By four o’clock on Christmas Eve, the wrapping paper had defeated every plan Celia had made for the apartment.
It lay beneath the table, over one chair and across the radiator, where Adrian had put it for a second and forgotten it. A narrow piece clung to his sock. Nell watched from her bouncer with the severe attention of a small official sent to inspect the damage.
“It’s three presents,” Celia said. “How have we done this?”
“You insisted on the large bow.”
“You cut the paper before measuring.”
“The box was deceptive.”
She looked at the little parcel for Margaret. Its paper strained over one corner and sagged at another, the bow attached so extravagantly that it would probably need its own seat in the car.
“You founded a company.”
“I delegated wrapping.”
“To whom?”
“Competent people, apparently.”
Celia laughed and reached down to remove the paper from his sock. He caught her hand before she straightened, brought it to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist. The small deliberate touch went through her like a match being struck.
“We have guests in ten minutes,” she reminded him.
“I’m aware.”
“Then don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
She tugged her hand free and went to check the oven, smiling in a way she hoped nobody would comment on when they arrived.
Dorothy came first. Her earlier visit had been careful and full of little interruptions: Nell’s feed, a dropped cloth, questions they both approached from the side. This evening she stood at the door with a small bag and her cheeks bright from the cold.
“I said an hour,” she announced. “I do remember.”
“You can stay longer if you want.”
“I’ve got somewhere to be. My walking group does an extremely short walk ending in a pub.”
“Sounds demanding.”
“We’re retired, not dead.”
Celia smiled and took her coat. Adrian came from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. Dorothy looked at him with a politeness that became warmer when he said he had heard about the group.
“Celia told you?”
“She said you walk in weather most people use as a reason to stay indoors.”
“That’s mostly our leader. The rest of us complain.”
They shook hands. Celia had been nervous about this meeting in a way she had not been nervous about Dorothy holding Nell. She did not want two parts of her life standing on opposite sides of the room waiting for her to explain their places.
Adrian asked whether she wanted tea. Dorothy said yes, if it wasn’t trouble. He looked at the paper, the parcel, the strip still stuck to the table.
“It may be the only thing I’m qualified to do here.”
Dorothy laughed, and the room altered by a degree.
She sat with Nell while Celia laid out the small supper. The baby lay against her knees, looking up at the unfamiliar face with an expression that made Dorothy speak in a voice Celia had never heard her use before. Not baby talk, exactly. Softer, as though she had moved closer to something fragile inside herself.
“Quentin said she liked the bear,” Dorothy said.
“She likes looking at it. He held it up for her on Sunday. She was very obliging.”
The second visit had happened. He had come on time, brought no extravagant object and stayed for the hour they had arranged. There were still messages Celia read twice before answering. There was a conversation about regular contact waiting in January. But Nell had lain in his arms for ten quiet minutes, and Celia had drunk a cup of tea while it was hot.
“He’s trying to understand everything at once,” Dorothy said.
Celia paused beside the table. “Yes.”
Dorothy looked up. “I’m not asking you to make it easy for him.”
“I know.” Then, honestly, “I wasn’t sure.”
“I can love my son and know he’s difficult.”
“He can love his daughter and still be difficult.”
Dorothy’s smile was sad. “Apparently so.”
For a moment they stood at the edge of the old argument, the months, the things Celia had taken from her without asking. Celia did not want that to be their only subject forever. She put a plate on the little table beside Dorothy.
“I made the pear dessert,” she said. “Not poached. I had no time.”
“You never did give me that recipe properly.”
“I gave it to you twice.”
“Then you should know I’m not reliable.”
The answer surprised a laugh out of Celia. Dorothy reached for her spoon, and Adrian carried the tea in as though nothing significant had happened at all.
Ruth arrived halfway through the hour with a paper star for Nell, which she immediately hung out of reach. Margaret came after her carrying a tin whose lid would not close. For twenty minutes the apartment held more people than it could comfortably seat. Celia sat on the floor. Adrian perched on the edge of the table until she told him it was the wobbly one, whereupon he moved with gratifying speed.
Nobody announced that they were a family. They interrupted each other, compared routes through holiday traffic and ate the last of the dessert. Dorothy asked Ruth about the planting interview. Ruth gave a suspiciously modest account until Celia corrected her.
“She made them laugh,” Celia said. “They asked whether she could work within the budget and she told them the flowers wouldn’t read the brochure.”
“It was relevant.”
“Was it?” Adrian asked.
“Extremely. Stop looking successful at me.”
He raised both hands. Margaret laughed so hard she had to put down her cup. Celia watched her sister’s pleasure, the quick flash of confidence before she hid it behind another bite of cake.
Dorothy left when she said she would. At the door she kissed Nell, then hesitated in front of Celia.
“Thank you for having me.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.” Her hand rested briefly on Celia’s arm. “We’ll work out another day in January.”
“Yes.”
She did not ask Celia to promise that everything would become easy. Celia did not ask whether she had been forgiven. They hugged, awkwardly at first, then properly.
Ruth and Margaret left together, arguing amiably over which of them had parked closest. Their departure left the apartment suddenly enormous. Adrian gathered cups while Celia changed Nell into her sleeper. The baby had reached the end of her tolerance for festivity and refused to regard the clean sleeves as an improvement.
