“Because they’re meant for six-year-old girls and elves who bake cookies. Not grown men,” she explains.
“I assure you, mine is a man’s tree house.”
She laughs, and her face is bathed in moonlight. It’s the most carefree she’s been since arriving.
“I have to see that,” she says breathlessly.
I lean toward her. “Just say when, Brady.”
Hannah
Willa is right. Uncle Bob’s ribs are the best I’ve ever tasted. And I’ve had them at Ellis Island BBQ in Las Vegas.
Once we finish eating, we stroll over to the great room for coffee and dessert.
A massive tree stands beside the stone fireplace.
“Aren’t you going to decorate the tree?” I ask Willa.
“A little at a time.”
“I don’t get it,” I say.
“I’ll wrap it with lights tomorrow morning, and we’ll string cranberries and popcorn one evening after dinner. We’ll pull out the box of decorations from the past. Ornaments my grandfather made for Grammy over the years. Ones that she, Mom, and I made together when I was little. But it won’t be finished until Christmas Eve after the Inn Hop. Every family staying at the inn will add their own adornment. The kids love it, and it makes it more than just a beautiful Christmas tree; it tells a story and highlights the inn’s history.”
“You guys sure have a lot of traditions,” I muse.
“We do, and here is one of my personal favorites,” Norah interjects as she hands us all a red mug.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Eggnog.”
I wrinkle my nose.
“You don’t like eggnog?” Bran asks as he walks over and stands beside me.
“To be honest, I’ve never tried it. It doesn’t taste like eggs, does it?” I ask as I sniff the creamy liquid.
He chuckles. “No. Not eggy at all. If I had to describe it, I’d say it tastes more like melted ice cream with a rum kick.”
I bring the mug to my lips and take a tentative sip.
“Well?” he asks.
“It’s good. Vanilla and spice, like melted ice cream,” I agree.
“What about you? Do you have any Christmas traditions?” he asks.
“No, not really. I mean, I usually see my parents. Mom comes to Vegas from Palm Springs on Christmas Eve, and we spend that night and Christmas morning together. She makes cranberry pancakes for breakfast, and then I drive an hour out to my dad’s home in Cactus Springs for dinner. We exchange gifts, and then I drive the hour back to my apartment. That sums up the extent of our merriment.”
“And this year?”
“I told them both we’d get together after the new year. I just needed something different this year.”
“You’re not a fan of Christmas, are you?” he asks.
“What makes you think that?”