Half an hour later, I sat curled upon the couch next to the dogs. Bing Crosby crooned on the vinyl player next to a beautiful seven-foot Christmas tree. The flames in the fireplace crackled and popped like a movie effect—burning actual wood from a tree as opposed to gas controlled by a knob in the wall. Maureen flitted around the kitchen, humming along to the music. I watched as she pulled out a tray of cookies from the oven, inhaled their spicy scent, and bumped the door closed with her hip.
Between batches, she came into the living room to keep me company.
“We should wait an hour to decorate them, just to be on the safe side,” she said, shooing the dogs into the backyard and sitting down next to me, offering a naked cookie to taste test.
I took a bite. “Mmm. Gingerbread’s not usually a favorite of mine, but this is great.”
“Something my mom taught me—always use the good molasses. It makes a difference.” Maureen smiled sadly, and I knew she was thinking about her mother. I squeezed her knee.
Last year, when I’d been in town for the talent show, Marley and Miranda had spoken often about their mother. Maureen stayed mostly silent while her sisters told family stories. Certainly, some of her reticence was due to my unexpected and unwelcome presence. But I also understood her better now. Although her emotions were quiet, they were no less intense. Including her grief.
She didn’t need to be loud for me to hear her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s good to remember.”
I kept the warmth of my hand on her thigh. “Truly, these cookies are excellent, but I’m not sure the four of us can eat the ten dozen you’ve made.”
She rose to her feet as the oven dinged. “Actually, these are for the Holiday Hoopla on Saturday. James and Marley are working a shift at the Coleman Creek High booth. There’s a bake sale.”
I’d heard the three of them discussing the carnival and hoped I’d feel up to attending. I took another bite. “You might want to make a few dozen more because these babies are gonna go quick.”
Once the cookies cooled, the plan was for me to work alongside Maureen to decorate them. She disinfected the coffee table and set up everything on top of it, so I wouldn’t need to move from the couch after washing my hands.
Fifteen minutes in, I regretted all the life choices that had resulted in me having zero kitchen skills.
Maureen used a “fine-tipped piping bag”—she’d told me its name after I asked about the “fancy ziplock”—to draw little vests and boots on her cookie men. A few wore sunglasses, and one had on a perfectly symmetrical pair of plaid pants.
Meanwhile, mine looked like an uncoordinated elephant had tried its hand at decorating. They were sugary monsters—uneven slashes for eyes, mouths like jagged football lacings,mysterious drips everywhere. Like crime scene photos recreated with cookies.
Occupied with her own work, Maureen didn’t notice mine until I’d already mangled eight defenseless gingerbread men. She couldn’t hide her flinch when she looked over.
“Those are…very nice, Will.”
Her face remained placid for all of three seconds before her shoulders began to shake.
“I’m sorry,” she said, attempting to cough away her reaction. Then she peered at my cookies again, and a cackle escaped.
“Hey!” I tried and failed not to laugh. “They’re not that bad.”
Good thing Bambi and Oscar were in the backyard since I was sure they’d be bark-giggling, or whatever it was dogs did when their humans embarrassed themselves.
Maureen pointed at my tray. “He looks like if Gollum was a pirate… That one’s definitely going to murder all the other cookies in the jar… Oh my god, did you draw a penis on that cookie?”
“It’s a button! My hand slipped!”
“Sure.”
“Glad I could amuse you so much.” I grinned. “I’m choosing to embrace this.”
“You should. It takes talent to be this bad, especially considering you’re an amazing artist.”
Inwardly, I glowed, not just at our playful back-and-forth, but at the casual way she referred to me as an artist. No one ever did that. Also because she hadn’t mentioned my fingers, either when asking for my help or while teasing me about my efforts.
“I’ll tell you what,” Maureen said. “We’ll keep these beauties you made for home consumption, and I can finish the public-facing cookies myself. Even if you can’t help, I like having the company while I work.” With that, she picked up the Gollum pirate and bit his head off, winking at me.
“I’m happy to be your hype man,” I said.
She gave me a funny look. “Same.”
