Stockings


When the sled had finally slowed to a stop at the bottom of the hill, Harm and Mac had rolled off into the snow, both of them laughing.

Mac had sunk backwards into a snowdrift with Harm's weight on top of her, her cheeks red and flushed as much from the wind and cold as from the laughter.

And then she had felt his lips pressing warm kisses against her face, on her forehead, her cheeks, and in a line along her jaw, until he had finally claimed her mouth in a long, tender kiss.

Now they were both sitting by the fireplace again, warming up under cozy fleece blankets, as Sarah hung the Christmas stockings.

"Did you make them yourself?" Mac asked in admiration.

Sarah nodded. "Sewed every single one over the years."

First, she hung up a pretty gold stocking with her own name embroidered on the front.

Next to hers, she hung a dark green one. Harmon, it read, and Mac realized that after all these years, she was still hanging up a stocking for her son.

Trish's stocking was red, with her name printed in block letters, and even Frank had his own stocking now.

Mac couldn't help but snicker at the red and green patched stocking with the bright yellow airplane, and she felt Harm kick her under the fleece blanket.

Little Harm, it read.

Then Sarah laid out a sixth stocking, a red and green striped one with Mac written in gold cursive lettering.

"For me?" Mac asked in wonder.

"And why not?" Sarah replied as if it were a very simple answer. "You're a part of this family now, too."