Twelve Is December
Title: Twelve is December
Series: Actually, I'm not going to say because it doesn't really touch on anything specifically.
Characters: Viveca (Viv) & Samuel (Sam, Sammy) are the focus of this one. Viveca has an older brother by the name of Eddie and Sam has an older sister named Simone. There are a few guest appearances by Roger, Eddie's best friend, and Wendy, Viveca's best friend. Wendy herself has two brothers named Jonathan (Johnny) who is two years older and Peter (Petey) who is one year younger.
Word Count: 8, 648
Author Notes: Let me start off by saying this is the piece of writing that never ever should have come into creation. Ever. Except for the small insignificant fact that it hounded me at night while I was sleeping until I grudgingly put a few words down on paper.
And now this happened. An epic of semi-stagnant woe!fluff proportions that is, perhaps, enough to make your teeth rot. Not to mention that I drop character names like a surprise attack--mainly because I hadn't intended on using any. Perhaps one day I should settle on a style. And speaking of style-yes, I chose British spelling on purpose.
Anyway, I'm still not satisfied with the title but the cut tag is lyrics taken from the Hush Sound. Maybe I can blame some of my mania on them...
. . . . . . . . .
She is twelve and he fifteen when they meet for the first time and she does not know what love is. To her, it is still an abstract concept, one that is fawned over and sighed for but always, truly, an enigma.
So it is that she is only twelve when she first claps eyes on him and she does not know why her heartbeat quickens but it makes her bashful all the same. She is still young enough, curious enough, not to lose to her shyness and her eyes often find their way back to him. To her he is older, but not as old as her brother, and he is patient with the sort of kindness that tethers his attention to her while their older siblings slip away to be alone.
Though she is only twelve and she does not know what love is, she still dreams that she does and the whole year after she imagines their possible encounters and the words she will say and how she will hold his hand and it will be just as all the stories say it will be.
In reality, in fact, their encounters are brief because his friends take no notice of the gangly, twelve year old with pale, blonde hair and eyes like honey who waits, patiently and without complaint, for the opportunity to speak to him. And he, for his part, spares her a brief smile before the older girls push their way in front of her, effectively erasing her from his sight, from his mind, and from the focus of his smile.
She is twelve years old and she may not know what love is, but she is not so young to have never tasted bitter disappointment.
. . . . . . . . .
She is thirteen and he is sixteen when her best friend Wendy gives her a sled as a present--and as luck would have it, it is another white Christmas. She begs to be taken out, she pleads with fingers steepled and at last their older siblings concede.
For his part he seems bemused by the prospect, slouching paces behind her with his hands in his pockets as she forges the way ahead though the snow, bounding forward in some cases, when it gets too deep. The older ones trail after and when she glances over her shoulder they are indistinct figures against a canvas of white but she thinks that their arms are joined and she feels wistful, for a moment, though she does not know why.
When she reaches the top of the hill she surveys the view, fully feeling that the moment belongs to her, as does the sharp, crisp air in her lungs and the warm tingle of the sun against her doll-white skin. So lost is she in her reverie that she staggers forward when he taps her shoulder, whirling around only to stumble and nearly lose her balance again until that same hand reaches out to steady her.
'Are you ready?' he asks as he takes the sled from her and sets it in the snow at their feet. 'One push from me and you'll be well on your way.'
Her eyes drop down to the hill beneath her snow sunk feet; they trace the possible paths her sled could take and suddenly she is nervous, she chews on her bottom lip but is too embarrassed to admit that she is frightened. Sensing this he squeezes her shoulder and bends so he can peer into her eyes to assure her, 'you'll be all right. Once you get going you'll find it's over only too soon.'
When her doubtful silence is prolonged he sits himself at the back of the sled and pats the space in front of him. 'If you don't hurry I'll go down without you,' he warns her with an challenging arch to his brow and somehow, the prospect of being left alone on the hilltop is far more dismaying than any possible calamity her overactive imagination can conjure.
She has barely sat down when his arms close around her and they are moving, they are being propelled down the hill and she gasps and leans back into him, too stunned by the streaks of white and smears of trees flying past her to squeal. Her heart is pounding in her chest when they reach the bottom of the hill, when her older brother Eddie and his older sister Simone move to meet them, his older sister laughing, just as he is laughing and smiling. He climbs off first and then hauls her up onto her feet but her knees are weak and wobbling and she clutches onto his arm for balance while her older brother chuckles and asks, "Can Simone and I borrow the sled for a ride, Viv?"
When she nods, the pair take the sled and make their way up the hill without looking back, their heads turned towards one another in a constant stream of conversation and she wonders what it is that they say to each other.
Sometimes she thinks her brother looks so happy.
He clears his throat and she remembers she's still holding onto his arm and she looks up in apology, she takes his hands to squeeze her thanks only to find the fingers freezing. Her face clouds in worry and she does the only sensible thing she can think of; she does what her brother and father always did for her in such a time as this: she cups his hand in both of hers, she presses her lips to the space between her thumbs and gently blows.
When she looks up again his expression is one of embarrassment and something else, something he is quick to hide as he turns his face towards the sun and the hill, surveying the probable path their siblings will follow. He glances down at her sideways and out of the corner of his eye and whispers, 'let's get them with snowballs before they make it to us.'
And they do exactly that.
. . . . . . . . .
She is fourteen and he is seventeen and this will be their last year in school together. She is afraid of the separation, she is afraid that once he graduates he will not come again to her home, he will not feel the obligation to continue this still budding tradition of accompanying his older sister Simone, who is still dating her older brother Eddie. She fears he will stop coming over for Christmas.
So it is that she is not herself, she is reticent and folding, like a rose caught in the frost and her father puts it down to moodiness of the age but her mother knows, because her mother sees but says nothing. Her older brother cannot see much beyond Simone, but she does not blame him because she is happy for him--she is happy to see them together every Christmas, she is happy to watch them holding hands though she knows now to feel awkward if she accidentally catches sight of a secret kiss.
Despite her silences, her parents keep up a steady stream of questions regarding the future, his aspirations, how he feels he'll fair in the exams looming on the horizon and what he plans on doing after he graduates and each question of the future is only another splinter of fear in her heart that she will never see him again.
This fear gnaws at her in the night and though it is Christmas Eve she creeps down the stairs and into the parlour so she can look at the tree, shadowy in the corner and not catching much light from the window but there is somehow a comfort in this familiar shape in the darkness. As she sits in front of the tree with her knees tucked against her chest she turns her thoughts to the future, to the possibilities of Christmases without him, and she imagines herself seated by the fire while her brother and Simone stand at the window hand in hand but she cannot begrudge them that or their happiness, even as her own is crumbling within her.
So focused is she on her melancholy that she does not hear his approach, does not realise that he is behind her until his hand is on her shoulder, until she hears him whispering in her ear, 'can't you sleep or are the presents keeping you awake?'
She stifles her gasp with both of her hands pressed across her mouth and her eyes search for him in the darkness and she thinks she can see the outline of his shoulder and neck somewhere above her. Before she can reach out to confirm his presence, his proximity, he sits down beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers but before she can ask him why he's there he speaks, he admits, 'You know, I've been so busy with studying for the exams that I haven't had a chance to get anything for anyone this year . . .' His voice trails off, sheepish, and she feels him shift as he rakes a hand through his hair.
'If you don't mind it being late,' he begins again after a moment, 'what would you like?'
'A promise,' she whispers as she looks up at him. 'A promise that you will come back for Christmas next year.' She ducks her head then, biting her bottom lip as she hugs her knees tighter. 'Is that too selfish?' she wonders softly, on the verge of a sigh when his chuckle startles her, causes her to look at him again in the darkness.
'Is that all? That's easy enough,' he says as he stretches and stands. 'But what made you think I wouldn't come back?' he wonders as his hand finds her shoulder and she feels the implied offer of aiding her to her feet, which she accepts.
She feels flustered then, embarrassed when she admits, 'I thought that with all these changes for the future you would perhaps want to do something different for Christmas too.' They lapse into a silence after that but she allows herself to be led out of the parlour and up the stairs and he lets go of her hand when they arrive outside her bedroom door.
He turns to go and then thinks better of it, he turns back to her and whispers, 'It's a promise.' A beat and she doesn't need to see his smile because she can hear it when he adds, 'Happy Christmas.'
. . . . . . . . .
She is fifteen and he is eighteen and she is trying to work up the courage to carry through with that which she promised herself she would do.
This has been her first school year without him and when she sees him first she cannot help but spend the moment drinking in the sight of him and noting every change that has taken place from the cut of his hair to the subtle definition of his cheekbones.
When they get a moment together by the fire he tells her of his apprenticeship and the jobs he must do and he dots each escapade with funny little anecdotes about each. She finds however that she rues the events that she cannot relate to, misses the people she has never met and that their faces won’t ever come to her mind.
