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Mentally, Tilde is not sitting in her living room in Bookstonbury. She is in Three Pines, Quebec, catching up with Chief Inspector Armand Gamache and his wife Reine-Marie, with Jean-Guy, Myrna, Gabri and Olivier’s cafe, and of course Ruth Zardo. The newest Louise Penny novel has all of her attention. One of the perks of retirement has been being able to take the time to reread the other books in the series so that all she had to do when the newest book came out was find herself a copy and sink back into one of her favorite fictional worlds.
She is so engrossed in Gamache’s latest adventure that she doesn’t notice anyone entering her house until a familiar throat clearing and disapproving harumph interrupt her—more accurately, it isn’t until a shadow blocks the light from her lamp and she looks up to see Maryam’s irritated face frowning down at her, arms crossed over her chest. Tilde smiles brightly up at her. “Ah, Maryam! You’re here.”
“Lovely of you to notice,” she says, pursing her lips and looking like she’s taken a bite from a lemon. “I could have been an intruder, you know. You didn’t even notice when I came in! I wasn’t exactly quiet.”
Tilde waves off her fretting, and carefully places a bookmark in her spot, holding the book up so Maryam can see what she’s reading. “It’s the newest Inspector Gamache,” she says, as if that explains everything—which it does, in Tilde’s opinion.
Maryam’s expression remains pinched, but she sighs, and plucks the book from Tilde’s hand, setting it off to one side on the coffee table, just out of her reach. “The door wasn’t even locked.”
Tilde unburies herself from the soft throw she’d tucked around her legs, and stands, reaching for one of Maryam’s hands. “I knew you were coming soon,” she says, a note of pleading in her tone. “But you are quite a bit later than you said you’d be.”
The look on Maryam’s face softens fractionally, and she laces her fingers together with Tilde’s, sighing. Her shoulders lose some of their tension with that sigh, and the furrow in her brow begins to soften. “I didn’t want to leave Moira alone at the Liberte when it was too busy. There were a lot of holiday shoppers stopping in this evening, you know.”
Tilde hums in agreement, rubbing her thumb over the back of Maryam’s knuckles. “Well, yes. It’s a Friday in December, after all.” She smiles fondly at her, recalling all too easily how hectic and busy those nights could get, and how all she wanted to do at the end of a busy day was cross the square to sink into a stool at the Liberte and let Maryam make her a hot drink.
Maryam eyes her, looking wary. “What are you smiling about?”
“I was just thinking about your mulled wine,” she says, and enjoys seeing the way Maryam’s edge melts away and the corner of her mouth tilts up in the beginnings of a smile.
“I think I’ve finally perfected the recipe,” she says, a glint in her eye. It makes Tilde laugh.
“I would hope so; you’ve only been working on it for fifty years.”
Maryam’s fingers tighten around hers, and she tugs at Tilde’s hand until she takes a step closer. “What would you say if I told you that I haven’t changed the recipe in, oh, thirty years?”
Both of Tilde’s eyebrows rise, and she blinks at her old friend. “…What? But you always wanted my opinion on it.”
Maryam flushes, color climbing up her neck and onto her cheeks, and she glances away—then does a double-take and steps away from Tilde, her jaw dropping. “Tilde Sankelund! Where did this tree come from?!”
Tilde blinks, feeling minorly blind-sided by the abrupt shift in conversation and tone, and follows Maryam’s gaze to the Christmas tree set up in front of one of the living room windows. It’s undecorated, save for the strings of lights she couldn’t help putting on earlier, and it glows cheerily, casting warm and colorful light into the room. “…The tree lot,” she says,confused.
Maryam whirls on her, hands on her hips and her face a thundercloud. “Your hip! You are not as young as you used to be, Tilde! I told you not to—”
Tilde can’t help laughing, which surprises Maryam into halting her lecture, and the surprised look on her face just makes Tilde laugh more. “Mary, love. I stopped at the tree lot after running my errands earlier, and Klaus delivered the tree. He brought Harper with him, and they set it up for me.” She pauses and tilts her head, correcting herself. “Well, Klaus set it up. Harper was too busy asking questions about the julenisse.” She gestures at the little Norwegian Christmas gnomes scattered across her bookshelf and tabletops, some of them new and some of them old family heirlooms. She can’t help a small, slightly smug smile, adding, “She said likes them better than American Christmas elves.”
Maryam blinks, and then rolls her eyes, but Tilde can tell she is holding back a smile. “Well, of course she does. That Elf on the Shelf is nothing but a menace.” She glances at the tree again, and then looks back at Tilde. “…It is a lovely tree.”
