Page 8 of The Christmas Competition

Of course not. Mum always came to me, the eldest, with all her nonsense. “Never mind. I’ll see you at lunch.”

As I hung up the phone, some kind of steely resolve formed in my veins. Drew wasn’t living with me at the moment. I could decorate the house however I wanted. And if it was “too much,” then it didn’t really matter because he wasn’t around to see it. Also, it would get right on Kerr’s nerves. And the idea of that somehow gave me life.

So I added another set of bright lights for the small tree on my front lawn, plus a giant LED Christmas tree. I deliberated over a set of reindeer, but then decided I probably couldn’t afford those too. In any case, I had more than enough.

I surveyed the content of my trolley as I pushed it toward the tills. Perfect.

*

“What about here?”

I squinted my eyes at where Rona had positioned the giant LED tree on the frosty grass. “Just a little more to the left.”

Rona rolled her eyes and muttered something along the lines of me being a dictator, before shifting the tree in said direction.

“Come on now,” I said loudly. “Put your back into it. You need to get those muscles working to stave off the menopausal wasting.”

Rona stopped what she was doing to give me the finger, then seamlessly resumed her work. It absolutely tickled me, and before I could stop myself I let out a loud peal of laughter. The noise rung out across the garden and I grimaced, my toes curling as the sound died in my throat.

I was out of practice at tamping down my laugh since Drew left, but as I paused for a moment, watching Rona move the tree, I was relieved to see that she wasn’t giving me a disparaging look but rather a big grin instead.

I resumed my self-​appointed role of project manager, casting my gaze over our handiwork so far. To aid in my important endeavor I lifted my hands to make a little square out of my index fingers and thumbs and then peered through it to examine the decorations, as if I were a professional photographer examining a shoot.

Rona let out a snort when she clocked me.

“Perfection,” I murmured as I took in the inflatable Santa on the left-​hand side of the front lawn, the LED tree on the right, and the rows of brightly colored lights lining all the windows—​shiny and loud primary colors like a line of tempting, very large hard candies. Not that you’d want to munch down on these—​that would be a very spiky experience indeed.

I clapped my hands together in delight. “Right then, Dr. Campbell. How’s about a celebratory hot chocolate?”

Rona arched an eyebrow. “I thought you’d never ask. Any marshmallows?”

“Of course,” I said, slinging an arm around my friend’s shoulders. “And whipped cream.”

“Amazing,” Rona said on a sigh.

We went into the house and abandoned our coats and boots, then I set about making my signature hot chocolates. I liked to use steamed milk, cocoa, marshmallows, whipped cream, and then—​to complete the effect—​some chocolate curls on top. Plus I added a teeny splash of Irish liqueur. Just enough to warm the cockles, but not so much as to impair any drivers partaking in a mug.

I took the two mugs over to the kitchen table, where Rona was waiting expectantly, her blue eyes wide with anticipation. “This looks scrumptious,” she said.

I lifted my mug to gently clunk against hers, and we sipped in unison.

Rona groaned, her eyes closed in reverence. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.” She opened her eyes to look at me. “You know, my Rob would have loved your hot chocolate. It was his favorite.”

“Was it?” I asked, smiling softly. “He was undoubtedly a man of good taste, choosing you as his spouse. So it makes sense that he would’ve been a fan of my greatest achievement.”

Rona laughed. “I’d hardly call this your greatest achievement, Nisa. As amazing as this concoction is I would say that being the youngest charge nurse at our community hospital with the sharpest and most formidable reputation trumps your hot-​chocolate-​making abilities.”

My smile turned a little stiff. Sharp? Formidable? Was that code for “too much”?

I chose to ignore my insecurities. “What else did Rob like?”

Rona absently lifted a hand to pull off her soft pink bobble hat and run a hand through her silvery hair. “He loved Friends. The year he died was the year the final episode aired. I’m glad he got to see it.” She smiled, her eyes shining. “He was a fan of The Killers, and ‘Mr. Brightside’ was rereleased around that time too.” She paused, hands wrapped around her mug. “And you know what? He missed the surge in availability and popularity of social media. Facebook was only available to students at Harvard back then. There was Myspace but he wasn’t interested in that.”

“What would he have made of social media nowadays?” I asked, sipping my velvety-​smooth drink. I loved hearing people’s stories. It was one of the things I loved about my job—​getting to meet my patients and listen to their tales.

“Oh, he would have hated it,” Rona said with a wry laugh.

I smiled at her over the top of my mug. “I think he might’ve been my kind of person.”