Evergreen by Susan May Warren

cold twined through her body, the wind turning her brittle. She stiffened, forced a smile.
    Even though, in the air, she could smell a winter storm brewing on the far-off horizon.

    John had found himself again by the time he finished loading the dishwasher, scraping the remains of beef brisket into the sink, washing the Crock-Pot, and sweeping the floor.
    The simple tasks helped him untie the knot in his chest, or at least breathe freely.
    Whatever reason Ingrid had for keeping Romeo’s behavior a secret, he wanted to hear it. He’d be patient. And then he’d fix the jagged rift between them that seemed to have ripped open this afternoon.
    If he hadn’t recognized signs of trouble when he left Ingrid at Kate’s office and marched Romeo over to Coach Knight’s house to apologize, he recognized it when he arrived home to find the table set, food on the stove, and a note on the counter indicating that she’d already eaten.
    She left out a birthday card and a plate of cookies forRomeo, who had stared at them as if he’d just taken a hit to the gut.
    John served Romeo and himself, and they ate in strained silence. He hoped Romeo spent supper pondering his second chance.
    Although he would have to sit out Friday’s game, he’d be allowed back for the play-offs if they won.
    But Romeo had destroyed the fragile trust between them, and John informed the sullen kid that after football ended, he’d spend every afternoon helping to build Darek’s house. And Saturdays at the animal shelter, cleaning up after the dogs.
    In fact, John intended to keep the kid in his sights until the moment his brother knocked on the door. He wouldn’t put it past Romeo to go AWOL, hitchhike his way to Duluth, and get murdered on the side of the road. Not on his watch, thank you.
    Romeo had headed upstairs with his backpack full of homework immediately after supper. John noticed Butter following him, heard the door close upstairs.
    Once he’d cleaned up and emptied the dustpan, he slipped on his boots and took the trash outside. The wind carried the sting of sleet, and it bit into his skin as he opened the gate to the trash area, dropped the bag intothe Dumpster. Overhead, a pitch-black sky blotted out the stars, and in the distance, a lonely wolf   —or perhaps one of the sled dogs from nearby camps   —howled in mourning.
    He hustled back inside, thankful for his warm, dry home, and slipped off his boots. Flicking off the lights in the kitchen, he headed upstairs.
    Light streamed out from under the door to his room. He took a long breath, then eased the door open.
    Ingrid sat on the floor, her craft supplies scattered around her, a tall light pulled close to illuminate her stocking project. A dozen white, brown, and red shapes   —cut out and organized into piles   —surrounded her, along with tiny containers of sequins, colored thread strung around cardboard, and various pieces of stocking already constructed. She had her earbuds in, swaying to what he supposed was music as she worked a needle and thread.
    She wore black yoga pants and a red T-shirt over a long-sleeved white shirt. He recognized the tee as one of Amelia’s, the one with Rudolph on the front. A stocking cap   —red and fuzzy   —held her hair back, letting it curl out the bottom.
    So Ingrid. No one did Christmas like his wife, and in an instant, the final vestiges of his frustration vanished.
    He shut the door, and she looked up, popped one of her earbuds out. “Is he in his room?”
    “Yeah.” John sat on the edge of the bed. Took a breath. “I think we’re in for a storm tonight.”
    She looked back at her work but nodded.
    “Do you think you’ll finish by the time his brother arrives?”
    She lifted a shoulder, then reached out and handed him the kit cover. “I know it’s a little young for him   —Santa on a sled, holding a bear   —but it’s very northern Minnesota, and . . . well, it’s what I had.”
    He stared at the picture. “I know