“Darling!”
“Lawrence, I need help.”
“I’m here for you, you know that. What do you need? Bail money? Rent boy? Kidney? Name it.”
“I have to get a Christmas present for Shawn.”
“Ha! Delightful, so delightful. If he were on my team, I’d fight a duel with you over him.”
“Yeah, well, we’re in a tricky spot. He’s coming over tonight, and I’m pretty sure he is bringing me a gift, and I want to have one for him. But we haven’t been together long enough for me to have a good sense of what he might want or what might be appropriate.”
“Breathe, child, breathe, this is not complicated. The key is to get something sweet and adorable, something that would remind him of you in a playful way. That way it is truly the intent of the gift and not the extravagance that is the thing. I once had a lover for a brief time, and he would come over and I, being the consummate host, would ask if I could get him anything, and he would invariably say ‘A pony?’ So for his birthday, which came very early on in our romance, I bought him a small stuffed pony. It was only fifteen or twenty bucks, but he said it was the best gift I could have gotten him.”
“That’s a great idea, something cute and funny, instead of trying to go all elegant and meaningful. Thanks, Lawrence, you’re the best!”
“Merry Christmas, sweet girl. I look forward to seeing you both to ring in the New Year.”
I get out my phone and type in a query. It gives me exactly what I need, and I head for my car to go get it.
? ? ?
The kiss hits me right in the heart, and other parts southerly. “Hello, you,” Shawn says when we come up for air.
“Hello back. Can I help with those?” I reach for one of the grocery bags that he is carrying.
“Not at all,” he says, heading for the kitchen and dropping them on the counter. I head to the back door, where Simca is scratching to be let in, aware that her new favorite person is on the premises. I open the door and she scrabbles inside, her stumpy little legs going every which way on the hardwood floor.
“Hello, you glorious girl, you!” says Shawn, scooping up Simca in his arms and snuggling into her head. She yips and wiggles happily, licking his face. He gives her a loud smooch, and then drops her on the floor and reaches into his pocket to pull out a small deer antler. “Merry Christmas!” he says, handing her the treat, which she accepts daintily with a wide smile, and then trots over to her bed to have a good chew.
“My dog is madly in love with you.”
“Well, who could blame her? Catch that I am.”
“Indeed,” I say, and we lean right back into another kiss. I cannot get enough of this man.
“And a little something for her amazing mom. Merry Christmas,” he says, handing me a small box with a silver ribbon.
“Oh, Shawn, you didn’t need to get me anything.”
“It’s just a little something to make you think of me,” he says.
I pull the end of the ribbon and slide it off the box. I open the box, and inside is a thin silver chain, and on the chain two silver pendants. One is the number 50 with pavé white rhinestones, and the other is the Bears logo in blue and orange rhinestones. Fifty was Mike Singletary’s number when he played, and the number on the jersey Shawn was wearing when we met. Turns out Shawn was number 50 in high school, part of why he always felt connected to Samurai Mike. I laugh.
“It’s perfect,” I say, attaching the clasp around my neck.
“Looks good on you.” He kisses me.
“I have a little something for you as well,” I say, walking over to the sideboard and getting the bag I prepped earlier out of the cabinet.
“Well, now, we are all full of surprises!” He reaches into the bag and pulls out the small box. He opens the box to reveal my gift, a heavy brass key ring with a brass figurine of a mermaid dangling off it. He laughs and throws his head back.
“You called Lawrence,” he says.
“So did you!” I say.
“Guilty,” he says. “I’m pretty terrible at gifts. My ex-wife was always telling me not to bother, she would just go pick something out and put it on hold and have me go pick it up and pay for it. I really didn’t want my first present to you to be a flop.”
I shake my head. “I’m hopeless at gifts; everyone in my family is.”
“Well, I’m grateful, because the necklace looks very sweet on you, and I absolutely love my key ring. Thank you so much.” He kisses me.
“Thank Lawrence!”
“Oh, I do, believe me I do,” he says seriously.
“Yeah, me too.” I reach for him and give him a kiss to let him know how much I love my present, and how much it means to me that he wanted so badly to get it right.
“All right now, woman, don’t distract me. I’ve got some serious dinner to make, and all of this pawing at me is keeping me from it,” he says jokingly, and I put my hands up in surrender.
“What can I do to help?”
“You can pour us both a glass of wine, park your fantastic tush in that there chair, and keep me company.”
“That I can do. Red or white?”
“Red, please. Something perky and insouciant with a hint of rebellious fruit and a subtle funk of old fencing mask.” He fakes a snobby wine critic voice. It makes me laugh. I love that he can be goofy; I don’t have a whole lot of silly in me naturally, but I respect it in others.
I open a bottle of Volnay and pour us each a glass.
“To our first Christmas,” Shawn says, holding out his glass.
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, imagining that there might be another, but barely daring to hope, to think that far ahead.
We sip the wine, and he starts telling me about his plans with his parents at their winter place in North Carolina. His mom grew up there, so her sisters are still there with their families. There will be church on Christmas Eve and a big family get-together on Christmas Day, full of cousins and friends and amazing food. He’ll get in some golf with his dad and do some light handyman stuff around the house for them. They are there every year from the beginning of December through the end of March, always back in Chicago in time for Easter weekend. It sounds like a lot of fun.
“Okay, now, I’m usually pretty confident in the kitchen, but I have to admit, I’m a little nervous to cook for you.”
“Please don’t be. I know so many people get all weird about cooking for a professional chef, but you know me well enough to know that half the time I eat a big bowl of popcorn for dinner. Anything you make will be great.”
“That makes me feel better. But please be sure to stop me if you see me doing something egregiously wrong! I’m secure enough to be able to take some constructive advice.”