Merry Cherry Christmas - Keira Andrews Page 0,44
fresh in the air. Fresh garlands with red berries adorned the porch railings along with lights, a fresh wreath with tartan ribbons on the yellow door. The porch creaked as the family stamped their boots and Valerie said, “Kick the brick!”
“Mom, you know we’re way old enough now that you don’t have to remind us,” Meg groused as she kicked the brick wall of the house beside the door, knocking off any remaining snow from the treads of her boots.
“I know, but it makes your mother happy,” Valerie replied. “When you were a little girl—”
“Meg, how old do you think you’ll have to be before your mom stops telling that story?” Max asked in his announcer voice. His hands were full of luggage, or else he’d probably have done the fake microphone again.
“Well, Max, I suspect I’ll have to be dead.”
John opened the door, shaking his head. “That’s not funny.”
“Sorry, Dad,” she said, the smirk returned. She told Jeremy, “Long story short, I was so used to kicking the brick here at home that I did it everywhere, and one time I kicked a glass door and somehow broke it. I maintain that if a seven-year-old can crack your door, it’s time for a new one.”
Jeremy dutifully kicked the brick when it was his turn, inhaling deeply as he entered the house. Something cinnamon-sweet was baking, and a Christmas tree seemed to vibrate with fresh pine scent. They all took their boots off inside the foyer, a tile floor covered in three mats. Boots were lined beside the closet and coats hung inside it. Valerie and John stepped into moccasin-style slippers.
Valerie called, “Dad! We’re home.”
“I’m not deaf yet,” came a growly response. Jeremy tried not to laugh, but the others did cheerfully. He assumed this was Valerie’s father, who Max had mentioned still lived on the farm.
John said, “You kids remember we’ve got the last holiday open house on Saturday, so there’s lots to do in the meantime.”
Jeremy expected Meg and Max to grumble and give their parents a hard time, but they readily agreed, apparently done with their teasing routine. “Can I help?” he asked. “That sounds really fun.”
“You sure can, hon.” Valerie motioned up the staircase on the left and said to Max, “I’ll give Jeremy the tour while you take those bags up.” She motioned to a living area to the right. “Welcome! You can see we’re all ready for the holidays.”
That was an understatement if ever he’d heard one. Along with a massive, still-undecorated fresh tree, the source of the pine scent, stockings hung from the fireplace’s stone mantel, holiday candles and a Christmas village on top. Long ribbons were hung on the narrow dividing wall leading to a dining room, Christmas cards pinned to the crepe. Jeremy didn’t even know that many people still sent old-fashioned cards. Maybe his parents just didn’t have as many friends.
The thought of them off on the cruise and the house in Victoria dark and empty and undecorated hurt more than Jeremy wanted it to.
The fireplace was in the corner to the left of the tree, a TV above the mantel. Three love seats bracketed the hearth and a square wooden coffee table with its own holiday centerpiece of holly and ivy. A large rug carpeted most of the living room, and it was thick beneath Jeremy’s socked feet.
The cream walls were decorated with dozens of framed family photos. Jeremy was eager to examine the pics of younger Max, but followed as Valerie led him past the solid dining table into the kitchen, where a thin man with wispy gray hair was taking out a tray of golden pinwheel pastries from the oven.
“Got it?” Valerie asked.
“’Course I do,” he grumbled. He dropped the tray on the gas stove top with a clatter, the Santa-themed oven mitts comically big on him. Valerie and John shared a look but said nothing. She went and kissed the man’s papery cheek.
The kitchen had clearly been remodeled, with a big island and white cabinets that gleamed. The marble countertop along the wall under a small window was cluttered with the baking ingredients, a spray of flour over the wood floor.
“This is Jeremy. Max’s friend.”
“Oh, you mean you didn’t pick him up on the street corner? Of course he’s Max’s friend.” Extending his hand, he said, “I’m Pierre.” At the last second he realized he was still wearing the oven mitts and took them off to reveal gnarled fingers.
Jeremy shook his hand, which felt dry and