As the evening progresses she finds she is losing her resolve, losing her courage and the evening is ending, she finds herself turning in for the night when he catches her by the wrist with an apologetic smile spread across his lips when he admits, 'I haven't had a chance to get you a present again this year. Money's been tight since I started out with this job but if you tell me what you want I can get it for you in the New Year.'
'Oh Sammy,' she whispers as she turns to face him, her back against the doorjamb. 'You don't have to buy me anything. All I would like from you is a promise.' She pauses then, suddenly unsure of herself and her resolve and he smiles a little, he points out gently, 'but you asked for that last year--that I would keep coming here for Christmas and I promised I would.'
She smiles then, her mind made up as she replies, 'A different promise, a promise to come see me on my birthday.'
He looks as confused as ever when he reminds her, 'but you will have to wait until September and I will still be one present short.'
With a shake of her golden head it is her turn to assure him, her turn to say, 'No, you won't, because you can give me one of these for my birthday,' and she leans up to kiss him and she finds his lips taste of cinnamon or maybe it is saffron but his face is the real picture when she pulls away, when she rocks back onto her heels and whispers, 'Mistletoe. Good night,' before disappearing into her bedroom and shutting the door softly behind her, leaving him alone in the hall to search in vain for the white berries that were never there in the first place.
. . . . . . . . .
She is sixteen and he is nineteen and it is the first Christmas where she does not wear white but instead a dress of red silk-taffeta, cinched at the waist with a sash of gold and she feels the very spirit of Christmas.
This year is a special year, a break in what has become their routine because there are interlopers in their midst: her best friend Wendy from school is staying over for the holidays with her older brother Jonathan and younger brother Peter, for their parents are trapped abroad on a business trip.
What she does not anticipate is how quickly her attention will be divided; what she never expects is how everyone seems to call for it at once so much so that she hardly knows which way to turn and her brother, of course, is of no help whatsoever, as he is sitting in the kitchen with Simone. What she does know is that Johnny is trying to talk of the future--whether hers or his, as he is graduating this year, she is never quite sure and Petey, with a smile and a laugh, tries to remind her of happy instances at school, he is recounting the funny stories effortlessly and with perfect timing.
This does not change the fact that she spends the afternoon feeling torn between smiles and tears and finds she misses the quiet, she misses the intimacy the previous Christmases had afforded her.
Because there before her is Wendy, a vision of snow dressed in white trimmed with green; seated by the fire with her is Sam and she does not know what they are talking about, but she can tell he is being charming because Wendy's lips are curving just so and she finds her mind is going blank to the point where she does not hear the questions being asked of her until Johnny touches her shoulder and repeats it again.
'Sometimes I think my thoughts are snow,' she whispers to herself, but Johnny is the one who hears and his intense gaze softens for a fraction because she realises that is not the answer to the question posed.
Flustered, she looks at her fingers folding in her lap and does not notice when Sam looks their way.
Supper finds her quiet but thankful that the rest are engaged in enough conversation to almost make the din of their voices confused and overlapping, like the garlands of evergreen twisted in ribbons overhead; she is silently amazed that anyone can follow any one thread. She is slowly learning to divide her time between smiling at the right moments, echoing with laughter with the rest and watching Sam when she thinks him unaware.
After, when most everyone is getting ready for bed, she thinks a hot cocoa will improve her mood, that it will melt all of the snow and ice from her mind so when she steps into the kitchen she is not expecting to see anyone, but instead she sees Sam with his back ramrod straight and she sees Wendy with her arms draped around his neck and both eyes are on her and all she can do is swallow thickly before she turns away.
Her feet take her to what used to be her safe haven, the parlour and the Christmas tree, and she is standing before it with her hands pressed to her eyes when Johnny finds her. He tries to turn her towards him, he tries to ask her questions like, what's wrong, why are you upset, and what happened, but she hasn't answers for any of them, not a one.
What can she say?
When she looks up at him at last she sees surprise on his face, she thinks perhaps he thought she were crying, but she presses her hands on his chest to push him away, she assures him, 'thank you but I am quite fine.'
But he is insistent, he is not to be swayed, his arms are trying to trap her against him and all she can hear is the rustle of the red taffeta as he crushes her to him as he tries to tip her head up to his when he says, 'this is not what I would ever call okay. You can tell me,' but the words he is saying and his actions are not matching, they are not meeting in the middle and she tries to lean out of his reach even as he is seeking to close the distance.
There is the sound of footfalls in the hall and she gasps and turns and all she sees is Sam framed in the doorway and she does not understand the look on his face.
There is one heart-stopping moment when she thinks he will turn, when she thinks he will walk away, but the very thought of that worry is gone when he takes one decisive step into the room, his frown deepened by the shadows as he does nothing more than beckon her to him with fingers curled. He says one word and it is, 'Viveca.'
She tears herself away and is in his arms in the next instant. Johnny brushes past the both of them without a word and she can hear his ascent because his footfalls are hurried and heavy without a care for the hour or those who might already be asleep. And all she can say is, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' and her breath hitches and catches in her throat but still the tears are not there, they do not come, she thinks wildly, I did not have my cocoa, after all, nothing has melted.
'Viv,' he repeats and his voice is softer now, his hand is smoothing back her hair from her forehead and she stops breathing, stops thinking, she just looks up at him and waits.
And he says, 'Viv, I don't know what you think you saw--but that was nothing. She's just a kid--you're both . . .' he finishes on a sigh and he tugs her into the hallway as he says, 'it's late. You should go to bed.' But that is the last place she wants to go, she wants to stay, she wants him to keep talking, she wants him to say anything and she remembers to breathe, she draws in a deep breath because the contact is gone, he is walking away towards the kitchen and it is her turn to hurry up the stairs, taking them two at a time, though she is quieter than Johnny, the only sound the whisper of her skirts.
When she enters her bedroom and closes the door she sees Wendy is already there, her green eyes large in the semi-darkness. 'It was a test, you see,' Wendy begins as she turns back the covers. 'He thinks we're children.'
She bites her lip because she does not know what to say to this, her best friend whose white arms she can see still see in her mind's eye around Sammy's neck.
'But Johnny, he's only a year younger than him, you know. And he can see you as a woman,' Wendy continues as she fluffs up the pillows. 'Just think--if you marry Johnny, we could be real sisters then, Vivy.'
She does not know what to say to this reminder of their girlhood conversations as she readies herself for bed or even after the candle is blown out and they are in darkness again.
At last she says, 'I think Johnny would have a thing or two to say about that.'
. . . . . . . . .
She is seventeen and he twenty when Eddie proposes to Simone during the Christmas festivities. The actual proposing is done quietly and out of sight of the family but when they come in to announce the engagement Sam chokes on his eggnog, her mother sinks into a chair only to spring forward and propel herself at the blushing couple for a hug and her father is all smiles and good wishes with handshakes for all.
But she, she finds she is at once overjoyed and disquieted, and the clash of the conflicting emotions shocks the air right out of her lungs so she is a little late to offer her congratulations, her hugs, her kisses pressed to their cheeks as she blinks the tears away from her eyelashes.
The conversation at supper changes quicker than a heartbeat, the subjects dance from one to the next before looping back to the wedding at hand and she sits back, she decides to take this moment to take in the happy couple, whose fingers are laced underneath the table. She watches the way Eddie's glance never strays far from Simone's face, she follows the path Simone's fingers take as she brushes back her long, dark hair and she sighs when she sees the ring catch the candlelight.
Hearing her sigh, her father ribs her a little then for all of the changes at hand that are about to take place. He says, 'why the long face, love?'
'Oh no,' she sighs again as she follows it with a smile. 'I was just thinking how perfect they are and how happy I am that two of my favourite people are so . . . happy,' she finishes, finding herself at a loss for words and she blushes when the family raises their glass to happiness, to love and she can't help it when her gaze strays to Sam's face then, she cannot take her eyes off of him and the very still expression on his face as she sips the champagne.
After helping her mother clear away the dishes and once the house is quiet she sinks into the window seat in the parlour with a sigh, her feet tucked beneath her as she angles herself so that the tree is in her line of sight with the dying embers glowing in the hearth not far beyond and she finds herself thinking again of the changes, the wonderful, happy changes and why there was an instant where her heart begrudged them.
Her musings are cut short when she hears the sound of ice in a glass and she looks up to see him slouching into the room, she watches as he sinks into the sofa with a sigh and she realises he does not know she is there behind him in the window. He sips his drink before bracing the glass on his knee and she takes this moment to watch him stretch his arm along the back of the couch, to study the curve of his lashes against his cheek when he studies his glass and the way the dying firelight draws out a ghost of red in his dark, dark hair.
