seventh
31st December
The seventh day of Christmas
‘Christen, honey!’ Tobin’s mom opens the door with that big, generous Heath smile, already holding out an arm to usher Christen inside. ‘Come in out of the cold. I’m afraid Tobs is still fast asleep, but there’s coffee in the pot and I was just about to start some breakfast if you’re hungry?’
‘That’s actually why I’m here,’ explains Christen, de-gloving and de-scarfing as she steps into the glowing warmth of the hallway. ‘I thought you might like some eggs? I brought chicken and goose, just to keep it interesting.’
‘Oh, I was hoping you might. We can compare and contrast.’
The kitchen is warm and bright after the chilly walk, and smells strongly enough of pine needles and cinnamon that Christen registers the scent despite what she’s pretty sure is going to be a nasty cold. She makes a mental note to invest in a more suitable early-morning egg-collecting outfit. For now, it’s enough to sit at the table and chat away with Cindy, who firmly ignores any offers of help with the breakfast and interrogates Christen about the house and her work and her news in the way her own mother would have done.
It’s probably forty minutes before there are signs of life upstairs and eventually a shuffling noise in the hall. Cindy calls out in the direction of the shuffle. ‘Tobin, look who’s here!’
Tobin appears in the doorway wincing at the sound of her mother’s voice, which Christen has to admit is almost offensively cheery for 9am, and makes wordlessly for the coffee pot. She drops a fumbly kiss on the crown of Christen’s head as she passes, which Christen tries not to think too much about because Tobin is visibly still half-asleep and probably has no idea she’s done it.
‘Omelette?’
‘Sure.’
‘Christen brought fresh eggs.’
Tobin perks up very slightly, either at the mention of the eggs or the smell of the coffee. ‘Really? How are they?’
‘Try for yourself. Chicken or goose?’
‘Do they taste different?’
‘Not really,’ supplies Christen. ‘The goose eggs are just bigger.’
Tobin hmphs, having apparently exhausted her pre-coffee tolerance for talking. She raises her eyebrows at Christen over the rim of her mug - you okay? - and smiles when Christen nods. Her bare feet brush Christen’s socked ones under the table, probably by accident, but they’re sitting just far apart enough that Christen does wonder.
Cindy smiles fondly at her silent daughter as she reaches for scallions and mushrooms. ‘Looking forward to tonight?’
New Year’s Eve in Shallow Lake means wassailing, an ancient English practice of alcohol-infused carol singing which Kelley had implemented after realizing it was essentially trick-or-treating where the treats were guaranteed. Somebody more practical - probably Becky - had pointed out that it was only guaranteed if you were able to sing in a way that made people feel generous rather than homicidal, to which Kelley had responded that holiday spirit would make up for any lapses in tuning.
Tobin finishes her first cup of coffee and heads for a refill, already looking brighter. ‘Only if Chris backs me up this year when Kell tries to make me do We Three Kings.’
‘I didn’t not back you up!’
‘You couldn’t stop laughing and didn’t say anything. I count that as a betrayal.’
Cindy chuckles. ‘You loved choir at school!’
‘I only joined in the first place because I wanted to hang out with Chris,’ says Tobin simply. She takes a forkful of omelette and chews thoughtfully. ‘This is good!’
Christen smiles sweetly. ‘Welcome to your new egg-based diet.’
She politely declines Cindy’s offer to stay for lunch and Tobin swoops in as she tries to clear the table. ‘Let me. I’ll walk you back.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I want to, silly. Let me just grab a sweater.’
There’s a nervy, chiming note in Tobin’s voice, like she’s excited about something and can’t quite hide it. Christen should be used to this after the last few days, but it sparks the same feeling within her as it always does, the same combination of warmth and fondness and inexplicable pride.
The air smells of woodsmoke, the bare trees very dark against the white sky. It’s the kind of winter day where everything feels muffled. Their footsteps are soft against the sidewalk, like someone’s put a blanket down, and Tobin squints upwards. ‘I think it’s going to snow.’
