Page 99 of Slap Shot Surprise
“I did. Flight was a little bumpy. I thought of you.”
“Did the person next to you spew a bunch of hideously embarrassing things?”
“No. He slept the whole time.”
“Lucky you.”
“Listen, I heard it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I checked the weather and it looks like the storm is going tohit us after midnight, which might make driving shitty in the morning.”
“Yeah, I saw that too. But it’s okay. Austin checked my tires recently and said they were good enough for the winter. I’ll go slow.”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“Joe, you don’t have to do that.”
“You heard what I said.”
She clucked her tongue. “Okay,Dad.”
That made me smile. “How’s your Christmas Eve?”
“Good! Just about to leave to go over to my father’s. How’s yours?”
“Good. I wrapped presents, played with my nephew Hudson, and realized for the first time how hazardous a Christmas tree is for toddlers.”
She laughed. “It is. Are you spending tonight at home?”
“No, my mom and dad and I are going to Abelard Vineyards.”
“Oh, I’ve been there! It’s beautiful. What’s happening there?”
“It’s owned by Gianni’s in-laws, the Fourniers. My mom and Mia Fournier have been best friends for like a hundred years—she already went over there to help cook. But my dad must be making something to bring, too, because I hear him singing in the kitchen, and I smell onion and garlic.”
“Mmmm. What’s he making?”
“Probably something with fish, since that’s traditional for Italians on Christmas Eve. What does your family do?”
“The usual American thing—ham and potatoes and green bean casserole. No one in my family is a particularly great cook, but it will be fun just being all together. The kids will open their gifts, which is always a riot to watch.”She paused. “It’s kind of crazy to think about next Christmas, isn’t it? The baby will be here.”
“I’ve been doing it all day,” I confessed.
Another moment of silence passed. Was she wondering where we would be? What we would be to each other?
“I better get going,” she said. “Have fun tonight.”
“You too. Tell your family I said Merry Christmas.”
“I will.”
“I’ll be in touch in the morning.”
“Okay.”
We hung up, and I wandered downstairs toward the aroma coming from the kitchen. My dad glanced up from his cutting board on the kitchen island, where he was slicing Roma tomatoes. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I slid onto a counter stool. “What are you making?”
“Baccalà.” He poured the tomatoes into a large cast iron skillet on the stove, then added chunks of cod and a small dish of olives. Finally, he squeezed two lemon halves over the simmering skillet before adding the lemon halves too.
