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The house is a fond tribute to the colonial era, framed by sprawling grounds littered with towering trees and lush foliage – all presently coated in the snow still falling from the sky like powdered sugar. There are no lights adorning the exterior; the owners of this domicile prefer to keep the decorations inside, and their efforts do not disappoint. The centerpiece, naturally, is the Christmas tree standing proud in the front room, where its radiance can be seen at the windows bearing lights of all hue and ornaments steeped in familial memories. But the remaining décor is not unworthy of mention: little knick-knacks passed down through the family can be seen throughout most rooms of the house; a fire crackles in the brick hearth, itself adorned with colored lights and stockings of various patterns but identical in white fur trim.
This year, there is one extra stocking hung at the hearth.
“Alright, you lot,” Bernard’s voice booms outward from the kitchen, where he proudly stands in his Christmas sweater – red and green checkered with a large Santa Claus cheerfully waving from the front-side, “gather ‘round! The egg nog is poured and the pie is fresh. Come and get it!”
Charles Harrington, equally a proud descendant of a long history of British architects and a proud American by birth, leads his bride of thirty-five years into the kitchen. Sofia, daughter of Italian immigrants, has brought her grandmother’s recipes into the kitchen even when she and Charles were only dating. Fiercely proud of her heritage, she had Isabella fluent in the motherland tongue by the age of nine. As crafty in other areas as she is in the culinary arts, she has also kept the tradition of knitting alive and well over the years. The Christmas sweaters worn around the gathered today are proof of her talents.
“Bella!” Bernard calls again, this time more directly, “don’t let the old folks have all the fun. You two get out from under the mistletoe.”
In fact, she is no closer to the mistletoe than Spencer, but Isabella simply rolls her eyes with affection, calls back with a promise of ‘half a minute’, and finds Spencer where she last left him: standing in great contemplation before the hearth, studying the hand-carved Nativity scene in its quiet glory atop the mantle.
“So,” she gently wraps arms around his waist from behind, “how does it fit?”
“I still think you told her my size.” Spencer answers, not without a smile, as Isabella neatly adjusts his sweater’s hem. Not one known for completely humiliating the wearer of her creations, Sofia’s design for Spencer’s new Christmas sweater is a simple dark green with a white vest woven into the front and three cherry-red buttons in a tidy line.
“Not guilty, Doctor.” She laughs softly, “Besides, I’ve never been inside your closet to know one way or another.”
He can’t argue with that point, so he lets the matter drop. “It sounds like we’re due in the kitchen.”
“One minute.” She hands over a box, tied simply with a single ribbon, “I have one last gift for you.”
Inside, there is only a solitary volume in dark-chocolate-brown leather. Spencer carefully sets the box aside, removes the book, and casts attention back to her face, “What’s this?”
“Your next research project.” She answers with a smile, “You’re a man of science, as you said, and you’ve researched the science that exists in this world. Time for you to research something else.”
“There’s no quantifiable data to aid research into this.”
“I know.” Her smile doesn’t waver, “Guess you’ll have to adjust your methods, won’t you?”
He doesn’t have the chance to argue the point, should he even make the attempt; Isabella takes his hand, the one not currently holding his newest acquisition, and steers him into the kitchen where he is obliged to tuck the volume under one arm, so as to free one hand each for the mug of egg nog and the small plate of pecan pie. Together, it is the cresting point of a meal which hasn’t stopped since nine o’clock this morning and has Spencer reevaluating his stance on physical exercise.
“A toast,” Bernard declares, lifting his mug high as he smiles at the gathered, “to a blessed Christmas, to the continued expansion of this family, and,” he winks at Spencer, “thanks be that a certain someone’s cell phone has not rung all day.”
A chorus of “Cheers!” rings out, broken only by the soft chink of ceramic exteriors meeting. It might be the only night such as this in the years to come, but tonight, crime has finally decided to take a night off.