As she slips her bare feet to the floor she repeats words he once said to her, she says, 'can't you sleep? Or are the thought of presents keeping you awake?' She does not expect him to jump, to see his dark eyes wide as though he has seen a ghost in the darkness, so she smiles apologetically as she moves to his side and sits, when he motions for her to do so, beside him.
'I was just doing some thinking . . .' he begins and she chuckles softly, nodding her head, she says, 'that was evident, I think, since you didn't even see me in the window seat,' and she wonders why that melancholy is there in her voice again at the last.
Maybe because he never really sees her.
He clears his throat and changes the subject as the ice in his glass clinks against the sides. He says, 'your father made me a drink and I'm trying to finish it.'
'Is it very strong?' she asks, because she is not used to seeing him like this, she is unsure of the tone and timbre of his voice. But he chuckles instead, he gives her a sidelong glance as he raises the glass and says, 'maybe for you, it is.'
It is an impulse when she asks, 'are you thinking about what will change?' and she almost regrets it, wishes she could take back the question but he is thoughtful in turn as he sips from his drink and he admits, 'I suppose I was.'
'So much will change,' she murmurs but he shakes his head and lays a hand upon her shoulder. He is smiling when he says, 'No, I don't think much will change at all.'
There is a dawning on his face and he looks at her again, turns so that he is facing her as his arm slides and brushes her shoulder when he says in earnest, 'don't worry, your dumb brother will love you just the same as he always did,' and it is this very look on his face that causes her to smile because she thinks the drink must be very strong indeed.
She says, 'I think your sister will love you just as she always has,' and he nods as though he knew it all along, but he is smiling a little at the corners of his mouth and it is an impulse again when she leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek.
'Hey,' is all that he says for the moment as he leans back to regard her. 'That reminds me, you'll be my real little sister now,' he tells her and she feels her stomach plummet to her toes, she feels she has the answer to the questions she herself had posed to the dark and she shakes her head, she takes the glass from him and drains the contents before saying to him, 'I won't be your little sister. You can't call me that, not ever.'
His brow seems to say otherwise as he eyes his empty glass and the roseyness on her cheeks but he smiles after a time and says, 'If you agree to stop calling me 'Sammy', I think we'll have a deal.'
She is sad he asks for that, she is sad because she only called him that out of affection but she nods her acquiesce; she needs this more. 'Consider it done, Sam,' she says, careful to enunciate the words and he holds a hand out, he says, 'Let's shake on it,' but she is shaking her head even as she is taking his hand, she tells him, 'there's another way to seal a deal.' And she takes advantage of her impulses once more to kiss him and she thinks he tastes just like his drink, and little wonder, she supposes, since she finished it off.
She also knows it is only the drink that makes him kiss her back for a moment, even though she would like to pretend otherwise.
When he pulls away his face is an apology she does not want to hear, so she presses her fingertips to his lips, she whispers, 'It's a promise, Sam,' and then she is gone without looking back.
. . . . . . . . .
She is eighteen and he twenty-one and it is her last year of school but the marriage of their siblings takes place during the Christmas holidays. She wears pale blue and clasps flowers to match but walks last behind the older girls, the other bridesmaids, and she does her best not to cry during the ceremony, like her mother who is sobbing in the first pew.
When it is time for the reception, she watches without comment as a girl comes to claim his arm and they move to the dance floor. She is left to do her part as sister, to smile and to console her mother, chide her father when he drinks a little too much, and to watch the way her brother looks at his new bride and she thinks, that really is love.
After a time, she slips away to sit on the outskirts of the party to reflect on the day, and just when she feels she must have been quite forgotten, she is surprised when he appears before her.
'My sister said you haven't danced with anyone and that I ought to ask you before your brother does,' he informs her without pomp or ceremony, simply laying the facts plain and neat before her to see. She looks up at him quietly for a few moments as she thinks of the things she could say, the witty things Wendy would tell her to say, but she says none of these and simply accepts the hand he offers her.
So it is that they share their first dance and she blushes her way through it until the end of the song, but is surprised when his hand does not immediately leave her waist. She almost thinks that perhaps he will stay for another until Roger taps him on the shoulder and cuts in, whisking her away into another song before she can utter a word of protest. Her partners change rapidly after that, so quickly she thinks it must be some conspiracy contrived by her brother but a glance in his direction tells her that he is oblivious to everything beyond his new wife.
Occasionally, when she is not being spun around too quickly, she catches glimpses of Sam through the crowd past shoulders and gowns and she thinks that he might be frowning, thinks that he might be angry, even. She wishes she could will him to her, wishes he would cut in and whisk her away into a different song where maybe she will not blush so much, where perhaps she can speak her mind.
When she is spun around again, it is in time to see a different girl taking him by the arm and leading him away, past a table and out of view.
. . . . . . . . .
She is nineteen and he is twenty-two and this is the second time that there is an interloper in their midst: it is Roger, Eddie's best man at the wedding, who has come to stay for the holidays as he nurses a broken heart.
But for having a broken heart Roger is certainly plucky enough and it is the first time in a long time where she sees her brother's attention truly divided. Their banter is light and easy, the teasing familiar and it is not long before he is ribbing Eddie about the old days. The years have seen a change in her brother that she recognises; rather than being ruffled and flustered he laughs instead, squeezing Simone's hand all the while. She can spot the wedding band from where she sits and she thinks it a beautiful sight.
Roger sits beside her at supper and he is so easy to talk to, nearly as charming as Sam, but not quite, and she thinks it is plain to her that he simply wants to be liked. Occasionally she tries to draw conversation out of Sam but his answers are brief by comparison and Roger seems adept at turning the conversation back to himself.
But, oh, how she wonders at the way Sam looks at Roger, with the subtle frown and downwards turn of the mouth but she can never find the opportunity to ask him what he is thinking.
When it is time for bed, she peeks into the parlour but it is Roger, not Samuel, she sees with his head in his hands on the sofa before the fire. 'Would you like a drink before I go to bed?' she asks him politely and though he gives a start at the sound of her voice he is just as quick to shake his head. She moves into the room, towards the hearth and she kneels to place another log onto the fire. He casts her a questioning look as she moves to stand so she smiles and says, 'It was almost out.'
His hand flashes out then and settles around her wrist and she is surprised but not alarmed, she stands quietly, motionlessly while he tells her, 'thank you, you didn't have to.' She gazes down at him because he has not released her, she feels she ought not to pull away and at last he admits to her in a voice that is rough and worn, not at all like the cheery tone that swept them away with conversation at supper, he says 'I thought being here would take my mind off of her, you know. I thought it would distract me,' he sighs and his head is shaking again, he tells her, 'I miss her more.'
She squeezes his hand then, as she doesn't know what words would comfort him but she is startled in turn when he looks up at her, when his eyes focus on her face, as though seeing her for the first time.
'You're a beautiful girl, Viv,' he tells her, 'and if it weren't for that gentleman over there whose been staring at us all this while, I think I would've kissed you by now.' Yet even as he is saying these words she is turning, she looks in time to see Sam scowling even after he lets go of her hand.
'Goodnight, love,' Roger says as he stands, 'I'm afraid you've wasted a good log, on me.' And he adds, almost absently, 'Night Sam,' as he passes the younger man.
So it is that they are alone in the parlour; she by the fireplace and he lingering in the doorway, his body angled as though he means to go. At last he says, 'You should watch out for men like that.'
'What ever do you mean?' she asks, simply grateful that he is the first to break the imposed silence.
'Just be careful,' he warns as he turns completely, and she thinks he means to leave her alone in the fire lit darkness, she thinks he means to turn in for the night and she cannot stop herself from darting forward as she calls his name, 'Sam!'
She springs forward through the doorway just as he is turning to step back into the room and her nose collides rather rudely with his chest, causing them both to stagger. 'What now?' he asks and she thinks he is eyeing her suspiciously in the semi-darkness as she takes his hand in both of hers, as she attempts to draw him into the parlour.
'Well,' she begins, because she thinks that word is as good as any when it comes to stalling. 'Well, I thought that you've barely said two words to me this entire evening and I thought,' she is stammering now, but she continues, 'I thought, perhaps, we could talk.' She sighs, her grip loosening, she can feel his fingers slipping past hers and she misses the weight of his arm as it falls back to his side. 'You barely said anything at supper and I,' she stops herself from saying, I miss the sound of your voice, because even she can realise how pathetic that sounds, so she says, 'I was hoping we could catch up,' even though her mind adds silently, even though I may never reach you, though I may never breach those three years you keep between us.
Perhaps, she thinks later, it is the remnant kindness of a boy who was always capable of sparing his attention and pity upon the little girl on the outskirts, or maybe he did find he had stories to relay after all. She is never sure of his reason for sitting with her on that sofa with his arm stretched across the back, while she sits with legs curled beneath her, nor why their conversation wanders across subjects and lead to discussions, but he looks at her steadily throughout and she, for her part, never pulls her eyes from him until she realises that dawn is breaking just beyond the window.
