“There’s nothing wrong with being a crone.”

“Lincoln”—she thumped his chest—“you’re supposed to lie and say I’m not a crone.”

“Sweetheart, they’re the three faces of the goddess. They’re all holy.”

“Lincoln.”

He brought his hand up to her jaw. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, Beth.”

“You mean, like, ‘wherever you are, that’s where you’re supposed to be’? Like mindfulness, and Zen Buddhism, and Buckaroo Banzai?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I meant—you promised to get old with me, and here you are, keeping your promise.”

Beth made a noise like a laugh. She was still crying. She fell back onto his chest, like she was giving up. “We should go put our names on the list.”

He put his arms around her again. “I already did.”

“I thought we both had to be here.”

“We were both here.”

“Oh. Right.”

Lincoln laid his head against hers. “I was coming to tell you, it’s going to be at least another twenty minutes.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t know you . . .” she said.

“Hmm?”

“When I saw you tonight. With your mask on.”

“You knew me. You just didn’t see me right away.”

“Did it hurt your feelings?”

“A little . . . I kind of liked being ‘that cute guy’ again.”

“Ha.” She was leaning on him, her hands lazy on his sides, playing with his sweater. “I think I would be happy . . .” Beth said, “if it happened. But first I’d be scared. And I’d feel like I was losing something.”

“Losing what?”

“What we have now. What the future looks like now.”

“Yeah . . .”

“I don’t think I’d wish for it,” she said. “A baby. Now. Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.”

“I’m not pregnant, Lincoln.”

He nodded his head.

“I’m just getting old.”

He wrapped his arms tight around the small of her back. “Keep getting old, Beth,” he whispered.

You can read more about Beth and Jennifer in the novel Attachments.

Snow for Christmas

BAZ

MY STEPMOTHER SAID SHE DIDN’T WANT A CHRISTMAS gift this year. She just wanted me to meet her for tea when she came up to London to do her shopping.

Daphne grew up in a small town in the north. She gets a kick out of shopping at the big department stores and having tea at Fortnum’s with all the tourists.

When I meet her in the lobby, she’s laden with shopping bags.

“Basilton, dear,” she says, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheeks. “How will I get all this back to Oxford? Don’t you wish there was a Mary Poppins spell? I’d kill for that carpetbag.”

“I could ship them for you,” I say, taking as many bags as I can. “Or send them; Penelope Bunce has a spell . . .”