“Polly?” I said. “She doesn’t need a ride—she drove her own car.”

John grinned. It was what my father would call a pie-eating grin, what my sisters and brothers would call a shit-eating grin. Or maybe it was like the proverbial cat who ate that poor canary.

“The scruffy dog,” John said. “She’s ours, as long as we pass the home visit tomorrow.”

“Really?” I said.

“Really. I recognized her right away. I think she recognized me, too, although it could be that I just smell like Horatio.”

I held the bouquet out to the side so I could lean in for a kiss.

A clump of kids walked by with their parents. The kids giggled. One of the parents made kissy sounds.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“One hundred percent,” he said. “You were right.”

I smiled. “The most important three words in any relationship.”

John put his arm around me, and we walked toward our cars under a sky full of stars on the eve of winter break.

“Well, I’ll be doggoned,” I said.

Chapter Thirty-Three

John and I spent the morning of Christmas Eve moving our things into our finished master suite. Every time I passed through the new door at the top of the big old house’s center staircase, I locked and unlocked it a few times, just because I could.

Polly and Johnny helped us carry the king-size mattress up from the cat room. We flopped it onto the bedframe and nudged it around until the mattress and frame were lined up evenly.

Polly tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’d be happy to move down to the cat room. It’ll give you guys more privacy up here.”

“No way,” I said. “That room is perfect for you and the baby. And there’s plenty of separation up here.”

“Too late anyway,” Johnny said. “The cat room is mine. Unless you care to join me?”

Johnny grinned. Polly blushed. Who knew what would happen down the road? A part of me was dying to find out if Polly would end up with Johnny or Ethan or, ugh, even my dad. Another part of me was just hoping we could get through the holidays without anybody else punching anybody out.

We split up the garden shears and kitchen scissors, and the four of us walked around the yard cutting branches from blue spruce and white pine and holly and winterberry. We pulled out the dead plants and filled the pots by the entrances. I poked Pink the flamingo into the middle of the pot outside my dad’s man cave to make sure everybody knew where we were celebrating Christmas Eve this year.

My father pulled into the driveway, the pink ice cream truck playing a tinny version of “Let it Snow,” the back doors open and the trunk end of a massive Christmas tree sticking out.

“Better late than never,” I said.