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty and he is twenty-three when their siblings announce that there will be a new addition to the family and her mother faints but thankfully her father, as always, is close enough to catch her. She is enamoured at the first word and she cannot stop begging to be able to touch Simone's stomach, her fingers wandering and splaying over the rounded belly and she spends an evening on the sofa begging to listen to see if she can hear a heartbeat that is not Simone's own, to see if she can feel a stir, a kick, a stretch. Eddie is nervous and pacing and laughing; he is a bundle of emotions and he is thumbing through a book, one of many that are stacked neatly on the table until their father knocks them over with a joke and a laugh.
The only one who seems quiet and thoughtful is the one who makes her sit up when he enters the room, the one whom she gives a bright smile, the one whose arms she rushes into as she cries, 'Congratulations, congratulations!'
And she can hear the surprise in his voice, she can hear that brow arching before she looks up to see it when he says, 'I think you're directing them to the wrong person,' and it is her turn to laugh again and she taps his chin when she says, 'congratulations, you're an uncle now!'
He half smiles then after a moment and she feels his hands settle on her waist as he says, 'well, don't forget this makes you an aunt.'
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty-one and he is twenty-four when the new baby joins the family for Christmas and it is perhaps the first Christmas where her attention is not solely focused on him. She begs to be able to hold the baby, to bounce it on her knee and sing it silly songs of Christmas softly while the infant child looks up at her with wide blue eyes and tiny fingers reaching and curling around her thumb. She is in love with this tiny being, this little bundle and she showers the baby's face in kisses, cooing nonsense all the while.
When she thinks to look up at him, she catches him looking away, redirecting his gaze instead onto his sister and her husband as the two stand arm in arm by the fire and she wonders what he must think of this, what he must feel and because she has dropped her gaze down onto the baby's face she does not notice that they are all looking at her now, her and this darling child, and she never knows the expressions on their faces.
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty-two and he is twenty-five and they find themselves walking together in a park not too far away from her family home with the promise of snow in the skies. They are alone, which is a rarity in this holiday season, but not unwelcome, at least in her mind. He offers his arm to her, perfunctory and absently, but she appreciates the excuse to walk a little closer, to let her gloveless hands finger the texture of his coat. She saw him on and off throughout the year, though only mostly at family gatherings, so their discourse wanders over what has passed in the time between. He has his own office and an assistant now, he saw a match before the season ended in a friend's box seat but he balks, as expected, when she casually asks if he is seeing anyone.
He stops her then, with hands upon her shoulders and he holds her at arms length and looks down at her face just as the snow begins to fall. And he sighs.
'You have got to stop,' he tells her as he bends so that he can peer into her eyes but she is watching the white flakes catch in his dark hair and all she can think of is her desire to brush them away. 'Viveca,' he starts, but she will not let him finish, it is her turn to catch his gaze and she says:
'Roger asked me to marry him in the summer.'
Astonishment washes over his face like mist rolling over a stormy sea and she wonders what those emotions mean, the ones that he reins in as he purses his lips and intones, 'I never knew you were seeing him.'
'I'm not,' she answers, not flinching from his gaze or his hands as his fingers tighten into her shoulders. 'I politely refused, of course, but he said to keep him as a consideration.'
His face is an fascinating study today and she watches as emotions are painted anew and erased all in a matter of moments as he carefully schools his expression into one she has never understood, because she saw it when Wendy's brothers vied for her attention, she glimpsed it as her partners changed at the wedding dance, she remembers seeing hints of it in the corner of his mouth when he looked away while she held the baby. His voice is still, steady when he asks her, 'Why are you telling me this?'
She takes a deep breath before whispering, 'To remind you I am not the child I was ten years ago.'
'Dammit, Viveca,' and the fact that his hands could release her so suddenly is more shocking than the force of his tone. He turns and his back is to her, his hand pressed over his eyes and he shakes his head. 'Damn it,' he repeats, careful to enunciate the individual words as though they were each a singular point unto themselves.
'Sam,' she breathes, her breath so very white against the landscape of his back. With a shaking hand she reaches out to touch his arm and he does not shake her off, he does not resist her as she turns him so they are facing once more. 'Sam,' she begins but he cuts her off, his brow furrowed as he looks away and says, 'He's your brother's age, he's twenty-eight--nearly thirty,' but she interrupts him, she tells him softly, 'there is nothing in an age, Sam. Absolutely nothing where a heart is concerned.'
He is silent then but she does not know what expression is on his face because she is looking down at their boots and at the skirt of her dress, which is dotted with snow. Her cold fingers curl into the palms of her hands and she wishes for courage, for every bit of wit Wendy ever tried to feed her. She closes her eyes in favour of the darkness only her lashes can provide and she says in a quiet voice, 'if you think I ought to, Sam, I will change my answer when he asks me again in the spring.'
There is a beat, and the tension that is building in her throat is broken because there is a true question in his voice when he asks, 'how do you know he'll ask again in the spring?' She can picture the puzzled look on his face, the incomprehension and arched brow.
She smiles though she knows he can't see it because her head is still downcast, her eyes resolutely closed, when she tells him simply, 'because he said he would.'
And something snaps then--she's never quite sure if it were a branch burdened by snow or if it was a trick of her mind and emotions but he is kissing her in that next instant, catching and holding her hands in his gloved ones so tightly that she almost wonders if it wasn't the sound of them breaking that she had heard. Only, she knows it is not her fingers because there is no pain--only hope stirred and fluttering like a bird uncovered in the cage of her chest.
When he pulls away, nearly as abruptly as when he had kissed her in the first place, she notes his face is flushed but reason is quick to attribute it to the cold, because hope has known disappointment and she does not dare to nurture it again. He glances down at their hands, as though surprised, and he notes, 'Your hands are freezing--I can't believe you're making mine cold through my gloves' and his hold becomes less crushing as he instead folds her hands between both of his and blows on them gently as she had once done for him, long ago.
'I wouldn't change my answer for a prat like him, if I were you,' he adds in a tone that is almost nonchalant. 'I would wait to--' but he does not finish because her fingertip is silencing him, her fingertip is pressed against the warm curve of his bottom lip and it is only when he is completely still that she moves to cup his face in both of her hands and she says, 'I have been waiting. I have been waiting a long time for you to notice me. I have waited and can wait a little longer but only if there is hope . . . You see, Samuel, this is up to you now.' And she smiles. 'It always has been.'
He is silent while he collects her hands from his face and when he shoves his hands into his coat pockets, one of her hands is tucked away with his. 'You're hands are still freezing,' he reminds her as he leads her out of the park. 'While we head back, we can discuss our plans for New Year's Eve.'
'Ours?' she repeats, a question in her voice as she looks up at him with wide, surprised eyes.
He smirks when he says, 'it's not as though you were about to spend it with anyone else.'
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty-three and he twenty-six and he is not himself. He is charming, as always, debonair when he remembers to be, but mostly he is quiet and she is not young enough anymore to be able to pester him with innocent questions.
True, they had seen each other throughout the year, she thinks she ought to be able to read his moods by now but this one is new, like rain never glimpsed before on the horizon. He is sinking into something she has trouble stirring him from and not even the baby, toddling over to grip onto his knees, can keep his smile for long.
It is her parents who usher them out into the cold, who tell them to take a walk and they follow the suggestion obligingly. When he reaches for her hand it is natural, something he doesn't even think about anymore and it makes her smile and clasp his hand tighter.
She is wistful when she tells him, 'if only this could last forever.'
His eyes are narrowed then, he is disentangling himself from her and she does not know why but her hand almost aches without his.
'What makes you say that?' he asks, shoulders hunched against the cold and she does not know what she has done, but she wants to take it back, she would do anything to take the words right back into her head and seal them away forever.
'I thought,' she pauses and starts again, 'I thought I loved the moment with your hand in mine. I meant that I never wanted you to let me go.'
He turns with hands in his pockets, he says, 'Marry me,' and if she had been going by his expression alone she might have mistaken his words for some grave matter at hand, a matter which contains possibilities beyond her control, where the future is dim and uncertain with the light sinking forever and anon into the ocean.
Though she knows she heard him quite clearly she is stunned into a silence that deepens the frown on his brow and the line of his lips until she throws her arms around him, because quite suddenly she is afraid he is the sun that is slipping away into the ocean, never to be seen again.
'Yes,' she whispers. 'A thousand times yes and I do.'
His laughter is sudden but complete, and she thinks of clouds breaking, she thinks of blue skies as he tells her, 'I think it's a bit early for the last bit,' but he is kissing her just the same.
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty-four and he is twenty-seven and she wears white again for their wedding day.
When she walks down the aisle with her father for the first and last time she thinks, maybe fairy tales do exist after all.
