“Got you!” she shouted, planting a kiss on my cheek.
“You certainly did,Chiquita,” I said, sitting up to wrap my arms around her.
I picked her up, and her legs went around me like a little monkey’s. We entered the kitchen to find Grams smiling our way. Her hair, which had once been as golden as Hannah’s and mine, was now white, and her eyes that had also been our same honey color were now just a pale reflection.
Even with the faded hair and wrinkled skin, it was hard to believe she’d just turned ninety-three. She didn’t act like she was that old. She was spry and full of energy, even when she had to take shots and heavy doses of pain medication to help curb her arthritis.
“You should have woken me before you started,” I told her.
“Morning,cariño. I would never wake you when you were out cold.”
I stared at the disaster they’d made. Flour, sugar, rolled-out dough, cookie cutters, and more ingredients littered almost every available surface. It looked like a bakery had exploded in the kitchen Grams had renovated just a few years before I’d joined her permanently in Grand Orchard.
“You two have quite the head start,” I said.
Hannah squirmed, and I set her down. She ran over to the wooden steps Grams had commissioned just for her so they could cook together. Hannah climbed up and picked up a Christmas tree cookie cutter.
“Mommy, come see all the trees I’ve made,” Hannah said.
I gave Grams a sideways hug, and her peppermint scent washed over me before I turned to join my daughter at the counter. There were at least thirty trees in all sizes spread amongst the dough. “Wow, why just trees?”
“They’re the most fun to decorate,” she said with a shrug.
Her shawl filled with purple geometric shapes and black beads was covered with flour and dough. It was keeping the bright-fuchsia silk pajamas underneath it clean, but it was an expensive, irreplaceable garment to use as an apron.
As if reading my mind, Grams whispered in my ear, “It’s just material.”
The shawl had been one of hers before Hannah had borrowed it from her closet a few months ago. It was my grandmother’s fault that Hannah was shawl obsessed. She’d been the one to introduce Hannah to Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks. These days, it was hard to get Hannah out of the house without a shawl draped around her just like her musical idol.
Hannah had even insisted on getting her bangs chopped in a fringe and her long hair shagged so that she was like a little mini-me of the ‘70s version of the superstar.
We spent a couple more hours cooking and decorating. Grams looked tired before we’d even left to open the music store at ten, but she hid it behind a grin that matched Hannah’s. When we got to the store Grams had owned for over half a century, we turned on all the lights and the three trees she’d insisted we put up before we set out the treats and drinks.
The day before Christmas Eve, all the shops on Main Street held a Holiday Open House. It was harder and harder to attract people to the shops these days as they opted for the box stores, malls, and now the online giants. Grand Orchard drew enough tourism during apple season for the boutiques and antique shops to stay in business, but by the holidays, the crowds had trickled away again. The stores would go through a dry spell that would last until the orchards were in full bloom and people returned to take pictures of the beautiful flowers.
Once the college kids from Wilson-Jacobs went home for the summer, the town would shrink back up again, and the stores would have to survive on what they’d made during the better parts of the year. At least my grandma’s Bi-Annual Apple Jam Music Fest would give them a little kick of extra cash this May.
Helping my grandmother with the planning for the festival for the first time, I’d realized how much work it was. I’d realized how much she’d done for so many years on her own. It was almost ludicrous. I wasn’t sure who I was more frustrated with: me for being so caught up in my own world for so long, my parents for letting Grams handle it without their support for decades, or Grams herself for not asking for help.
With the lights on and holiday music filling the space, people started filtering into the store. Hannah stood on another stool behind the counter, greeting them all by name. My heart tugged at the sight of it. We’d become embedded into this small town in a way I’d never been in any other town, not even the one in Delaware I’d grown up in.
In the early afternoon, my grandmother disappeared for a while to go visit the other stores and chat with the owners who’d been her friends since my grandparents had moved to Grand Orchard in the ‘60s. When Grams came back, she had a wrapped package in her hand. She gave it to Hannah.
“Merry Christmas,Chiquita,” she said.
Hannah’s eyes grew big. “But it’s not Christmas yet.”
“Close enough. When Irma saw this come in, she put it behind the counter for me. She knew you’d want it.”
Irma was the owner of the antique store across the street. She was one of Gram’s line dancing pals. It was hilarious and fun to watch the group of gray-haired women breaking out their cowboy boots and keeping up with the younger crowd at Mick’s bar on country night.
Hannah hugged Grams without even opening the present. “Thank you.”
Grams laughed.
I smiled at the image they made. I loved that my daughter was a hugger. She was better at giving them out than I was on most occasions. I’d had to have several talks with her about asking people for permission first, because she would routinely hug other kids she’d just met, which sometimes upset their parents. It was sad, but at the same time I understood it. I wouldn’t want people touching Hannah if she didn’t want it, but it was just a damn hug—from a four-year-old.
Hannah opened the paper to reveal a top hat in almost pristine condition, and I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped as Hannah’s eyes grew to the size of galaxies. She took in the hat reverently.
