Free The Love Wars by L. Alison Heller Page A

for gift basket treats—delegates from the vacuum-sealed meat category clustered in conversations with boxed pears and chocolate-dipped shortbreads.
    I scope the offerings. There’s some maple-honey ham in a clear bag that I know my mom will try to crown tomorrow’s “entrée,” so I bypass it and grab a tin of pimento cheese straws. I pop off the top, grab the remote and settle in on the couch.
    I am exhausted, having spent the day at the store. Ostensibly I was there playing the part of stock girl, unpacking boxes in the back room with the goal of shelving the last-minute gift items—single-serve French presses, prewrapped boxes of chocolate caramels—thatwe were trying to push out the door before the holidays.
    I was slicing packing tape with a paring knife when my dad pushed against the swinging door. A tower of boxes stacked too close stopped him from opening the door all the way, so he stuck his mouth and nose through the sliver of space.
    “Hey,” he said, talking loudly, as though into a cave. “You there? Come to the floor for a sec.”
    So I had stopped unpacking, shifting the boxes to create a small path, and followed him out to where a woman with blond waves pulled back in a sloppy bun was waiting, a Cheddar and Better tote bag stuffed with paper-wrapped deli items slung over her shoulder.
    “Here”—my dad put his arm around my shoulder as I wiped my dusty hands on my jeans—“she is.”
    “Hi.” I smiled politely.
    “Your dad is so proud of you,” said the woman, glancing at my father. Indeed, his eyes, a green so sharp that the color is visible behind his glasses, reflected this. She continued. “I hear all about your achievements, so I had to meet you in person. And Bacon Payne! The big leagues, huh? I’ve gotta go prepare.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a whopper of a meal tonight—but so, so great to meet you.” She nodded at my dad. “Just one cup of milk? You sure?”
    “No more,” my dad said, nodding. “You’ll be fine.”
    “Nice to meet you too. Merry Christmas,” I called after her, turning to my dad. “And that was?”
    “Gertie Manning,” he said, as though it explained everything. “She’s a professor at the law school, so naturally, we talk about you.”
    “Naturally,” I said.
    As it turned out, Professor Manning was just the first through the receiving line. My dad pulled me out of the storage room six times—approximatelyonce every hour, to meet all the customers shopping on Christmas Eve who had—to his knowledge—ever been, known or needed a lawyer.
    The message was as subtle as the Parkers’ annual Christmas lights glowing into my parent’s front room from across the street every year, casting enough yellow and green and red to make the walls seem like they’ve been painted: the life I’m living, the things I’ve achieved, they’re not just for me. I’m keeping the dream alive for all of us.
    __________
    I ’m flipping through channels and licking cheese dust off my fingers when my dad finally comes in the front door. He steps out of his hiking boots and lugs four canvas totes with the green Cheddar and Better logo emblazoned on the front to the dining room table.
    “You brought more?” I say.
    He nods. “Mostly extras from the gift baskets, heavily Christmas-themed.” He grabs a pretty bag of peppermint-stick chocolate, tied with a red ribbon. “You want?”
    “I love those things.”
    He tosses it to me, shrugs out of his coat and then collapses in the brown leather recliner next to the couch. “Mom asleep?”
    “Yeah. Worn-out from all the cooking.”
    We grin at each other. “How did the heritage turkey drama turn out?” When my mom and I left, he had been dealing with a last-minute shortage: two fewer turkeys delivered than customers in need.
    “The backup farm in Tennessee covered one, and I gave Mrs. Baxter some Cornish game hens and a ham on the house. I think it gave me an ulcer, though.” He shakes his head. “I’m so