“Hmmmm. We can do better than that.” He wraps his arms tight around me, one hand cupping my ass, and holds me close. I relax into him, savoring his slight cinnamon scent and the elements of the dream that are here with me now.

“Mmm, I’ve missed you,” he moans.

He pulls away, checks his watch.

“Checking if you have time for a quickie?” I laugh.

“I wish.” He parodies a sad face. “I have to be there in forty-five minutes.”

“How ’bout a … cookie?” I glance at him sideways and lift an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he drawls, “I want one of your … cookies.”

I hand him one and also my cup of coffee.

“These are fabulous. Hope you made extra for us.”

Us. I don’t know if there is an “us.” When he says things that imply a future, I have too many feelings to pull apart. Fear, excitement, happiness, peace. I watch him enjoy the pecan ball. “Don’t worry, I made several extra dozen. Besides, we’ll have scads of cookies after the party.”

“Oh, but these have got to be the best.” Then he reveals a red-striped bag with green paper on top. “Ta da!” He bows and hands it to me. “I came by to bring you this. Figured you needed it for your tree.” I riffle through the green tissue paper stuffed on top and pull out a caramel teddy bear wearing a sweater with Christmas trees trimmed with red hearts.

“Oh, Jim. Look at him. He’s so dapper and he’s smiling.” I laugh and lean over to kiss him. “You’re so sweet.”

“It’s all a manipulative ploy. I just wanted to see you because I’ll miss you. But I didn’t want you to know that.”

“I love it when you flirt with me.” Especially when I don’t have any makeup on. I go into the living room and place the bear under the tree. “He fits right in with his new pals,” I joke.

“I’m sorry I missed helping you trim the tree this year.”

I consider saying, It was the anniversary of the first day we met, but I don’t. Too presumptuous. Instead I say, “Well, he’s perfect.”

“Hey. What happened to your cheek?”

I forgot about it. When I touch it, it smarts.

“You look like someone tried to beat you up.”

“Combat cooking.” I laugh.

Jim grabs another cookie. He tries to watch his weight and bemoans his potbelly, but I find it cozy. “Put some ice on it or something.” He checks his watch again. “Hey, I gotta go. I’ll call you. See you Friday night.”

“For sure?” I keep my voice light so he doesn’t hear me as needy or nagging.

But he does. “Nothing but taxes is for sure. And death. Have to see what’s up with the kids. I’ll call.”