My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories

She was a toucher. I hadn’t noticed before.

“Why did you do it?” Gracie asked.

“Um, the displeasing aroma?” I yanked on the paper towels too hard, fifteen came off in my hand, and the roll detached from the holder. “Because all the church robes drag the ground? Because somebody had to?”

“You know what I mean. The firecrackers.”

I studied the paper towels, lining up the edges as I rolled them back onto the cardboard. “I do lots of things without a specific reason. I was bored. I wanted to see what would happen.”

“Experiments are why you take a chemistry class, not why you blow up a bunch of pigeons.”

“I wasn’t trying to blow them up.” I faced her. “I don’t abuse animals.”

“Hippity.” She raised one eyebrow. “Hop.”

“That wasn’t abuse. That was art. Unfortunate, six-year-old art. As for the birds, I just wanted to scare them out of the tree.”

“It worked.”

“And they all lived.”

Gracie took the roll of paper towels from my hands and hung it back up. “You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

Pointed questions were not part of my plan. My plan was to make it through the next two days and get a pass from the judge, not to reveal my longstanding crush or expose my deviously jealous ways. My mind raced, desperate for another way out besides the truth. “Okay. So have you ever seen Sherlock Holmes?”

Her eyes narrowed at what she assumed was a subject change. “Television or movies?”

“Either,” I said.

“Both,” she answered.

“You know how Sherlock sees things that shouldn’t go together on the surface, but once he makes all the connections, the answers become obvious to him? The camera always shows it as a fast pan from one subject to another.” I gestured for her to follow me back to the tangled lights.

“Ugh. That kind of camerawork makes me nauseated.” But she smiled and crossed her arms over her womb. “So, what you’re saying is that your mind works faster than everyone else’s.”

“I’m just saying … I’m good at seeing connections that could cause trouble.” I sat down on a wooden crate and took stock of our surroundings. “For example, lighting. I could change the directions of all the spotlights. Or I could switch up the tape on the stage that marks the places for the actors. Rearrange the props table or just hide it all together. Mixing up the angels’ wires could cause all kinds of interesting problems—not for the baby angels, of course, but for a free-swinging adult in wings? That sounds like a party.” And a little dirty.

“So, chaos. Is that your ultimate goal?”

“Those were examples, not intentions. Is it your goal to play Mary for the rest of your life?”

“Definitely not.” She stood. “But when your dad is a pastor … well, people have expectations.”

“I assume the flawless skin and baby blues kick it over the edge?”

Her nose crinkled at flawless. It was an expression I’d seen before, usually when someone paid her a compliment. “Maybe. But the real Mary was Middle Eastern. And closer to twelve. The real Joseph was probably thirty.”

“Gross.”

“The Wise Men were astronomers, and they didn’t show up until Jesus was around two, and no one knows how many there were. The manger was likely a cave.”

Gracie was getting fired up, speaking faster and gesturing with her whole body. “And I’m pretty sure Jesus cried,” she said. “He was a baby. It’s ridiculous that we have to keep perpetuating these myths because of people’s commercialized expectations.” She thumped back down on the wooden crate beside me.

“Then why do you participate?” I looked at her. “Because of your father?”

“You’d think it’s because he makes me. But he doesn’t.” She dropped her face into her hands, and then she peeked at me through splayed fingers. “You’re going to think I’m terrible.”

I paused, waiting for the middle school choir to pass. Once they were through, I said, “It’s impossible to think badly of you, Gracie Robinson.”

She sat up straighter. Maybe she blushed a little. I’d paid the compliment with too much admiration in my voice. “It’s just … sometimes it’s nice to be the one everyone pays attention to.”

I tilted my head to the side, all cocker spaniel. “You were homecoming queen.”

“That was a fluke. If Ashley Stewart and Hannah Gale hadn’t been suspended for breaking into the principal’s office and e-mailing all the teachers to tell them they were fired, I never would’ve won. They were the shoo-ins for the homecoming court.”

I took a moment to check out my cuticles.

Her eyes widened. “Vaughn.”

“I made a suggestion. Flippantly. And, possibly, handed over a skeleton key.” Sometimes it’s nice not to be the one everyone pays attention to.

She punched my arm. “Did you do that for me?”

I rubbed my bicep. “It wasn’t entirely coincidental.”

Her mouth dropped open, and her expression told me she was trying to figure out if she should yell at me or thank me. “I don’t need to be front and center. I know I’m loved, and that I shouldn’t seek out approval. But secretly?” She sighed and lowered her voice. “I suspect I tell myself that so I’m not sad when I don’t get noticed.”

“Do you want to be noticed or not? Because it sounds like you’re talking out of both sides of your mouth.” I dared to nudge her shoulder. “I’m not criticizing.”

Gracie didn’t move away. “When you’re a pastor’s daughter, guys tend to put you in the ‘untouchable’ category and never look at you again. I just like to feel special every now and then. You know?”

“Anytime you need to feel special, you come find me.” The words were out before I could stop them—a cartoon bubble over my head that wouldn’t burst.

Her brows pulled together in a frown. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I’m sorry.” I felt my face getting red. My face never got red. “Did I take it too far?”

“No. You took it exactly far enough.” The frown slipped into a grin. “I’m just trying to figure out the most effective way to flirt with you.”

A rush of adrenaline shot through my body. I didn’t know how to volley back, so I changed the subject. Because I was a chicken. “Speaking of flirting, where’s your husband?”