Sweet Memories by Lavyrle Spencer

front and two sport stripes running down the sleeves: one of navy, the other of cranberry.
    She took it from the hanger, slipped her arms into it and stepped before her mirror while she zipped it up. But the reflection that met her eyes made her want to cry. It looked like two dirigibles had been inflated beneath the garment. There was no power on earth that could make her wear this thing out to the kitchen and face Brian.
    Angrily, she jerked it off and tossed it aside, replacing it with a prim oxford-cloth shirt in off-white with long sleeves and a button-down collar, over which she draped the everlasting, hated cardigan.
    She was saved from encountering Brian’s bare chest again when she heard him take over the bathroom while she was arranging her hair in a round mound just above her collar. When it was confined, at least it didn’t look as if it was going to carry her away into the wild blue yonder if a stiff wind came up.
    In the bathroom, Brian, too, assessed himself in the mirror.  She’s scared of you, Scanlon, so the issue is settled .  You don’t have to think about the possibility of falling for her.
    But the room was scented with feminine things—the flowery essence of soap left behind in the damp air. There was a wet washcloth over the shower-curtain rod, and when he grabbed it down to close the curtains, he found himself staring at it for a long moment while he rubbed a thumb across the cold, damp terry cloth. With an effort, he put her from his mind and folded the cloth very carefully, then laid it on a corner of the tub. But while he stood beneath the hot spray, soaping his body, he thought of her again, and of the movie, and couldn’t help wondering what it would be like in bed with that freckled body, the generous breasts and red hair.
    Scanlon, it’s Christmas, you pervert! What the hell are you doing standing here thinking about your best friend’s sister like some practiced lecher?
    But that’s not the only reason I can’t get her off my mind,  his other self argued honestly.  She’s a beautiful  person.  Inside, where it counts.
    He intentionally kept things light and breezy when he met Theresa in the kitchen again. But it was easier, for the rest of her family was beginning to rouse, and one by one they padded out to have coffee or juice. By the time they all sat down to breakfast together, the day had changed mood.
    It was set aside for preparations. There was a family gathering planned at Grandma and Grandpa Deering’s house, and everybody would take something for the supper buffet. Then tomorrow, the pack would descend upon the Brubaker house for Christmas dinner, so Margaret, Theresa and Amy were busy all day in the kitchen.
    Margaret was at her dictatorial best, issuing orders like a drill-team sergeant again while her daughters carried them out. Willard spent part of the day watching for cardinals, while Jeff and Brian broke out their guitars at last, and from the kitchen Theresa heard her first of Brian’s guitar playing. She dropped what she was doing and moved to the living-room doorway, pausing there to observe him tuning, then fingering an augmented chord of quietly vibrating quality, bending his head low over the instrument, listening intently as the six notes shimmered into silence. He sat at the piano bench, but had swung to face the davenport where Jeff sat, and didn’t know Theresa stood behind him.
    Jeff, too, strummed random chords, the two guitars quietly clashing in that presong dissonance that can be as musical in its own off-harmonic way as cleanly arranged songs.
    Jeff played lead, Brian rhythm, and from the moment the discordant warmup crystalized into the intro to a song, Theresa recognized a marvelous communion of kindred musicians. No signal had been spoken, none exchanged by eye, hand or tongue. The inharmonious gibberish of tuning had simply resolved into the concord of one single silently agreed-upon song.
    Between musicians there can be a connection,