“Usually doesn’t take too long.” She moved closer to him—mainly, she told herself, to stop the heaps of dry sand from getting in her shoes. Frankie could feel the warmth of his body radiating into her. “Calliope says it just takes slowing down long enough to feel it.”
“Feel what?”
Frankie finished her chocolate, crumpling the cup in her hand. “The magic. Calliope’s answer,” she added. “It’s different for everyone.” The music and sounds from the crowd faded as they continued down the shore. Water lapped at his feet, caught the edges of her shoes. “I bet you miss the snow for the holidays.” Which reminded her, she needed to get a jump on her Christmas shopping.
“Not really, no. I liked it when I was a kid,” he said. “But as an adult? I can forgo shoveling the sidewalks and trying to find my car. I will say you haven’t had a real Christmas until you’ve seen a Florida palm tree decked out for the season.”
Frankie laughed. “We come close. Christmas a big deal, then, with your family?”
“It used to be. Since my dad passed, not so much. He and my mom would spend days cooking. The entire family would come. One year we had thirty-seven for Christmas Eve.”
Thirty-seven? Frankie couldn’t wrap her brain around that. “Did you make a lasagna for Christmas Eve, too?”
“For Christmas Day. For Christmas Eve, we’d celebrate with the Feast of the Seven Fishes.”
“What’s that?” Frankie stopped walking.
“Pretty much what it says. The story is it was a way for Italian immigrants to stay close to the old ways of home once they moved here to America. My grandmother planned months ahead for it growing up, but my mom hasn’t done it since my dad passed.”
“I suppose that would be a lot of food for just the two of you and your aunts.”
“Well, I haven’t made it back home for many holidays since he died.”
She could hear the regret in his voice, and one of the last knots of resentment dropped free. “I’m sure she understands.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but no. She does not. Trust me, if you met her, you’d get it. I think part of her was hoping I wouldn’t get this job so there would be a shot at me coming home.”
“You could go.” The words were out of her mouth before she thought better of it.
“Still trying to get rid of me?”
He began to walk again, but Frankie reached out, caught his arm and held him still. “No, I’m not. I mean it.” And she did. “We have enough volunteers to help cover, Roman. Like tonight with Ozzy. If you really want to, we can make it work.”
“Thank you for that, but I’m actually looking forward to my first Christmas in Butterfly Harbor.”
“Well, you’ll probably be disappointed. Thanksgiving’s my favorite holiday. Christmas is meh for me.”
“Meh?” He finished his chocolate, scrunched his cup and stuffed it into his pocket. “How can Christmas be meh? You decorated like a fiend.”
She’d decorated exactly as her father had. Just as she did every year. Because it was one way to hold onto him. She shouldn’t have said anything. Instead of trying to explain, she asked, “How old were you when your dad died?”
“Twenty-six? No, twenty-seven.”
“Monty and I were sixteen. Our dad loved, and I mean loved Christmas. There was not an inch of space in that station house that wasn’t wearing tinsel and garland. It was like Santa’s workshop exploded. And the house? Forget about it.”
“And after he died?”
“Every Christmas feels like a knife in the heart.” She blinked back tears as he faced her. “He’s been gone almost half my life, and the second I hear that first Christmas song or see those garlands being strung across Monarch Lane, all I can think is how much he’d have loved what was coming.”
“That doesn’t make it meh.”
“No,” she whispered. “It just makes it very lonely.” She shivered when he lifted a hand to cup the side of her face. She should have stepped back, moved away, but she couldn’t. No. That wasn’t true. She didn’t want to. “It sounds kind of selfish, doesn’t it? I mean, everyone’s lost someone. Everyone. I’m not special.”
“I think you are.” Roman stepped closer. For a moment, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. “Frankie?”
“Yes?” Her voice sounded detached, as if she’d been caught in a dream. She opened her eyes and found he’d lowered his face to hers, the silent question in his eyes shining like a twinkling star. Her heart pounded. She wet her lips and lifted her hand, but instead of pushing him away, instead of turning away, she leaned forward and took what he offered.