“You’re missing the best part,” Celia told her. “No more company.”
Adrian appeared in the doorway. “Should I be offended?”
“Do you intend to leave?”
“No.”
“Then you’re exempt.”
She handed him Nell while she found a clean cloth. When she came back, he stood under the paper star, moving slowly so it turned in the air. Nell’s complaints diminished to a series of breathy objections, then stopped.
Celia leaned against the doorway and let herself look. She wanted his hands, his weight beside her, the unguarded face he showed only when there were no witnesses left.
He glanced over. “What?”
“Finish showing her the star.”
“I’m running out of material.”
“Improvise.”
He looked back at Nell. “It’s paper. There’s a great deal of it around, as you’ve probably noticed.”
Celia laughed, and the baby turned toward the sound.
Their gifts waited until Nell slept.
Adrian’s parcel was small and properly wrapped, which prompted Celia to ask whom he had hired. He looked wounded, then admitted the woman in the shop had offered before he touched the tape.
Inside was a beautiful fountain pen, deep blue, with a weight that settled comfortably between her fingers. Celia looked at him.
“I know you use cheap ones at work,” he said. “You don’t have to take it there. It’s for whatever you want.”
She uncapped it. The nib caught the lamplight.
“I love it.”
“Good.”
“I was going to say it’s too much.”
“I know.”
She took the little card that had been tucked inside the box and wrote her name. Then his. The ink was dark and smooth. It felt almost indecent to enjoy an object so much.
Her gift to him was a secondhand copy of a book of coastal paintings, with a note tucked into the page she had chosen. She had found it because he had stopped before a painting on one of their walks and looked at it longer than she expected. He opened the book carefully, turning the pages until he found the note.
“A day for looking,” he read.
“There’s a gallery in the town where that painter lived. It isn’t open every day. I checked.”
“Did you?”
“I can organize pleasure. Occasionally.”
He looked down at the sea painted in loose blue and green strokes. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”
“I notice you.”
The words came without preparation. She watched them reach him. His hand rested on the book’s open page, and she realized suddenly how seldom a man who could arrange nearly anything was given the pleasure of somebody else paying close attention.
The model boat he had taken out of storage stood on his kitchen table now. She had seen it two evenings earlier, wires loose beside it, Adrian frowning at a piece she could not identify. He had asked whether she minded if he spent half an hour on it while she read. She had liked being there, her feet on a second chair, the man she loved absorbed in something that didn’t require him to impress her.
“You’ve gone quiet,” she said.
“I was thinking I don’t know what to do with a day for looking.”
“We’ll look badly. Then we’ll improve.”
He smiled. “Do we have to improve?”
“No. We can stay ignorant and have lunch.”
His hand moved from the page to her knee. The touch was absentminded at first, then deliberately slower. Celia looked down at it and felt the room grow still around them. She had spent the afternoon in motion, carrying plates, taking coats, listening for Nell. Now there was nothing in his face that asked her to do another thing.
She put the book safely aside before either of them could knock it to the floor.
He pulled her onto his lap.
“Very smooth,” she murmured.
“I’ve been waiting for everyone to leave.”
“So have I.”
He kissed her until she forgot the pen on the table. She had meant to keep it safe, to put it back in the box before she lost the cap. Instead she slid both arms around his neck and let him hold her as closely as he wanted.
When they drew apart she stayed where she was, her cheek against his.
“I’m bringing my table in January,” she said.
His hand stilled at her back. “Before or after yourself?”
“With me. Let’s pick a moving weekend after Christmas. I want time to pack the books instead of dropping them into bags the night before.”
He leaned back enough to see her. “All right.”
“You look alarmed.”
“I’m trying to say all right like a reasonable adult.”
“You can be pleased.”
His face changed then. He put both arms around her, gathering her so suddenly that she laughed against his shoulder. The laugh turned to something quieter when his mouth found her neck.
“I’d like to take you away first,” he said. “One night. After the January trip. Somewhere close enough that we don’t spend the whole time getting there.”
“With Nell?”
“If you want. Or we can ask Ruth and pay for help. I mean ask, before I book anything.”
Celia looked toward the bedroom door. She could hear Nell’s small sleeping breaths through the monitor. A night away would require thought, ordinary arrangements, a little courage that felt entirely separate from calling Quentin.
She wanted it. Not because she needed proof he still desired her. Because she desired him, and a night with a beautiful room and a door she could close was a thing she was allowed to choose.
“Let’s ask,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Yes. A night for us.”
He kissed her again, smiling this time. She could feel the happiness in his mouth.
Later, after she had put the pen carefully away at last, Celia went to the window. A few houses across the street had lights in their windows. The town was quieting, the last cars moving slowly through the wet dark. Adrian stood behind her, his hands loose at her waist.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She could have told him about January a year ago, the party she had been expected to host, the list of people who needed her to make something easy. The memory was there. It no longer occupied the whole room.
“I think we have too much wrapping paper.”
He rested his chin on her shoulder. “We could save it.”
“For the next three hundred Christmases?”
“I’m optimistic.”
She turned in his arms. “Come to bed.”
He took her hand, and they stepped around the beautiful, ridiculous mess together.