Series: Actually, I'm not going to say because it doesn't really touch on anything specifically.
Characters: Viveca (Viv) & Samuel (Sam, Sammy) are the focus of this one. Viveca has an older brother by the name of Eddie and Sam has an older sister named Simone. There are a few guest appearances by Roger, Eddie's best friend, and Wendy, Viveca's best friend. Wendy herself has two brothers named Jonathan (Johnny) who is two years older and Peter (Petey) who is one year younger.
Word Count: 8, 648
Author Notes: Let me start off by saying this is the piece of writing that never ever should have come into creation. Ever. Except for the small insignificant fact that it hounded me at night while I was sleeping until I grudgingly put a few words down on paper.
And now this happened. An epic of semi-stagnant woe!fluff proportions that is, perhaps, enough to make your teeth rot. Not to mention that I drop character names like a surprise attack--mainly because I hadn't intended on using any. Perhaps one day I should settle on a style. And speaking of style-yes, I chose British spelling on purpose.
Anyway, I'm still not satisfied with the title but the cut tag is lyrics taken from the Hush Sound. Maybe I can blame some of my mania on them...
. . . . . . . . .
She is twelve and he fifteen when they meet for the first time and she does not know what love is. To her, it is still an abstract concept, one that is fawned over and sighed for but always, truly, an enigma.
So it is that she is only twelve when she first claps eyes on him and she does not know why her heartbeat quickens but it makes her bashful all the same. She is still young enough, curious enough, not to lose to her shyness and her eyes often find their way back to him. To her he is older, but not as old as her brother, and he is patient with the sort of kindness that tethers his attention to her while their older siblings slip away to be alone.
Though she is only twelve and she does not know what love is, she still dreams that she does and the whole year after she imagines their possible encounters and the words she will say and how she will hold his hand and it will be just as all the stories say it will be.
In reality, in fact, their encounters are brief because his friends take no notice of the gangly, twelve year old with pale, blonde hair and eyes like honey who waits, patiently and without complaint, for the opportunity to speak to him. And he, for his part, spares her a brief smile before the older girls push their way in front of her, effectively erasing her from his sight, from his mind, and from the focus of his smile.
She is twelve years old and she may not know what love is, but she is not so young to have never tasted bitter disappointment.
. . . . . . . . .
She is thirteen and he is sixteen when her best friend Wendy gives her a sled as a present--and as luck would have it, it is another white Christmas. She begs to be taken out, she pleads with fingers steepled and at last their older siblings concede.
For his part he seems bemused by the prospect, slouching paces behind her with his hands in his pockets as she forges the way ahead though the snow, bounding forward in some cases, when it gets too deep. The older ones trail after and when she glances over her shoulder they are indistinct figures against a canvas of white but she thinks that their arms are joined and she feels wistful, for a moment, though she does not know why.
When she reaches the top of the hill she surveys the view, fully feeling that the moment belongs to her, as does the sharp, crisp air in her lungs and the warm tingle of the sun against her doll-white skin. So lost is she in her reverie that she staggers forward when he taps her shoulder, whirling around only to stumble and nearly lose her balance again until that same hand reaches out to steady her.
'Are you ready?' he asks as he takes the sled from her and sets it in the snow at their feet. 'One push from me and you'll be well on your way.'
Her eyes drop down to the hill beneath her snow sunk feet; they trace the possible paths her sled could take and suddenly she is nervous, she chews on her bottom lip but is too embarrassed to admit that she is frightened. Sensing this he squeezes her shoulder and bends so he can peer into her eyes to assure her, 'you'll be all right. Once you get going you'll find it's over only too soon.'
When her doubtful silence is prolonged he sits himself at the back of the sled and pats the space in front of him. 'If you don't hurry I'll go down without you,' he warns her with an challenging arch to his brow and somehow, the prospect of being left alone on the hilltop is far more dismaying than any possible calamity her overactive imagination can conjure.
She has barely sat down when his arms close around her and they are moving, they are being propelled down the hill and she gasps and leans back into him, too stunned by the streaks of white and smears of trees flying past her to squeal. Her heart is pounding in her chest when they reach the bottom of the hill, when her older brother Eddie and his older sister Simone move to meet them, his older sister laughing, just as he is laughing and smiling. He climbs off first and then hauls her up onto her feet but her knees are weak and wobbling and she clutches onto his arm for balance while her older brother chuckles and asks, "Can Simone and I borrow the sled for a ride, Viv?"
When she nods, the pair take the sled and make their way up the hill without looking back, their heads turned towards one another in a constant stream of conversation and she wonders what it is that they say to each other.
Sometimes she thinks her brother looks so happy.
He clears his throat and she remembers she's still holding onto his arm and she looks up in apology, she takes his hands to squeeze her thanks only to find the fingers freezing. Her face clouds in worry and she does the only sensible thing she can think of; she does what her brother and father always did for her in such a time as this: she cups his hand in both of hers, she presses her lips to the space between her thumbs and gently blows.
When she looks up again his expression is one of embarrassment and something else, something he is quick to hide as he turns his face towards the sun and the hill, surveying the probable path their siblings will follow. He glances down at her sideways and out of the corner of his eye and whispers, 'let's get them with snowballs before they make it to us.'
And they do exactly that.
. . . . . . . . .
She is fourteen and he is seventeen and this will be their last year in school together. She is afraid of the separation, she is afraid that once he graduates he will not come again to her home, he will not feel the obligation to continue this still budding tradition of accompanying his older sister Simone, who is still dating her older brother Eddie. She fears he will stop coming over for Christmas.
So it is that she is not herself, she is reticent and folding, like a rose caught in the frost and her father puts it down to moodiness of the age but her mother knows, because her mother sees but says nothing. Her older brother cannot see much beyond Simone, but she does not blame him because she is happy for him--she is happy to see them together every Christmas, she is happy to watch them holding hands though she knows now to feel awkward if she accidentally catches sight of a secret kiss.
Despite her silences, her parents keep up a steady stream of questions regarding the future, his aspirations, how he feels he'll fair in the exams looming on the horizon and what he plans on doing after he graduates and each question of the future is only another splinter of fear in her heart that she will never see him again.
This fear gnaws at her in the night and though it is Christmas Eve she creeps down the stairs and into the parlour so she can look at the tree, shadowy in the corner and not catching much light from the window but there is somehow a comfort in this familiar shape in the darkness. As she sits in front of the tree with her knees tucked against her chest she turns her thoughts to the future, to the possibilities of Christmases without him, and she imagines herself seated by the fire while her brother and Simone stand at the window hand in hand but she cannot begrudge them that or their happiness, even as her own is crumbling within her.
So focused is she on her melancholy that she does not hear his approach, does not realise that he is behind her until his hand is on her shoulder, until she hears him whispering in her ear, 'can't you sleep or are the presents keeping you awake?'
She stifles her gasp with both of her hands pressed across her mouth and her eyes search for him in the darkness and she thinks she can see the outline of his shoulder and neck somewhere above her. Before she can reach out to confirm his presence, his proximity, he sits down beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers but before she can ask him why he's there he speaks, he admits, 'You know, I've been so busy with studying for the exams that I haven't had a chance to get anything for anyone this year . . .' His voice trails off, sheepish, and she feels him shift as he rakes a hand through his hair.
'If you don't mind it being late,' he begins again after a moment, 'what would you like?'
'A promise,' she whispers as she looks up at him. 'A promise that you will come back for Christmas next year.' She ducks her head then, biting her bottom lip as she hugs her knees tighter. 'Is that too selfish?' she wonders softly, on the verge of a sigh when his chuckle startles her, causes her to look at him again in the darkness.
'Is that all? That's easy enough,' he says as he stretches and stands. 'But what made you think I wouldn't come back?' he wonders as his hand finds her shoulder and she feels the implied offer of aiding her to her feet, which she accepts.
She feels flustered then, embarrassed when she admits, 'I thought that with all these changes for the future you would perhaps want to do something different for Christmas too.' They lapse into a silence after that but she allows herself to be led out of the parlour and up the stairs and he lets go of her hand when they arrive outside her bedroom door.
He turns to go and then thinks better of it, he turns back to her and whispers, 'It's a promise.' A beat and she doesn't need to see his smile because she can hear it when he adds, 'Happy Christmas.'
. . . . . . . . .
She is fifteen and he is eighteen and she is trying to work up the courage to carry through with that which she promised herself she would do.
This has been her first school year without him and when she sees him first she cannot help but spend the moment drinking in the sight of him and noting every change that has taken place from the cut of his hair to the subtle definition of his cheekbones.
When they get a moment together by the fire he tells her of his apprenticeship and the jobs he must do and he dots each escapade with funny little anecdotes about each. She finds however that she rues the events that she cannot relate to, misses the people she has never met and that their faces won’t ever come to her mind.
