leave. "Jude, Shaz, where are you going?"
"Over to Magda's."
"There's a party there we were invited to, you know."
"Shall we send your regrets?" Tom asks, his left eyebrow arched.
"Yes," she says without hesitation. He tries not to grin too broadly.
………
While he makes some drinking chocolate (a capful of Bailey's in each mug), she lights the fireplace, just like the night of the Christmas Orphans' Dinner. When he emerges from the kitchen with two mugs, he sees she's rotated the sofa to parallel the wall with the fireplace exactly as he had previously done, but instead has put the sofa cushions on the floor, heaped up on the edge of the faux fur rug farthest from the fire. The lights are low and she's sitting cross-legged on a cushion, a blanket about her shoulders. He smiles when he realises she's put in the Fogelberg CD.
He hands her the mugs and seats himself, then takes his mug back from her. She holds out the blanket as an invitation to join her beneath it, which he does, and rests back against the seat of the sofa. He drinks his chocolate, stares at the flickering flames. As she leans against him, he's distracted by the lavender scent of her hair.
He has no intention of falling asleep this time.
He finishes his chocolate, sets the mug down. He can see down into the inside of her cup and she's finished, too. He holds his hand out as an offer to set hers down. She gives it to him; he sets it beside his.
She raises her head to look up at him. He's struck once more with how sweet her face is, from the curve of her cheek to the blue of her eyes. He marvels at how guileless her expression is. He knows first-hand that appearances can be deceiving, but Bridget… he thinks not.
"I'm happy you called," she said, resting her cheek on his left shoulder. "I'm even happier you came over."
"This is much better than being at Magda and Jeremy's," he says.
"Yes. We could have never gotten away with this there. Much too formal a shindig," she says, her hands sliding around his waist. There's no party to be missed from just on the other side of a door, nor are there friends to interrupt them, just a lovely fire, a cosy setting, and a very pretty woman curled up beside him. After several moments of just holding her in front of the fire, he kisses the top of her head, combs her hair back with his right hand. He thinks he's being really obvious, but clearly not obvious enough because she doesn't raise her face to his.
He tilts his head to the side, and is quietly amused. She has dozed off.
He whispers her name, running his thumb along her eyebrow. She blinks her eyes then opens them. She's patently mortified, and overflows with apologies.
"It's all right," he says tenderly. "I just didn't want to start without you."
"Start what?" she asks, clearly befuddled.
By way of explanation, he kisses her. She catches on fast. Her hands move to his face, comb back through his hair. He catches his breath at the feel of her nails raking along the nape of his neck before they move down his shoulders and arms. He is aware of his own hands on her waist, specifically on the waistband of her sweatshirt, of how close they are to touching her bare skin, and of how badly he wants to touch it.
She pulls back from his kiss. "Go on," she breathes, as if reading his mind. He realises then that his fingers have been slowly lifting the edge of her sweatshirt; as she turns to kiss his jawline then take his earlobe between gentle teeth, his hand plunges beneath the edge of her shirt to find warm, soft skin beneath.
She arches back against the pillows and cushions as his hands roam upwards. "I can't possibly let you drive home," she says disconnectedly as she lifts her chin at the touch of his tongue on her throat, shivers as the pads of his fingers play along her breasts. "You've had far too much to drink."
………
They arrive together at the Turkey Curry Buffet, hand in hand. They're a little late but he thinks they have a good reason, not that he would ever share that reason with their families. He is sure he's walking three feet above the earth, and she—well, she's absolutely glowing. He catches his mother smiling at him, and he smiles in return.
Pam Jones says off-handedly to her friend Una, "And here I thought this was a bad time of year for Mark."
It used to be, he thinks. Not anymore.
The end.
(n.b. The song being referenced here is actually "Same Old Lang Syne" by Dan Fogelberg.)