Emma picked up on the third ring.
“I want to do Christmas here,” she said before her sister finished saying hello.
“Jo?”
“Yes, it’s me. What do you think? You do the turkey. Nina and Jules will do the sides. I’ll do all the baking. Your boys can help, if they want.”
“So you’re really staying?”
“Yes, I’m really staying. Say yes. Please?”
Emma sniffed. Her voice cracked. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I want to make lasagna, too.”
Johanna laughed, grateful her shaking hands did not show through the phone. “Done. Do you need to talk it over with Mike or anything? I know his parents are still nearby. His brother.”
“We do Christmas Eve with them. I actually assumed we’d all be here at my house this Christmas. But Gram’s is better, much bigger, and it will feel…right.”
“Fabulous. I’ll tell Nina and Julietta when they get back from shopping.”
“Shopping? For…?”
“A new outfit. Julietta has a date with Efan…”
* * * *
Fifteen minutes later, Johanna hung up the phone, buoyed by the gossip and planning for Christmas dinner. The heights and depths of her emotions in a single morning exhausted her in the same way dancing all night would. She didn’t know how much she could take before collapsing.
Already the idea of baking pies and breads and cakes and cookies flew through her head like recipes being born. Johanna would fill them all so full of dessert they wouldn’t be able to look at another carb for a decade. She imagined Ian and Henry and Gio, flour on their faces and batter on their fingers, baking with her. She would teach them how to mix the dough for butter cookies, and how important it was to work on a cold surface. As she imagined her little nephews piping icing onto perfect star and Christmas tree shapes, the number of children gathered around the baking counter multiplied.
Johanna touched a hand to her clenching heart, felt the locket and took comfort from it. Like Nina, she had never wanted children of her own. They had beaten the genetic odds so far. She had no wish to tempt the fates. But these were not her imagined children. Not Emma’s or Nina’s or Julietta’s.
The vibration of her cell phone ringing in her pocket startled the image from her head. Johanna fished it out.
“Hello?”
She looked at the screen. A dropped call from a number she did not recognize. One with the area code and call numbers for Bitterly. Johanna’s scalp prickled. She hit the call button, listened to the ringing. Four. Five. Six times. He answered just as she was about to hang up.
“Hello? Hello? Jo, don’t hang up.”
“Hey, Charlie.” Her heart hammered. “Did you just call me?”
“Me? No. Why?”
“My phone just…” Johanna closed her eyes. Behind her lids, those children reappeared around the kitchen counter. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. I was just wondering…what are you and the kids doing Christmas Eve?”
* * * *
“Daddy? Are you okay? Daddy?”
Charlie blinked at the phone in his hand. The screen showed Johanna had hung up, but the phone number he’d begged Mike for was still clearly illuminated. As he watched, the display went dark.
“Who’s Joe?”
“Huh?”
Millie, his eight-year-old daughter, rolled her eyes, pointed to the phone in his hand.
“Oh. That was Johanna. You remember her from Henry’s? We’re going to bake cookies at her house on Christmas Eve.”
“Yay!” Millie bounced. “But why did you call her Joe. Joe is a boy’s name.”
“It’s just what I’ve always called her. Now turn around. Let me finish combing.”
“But it’s taking so long. I’m bored.”
“Read your book.”
“I’m tired of reading.”
And I’m tired of combing lice eggs out of your hair. Charlie took a deep breath, resisted the urge to push potentially contaminated fingers through his hair.
“Come on, baby,” he said gently. “Not too much longer.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Charlie worked through his daughter’s hair with the tiny comb—a feat in itself. Millie had his thick, copper hair. She squealed every time it snarled. Shortcuts would only result in having to do this all over again in a couple of weeks, so he took his tedious time. He thought about all he still had to do, even though Millie was the only one who actually had lice. It was a matter of days before they all did too unless he stripped every bed, vacuumed every surface and put the gazillion stuffed animals in Millie’s bedroom into garbage bags. All the kids would have to be treated anyway, just to be safe. At least Millie was the only one who needed the comb-through.
“Can we still go to the carol-sing tonight?” Millie asked.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Because I got sent home from school. Doesn’t that mean I’m sick?”
“No, baby.” Charlie laughed softly. “Lice doesn’t make you sick. It just makes you itchy.”
“Why?”
“I really don’t know. It just does.”
The front door opened. Charlotte and Caleb. She had just picked him up from his guitar lesson. Will would still be at the hardware store, working. Caleb’s footsteps pounded upstairs to the attic room he shared with his brothers, while Charlotte’s slightly softer tread came towards the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway, both hands instantly going to her red, pixie-short hair.
“Not again.”
“Again. You’d best stick to your room until I get the house vacuumed.”
Charlotte started to back away, but stopped.
“Already shampooed?” she asked.
“Just combing it through.”
“I’ll finish. You go do the other stuff.”
“You sure?”
“Come on, Daddy. I’m only around until the end of January. Take advantage of the help while you’ve got it.”
“Thanks, Char.” He handed the comb to his