Tilde smiles fondly, and takes the few steps to close the distance between them, sliding in behind her and wrapping her arms around Maryam’s waist. She sets her chin on her shoulder, and says softly, “I waited for you to decorate it.”
Maryam’s hands come up to cover Tilde’s, and she knows she’s forgiven when Maryam’s weight shifts just slightly, and she leans back into her. She gives a soft hum. “You did a decent job with the lights.”
Tilde snorts, pressing her face into Maryam’s shoulder briefly. “It only took roughly a decade of listening to you criticize my tree lighting abilities in the bookshop before I gave up and started doing it your way,” she reminds her.
“And you like it better my way,” Maryam reminds her.
“Some things I like better your way.” Tilde turns her head and presses a soft kiss to the line of Maryam’s jaw. “Did you really lie about the mulled wine for all of those years?”
She huffs and tilts her head, giving Tilde better access to her throat. “…Possibly,” she admits, only slightly grudgingly.
Tilde can only giggle, nestling closer and pushing her nose into the crook of Maryam’s neck. “You never had to lie. I’ve always loved your mulled wine, you know.”
Maryam makes a small, unhappy little noise, squeezing Tilde’s hands and lacing their fingers together. “…Yes, well. You also would have tried to pay me. And I did always appreciate your opinions.”
A warm, swelling feeling expands inside her, and Tilde finds she can only press closer to her, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and laundry detergent, the soft powder and perfume of her. She’s never been quite sure what she did to deserve Maryam’s devotion and love, but she never has and never will take it for granted. “Are you hungry?” she asks, once she finds her voice again. “I have beef stew on the stove.”
“I thought it smelled wonderful in here.”
Tilde regretfully disentangles them from one other, only for Maryam to turn in her arms and wind her arms over Tilde’s shoulders. She gives Tilde one of her rare soft, sweet smiles, the ones she has ever only reserved for her. “I brought home a Yule Log from the new bakery,” she says. “I know you love them.”
Tilde can only lean in to kiss Maryam. She intends a quick peck, but Maryam follows when she tries to pull back, tightens her arms around her and pulls her back in, transforming the kiss into something deep and meaningful, a long, slow melting into one another that leaves Tilde feeling full of warmth and joy. They lean into one another, foreheads touching, and Maryam brushes her nose against Tilde’s; she can feel her lips curling into a smile.
“I love you,” Tilde says, once she remembers that she has a voice and recalls how to use it. “I think I’ve loved you since the day we met, when you stormed into the bookshop before I’d even opened, babbling about B.L.A.B.L.A.”
Maryam lets out a surprised laugh, tilting her head back as she laughs. “Oh, sweetheart. I can’t believe you kept speaking to me.”
Tilde grins, and leans in to catch Maryam in another kiss, cutting off her laughter. “Come on,” she says, pulling back. “Let’s have some stew, then you can make a batch of mulled wine and we can decorate the tree. And when we’re done, we’ll have some Yule log and wine. How’s that sound?”
Maryam hums happily, taking Tilde’s hand as she steps away. “It sounds like a late night,” she says, but doesn’t sound unhappy about the idea. “Are the ornaments still in the attic?”
“I had Klaus bring them down.” Tilde smiles over her shoulder and tugs Maryam along toward the kitchen with her. “We could watch a movie, once we’re done decorating. Since we’re already making it a late night.”
Maryam’s smile is soft and fond. “Well, it is supposed to snow until about noon tomorrow. Wouldn’t be safe for ladies of our age to be out in that kind of mess, would it?”
Tilde snorts but is unable to do anything but smile in return. “Ladies of our age,” she repeats, scoffing. “Says the woman who won’t retire.”
Maryam stops and the motion brings Tilde to a halt as well. She turns to look at Maryam, whose expression has turned serious, and she lets Maryam pull her back. “I am working toward that,” she says softly, sincerely. “I know tonight—and all of this week—might not make it seem that way—”
Tilde lifts a finger and presses it to Maryam’s lips, cutting her off. She leans forward and kisses her tenderly. “I know,” she says, letting her fondness through in her tone. “I do, Maryam. And I’m proud of you.”
Maryam screws up her face, wrinkling her nose, which is just an invitation for Tilde to drop a kiss on the end of said nose. “Tilde, honestly.”
“Come on now.” She tugs at Maryam again. “Let’s have some food, decorate our tree, and then cuddle on the couch with Christmas lights and a movie, hm?”
“Can I choose the movie?”
“Yes.” Tilde grins at her and turns toward the stove. “As long as you choose White Christmas.”
Maryam’s laughter follows her. For the first time in a very long time, Tilde is not in a rush to return to her book. There is nothing in any book that could possibly be better than what she has here in this little house in their town by the sea, with Maryam.