Good heavens. Five of them? “You must be intimidating when you’re all together. Any big plans to get together for the holidays?”
“We’re all grown. My older brother and sister are both married and have kids. My younger brother, Jason, is engaged and my baby sister, Samantha, is just finishing college. We’re spread out too, so having us all together doesn’t really happen very often, though we try. This year Mom and Dad are spending Christmas in Texas at my brother’s, spoiling grandkids.” He took a sip of his chocolate and then looked down at her. “What about you? Siblings?”
She turned her gaze to the very tall Christmas tree in the center of the square. His family sounded wonderful, even if they were spread out across the country. She focused on the huge star at the top of the tree as she answered. “There’s just me. My parents live in Boston.”
“So close enough you can all be together for Christmas. Lucky.”
He’d think so, wouldn’t he? Because that’s what families did. But not hers. She forced her voice to be light, nonchalant. “Oh, they’re traveling over the holidays. A cruise or something.”
She knew how it sounded. The problem was, the situation was exactly how it appeared. They weren’t a warm and fuzzy family. Being together felt like work. She supposed it had been nice of them to invite her along for the trip, but the idea of being stuck on a cruise ship for Christmas, playing third wheel to her parents wasn’t Charlie’s idea of a perfect holiday.
They stopped chatting as the mayor, Luke Pratt, got up to make a short speech. The elementary school choir then performed three verses of “O Christmas Tree,” their sweet, youthful voices filling the air as a few errant flakes of snow drifted through the darkness. As the last note faded into the night, there was a breathless pause and then the tree came to life, multicolored bulbs lighting up the square and causing a chorus of ooohs and aaahs to wave through the gathering, and then clapping broke out, the sound muffled by heavy mittens and gloves.
“That’s pretty impressive,” Dave remarked from behind her.
She nodded, staring at the tree, the beautiful colored lights sparkling in the chilly evening. “I’ve always liked the lights with all the colors.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. “White ones are elegant, and I know some people like all red, or green, or whatever. But I think the variety is so cheerful, don’t you?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He was grinning, and she knew he was teasing her a little bit. She liked it. It was far better than the formal “Dr. Yang” she got when she crossed the square.
They were interrupted by someone from the church, thrusting a caroling booklet in Charlie’s hand. “We’ve got a bigger crowd than we expected,” the woman explained. “Would you mind sharing?”
“Of course,” Dave answered. He stayed where he was, a few steps behind her, even as the church choir led the first carol, easing into the evening with a familiar and rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells.”
Charlie turned around and stared at him. “Either you’re incredibly farsighted, or you’re not singing.”
He squinted at her—and then laughed.
“Nuh-uh,” she chided. “If I’m expected to sing, so are you.”
“Believe me, you don’t want me to.”
“Then fake it.” She smiled at him sweetly. “Aren’t we supposed to be suffering together here?”
“You’ll only suffer if I sing. We could demonstrate our solidarity by abstaining.”
They were talking during the singing and a few dirty looks were aimed their way.
She shoved the booklet in his hands. “Just mouth the words,” she commanded. “And smile.”
He held the booklet but had to hold his arm straight down so it was low enough for her to see. Not that they needed the words to “Jingle Bells.” Charlie joined in, feeling awkward and singing softly. Just enough so she could hear herself, but not loudly enough that anyone nearby could discern her voice from the others.
And then she heard it, a deep rumble an octave below hers, slightly off-key, slightly mumbled, as Dave started jingling all the way. She hid a smirk behind a sip of hot chocolate, then joined in for the last chorus.
As the next carol was announced, he leaned over, his mouth ridiculously close to her ear. “I saw you laughing.”
She put on an innocent expression. “I swear I didn’t.”
“I told you I couldn’t sing.”
“Yes, you can. What you should have said was you can’t sing well.” And then she did giggle.
And he gave her shoulder a nudge as if to say, Brat.