A Cliché Christmas(36)

We’d already played a riveting game of Would You Rather?—which, of course, was filled with the most absurd and ridiculous scenarios—and then we tried to guess the story of the family in front of us because the two dark-haired children in the backseat continually turned and waved to us.

And then I had a thought. “I wonder if they’re hungry.”

Weston glanced down at the cookie container on my lap, and we exchanged a knowing look. “You want to be the Cookie Santa?”

“No, I want us to be.”

The twinkle in his eye filled my chest with warmth.

We put on our gloves, hats, and scarves as if we were about to trek across the Alaskan tundra instead of a single car-length.

As we approached the vehicle, the driver rolled down his window. There was a look of quiet apprehension etched into his features.

“Hi,” I said. “We couldn’t help but notice your kiddos in the backseat, and we wondered if we could share some cookies with you all? My grandma made them for us last night.”

Weston’s hand pressed on my lower back as I spoke, and the gesture warmed me from the inside out.

The woman in the passenger seat leaned over her husband’s lap and smiled at us through his open window. “How sweet of you! We’d love some.”

“Yeah! We’re starving!” One of the kids in back exclaimed, a double gap in his smile where his front teeth had been.

“What you mean to say, Cooper, is thank you,” the woman scolded.

“Yes, thank you,” he echoed immediately.

The little girl next to him nodded excitedly and reached for two cookies. Both parents took a few as well.

“Merry Christmas to you all,” Weston said. But as we started to turn back, the doors of an SUV opened and a couple of guys headed toward us.

“Hey . . . are those cookies you’re handing out?”

I smiled up at Weston and shrugged.

“Sure are. Would you like some?”

“Yes, thank you! We’ve been up at Mount Bachelor skiing all day—thought we would grab dinner on our way home, but it doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen.”

Weston shook the driver’s hand and held out the container of Nan’s oatmeal-raisin cookies to them both. They grabbed several each, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Nan would be overjoyed.

“Merry Christmas!” we called after them.

As we passed the family in the car again, we heard a familiar sound: Christmas music. They had tuned into the nonstop Christmas music station, cracking their windows to release the sound into the snowy mountainside. The lyrics to “Silent Night” rang out crystal clear. The ski guys in front of them tuned into the station as well, the sound pouring from their open windows and sunroof.

And then the car in front of them turned on the Christmas music—the trend had caught on quickly.

Once we got back in the truck, Weston tuned in as well. With the windows open, the symphony of Christmas was everywhere.

I inhaled a sharp breath as my soul stirred in a way it hadn’t in years. Even Weston was quiet, experiencing a similar attitude of reverence. As the song continued, the volume intensified. Though there was no way of knowing just how many vehicles were participating in this spontaneous outpouring of Christmas spirit, in my imagination there were thousands of cars. Weston took my hand in his, and together we listened, tears gathering in my eyes as I soaked in the sound of wonderment.

“Does this beat your Holiday Goddess clichés?”

I nodded in response, because the truth was, that it did. By miles.

Weston shifted his body toward me, his attention shifting with it. “How did you spend Christmas as a kid?”

“Well, Christmas as a kid wasn’t anything like my screenplays, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Weston’s head bobbed slowly, his eyes alight with understanding. “I’m not asking about your screenplays. I’m asking about you.”

Even with the window open, the air grew stuffy—claustrophobic even. I unwrapped my scarf and pawed at the frayed ends. “My granddad died when I was a toddler. I don’t remember him, but Nan says he had a strong faith and a big heart—one that simply gave out too soon. He loved Christmastime. He’d dress up as the town Santa and give presents to children.” I glanced up at Weston, who was staring at me intently. “Nan took his spirit of giving very seriously, but she made a point to teach me that one should be generous all-year-round, not just during the holiday season. For that reason, we didn’t—and still don’t—participate in gift giving on Christmas Day. Instead, we volunteered at shelters, baked cookies to give away, and helped families in need.” I realized how selfish I sounded. “But I’m not complaining about that—”

“I don’t need a disclaimer, Georgia. Go on. What about your mom?”

“Um . . . my mom.” The truth was a thickening mass that I couldn’t swallow away. He rolled up the windows then and waited.

“She didn’t usually spend Christmas with us.”

Weston’s frown armed my defenses. “What do you mean?”

I squirmed in my seat, wrapping a loose thread around my finger. “What I mean . . . is that she worked really hard to keep me on task during the school year. She felt it was her job to push me academically. But when I had breaks, she took breaks, too.” Okay, maybe that didn’t sound as normal as I wanted it to.