Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Oliver and I join in on the next round, playing the “geese a laying” with an enthusiasm that has Gretchen giggling so hard that, as soon as we’re done, Oliver offers to fetch her a lemonade from the buffet in the dining room.
“Oh, I’ll come with you, it’s nearly time for the pudding competition, anyway,” Gretchen says, nearly tripping over Nuggy as we start down the hall.
Oliver catches her arm, and I scoop Princess Nugget up from the ground, sobering at the thought of Gretchen taking a fall. She’s at an age where a tumble over her puppy could lead to serious consequences.
But she seems unfazed, beaming up at Oliver as we start toward the dining room again. “Oh, you’re such a lovely boy.” To me, she adds, “He always has been. Even when he was small. You’ve picked a good one, darling. And from such a fine family.”
“A fine family with the finest puddings in the kingdom!” Olly’s grandmother joins us, thrusting a wooden toy sword down the hall. She’s red-cheeked, sauced, and obviously having a fantastic time.
And so am I.
If I weren’t already falling for Olly, his wonderfully wacky family would have done the job.
In the dining room, the ancient wooden table groans under the weight of at least a dozen puddings. Some are architectural marvels. Others look like they’ve survived a bombing.
“Oh no, were we supposed to bring one?” I whisper once Olly has Gretchen settled in a chair near the head of the table.
He shakes his head. “Oh no, we aren’t nearly old enough yet. Only those sixty and over have the necessary gravitas to bring a pudding. Even my mother was only recently granted pudding privileges.” He nods toward the table. “That’s hers there, the purple one with the silver filigree decorations. She’s done something with vanilla and lavender, we should pretend to like even if it’s awful. She’s terribly nervous about her performance since her peppermint pudding flopped last year.”
“Peppermint pudding sounds good to me,” I say, joining him in the line to fetch samples.
“Sadly, it tasted like toothpaste,” he says, handing me a China plate so fine I’m instantly terrified I’ll drop it and owe his grandmother a small fortune. “But I think she might be onto something with the vanilla lavender.”
“No favoritism,” his grandmother shouts from a few feet in front of us. She turns to glare at Oliver over her shoulder. “And no poisoning the well, Olly. Let the girl taste with an open mind.”
Oliver offers her a sharp salute. “Yes, Madame. Understood.”
Once we’ve filled our plates and fetched samples for Gretchen, we find seats along the wall and begin working our way through the offerings. Number three is, Oliver assures me, a very traditional offering, heavy with suet and dark fruit. Number five features chocolate chips gone bitter in a sweet cherry sauce—someone’s failed attempt at innovation. Number nine swims in so much brandy that the fumes make me lightheaded.
And then, we reach number twelve.
From the first bite, it dances on the tongue, floral notes elevating the pudding from heavy winter fare to something ethereal. It’s his mother’s lavender, I realize, perfectly balanced with vanilla and crystallized sugar.
I go back for a second taste, then a third.
Around me, I see Olly and the others doing the same, the room growing quiet as we all reach the same conclusion.
Even Susanna, who’s clearly a fan of more traditional flavors, takes multiple bites with an increasingly thoughtful expression.
Finally, she mutters, “Well, bollocks,” beneath her breath in a way that sends laughter rippling through the tipsy room.
When Edward tallies the votes, number twelve wins by a landslide. “Well done, Mum,” he says, starting a round of applause.
Vivian stands, elegant even in inebriation, swaying only slightly as she bows, clearly honored that her experiment has dethroned years of Christmas pudding tradition.
Slowly, the party splits into factions again, some retreating to the veranda for a smoke, others to the drawing room for a drink by the fire. Oliver and I join the dancers in the sitting room, where the lights are turned down low and Bing Crosby croons from hidden speakers behind the tree.
He pulls me close, one hand spanning my lower back.
I rest my cheek on his chest with a happy sigh, and we begin to sway.
The Christmas tree lights blur into stars as my lids close and an impossible fantasy plays out behind my eyes. I imagine Oliver and I doing this next year, and the next, and the next, carrying on the Featherswallow holiday traditions, while turning making out in the solarium into a tradition of our own. I imagine us growing closer, older, eventually adding a puppy baby and maybe even a baby baby to the celebration. I imagine Christmases full of love and ease and holidays we’ll “have to muddle through somehow,” and how both will be beautiful in their own way.