Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella Read Online Free Page A

stringing from one end of the room to the other. I inhale deeply—honey baked ham, sweet potato casserole, an assortment of pies cooling on racks on an island in the middle of it all.
    “Is the rumor true? Did Johnny Baby bring a girl to Christmas dinner?” Her voice carries from the other doorway. Blonde hair, blue eyes, mid-thirties, wearing jeans and a tight white sweater, scarf tossed casually around her neck. Not from Mansfield.
    “Good news travels fast,” I say.
    Jonathan groans, leans closer to me. “She has called me that since I was two years old. It should’ve died by the time I hit grade school,” he mutters.
    I nod, pretending to listen. To sympathize. Pretending like I’m not inhaling the smell of his cologne, body spray, whatever it is. Pretending it has no effect on me at all, like I’m not committing it to memory, like my knees didn’t just weaken.
    “Olivia, my cousin, Leslie. Leslie, Olivia,” he continues, introducing us.
    “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, forcing a smile.
    “You, too. I love your boots.” I glance down at my black riding boots with their silver buckles and thick heels—a Christmas present from last year. I take the compliment from this girl dripping in jewelry, this girl who is clearly in love with her initials—every piece monogrammed, swirling and beautiful, if not illegible. And at this I remember what Jonathan said about the importance of career initials behind the names of his family members. I wonder if any of those initials belong to her, or if she’s counterbalancing in more decorative ways.
    “Thank you.”
    “We should get something to drink. What can I get you?” Jonathan asks, a reasonable excuse to take us away from his cousin and any other pet names she might be hiding from me. A bundle of pitchers crowds the counter next to the refrigerator: sweet tea, unsweetened tea, water.
    “Sweet tea,” I reply.
    As Jonathan pours, his aunt Stacey bustles in, sans presents, stops at the oven to check the timer. “The rolls are almost ready. Once those are out we can eat. Olivia? How’s your mom, sweetie?” She opens the drawer beside the oven, removes a matching pair of mitts and a new cooling pad, dropping it on one of the last available counter spaces.
    Jonathan hands me a red plastic cup full of ice and tea. “She’s doing okay. We have one more appointment in Hamilton mid-January. If we get good news, she won’t have to go back for six months.” I take a quick sip. The tea is sweeter than how we make it at home. Unexpected. Not bad—just different.
    “That is wonderful to hear. We’re still praying for her. She’s on the church list, you know.” I thank her. I spend a lot of my time thanking people, actually. Because being grateful? It’s one of the few things I can do—the one thing I have complete control over. Because I’ve learned when someone you love is diagnosed with cancer, people will help—they’ll help in whatever ways you let them. For us, that meant magnets and decals, bake sales and barbecue fundraisers. Church prayer lists. Everyone with his or her own gift, each wanting to do their part, even if it’s only using their connection to God, intervening on our behalf.
    My eyes scan the refrigerator—invitations, photographs, phone numbers posted—finally stumbling across what I’m looking for. I carefully remove the pink and white magnet.
    Hope for Kathleen .
    “That’s my mom,” I say, showing Jonathan, who’s been watching and listening to this entire exchange with what might be a surreal amount of curiosity.
    His fingers brush mine as he takes it from me, examines it. “I saw this in the store.”
    “Someone had them made last year. I think there’s one on every fridge in town.”
    And for a moment I wonder what it’s like to have someone remember you right before they go to grab a beer, or the mustard, or a leftover slice of pizza. If the thought eventually becomes part of the landscape, familiar, something that