Chapter 2 - The Candlestick Comes Down
She didn't bring it down right away.
The brass candlestick stayed up over her shoulder, her knuckles white around it. I could feel my grandfather's coat against my cheek, the wool still damp and cold from the snow outside, and his hand was flat on the back of my head, pressing me into his side. The heat from the fireplace was on my legs but my boots were wet through where the melted snow had soaked my socks.
He didn't step back.
He stepped in. Just one shoe forward on the marble, between me and her, so I was behind his leg and she would have had to swing through him to get to me. I felt his chest rise and hold. His breath was slow. He was looking at her hand, not her face.
"You'll need to put that down," he said. His voice was quiet. It wasn't loud enough for the whole room but everyone heard it. "Not like that. Not in front of them."
Her eyes flicked fast toward the drinks table where the two couples stood with glasses in their hands. No one had moved. One of the women had her hand up near her mouth. I could hear the fireplace popping.
For a second I thought she wouldn't. Her arm stayed locked. Then my sister moved.
I hadn't seen her come from the entryway. She'd been by the open door before, back against the wall in her cream sweater with the dark pattern across the chest, just watching. Now she was beside me. She didn't run. She came in three quick steps across the marble and put her hand on my shoulder. Her fingers were cold.
She looked down as she did and I followed her eyes. The pile of coats was still where I'd dropped them when she'd told me to stay with them. The red scarf was on top, half-unfolded, and the snow that had come in on our boots and on my grandfather's shoulders was melting into the grout lines. A thin puddle had spread out from under the coats, dark on the polished stone, creeping toward my boots. It reflected the lights from the tree.
"Nobody's picking those up," my sister said, not to anyone in particular. Her voice shook a little. She squeezed my shoulder. "He stood out in the snow with them while we all watched."
The woman in green heard her. Her face tightened. She lowered the candlestick an inch, then another, but she didn't set it down. She turned her wrist so the brass caught the light.
That was when my dad finally said something.
He'd been behind her the whole time by the sideboard, in his dark suit and tie, holding a glass he hadn't drunk from. He hadn't looked at me once since we'd come in the door. Now he stepped forward half a step, just enough to be between her and the guests, like he was trying to make it smaller.
"Alright," he said. He gave a short, tight smile to the room that didn't reach his eyes. "Alright, let's just... let's calm down. Everyone's cold, everyone's tired. It's Christmas Eve."
He looked at my grandfather. Then he looked at me, and at my sister's hand on my shoulder, and looked away again.
"My wife asked you to leave, Bill," he said to my grandfather. "This is her house. Our house. You can't just come in here and... You need to respect that."
The words landed flat. My sister's hand got tighter on my shoulder. I felt my grandfather's hand press a little harder on my head, like he was telling me to stay still.
He didn't raise his voice. He kept his eyes on the woman.
"Your son was standing by the open door holding a pile of wet coats," he said to my dad, still quiet. "Your daughter watched. You're going to tell me about respect?"
My dad didn't answer. He swallowed and glanced at the woman, then back at the guests, waiting for someone to help him. No one did. The woman's mouth opened a little, like she was going to say Get out of my house again, but she stopped when she saw the way the older couple by the fireplace was looking at the candlestick in her hand.
My grandfather tilted his head toward the mantel above the fireplace. The garland was thick there, with little white lights, and there was an empty brass holder where the candlestick belonged. Next to it sat the cake on its side table, three tiers white with red ornaments, untouched.
"Put it back," he said. "Right there where you got it. Then we can talk without you holding it over my grandson."
For a long second she didn't move. Her breathing was fast and her cheeks were red. I could see the muscles in her forearm standing out. Then she made a sharp sound through her nose, stepped sideways to the mantel, and set the brass candlestick down hard enough that it clanked against the stone. She kept her hand on it for a beat before she let go.
She folded her arms. The candlestick stayed there, upright in its holder, right above the garland. No one had taken it from her. She'd put it down herself, but only after he'd made her and after everyone had watched her hold it.
My sister let out a breath I hadn't realized she'd been holding. She slid her arm around my back. My boots were still in that cold puddle from the coats.
May you like
My dad cleared his throat. "Okay," he said. "Okay, it's down. Good. Now can we just—"
He stopped. My grandfather wasn't looking at him anymore. He was looking at my sister and me, and then at the doorway full of snow light behind us that was still wide open, letting cold air across the marble floor. The whole room understood what had just happened without anyone saying it. My dad had chosen. He'd said her house and left us standing in the meltwater.
