Forever Wild(15)

He breaks his gaze on the page to greet me, and a wide grin splits his handsome face. “So, what did you go by? Sugarplum? Candy Cane?”

I groan. The frumpy elf costume Muriel pulled from a trash bag and instructed me to put on is three sizes too big, torn at the seam, and smells of mothballs. I was too tired to change out of it before heading home.

“Glitter Toes?”

“Shut up.”

He shuts his book. “Frosty it is.”

“Are Astrid and Bj?rn here … oh my God.” My mouth gapes as I take in the disaster in the dimly lit kitchen. Every square inch of counter has a bowl or pot or utensil—or all three, piled high—on it. The sink is full of dirty dishes. I squint at the splatter of white on the ceiling above the island. “Is that icing?” Our kitchen hasn’t looked like this since the weekend we moved in and assumed the remnants of Phil and his late wife’s thirty-year marriage.

“Yeah, they’re upstairs, and she said to leave it. She’ll clean everything when she gets up in the morning.”

I hope so because I spent a week scrubbing and arranging this place. My mom and Simon arrive tomorrow. “All this for gingerbread?”

“She started making some things for Christmas Eve dinner, too.”

“Right.” Astrid did say she wanted to celebrate, Norwegian style. Apparently “Norwegian style” means trashing my kitchen.

I push the mess—and my annoyance—aside and instead focus on the elaborate multitier house displayed on the dining table. “She made this?”

“Yeah. Crazy, huh? She makes them every year. That one’s actually pretty plain. Some of the ones she’s done in the past, she’s submitted to competitions. She’s won a few of them.”

“You never told me she was an artist.” I bend over to inspect the gingerbread house that sits atop a gingerbread base, surrounded by star-shaped gingerbread cookies, stacked from largest to smallest to form evergreen trees. Every edge is trimmed with white royal icing swirls and dots, piped with intricate detail. “She did this all in one day?”

“Nah. She baked the pieces back home. Packed them up really well so they wouldn’t break on the way here.”

I give him a look.

Jonah shrugs. “What can I say? She takes her gingerbread houses seriously.”

“This is incredible. Like, I wish she’d come sooner. We could have auctioned this off tonight and made some real cash.” Instead, Muriel made a twenty-dollar pity bid on Jessie’s disastrous kit house—which she was most certainly drunk while putting together.

“Did you bid on anything?”

“Oh. You’ve got to see this.” I retrieve the garden harvest basket from where I left it by the door and carry it over for Jonah.

He inspects the perfect cuts and skilled craftmanship. “Well made.”

“That’s because Roy made it.”

“Roy donated something? What, did Muriel threaten him?”

I laugh. “I know, right? He said the handle was wonky so he couldn’t sell it. He was going to burn it.”

Jonah tests the handle and then shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s solid.”

Just like there was nothing wrong with the moose roast Roy claimed was rancid when he thrust it into my hands, and nothing wrong with the bales of hay he said his goats wouldn’t eat when he dropped them off for Zeke, and nothing wrong with the firewood he chopped and stacked outside the cabin, claiming the logs wouldn’t burn right at his place.

Jonah sets the garden basket on the floor beside the couch. “So, how was your day?”

I flop on the couch beside him. “Long. Exhausting. But successful, I guess—Ah!” I squeal as Jonah grabs hold of my ankles and pulls my legs across his lap.

And then I let out a low groan of delight as he begins rubbing my sore feet.

“Oh, Marie says hi.”

“Muriel suckered her into helping out, too?”

“No. She was just there in the morning to drop off an auction prize. A bunch of pet food and toys. And, hey, I didn’t get suckered into anything. Muriel highlighted how my talents and contributions have proven invaluable to the town, and so I graciously offered my services.”

Jonah smirks. “What’d she have you do today?”

“You mean, what didn’t she have me do.” I yank off my elf’s hat and settle my head back against the throw pillow. Jonah’s skilled thumbs work magic on my heels as I describe a day of rooting through dusty storage boxes, climbing a wobbly ladder a dozen times to string lights, and corralling the youngest and most impressionable of Trapper’s Crossing’s children as they scampered to Santa Teddy’s lap to relay urgent, last-minute requests.

“The kid peed on him?”

“Two kids peed on him,” I correct. “But this one was the first kid of the night, and he must have had a full bladder.” A chubby-cheeked, three-year-old boy named Thomas who whispered about wanting a train set by the same name while staring at Teddy’s bushy white beard, mesmerized.

And then he let loose.

I didn’t realize what was happening until Teddy, ever the jovial one, peered down at the small puddle forming by his feet.

“Teddy excused himself and went to the back room to change his pants. They have a spare because apparently, he gets peed on every year.”