As the evening progresses she finds she is losing her resolve, losing her courage and the evening is ending, she finds herself turning in for the night when he catches her by the wrist with an apologetic smile spread across his lips when he admits, 'I haven't had a chance to get you a present again this year. Money's been tight since I started out with this job but if you tell me what you want I can get it for you in the New Year.'
'Oh Sammy,' she whispers as she turns to face him, her back against the doorjamb. 'You don't have to buy me anything. All I would like from you is a promise.' She pauses then, suddenly unsure of herself and her resolve and he smiles a little, he points out gently, 'but you asked for that last year--that I would keep coming here for Christmas and I promised I would.'
She smiles then, her mind made up as she replies, 'A different promise, a promise to come see me on my birthday.'
He looks as confused as ever when he reminds her, 'but you will have to wait until September and I will still be one present short.'
With a shake of her golden head it is her turn to assure him, her turn to say, 'No, you won't, because you can give me one of these for my birthday,' and she leans up to kiss him and she finds his lips taste of cinnamon or maybe it is saffron but his face is the real picture when she pulls away, when she rocks back onto her heels and whispers, 'Mistletoe. Good night,' before disappearing into her bedroom and shutting the door softly behind her, leaving him alone in the hall to search in vain for the white berries that were never there in the first place.
. . . . . . . . .
She is sixteen and he is nineteen and it is the first Christmas where she does not wear white but instead a dress of red silk-taffeta, cinched at the waist with a sash of gold and she feels the very spirit of Christmas.
This year is a special year, a break in what has become their routine because there are interlopers in their midst: her best friend Wendy from school is staying over for the holidays with her older brother Jonathan and younger brother Peter, for their parents are trapped abroad on a business trip.
What she does not anticipate is how quickly her attention will be divided; what she never expects is how everyone seems to call for it at once so much so that she hardly knows which way to turn and her brother, of course, is of no help whatsoever, as he is sitting in the kitchen with Simone. What she does know is that Johnny is trying to talk of the future--whether hers or his, as he is graduating this year, she is never quite sure and Petey, with a smile and a laugh, tries to remind her of happy instances at school, he is recounting the funny stories effortlessly and with perfect timing.
This does not change the fact that she spends the afternoon feeling torn between smiles and tears and finds she misses the quiet, she misses the intimacy the previous Christmases had afforded her.
Because there before her is Wendy, a vision of snow dressed in white trimmed with green; seated by the fire with her is Sam and she does not know what they are talking about, but she can tell he is being charming because Wendy's lips are curving just so and she finds her mind is going blank to the point where she does not hear the questions being asked of her until Johnny touches her shoulder and repeats it again.
'Sometimes I think my thoughts are snow,' she whispers to herself, but Johnny is the one who hears and his intense gaze softens for a fraction because she realises that is not the answer to the question posed.
Flustered, she looks at her fingers folding in her lap and does not notice when Sam looks their way.
Supper finds her quiet but thankful that the rest are engaged in enough conversation to almost make the din of their voices confused and overlapping, like the garlands of evergreen twisted in ribbons overhead; she is silently amazed that anyone can follow any one thread. She is slowly learning to divide her time between smiling at the right moments, echoing with laughter with the rest and watching Sam when she thinks him unaware.
After, when most everyone is getting ready for bed, she thinks a hot cocoa will improve her mood, that it will melt all of the snow and ice from her mind so when she steps into the kitchen she is not expecting to see anyone, but instead she sees Sam with his back ramrod straight and she sees Wendy with her arms draped around his neck and both eyes are on her and all she can do is swallow thickly before she turns away.
Her feet take her to what used to be her safe haven, the parlour and the Christmas tree, and she is standing before it with her hands pressed to her eyes when Johnny finds her. He tries to turn her towards him, he tries to ask her questions like, what's wrong, why are you upset, and what happened, but she hasn't answers for any of them, not a one.
What can she say?
When she looks up at him at last she sees surprise on his face, she thinks perhaps he thought she were crying, but she presses her hands on his chest to push him away, she assures him, 'thank you but I am quite fine.'
But he is insistent, he is not to be swayed, his arms are trying to trap her against him and all she can hear is the rustle of the red taffeta as he crushes her to him as he tries to tip her head up to his when he says, 'this is not what I would ever call okay. You can tell me,' but the words he is saying and his actions are not matching, they are not meeting in the middle and she tries to lean out of his reach even as he is seeking to close the distance.
There is the sound of footfalls in the hall and she gasps and turns and all she sees is Sam framed in the doorway and she does not understand the look on his face.
There is one heart-stopping moment when she thinks he will turn, when she thinks he will walk away, but the very thought of that worry is gone when he takes one decisive step into the room, his frown deepened by the shadows as he does nothing more than beckon her to him with fingers curled. He says one word and it is, 'Viveca.'
She tears herself away and is in his arms in the next instant. Johnny brushes past the both of them without a word and she can hear his ascent because his footfalls are hurried and heavy without a care for the hour or those who might already be asleep. And all she can say is, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' and her breath hitches and catches in her throat but still the tears are not there, they do not come, she thinks wildly, I did not have my cocoa, after all, nothing has melted.
'Viv,' he repeats and his voice is softer now, his hand is smoothing back her hair from her forehead and she stops breathing, stops thinking, she just looks up at him and waits.
And he says, 'Viv, I don't know what you think you saw--but that was nothing. She's just a kid--you're both . . .' he finishes on a sigh and he tugs her into the hallway as he says, 'it's late. You should go to bed.' But that is the last place she wants to go, she wants to stay, she wants him to keep talking, she wants him to say anything and she remembers to breathe, she draws in a deep breath because the contact is gone, he is walking away towards the kitchen and it is her turn to hurry up the stairs, taking them two at a time, though she is quieter than Johnny, the only sound the whisper of her skirts.
When she enters her bedroom and closes the door she sees Wendy is already there, her green eyes large in the semi-darkness. 'It was a test, you see,' Wendy begins as she turns back the covers. 'He thinks we're children.'
She bites her lip because she does not know what to say to this, her best friend whose white arms she can see still see in her mind's eye around Sammy's neck.
'But Johnny, he's only a year younger than him, you know. And he can see you as a woman,' Wendy continues as she fluffs up the pillows. 'Just think--if you marry Johnny, we could be real sisters then, Vivy.'
She does not know what to say to this reminder of their girlhood conversations as she readies herself for bed or even after the candle is blown out and they are in darkness again.
At last she says, 'I think Johnny would have a thing or two to say about that.'
. . . . . . . . .
She is seventeen and he twenty when Eddie proposes to Simone during the Christmas festivities. The actual proposing is done quietly and out of sight of the family but when they come in to announce the engagement Sam chokes on his eggnog, her mother sinks into a chair only to spring forward and propel herself at the blushing couple for a hug and her father is all smiles and good wishes with handshakes for all.
But she, she finds she is at once overjoyed and disquieted, and the clash of the conflicting emotions shocks the air right out of her lungs so she is a little late to offer her congratulations, her hugs, her kisses pressed to their cheeks as she blinks the tears away from her eyelashes.
The conversation at supper changes quicker than a heartbeat, the subjects dance from one to the next before looping back to the wedding at hand and she sits back, she decides to take this moment to take in the happy couple, whose fingers are laced underneath the table. She watches the way Eddie's glance never strays far from Simone's face, she follows the path Simone's fingers take as she brushes back her long, dark hair and she sighs when she sees the ring catch the candlelight.
Hearing her sigh, her father ribs her a little then for all of the changes at hand that are about to take place. He says, 'why the long face, love?'
'Oh no,' she sighs again as she follows it with a smile. 'I was just thinking how perfect they are and how happy I am that two of my favourite people are so . . . happy,' she finishes, finding herself at a loss for words and she blushes when the family raises their glass to happiness, to love and she can't help it when her gaze strays to Sam's face then, she cannot take her eyes off of him and the very still expression on his face as she sips the champagne.
After helping her mother clear away the dishes and once the house is quiet she sinks into the window seat in the parlour with a sigh, her feet tucked beneath her as she angles herself so that the tree is in her line of sight with the dying embers glowing in the hearth not far beyond and she finds herself thinking again of the changes, the wonderful, happy changes and why there was an instant where her heart begrudged them.
Her musings are cut short when she hears the sound of ice in a glass and she looks up to see him slouching into the room, she watches as he sinks into the sofa with a sigh and she realises he does not know she is there behind him in the window. He sips his drink before bracing the glass on his knee and she takes this moment to watch him stretch his arm along the back of the couch, to study the curve of his lashes against his cheek when he studies his glass and the way the dying firelight draws out a ghost of red in his dark, dark hair.
