Abby smiled at her. “Yes, you are. So don’t think otherwise.”

She followed Abby inside, taking her coat off like Abby had done and hanging it next to hers on the rack in the entryway. She wasn’t nervous, no. She felt a little apathetic, she supposed, and that wouldn’t do at all. She forced a smile to her face and took Abby’s hand, squeezing her fingers. They were still a little cold, as were hers.

Instead of going into the kitchen, which is where Abby was headed, Nic tugged her toward the fireplace. Abby looked at her questioningly but said nothing. They held their hands out to its warmth for a moment, then both turned at the same time, facing the tree.

“Does she leave the lights on all the time?”

“They’re on a timer. I think they go out at eleven or midnight, then come back on in the morning. Except for Christmas Eve—tomorrow—they’ll be on all night long.” She nudged her shoulder. “You know, so when Santa comes, he’ll have lights.”

“Was that always a tradition?”

“Yes. I tried to warn you. It’s Christmas overload.”

“I like it.” Which surprised her. “It feels very…I don’t know, peaceful in here.”

“Why didn’t your parents like Christmas?”

Nic stared at the star on top of the tree, watching the white light blink on and off. For some reason, it reminded her of their old porch light, the one with the short in it. It flickered all the time, and she remembered many an occasion when her father would bang on the wall, cursing the damn thing. Bang just hard enough to get the connection going again and it would stay lit for a minute or two, then it would blink at them again in a mocking manner—on and off. On and off. That is, until the day her father took an empty whiskey bottle and slammed it into the light bulb. “Fixed that son of a bitch finally.” Yeah, he did. No one ever replaced the broken bulb. It never blinked at them again.