Extra points to those who get the luby Christmas word play in the title! A little swearing, a little romance, and the painting, hope you enjoy it.

"Green Trees"

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. For most of my life Christmas has either been idyllic, perfect, a dream, or a nightmare day, too empty, too dark, too . . I don't know what. This one I want to be perfect. We can pick out a tree, shop for decorations, maybe get some of those little gold balls that I remember from childhood, or maybe a bunch of different ones and lights, lots of lights. Last year we both had to work, kept it real low key. Probably a good idea, our first Christmas together, we weren't ready for the works. But this year . . .

On my day off I tell her we better really go get the tree this time and the decorations. And she tells me no. Just flat out no. She'll do it or I can do it, but she won't do it with me. What the hell? I'm angry, hurt, she won't budge. "Christmas means something different to you. I'm sorry Luka . . . I can't explain it any better than that."

And she doesn't, that's it. "Fine. I'll get the tree, you can get the decorations. I'll go shovel the driveway. " I grab my coat and head out to do just that.

Damn nothing is ever simple is it? But come to think of it, I doubt my reaction when she first brought up the idea of having a baby was what she had expected or hoped for. And then of course those long troubled days of my retreat from life, from her, that couldn't have been part of her plan. Maybe she's right. Maybe there's no rush to bridge every divide, to figure out every detail, to emesh ourselves in every way possible. I suppose Christmas need neither be perfect or painful. Maybe this year it's best to let it be what it is. Whatever happens this year, it will be different next year, baby's first Christmas. Oh my God.

Anyway, I go shopping for the tree while she heads out for the decorations. In an act of defiance or perhaps of nostalgia, I buy the biggest damn tree I can find. When I was a boy, it was always Tata's goal to buy the tallest tree possible. One year we had to keep it outside as we couldn't get it in the house, and Tata wouldn't cut an inch off of it.

On Christmas morning my aunts would always come and spend the day cooking, encouraging my mother to entertain them on the piano to keep her out of the kitchen and spare her feelings. We didn't have many presents, but so many cousins, we didn't notice. And then after eating a huge meal, Mama would play the piano and we'd all sing. It was perfect. Having Dani and then the kids only made it better. We took them on the sleigh rides that had ended after I was too old, their little faces pink with the cold, laughing, clapping . . . . .

Stop it Kovac. Memories are a fine thing to have, but expectations will choke you. Whatever my memories are, they aren't hers. I can only imagine what Christmas was like for Abby. I don't ask. I don't know why. I guess I don't really want to hear the disappointment, the hurt, whatever's there. And then there's the 'don't ask, don't tell' vibe I'm getting from her. Maybe next year, there's time. After all in life the journey means as much as the destination, possibly more.

Later, she helps me get the tree into position, and brings in the ornaments. Get this they aren't really ornaments at all, they're baby socks., over a hundred of them. I tell her she's her mother's daughter, but damn she's smart, it's perfect. No ghost of Christmas past for us, but a reminder of Christmas future, and maybe that's what we needed anyway.

Christmas day we don't do much of anything. Talk on the phone to my family and hers, lounge around, go for a walk. Around 3:00 she disappears into the kitchen and tells me to stay out. I can hear her Croatian language tapes playing, her voice trying to repeat the words, occasional cursing in English or Croatian.. Her accent really is terrible, but I love her for it, for trying. She got the cuss words from me, not the tapes of course. I taught her one night when she couldn't sleep. We lay in the dark swearing in two languages and laughing. Some time after 6:00 she ushers me into the dining room, and there's quite a spread. I'm surprised.

"You hate cooking."

She shrugs, "Ivica told me you're used to big dinners on Christmas."

"You didn't have to . . .."

"I know, that's the best part."

"Duck?"

"Yes, my grandmother used to make it."

"And fish?"

"Ivica gave me the recipe - Grandma Ivana's he said. Does it look right?"

"Except yours is missing the head, it's perfect."

"Liar."

"No, Abby it's perfect. Just perfect."

So we feast although she can't eat much at one sitting anymore. Then we watch "It's a Wonderful Life". It's sappy, but it always gets me in the end. Lucky bastard gets a second chance. Oh and Jimmy Stewart does okay too.

When it's done I tell her to close her eyes.