‘It is.’
‘I don’t see you for four months and you become a weather prophet?’
‘Mrs Harvey told me. You didn’t think you were the first egg delivery, did you?’
‘My heart is broken.’
‘They’re about to go out of business, you know. The farm.’ Christen sighs. ‘I don’t really think we should be drinking cow’s milk, ethically, but… it’s a really old family farm and they treat their cows super well. They’ve won awards. It just seems like such a shame, at Christmas of all times.’
‘She didn’t say anything to me.’
Tobin sounds genuinely surprised, even upset. Christen looks at her curiously and nods. ‘They probably don’t want people to know. She only told me because she was a really good friend of my mom’s.’
‘I remember.’ Tobin swipes half-heartedly at a leaf on the sidewalk. ‘We went to visit with school, fifth grade, and your mom came along as the extra adult. I was jealous because my mom was too busy.’
‘Yeah. They were friends ever since, and it just...I guess selfishly it seems like another link gone, you know, if they have to leave? And they’re such nice people.’
‘I’m sorry, Chris.’
That sounds almost absent-minded, and Christen tries not to be hurt that Tobin’s apparently lost interest so quickly. She looks preoccupied, frowning at the ground straight ahead of her as they start up the drive, which is uncharacteristic; she’s usually so interested in her surroundings. She perks up as they get to the house, though, and tugs at Christen’s sleeve. ‘Hey, I want to show you something.’
‘Tobs, we’ve just established that it’s going to snow. Hence it’s cold. Really cold.’
‘Come look. Please.’
Christen reluctantly puts her keys back in her purse and follows Tobin around the side of the house. It’s a view she’s seen a thousand times: the sweep of lawn down to the lakeshore, and the deck, and the water as still as glass - except -
She can’t help but catch her breath as she sees seven swans swim round the nearest spur of land, one by one like ships. There’s no wind, nothing else moving except their serene glide, the proud shape of their necks, the ruffling under-feathers of their wings as soft and delicate the ballerina’s headdress, that last time at the ballet with her mom…
Then it hits her.
‘Was this you?’
Tobin nods. She’s leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, to try and still the nervous energy. ‘They needed to be relocated from a park right in the middle of the city and none of the nature reserves could take them. Don’t worry, I cleared it with the environment agency. There are - well. There are a few more coming, but they’re being brought over seven at a time so they don’t all freak out.’
‘You made me a Swan Lake?’
‘Yeah, I did.’
‘You remembered. About the ballet.’
‘Chris.’ Tobin’s looking at her with an expression that could have been a smirk if it wasn’t so gentle. ‘I pay attention.’
There are no words to explain how sincerely, straightforwardly thankful Christen is; but she launches herself into Tobin’s arms, hard enough it’s lucky Tobin is braced against the wall, and she doesn’t need a single syllable.
There’s work to catch up on, later, and Christen is disciplined enough that she does do it, but she can’t stop herself getting up every little while to gaze out of the study window at the swans calmly wheeling on the lake below her. Occasionally she can hear Tobin pottering downstairs, fixing a snack or a hot drink and delivering them to the door with a quick smile and the silent promise that she’ll be there when Christen’s done.
Christen feels light, and somehow at peace. In fact, she finally realizes, she feels truly at home for the first time in months.
It’s long dark when she’s finished. It’s lucky she left her phone on silent because the group chat is blowing up with debates over the setlist (as though they don’t sing the same five songs each year), and the proposed route around town (as though they don’t already know which families offer cookies and which just wait for them to go away), and Alex seeking input on which of two subtly different cashmere scarves she should choose. Christen grins as she discovers she’s actually looking forward to it.
Tobin is lying full-length on the couch with a book, bare feet propped up in front of her. She smiles as Christen appears in the doorway, but she looks sleepy, and Christen feels warmer just seeing her. ‘Finished up?’
‘All done. I think Press Industries will survive another night.’
