Page 99 of Baker

Leaning against it, dressed in a top had and long-tailed tuxedo, Goose smoked a cigarette. I burst into laughter. “What’s going on?”

“Christmas lights,” Baker said.

“There’s no good Christmas lights in San Diego,” I said sadly.

Baker turned to face me. “You just need to know where to look.”

He waved his hand toward the van’s side door. Automatically, it opened. I gawked at it in awe.

“Cadillac of minivans,” Goose said.

Baker helped me get in, and then turned to Holly. “Holly, Goose. Goose, this is Andy’s cousin, Holly.”

He tipped his hat. “Pleasure is mine, ma’am.”

“Sit up front,” Baker said.

He pushed a button and the door closed.

“Pretty awesome automatic doors on your sleigh, mister.”

“Only the best for my lover,” he said, relaxing into the passenger side seat.

Nestled in a bucket of ice, a carton of eggnog sat on the floor between us. On the seat, two thin booklets marked Let’s Go Caroling.

I picked up one of the books. “Are we--”

He gave a nod. “We are.”

I loved Caroling. My parents went every year. Holly’s mother took us, too, and I went every Christmas until I left to go to college. Some people grow out of Christmas, but I wasn’t one of them. In my mind, the spirit of Santa Claus was real.

I filled with nervous anticipation as I picked up the book and flipped through the pages. It included all my favorites.

“This is awesome,” I said. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“I do it every year,” he said.

I looked at him in disbelief. “Really?”

“He’s not kidding,” Goose said as he pulled out of the garage. “Has since he was a kid.”

If doing so was even possible, my heart melted a little more for Baker. I laughed to myself that we’d gone about everything all wrong, fucking before we dated, and admitting our love with each other the night a man got murdered.

No matter, I wouldn’t change it if I could.

We drove to La Jolla, through an area I had no idea existed. The homes were mansions, and they were covered with the craziest displays of lights, decorations, and mechanical displays. It put Syracuse to shame.

Their wrought iron gates were open, inviting season onlookers the ability to come in and enjoy their displays of festive spirit.

The first home was complete with a fountain in front, and had a grand entrance that looked like something even the Kardashians couldn’t afford. After parking the van, we walked to the door, booklets in hand.

Baker knocked with the knocker. In a moment, the door opened.

A handsome man in his early forties stood pencil straight. He gave a nod to each of us. “Good evening. Happy Holidays.”

We burst into song, singing one of my all-time favorites, Oh Come, All Ye Faithful. Halfway through the song, a man, a woman I assumed was his wife, and two small children came to listen.

After singing O Little Town Of Bethlehem, Baker tipped his hat. “A Merry Christmas to you.”