Momma smoothed the crinkled paper without speaking as Bethie’s carols played from the old speakers. Silent night, holy night . . .

“And this one,” Meg said, sliding another present from under the tree.

Their mother frowned. “Oh, I don’t think . . .”

“My turn!” Beth added her gift to the others.

“Girls . . .” Momma stopped, her hands stroking the bright packages in her lap. “This is so incredibly sweet. I am so proud of you. But you should open your own presents tonight. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Christmas is about giving,” Meg said. “That’s what you always tell us.” She looked meaningfully at Amy.

Their little sister sighed. “I got you something, too.”

She dug under the tree, adding a bag covered in glitter to the pile on their mother’s lap.

“Well.” Momma smiled around at them all, her eyes shining. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Open them,” Jo said.

“Yeah, open them!” said Amy.

Their mother peeled the tape from Jo’s present. Later, Jo knew, she would fold the wrapping paper to reuse again next year.

“Slippers!” Momma said, holding them up.

Jo shuffled her feet. “I thought you could keep them by the back door. To change into when you come in from the barn.”

“They’re perfect,” Momma said. “So warm.”

Meg gave her work gloves. “To keep your hands nice,” she explained.

Amy had made their mother a necklace, a sand dollar and some beads threaded on a silk cord. Beth’s gift was a pair of ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like bluebirds.

“Beautiful,” their mother said.

Beth blushed. “It’s not much.”

None of their presents were expensive or grand. But Momma acted as if they’d showered her with the contents of the jewelry counter at Belk department store. She touched and exclaimed over each gift, offering hugs and praise as the younger girls perched on the arms of her chair. Meg’s face was wreathed in smiles. Jo’s eyes were wet. The music wrapped them in ribbons of sound.

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining . . .

Jo sniffled happily. Finally, it felt like Christmas.

CHAPTER 1

Jo

Our mother taught us girls if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. But Momma wasn’t trying to make it as a food blogger in New York City.

Negative reviews got a lot more clicks than positive ones. And I still had three hundred more words to write today.

A distant burst of car horns drifted up the fire escape to my apartment, the rush of traffic like the city breathing. I tightened my ponytail. Typed: The food at Earl’s Eats in the East Village is not your momma’s cooking. And not in a good way. Neither original nor authentic, the stereotypical menu clings to cliché without delivering either the heart or soul of true Southern home cooking.

My phone chirped on the table beside me. Did I have a blog comment?

Nope. A phone call.

“Hey, Jo. Whatcha doing?”