As she slips her bare feet to the floor she repeats words he once said to her, she says, 'can't you sleep? Or are the thought of presents keeping you awake?' She does not expect him to jump, to see his dark eyes wide as though he has seen a ghost in the darkness, so she smiles apologetically as she moves to his side and sits, when he motions for her to do so, beside him.
'I was just doing some thinking . . .' he begins and she chuckles softly, nodding her head, she says, 'that was evident, I think, since you didn't even see me in the window seat,' and she wonders why that melancholy is there in her voice again at the last.
Maybe because he never really sees her.
He clears his throat and changes the subject as the ice in his glass clinks against the sides. He says, 'your father made me a drink and I'm trying to finish it.'
'Is it very strong?' she asks, because she is not used to seeing him like this, she is unsure of the tone and timbre of his voice. But he chuckles instead, he gives her a sidelong glance as he raises the glass and says, 'maybe for you, it is.'
It is an impulse when she asks, 'are you thinking about what will change?' and she almost regrets it, wishes she could take back the question but he is thoughtful in turn as he sips from his drink and he admits, 'I suppose I was.'
'So much will change,' she murmurs but he shakes his head and lays a hand upon her shoulder. He is smiling when he says, 'No, I don't think much will change at all.'
There is a dawning on his face and he looks at her again, turns so that he is facing her as his arm slides and brushes her shoulder when he says in earnest, 'don't worry, your dumb brother will love you just the same as he always did,' and it is this very look on his face that causes her to smile because she thinks the drink must be very strong indeed.
She says, 'I think your sister will love you just as she always has,' and he nods as though he knew it all along, but he is smiling a little at the corners of his mouth and it is an impulse again when she leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek.
'Hey,' is all that he says for the moment as he leans back to regard her. 'That reminds me, you'll be my real little sister now,' he tells her and she feels her stomach plummet to her toes, she feels she has the answer to the questions she herself had posed to the dark and she shakes her head, she takes the glass from him and drains the contents before saying to him, 'I won't be your little sister. You can't call me that, not ever.'
His brow seems to say otherwise as he eyes his empty glass and the roseyness on her cheeks but he smiles after a time and says, 'If you agree to stop calling me 'Sammy', I think we'll have a deal.'
She is sad he asks for that, she is sad because she only called him that out of affection but she nods her acquiesce; she needs this more. 'Consider it done, Sam,' she says, careful to enunciate the words and he holds a hand out, he says, 'Let's shake on it,' but she is shaking her head even as she is taking his hand, she tells him, 'there's another way to seal a deal.' And she takes advantage of her impulses once more to kiss him and she thinks he tastes just like his drink, and little wonder, she supposes, since she finished it off.
She also knows it is only the drink that makes him kiss her back for a moment, even though she would like to pretend otherwise.
When he pulls away his face is an apology she does not want to hear, so she presses her fingertips to his lips, she whispers, 'It's a promise, Sam,' and then she is gone without looking back.
. . . . . . . . .
She is eighteen and he twenty-one and it is her last year of school but the marriage of their siblings takes place during the Christmas holidays. She wears pale blue and clasps flowers to match but walks last behind the older girls, the other bridesmaids, and she does her best not to cry during the ceremony, like her mother who is sobbing in the first pew.
When it is time for the reception, she watches without comment as a girl comes to claim his arm and they move to the dance floor. She is left to do her part as sister, to smile and to console her mother, chide her father when he drinks a little too much, and to watch the way her brother looks at his new bride and she thinks, that really is love.
After a time, she slips away to sit on the outskirts of the party to reflect on the day, and just when she feels she must have been quite forgotten, she is surprised when he appears before her.
'My sister said you haven't danced with anyone and that I ought to ask you before your brother does,' he informs her without pomp or ceremony, simply laying the facts plain and neat before her to see. She looks up at him quietly for a few moments as she thinks of the things she could say, the witty things Wendy would tell her to say, but she says none of these and simply accepts the hand he offers her.
So it is that they share their first dance and she blushes her way through it until the end of the song, but is surprised when his hand does not immediately leave her waist. She almost thinks that perhaps he will stay for another until Roger taps him on the shoulder and cuts in, whisking her away into another song before she can utter a word of protest. Her partners change rapidly after that, so quickly she thinks it must be some conspiracy contrived by her brother but a glance in his direction tells her that he is oblivious to everything beyond his new wife.
Occasionally, when she is not being spun around too quickly, she catches glimpses of Sam through the crowd past shoulders and gowns and she thinks that he might be frowning, thinks that he might be angry, even. She wishes she could will him to her, wishes he would cut in and whisk her away into a different song where maybe she will not blush so much, where perhaps she can speak her mind.
When she is spun around again, it is in time to see a different girl taking him by the arm and leading him away, past a table and out of view.
. . . . . . . . .
She is nineteen and he is twenty-two and this is the second time that there is an interloper in their midst: it is Roger, Eddie's best man at the wedding, who has come to stay for the holidays as he nurses a broken heart.
But for having a broken heart Roger is certainly plucky enough and it is the first time in a long time where she sees her brother's attention truly divided. Their banter is light and easy, the teasing familiar and it is not long before he is ribbing Eddie about the old days. The years have seen a change in her brother that she recognises; rather than being ruffled and flustered he laughs instead, squeezing Simone's hand all the while. She can spot the wedding band from where she sits and she thinks it a beautiful sight.
Roger sits beside her at supper and he is so easy to talk to, nearly as charming as Sam, but not quite, and she thinks it is plain to her that he simply wants to be liked. Occasionally she tries to draw conversation out of Sam but his answers are brief by comparison and Roger seems adept at turning the conversation back to himself.
But, oh, how she wonders at the way Sam looks at Roger, with the subtle frown and downwards turn of the mouth but she can never find the opportunity to ask him what he is thinking.
When it is time for bed, she peeks into the parlour but it is Roger, not Samuel, she sees with his head in his hands on the sofa before the fire. 'Would you like a drink before I go to bed?' she asks him politely and though he gives a start at the sound of her voice he is just as quick to shake his head. She moves into the room, towards the hearth and she kneels to place another log onto the fire. He casts her a questioning look as she moves to stand so she smiles and says, 'It was almost out.'
His hand flashes out then and settles around her wrist and she is surprised but not alarmed, she stands quietly, motionlessly while he tells her, 'thank you, you didn't have to.' She gazes down at him because he has not released her, she feels she ought not to pull away and at last he admits to her in a voice that is rough and worn, not at all like the cheery tone that swept them away with conversation at supper, he says 'I thought being here would take my mind off of her, you know. I thought it would distract me,' he sighs and his head is shaking again, he tells her, 'I miss her more.'
She squeezes his hand then, as she doesn't know what words would comfort him but she is startled in turn when he looks up at her, when his eyes focus on her face, as though seeing her for the first time.
'You're a beautiful girl, Viv,' he tells her, 'and if it weren't for that gentleman over there whose been staring at us all this while, I think I would've kissed you by now.' Yet even as he is saying these words she is turning, she looks in time to see Sam scowling even after he lets go of her hand.
'Goodnight, love,' Roger says as he stands, 'I'm afraid you've wasted a good log, on me.' And he adds, almost absently, 'Night Sam,' as he passes the younger man.
So it is that they are alone in the parlour; she by the fireplace and he lingering in the doorway, his body angled as though he means to go. At last he says, 'You should watch out for men like that.'
'What ever do you mean?' she asks, simply grateful that he is the first to break the imposed silence.
'Just be careful,' he warns as he turns completely, and she thinks he means to leave her alone in the fire lit darkness, she thinks he means to turn in for the night and she cannot stop herself from darting forward as she calls his name, 'Sam!'
She springs forward through the doorway just as he is turning to step back into the room and her nose collides rather rudely with his chest, causing them both to stagger. 'What now?' he asks and she thinks he is eyeing her suspiciously in the semi-darkness as she takes his hand in both of hers, as she attempts to draw him into the parlour.
'Well,' she begins, because she thinks that word is as good as any when it comes to stalling. 'Well, I thought that you've barely said two words to me this entire evening and I thought,' she is stammering now, but she continues, 'I thought, perhaps, we could talk.' She sighs, her grip loosening, she can feel his fingers slipping past hers and she misses the weight of his arm as it falls back to his side. 'You barely said anything at supper and I,' she stops herself from saying, I miss the sound of your voice, because even she can realise how pathetic that sounds, so she says, 'I was hoping we could catch up,' even though her mind adds silently, even though I may never reach you, though I may never breach those three years you keep between us.
Perhaps, she thinks later, it is the remnant kindness of a boy who was always capable of sparing his attention and pity upon the little girl on the outskirts, or maybe he did find he had stories to relay after all. She is never sure of his reason for sitting with her on that sofa with his arm stretched across the back, while she sits with legs curled beneath her, nor why their conversation wanders across subjects and lead to discussions, but he looks at her steadily throughout and she, for her part, never pulls her eyes from him until she realises that dawn is breaking just beyond the window.