‘I’ll tell my broker not to sell after all.’ Tobin swings her legs round. ‘Chris, we don’t have to go tonight if you don’t want to.’
Christen holds out her hands and drags her upright. ‘Would you believe I’m actually excited about it?’
‘Are you sure? It’s so cold out.’
‘It’s December, Tobin.’
‘I’ll stay with you.’
‘No, I want to go.’
It does start to snow, just as they’ve all assembled at Kelley’s house, the first few flakes starting to fall as her mom doles out old-fashioned lanterns and warm travel mugs of wreathingly-spiced mulled wine. Becky has been put in charge of the route, because she’s the only person who has any chance of corralling them successfully from house to house, and they set off chattering down the drive.
They’re not out for long, just a couple of hours punctuated by trooping in and out of people’s warm kitchens to be fed mince pies and more wine. Christen is shivering but pleasantly buzzed by the time they get back to Kelley’s. It’s snowing hard now, whirling around them, and she’s not sure whether she’s leaning further into Tobin than before or vice versa.
‘Five minutes till midnight,’ yells Kelley, self-appointed queen of time, throwing open the double doors in a way which Christen notes is guaranteed to let all the heat out into the freezing night. ‘There’s champagne on the table.’
Tobin is smiling up into the sky, her face aglow in the light from the house. Christen half-turns and nudges her. ‘Want to go inside?’
‘Nah, let’s let the stampede settle first. It’s nice out here when it’s quiet.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t like my singing?’
‘Your singing is fine. It’s when the rest of us try to join in that it all goes wrong.’
The doors swing shut in Kelley’s wake and the sounds of celebration are muffled behind them. The curtains have been drawn across all the windows, but there’s just enough light to still see the individual snowflakes settling on Tobin’s coat and the ends of her hair. Christen hugs her sides, feeling the chill start to settle in her bones now that they’re standing still, until Tobin reaches for her elbow and tugs gently to free her hand. It wouldn’t be particularly intimate - it’s been eighteen years, it’s not like they’ve never held hands before - except that they’re alone, in the dark, in the snow, and Christen can feel Tobin’s breath warm against her cheek. Her heart thuds as she realizes that it really must be close to midnight by now, and she knows suddenly that if Tobin doesn’t do it first, she’s going to lean in and -
‘You two,’ calls Kelley, the door banging open. ‘Get in here, it’s nearly time.’
Christen is so frustrated she might actually scream. Tobin would usually be the one to yell at Kelley to go away and leave them alone, but she looks kind of dazed, shaking her head slightly before she ushers Christen into the house ahead of her. It’s too bright inside after the soft darkness, too loud with cheers and clinking glasses, and Christen is glad for the comfort of Tobin’s hand on the small of her back.
‘Love you guys,’ says Kelley sincerely, handing them both flutes of champagne. Christen almost forgives her.
‘TEN,’ bawls Emily, by now slightly unsteady on her feet. ‘NINE -’
Tobin meets Christen’s eyes and grins knowingly as the chant takes off around them. She looks almost wistful, and Christen wonders if the same thoughts had been running through her mind out there in the dark. ‘Chris.’
‘Mm?’
‘You okay?’
‘- FIVE -’
They both know it’s a deeper question than it sounds, after the year Christen’s had. There have been days where she was pretty sure she’ll never be okay again, when everything had just seemed fundamentally cracked down the middle - and that’s not fixed yet, may never be, but it’s becoming easier to accept. Now, looking at Tobin, all flushed cheeks and flyaway hair and soft eyes, she’s thinking of something she wants, not something she misses.
‘- TWO -’
It would be so easy to put a hand out, to brush her thumb along Tobin’s jaw, to put her foot over the precipice and fall and hope that Tobin catches her. But for all it might be a new year, she doesn’t want to start this new chapter surrounded by noise and alcohol and people. It’ll keep.
Instead, she just puts a hand on Tobin’s elbow to steady herself, and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Happy New Year, Tobs.’
‘Happy New Year, Chris.’