"Why?" She looks at me suspiciously.

"Because I have a surprise, close your eyes."

"Dammit, Luka we said no gifts." She's angry, no I mean she's really angry.

"It's not a gift, it's a surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"Close your eyes."

"Luka . . ." She's going to give me shit, I can tell.

"Abby, you surprised me with dinner. I made this, it's a surprise. Close your damn eyes."

She looks at me for a minute, and then closes her eyes.

"Good, no peeking." I go to the closet and take down the painting wrapped in gold, and I put it in front of her. "Okay, open your eyes." She does and stares down at it.

"You made it?"

"Yes."

"It doesn't look like baby booties."

"I don't knit."

"No, I didn't think so."

"And, it's not for the baby, it's for you."

"And you made it?"

"Yes, why is that so hard to believe."

"I don't know, you don't seem . . . .craftsy to me."

"I'm not craftsy, open it up." She does, and she stares down at the painting, down at herself.

"Oh, my God." I can't read her expression.

"You don't like it"

"No, no, It's beautiful. My eyes . . . .I'm . . . .you think I'm beautiful." The words are quiet I have to strain to hear them.

"This surprises you?"

"Yes . . . .no . . . I mean . . . . you painted me."

She doesn't have any more words, and I don't need them anyway. She climbs awkwardly into my lap straddling me, her firm belly pressed into mine, staring at me like she hasn't seen me in a long time. She brushes the hair from my forehead. Then we kiss, gently at first becoming more fevered. Her hands pull off my shirt. We make love. At times awkward, at times overwhelmingly sensual. Her body on high alert, some sensations too exquisite for her, challenging me to readjust, to learn her body all over again. After, we lie wrapped in a blanket, bodies damp, a little breathless, splayed awkwardly on the sofa.

I run my hand over her belly absently. "I'll have to paint you more often."

"I didn't even know you knew how."

"I know. I thought . . .I thought I would never want to paint again."

"You painted them."

"Yes."

"Will you . .. ."

"Yes, I'll paint the baby. I think I'll paint you together, I've never done that before."

"No?"

"Only one person at a time, but I'd like to paint you together."

"I'd like that."

"Change is good."

"You think?"

"I know." I feel her slip away from me then. Her body stiffens in my arms. Somehow I know where she's gone. She's thinking about me painting Dani, the children. Maybe she wonders if there was a Christmas where I gave a painting to Dami, made love with her, her belly full with Marko or Jasna. There wasn't. I want to pull her back to me. But I can't think of what to say. In the end, I blurt out awkwardly, "So art makes you feel sexy?" Crap, I can't believe I just said that. She tilts her head to look up at me with disbelief on her face. I shrug, smile nervously. She puts her head back on my chest, I feel her relax, come back to the moment, back to me, back to us.

"Art . . .and drama." Her voice is flirtatious now.

'Drama?"

"Mmmmm especially Hamlet in Croatian."

"That turned you on? You didn't seem too impressed."

"I thought it best to play it cool."

"Not let me know you were impressed?"

"Not let you know I was horny as hell." I burst out laughing. It's a good thing to marry someone who makes you laugh.

"Well, I'll keep it mind for future use, when you're not so tired."

"So, what in five years?"

"Something like that."

"That's depressing. My God, I'm going to be someone's mother."

"Yes."

"We're having a baby."

"Apparently."

"It's not the labor that scares me you know, it's what comes after."

"I know. I don't think I've told you, but I'm proud of you."

"For?"

"For wanting to feel the birth. I'm glad. I really am. I mean don't get me wrong, if you need an epidural or whatever, it's fine with me too. But, I think it's right that we do this together, feel this together. It hasn't been easy for me to think . . . .about you hurting . . . .to feel responsible for getting you through. But it will be a good beginning, for us, for our baby."

"I spent a lifetime running from the tough stuff. I don't want to run anymore."

"Stand and fight."

"Yes."

"I've got your back."

"That's the best part."

"Actually there are other parts that I prefer . .. "

"Funny, very funny."

"Merry Christmas?"

"Best one yet."

"If you say that every year for the next 20, I'll be a happy man."

"No pressure then."

"It's not pressure, it's a personal challenge."

"You like challenges?"

"I married you didn't I? "