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty and he is twenty-three when their siblings announce that there will be a new addition to the family and her mother faints but thankfully her father, as always, is close enough to catch her. She is enamoured at the first word and she cannot stop begging to be able to touch Simone's stomach, her fingers wandering and splaying over the rounded belly and she spends an evening on the sofa begging to listen to see if she can hear a heartbeat that is not Simone's own, to see if she can feel a stir, a kick, a stretch. Eddie is nervous and pacing and laughing; he is a bundle of emotions and he is thumbing through a book, one of many that are stacked neatly on the table until their father knocks them over with a joke and a laugh.
The only one who seems quiet and thoughtful is the one who makes her sit up when he enters the room, the one whom she gives a bright smile, the one whose arms she rushes into as she cries, 'Congratulations, congratulations!'
And she can hear the surprise in his voice, she can hear that brow arching before she looks up to see it when he says, 'I think you're directing them to the wrong person,' and it is her turn to laugh again and she taps his chin when she says, 'congratulations, you're an uncle now!'
He half smiles then after a moment and she feels his hands settle on her waist as he says, 'well, don't forget this makes you an aunt.'
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty-one and he is twenty-four when the new baby joins the family for Christmas and it is perhaps the first Christmas where her attention is not solely focused on him. She begs to be able to hold the baby, to bounce it on her knee and sing it silly songs of Christmas softly while the infant child looks up at her with wide blue eyes and tiny fingers reaching and curling around her thumb. She is in love with this tiny being, this little bundle and she showers the baby's face in kisses, cooing nonsense all the while.
When she thinks to look up at him, she catches him looking away, redirecting his gaze instead onto his sister and her husband as the two stand arm in arm by the fire and she wonders what he must think of this, what he must feel and because she has dropped her gaze down onto the baby's face she does not notice that they are all looking at her now, her and this darling child, and she never knows the expressions on their faces.
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty-two and he is twenty-five and they find themselves walking together in a park not too far away from her family home with the promise of snow in the skies. They are alone, which is a rarity in this holiday season, but not unwelcome, at least in her mind. He offers his arm to her, perfunctory and absently, but she appreciates the excuse to walk a little closer, to let her gloveless hands finger the texture of his coat. She saw him on and off throughout the year, though only mostly at family gatherings, so their discourse wanders over what has passed in the time between. He has his own office and an assistant now, he saw a match before the season ended in a friend's box seat but he balks, as expected, when she casually asks if he is seeing anyone.
He stops her then, with hands upon her shoulders and he holds her at arms length and looks down at her face just as the snow begins to fall. And he sighs.
'You have got to stop,' he tells her as he bends so that he can peer into her eyes but she is watching the white flakes catch in his dark hair and all she can think of is her desire to brush them away. 'Viveca,' he starts, but she will not let him finish, it is her turn to catch his gaze and she says:
'Roger asked me to marry him in the summer.'
Astonishment washes over his face like mist rolling over a stormy sea and she wonders what those emotions mean, the ones that he reins in as he purses his lips and intones, 'I never knew you were seeing him.'
'I'm not,' she answers, not flinching from his gaze or his hands as his fingers tighten into her shoulders. 'I politely refused, of course, but he said to keep him as a consideration.'
His face is an fascinating study today and she watches as emotions are painted anew and erased all in a matter of moments as he carefully schools his expression into one she has never understood, because she saw it when Wendy's brothers vied for her attention, she glimpsed it as her partners changed at the wedding dance, she remembers seeing hints of it in the corner of his mouth when he looked away while she held the baby. His voice is still, steady when he asks her, 'Why are you telling me this?'
She takes a deep breath before whispering, 'To remind you I am not the child I was ten years ago.'
'Dammit, Viveca,' and the fact that his hands could release her so suddenly is more shocking than the force of his tone. He turns and his back is to her, his hand pressed over his eyes and he shakes his head. 'Damn it,' he repeats, careful to enunciate the individual words as though they were each a singular point unto themselves.
'Sam,' she breathes, her breath so very white against the landscape of his back. With a shaking hand she reaches out to touch his arm and he does not shake her off, he does not resist her as she turns him so they are facing once more. 'Sam,' she begins but he cuts her off, his brow furrowed as he looks away and says, 'He's your brother's age, he's twenty-eight--nearly thirty,' but she interrupts him, she tells him softly, 'there is nothing in an age, Sam. Absolutely nothing where a heart is concerned.'
He is silent then but she does not know what expression is on his face because she is looking down at their boots and at the skirt of her dress, which is dotted with snow. Her cold fingers curl into the palms of her hands and she wishes for courage, for every bit of wit Wendy ever tried to feed her. She closes her eyes in favour of the darkness only her lashes can provide and she says in a quiet voice, 'if you think I ought to, Sam, I will change my answer when he asks me again in the spring.'
There is a beat, and the tension that is building in her throat is broken because there is a true question in his voice when he asks, 'how do you know he'll ask again in the spring?' She can picture the puzzled look on his face, the incomprehension and arched brow.
She smiles though she knows he can't see it because her head is still downcast, her eyes resolutely closed, when she tells him simply, 'because he said he would.'
And something snaps then--she's never quite sure if it were a branch burdened by snow or if it was a trick of her mind and emotions but he is kissing her in that next instant, catching and holding her hands in his gloved ones so tightly that she almost wonders if it wasn't the sound of them breaking that she had heard. Only, she knows it is not her fingers because there is no pain--only hope stirred and fluttering like a bird uncovered in the cage of her chest.
When he pulls away, nearly as abruptly as when he had kissed her in the first place, she notes his face is flushed but reason is quick to attribute it to the cold, because hope has known disappointment and she does not dare to nurture it again. He glances down at their hands, as though surprised, and he notes, 'Your hands are freezing--I can't believe you're making mine cold through my gloves' and his hold becomes less crushing as he instead folds her hands between both of his and blows on them gently as she had once done for him, long ago.
'I wouldn't change my answer for a prat like him, if I were you,' he adds in a tone that is almost nonchalant. 'I would wait to--' but he does not finish because her fingertip is silencing him, her fingertip is pressed against the warm curve of his bottom lip and it is only when he is completely still that she moves to cup his face in both of her hands and she says, 'I have been waiting. I have been waiting a long time for you to notice me. I have waited and can wait a little longer but only if there is hope . . . You see, Samuel, this is up to you now.' And she smiles. 'It always has been.'
He is silent while he collects her hands from his face and when he shoves his hands into his coat pockets, one of her hands is tucked away with his. 'You're hands are still freezing,' he reminds her as he leads her out of the park. 'While we head back, we can discuss our plans for New Year's Eve.'
'Ours?' she repeats, a question in her voice as she looks up at him with wide, surprised eyes.
He smirks when he says, 'it's not as though you were about to spend it with anyone else.'
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty-three and he twenty-six and he is not himself. He is charming, as always, debonair when he remembers to be, but mostly he is quiet and she is not young enough anymore to be able to pester him with innocent questions.
True, they had seen each other throughout the year, she thinks she ought to be able to read his moods by now but this one is new, like rain never glimpsed before on the horizon. He is sinking into something she has trouble stirring him from and not even the baby, toddling over to grip onto his knees, can keep his smile for long.
It is her parents who usher them out into the cold, who tell them to take a walk and they follow the suggestion obligingly. When he reaches for her hand it is natural, something he doesn't even think about anymore and it makes her smile and clasp his hand tighter.
She is wistful when she tells him, 'if only this could last forever.'
His eyes are narrowed then, he is disentangling himself from her and she does not know why but her hand almost aches without his.
'What makes you say that?' he asks, shoulders hunched against the cold and she does not know what she has done, but she wants to take it back, she would do anything to take the words right back into her head and seal them away forever.
'I thought,' she pauses and starts again, 'I thought I loved the moment with your hand in mine. I meant that I never wanted you to let me go.'
He turns with hands in his pockets, he says, 'Marry me,' and if she had been going by his expression alone she might have mistaken his words for some grave matter at hand, a matter which contains possibilities beyond her control, where the future is dim and uncertain with the light sinking forever and anon into the ocean.
Though she knows she heard him quite clearly she is stunned into a silence that deepens the frown on his brow and the line of his lips until she throws her arms around him, because quite suddenly she is afraid he is the sun that is slipping away into the ocean, never to be seen again.
'Yes,' she whispers. 'A thousand times yes and I do.'
His laughter is sudden but complete, and she thinks of clouds breaking, she thinks of blue skies as he tells her, 'I think it's a bit early for the last bit,' but he is kissing her just the same.
. . . . . . . . .
She is twenty-four and he is twenty-seven and she wears white again for their wedding day.
When she walks down the aisle with her father for the first and last time she thinks, maybe fairy tales do exist after all.