Snow shoeing, cookie making, a dinner of roasted ham, cranberries, and yams with carols playing over the stereo.
Natalie’s family is full of so much affection for each other. You can see it in the way Roberta feeds her kids every chance she gets, in the way Jerry asks Natalie about her latest decorating projects and listens attentively when she answers, and in the way Agnes pats her grandkids on the arms or pinches their cheeks jokingly whenever she passes them. Even Felix manages to tease Natalie with good-natured brotherly fondness.
At first, standing in the midst of so much affection left a raw, scraping sort of feeling.
But then, when Roberta handed me a gingerbread man covered in icing, and Jerry asked where I grew up, and Felix asked if I liked hiking or climbing—because he could show me some places in the spring—the raw feeling faded and was replaced by incredulity.
Is this what a family is?
I glance over at Natalie, she’s quietly humming “Jingle Bells”—badly—the lights of the kitchen gleaming off her pink cheeks.
Steam rises from the kitchen sink and the clank of silverware and plates is loud. My hand moves with hers in the hot water, the bubbles up past my wrist. She’s scrubbing a plate with a washcloth, and when she’s done she hands it to me.
I take the clean plate, rinse it, then put it in the drying rack.
“We might get a dishwasher one of these years,” she says, nudging me with her arm and smiling.
“But then there wouldn’t be a prize for winning charades,” I say, taking the next plate she hands me.
She hums an ascent and then rubs her forehead with her sleeve, wiping the sheen from the steam off her skin. Her chestnut curls have gone wild from the humidity and they surround her like a halo.
It’s late. Nearly eleven. Everyone else is in bed, promising an early morning of ornament decorating and pine cone collecting. Felix volunteered to sleep on the pull-out couch in the living room. I can hear his snoring even with the kitchen door closed.
Natalie hands me a cluster of forks and spoons, I take them and rinse them off.
“What’s with the soul mate thing?” I ask, noting her cheeks turning a darker shade of red when I do.
“Oh you know.” She shrugs. “Romeo’s famous for soul mates. Miss Erma can see who’s meant to be. My parents were matched by her. If she tells you your soul mate, that’s it, you’ll be together for the rest of your lives. It’s a pretty big deal around here.”
“So she’s a matchmaker?” I ask, taking another plate.
“No. Nothing like that. She can just tell. She sees it. If she said to me, Natalie, your soul mate is Gabe Cavanaugh, then that’d be it. You and me, done.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Just like that.”
She nods, the dishes clank together, and my hand dips further into the hot water as she reaches for another dish.
“Just like that.” She scrubs away, and the soap bubbles tickle my arm. “My mom was so worried when I moved away. But Miss Erma assured me—”
“You’d find a Christmas-loving man?”
I remember what she said earlier.
Natalie nods and hands me a white ceramic serving dish to rinse. I run the water over it then place it on the rack. It’s almost full of dishes.
“I have a present for him,” she says quietly.
I look at her quickly. “Who?”
“My soul mate,” she says, looking down into the soap bubbles.
“You know who it is?” I frown. Whoever he is, I don’t like him.
“No. I don’t know,” she says, swishing the water around. “Do you like your job?” she asks suddenly.
I reach around Natalie, take a pan from the counter and drop it into the sink. It kerplunks and bubbles fly up then settle back down, their purple, blue and green iridescence flashing.
“I like it well enough,” I say. “My grandfather started the company. My dad and uncle continued it. Now there’s me.”
“Is it all evictions all the time?” she asks, her eyebrows raised archly. “Generations of scrooges?”
“No.” I scoot her over and dip both hands into the sink, scrubbing at the pan. “When my grandfather first started the company he was strictly in residential rentals. But my dad and uncle expanded so that we tore down old buildings and put in new ones.”
She makes an unhappy noise.
I take the pan and rinse it off, then reach for the last pan on the counter.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Sometimes we put up buildings with hundreds of units instead of the twenty that were there before. It means more people can live in the city. Sometimes we build family homes, beautifully constructed. Think of it, we tear buildings down, but we also put something beautiful back up.”
I know she’s thinking of Hudson Apartments. So am I. In this case, it isn’t as clear cut.
We’re gearing to create a showpiece townhouse for a corporate investor, it’ll be the way-station for their traveling executives. But to be honest, the more time I spend with Natalie, the less I want to continue down the Hudson Apartment tear-down path.
“That all sounds so reasonable,” Natalie says. “Tear down the small and the old to create something beautiful and big. Unless you’re the one losing your home.”
I frown, her censure makes me shift on my feet, “Twenty units that can become two hundred. What about the people who will make the building their new home?”
It’s her turn to shift on her feet, then she frowns up at me. “Don’t make me think about it. If there are shades of gray, I’ll start to feel bad about bringing you here. I’ll feel terrible if you aren’t really a scrooge.”
I smile at her. “No. I’m a scrooge. Don’t worry. I’m as black-hearted as they come. Bah humbug.”
I reach into the sink, scoop up a handful of soap bubbles, and wipe them across her nose.
She sputters, her mouth falls open, and because she looks so ridiculous covered in bubbles I laugh. Her eyes narrow, she grabs bubbles and smears them on my jaw and my cheeks.
The bubbles are light, warm, and soft.
Natalie grins at me, the bubbles still on her nose. “Why Santa! You are real! I always believed!”
In the window over the sink I see my reflection. Sure enough, I have a snowy white bubble beard.
I snort. Then I’m scooping up more bubbles, and so is Natalie, and we’re throwing them at each other, and she’s laughing and bubbles are flying through the air, and I feel just as free, so free that I grip Natalie’s hips, pick her up, push her onto the counter, and take her mouth in mine.
The bubbles pop, our mouths are slick, and she laughs against my lips.
“I’ve got it,” she says.
“What?” I ask, nibbling at her mouth.
“I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus. We would’ve won if we had that one.”
“Natalie?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m ready to call in my favor.”