Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

THE FIRST OFFICIAL CHRISTMAS NON-DATE

Jack

I ’m beginning to think Holly won’t show. If she stands me up, I’ll not only be embarrassed, I’ll also be in violation of a court order, so I really, really hope I’m wrong. As I’m about to check my watch for the seventh time, the door to the Tipsy Turnip blows open and she hurries inside in a whirl of blonde curls and red feathers. She’s freed her hair from the bun and, while she’s still wearing her suit dress, she’s traded the jacket for a festive, flowy, fuzzy wrap that floats along behind her. She looks like a scarlet tanager, the migratory red and black songbird, as she stands in the doorway and scans the room. I grin at the image then wave my hand to catch her attention.

She winds her way through the crowd to join us at the long, gleaming black table Delphina saved for our group right near the karaoke stage. She locks eyes with me unblinkingly as she approaches. I pat the empty metal stool next to mine and she slides onto it.

She places her mouth close to my ear. “What part of ‘tell no one’ confused you?”

I rear back and meet her eyes. “I thought you said ‘tell Noelle!’”

Her irritation dissolves and she throws back her head and laughs. “That explains the crowd.”

Merry, Ivy, a woman named Quinn, some guy named Enzo, and Delphina and Titus are crowded around our table. Nick gives Holly a wave from the next table over, where he sits with Noelle, Griselda, a lawyer named Marley, Josh and Ryan Morgenthal, and a retired teacher named Enrique. At least, I think those are their names—the introductions were brief and shouted over the din.

A server swings by with a stack of coasters and a wide, genuine smile. “I see a new face. So, here’s the skinny—we’re a farm to table restaurant. Chase owns the farm and the restaurant. His partner Amelia pairs the cocktails and wines with our menu. Tonight, it’s a limited pairing in honor of Christmas karaoke. Any questions?”

Holly scans the table, sees a sea of shaking heads, then gestures for the menus. “We’re in Chase’s hands—and Amelia’s. Thanks, Rory.” She takes the menus and hands them over.

Rory takes them with a nod. “Excellent decision.”

The server leaves and Holly turns to her sisters. “So what are we singing?”

Ivy grimaces and elbows Merry. Merry throws a desperate look at Quinn, who shakes her head. Finally, Delphina bravely steps into the breach.

“Holls, you were late. And you know how fast signups go. So, the four of us are singing together.” She gestures toward the other three women. “But Jack signed the two of you up for a duet. Talk to him. Kaythanxbye.”

Holly gives her best friend a death stare for several seconds before turning to me. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Merry Christmas, Baby.”

“Uh. Merry Christmas to you, too. What are we singing?”

I chuckle. “No, that’s what we’re singing. ‘Merry Christmas, Baby,’ the Colbie Caillat and Brad Paisley version.”

“I don’t know this song.” Panic crosses her face.

I pull it up on my phone and hand it to her. “I’m sure you do.”

She takes the phone and studies it like it holds the nuclear codes. I put my hand over hers. “It’s karaoke, Holly. The stakes literally couldn’t be lower.”

For a long moment, she looks at me like I’m speaking Portuguese. Then she nods. Shrugs. Exhales. “Right. Who cares?”

“Exactly.”

She stands up. “Excuse me.”

“You’re not going to bolt, are you?” I joke.

“No, of course not. I’m going to the ladies’ room to warm up my vocal cords,” she says in a tone that suggests this is the most obvious answer imaginable.

So much for low-stakes karaoke.

She returns at the same time Rory arrives at the table with a tray laden with bright red drinks. “These are mocktails,” Rory says. “A refreshing combo of soda water with a splash of cranberry and a twist of lime. Despite our name, the Tipsy Turnip is all for pacing yourself.”

There’s a small wave of appreciative laughter from the table that fades when a Black woman wearing a Santa hat and a nose ring steps up to the low stage. She switches on the microphone and says, “Hey, ho, here we go! I’m DJ Nebula and Christmas Karaoke is on. ” She checks her list. “First up, we have The Not-So Mean Girls, Delph, Quinn, Ivy, and Merry, performing ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’”

They leave the table in a flurry of laughter and take the stage. Someone from the other side of the room calls out, “Do ‘Santa Baby!’” Merry flips a good-natured bird in the general direction of the shout as the music begins.

The four do a high-energy, mostly in-tune rendition of the song and flop back into their seats to a chorus of clapping and woos from the crowd—the loudest applause coming from their dad’s table. Holly leans across me to tell them how fabulous they were and I catch a whiff of something citrusy and spicy. Her shampoo? Perfume? Whatever it is, it’s dizzying. I grab my glass and gulp the drink to keep myself from reaching for her.

The DJ calls Marley and Griselda to the stage. They’re physical opposites: the tall, sinewy, severe-looking fitness instructor and the petite, curvy lawyer. But once they begin to sing, they’re anything but an odd pair. They perform a hot, sultry take on “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” that’s somehow raw emotion and polished professionalism at the same time.

Delphina leans across the table to whisper to Holly, “Are they together?”

Holly whispers back, “I don’t know, but if they’re not, they should be.”

The women finish their song to a standing ovation that seems to go on forever. Griselda grins and curtseys while Marley appears to be dazed.

When they leave the stage, DJ Nebula is still clapping. She glances at her list. “Whew, Nick and Noelle, you have a hard act to follow.”

Nick bounds up to the stage after stopping to hug the two women headed back to their seats. Noelle lags behind but eventually joins him with a shy smile. She looks at the DJ and says, “Okay, we’re ready.” Nebula hits the music and Nick and Noelle launch into “Every Day Is Christmas.” They’re no Marley and Griselda, but their joy’s infectious. Nick’s daughters all wear expressions that convey how thrilled and grateful they are that their father’s found love again with Noelle. I feel a pang for my mom, that she never truly had that.

But the ache disappears, swallowed by my helpless laughter, during Ryan Morgenthal’s hilarious rendition of Adam Sandler’s “The Hanukkah Song.” Josh stomps his feet and whistles through his fingers.

Small plates of olive crackers and goat cheese arrive, paired with crisp white wine. I’ve got a mouthful of both when I hear my name and Holly’s being called. I hurry to wash the bite down with some wine, stand, and hold out my hand to her. “Are you ready?”

“Not even remotely,” she says, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. But she hops off the stool and slips her hand into mine. Her skin is cool and I feel a slight tremble in her hand. I give it as reassuring squeeze as we climb the stairs to the stage.

The song starts, and my gaze shifts between the lyrics on the screen and Holly, standing with her body angled toward me. Luckily, my choice of song has remarkably few lyrics. It’s mostly the repeated refrain that we say back and forth to each other. She keeps her focus on me the entire time, like I’m her lifeline.

By the time the song nears the end, she’s relaxed enough to close her eyes and belt out the chorus. We finish and she flashes me a smile that could light the entire town square’s holiday displays.

We leave the stage with a wave as a burst of applause rises. As we reach the floor, she leans into me to say, “That was fun. I’m glad we did it.”

My hands find her upper arms, and I stare into her clear bright, blue eyes. “So am I.”

She holds my gaze, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she clears her throat. “And it’s exactly the sort of thing that will make people feel warmly toward you at trial. So it was a great strategic idea.”

I study her. I can’t tell if she’s being lawyerly because it’s her default state or if she’s doing it to put distance between herself and the moment of crackling intensity that passed between us. So I just nod, unable to say anything around the sudden tightness in my throat. I remind myself it doesn’t matter—we’re constrained from acting on anything we might be feeling, anyway. But that doesn’t take away the question.