Jude had very few Christmas memories from her childhood. Here was what she remembered: quiet mornings in the big house on Magnolia Bluff, a fake tree decorated by professionals, a single designer stocking hanging from the mantel. Breakfast had been catered. There had been gift openings, of course—a short, silent affair with Caroline sitting perched on an expensive gilt chair, her foot tapping nervously on the hardwood, while Jude sat cross-legged on the floor. A few solemn thank-yous were passed back and forth, and then the whole ordeal was done. When the last gift was revealed, her mother had practically run for the door.
Once, when her father had been alive, she recalled writing a letter to Santa … but that kind of whimsy had died with her dad.
Jude did things a little differently in her own home. Since motherhood had surprised her with its powerful pull, she’d become a holiday junkie. She decorated from corner to corner, until the entire house looked like a catalog spread. But it was Christmas morning that she really looked forward to, when the family came together, their cheeks creased from sleep, to open presents. In those early morning hours, with her sleepy, grinning children settled around her, she could see the result of her efforts. Her twins would remember these times with fondness.
Now, though, the boxes and papers and bows were put away, and they were at the table, eating their traditional holiday meal—eggs Florentine with fresh fruit and homemade cinnamon rolls.
Last night, in a burst of holiday cheer, snow had come to the Northwest, and the view outside was a gorgeous tableau of white and blue.
Jude had always loved snow days, and when they came for the holidays, it was a double bonus. Today, after brunch, the whole family was going ice skating down at the pond on Miller Road. It would be a good time, she thought, to have a serious talk with the kids about what had happened the other night at the party. It had taken a superhuman effort not to rail at them, but she had managed it. Still, there was some talking to be done, some ground rules for senior year to be reassigned.
She was so deep in imagining how she would conduct this conversation, what she would say to them, that she hardly heard what Zach had just said.
She turned to her son, who was busily buttering one of the cinnamon rolls she’d made. “What did you say?”
Zach grinned. From across the glittering expanse of their formal dining table, with his blond hair messy from sleep, he looked about thirteen years old. “A promise ring.”
Silence fell. Even Miles frowned. His hand paused midreach. “Excuse me?”
Across the table from Zach, Mother straightened. “Excuse me, did you say a ring?”
“It’s really pretty,” Mia said, pulling a frosted bit from her cinnamon roll. She popped it into her mouth. “Mom? Are you having a stroke?”
Jude had to force herself to remain calm. Her son—her not quite eighteen-year-old son—had given his girlfriend a ring for Christmas. “And what exactly are you promising Lexi?” She felt Miles lean toward her. His fingers closed around her wrist.
“It means I promise to marry her someday.”
“Oh, look. We’re out of fruit,” Miles said evenly. “Here, Jude. I’ll help you get some more.” Before she could protest—she still felt frozen—he led her out of the dining room and into the big kitchen.
“What the—”
“Shhh,” he said, pulling her behind the fridge. “They’ll hear you.”
“No shit,” she said. “I want him to hear me.”
“We can’t come down on him about this.”
“You think it’s okay for our son to give a promise ring to a girl he’s been dating for three months?”
“Of course I don’t. But it’s done, Jude. A fait accompli.”
She pushed his arm away. “Great parenting, Miles. Do nothing. What if we’d found out he was doing heroin?”
“It’s not heroin, Jude,” he said tiredly.