Tucking her scarf tighter around her neck, Beverly sent up a prayer that the item she wanted was still present in the antique shop as she hustled inside, dodging the many other holiday shoppers that were out that day.

She had to duck under a low-hanging rustic sign and barely avoided colliding with a large man before she stopped in front of the same shelf she and Griffin had been at.

A relieved grin overtook her features when she spied the model sailboat in the same spot, and she pushed up on her tiptoes to tug it down, inspecting it closely.

It was about a foot long, with a white base and navy-blue sails; the condition was surprisingly good, and she tucked it safely in the crook of her arm before hurrying to the checkout before someone else could take her prize.

Once she was outside the store, she stepped out of the main walkway and under the shelter of a tree, slipping her phone out of her pocket and clicking one her most recently added contacts.

"Hello?"

"Is this my favorite uncle? Or is it grandfather now? I can never remember how old you are."

"Ha ha, Beverly. You are a true comedian. What can I do for you?"

"I just have a quick question . . ."

***

Beverly was so stunned at seeing Deb in the student lounge that she halted in the entrance, only moving when someone complained behind her.

"Sorry," she shot over her shoulder at the poor student, jogging to where Deb was tucked away in the darkest corner on a puffy chair, practically swimming in her oversized hoodie and sweatpants.

It was one of the few times she could remember seeing Deb anywhere besides their dorm (and at a normal time of day, too), and she wanted to catch the other girl before she vanished. "Deb!"

Deb startled violently, whipping around to face Beverly with pale features and haunted eyes. "Deb?" Beverly slowed down, holding her hands up to indicate that she didn't mean any harm. "Are you alright?"

Swallowing audibly, Deb nodded so disjointedly she looked like a broken bobblehead. "Fine. I'm fine, Beverly. What do you want?" The words were usual, but Deb's tone lacked its normal bite, and Beverly's worry only increased.

She held out the brown paper bag labeled Christmas Cookies – Important! "This was on my side of the dorm, in my hamper, and it looked kind of . . . well, important."

Deb's expression twisted from terror to complete elation, and she sprung out of the chair, throwing her arms around Beverly and hugging the girl tightly. "Thank you," she whispered earnestly into Beverly's ear. "Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this helps." Then she pulled back, slipping the bag out of Beverly's numb grasp before darting out of the lounge with newfound purpose in her steps.

Beverly stared at the entrance dumbly.

God, her whole life no longer made sense.

***

If Cynthia's house had been impressive, then Mr. Knott's was other-worldly. It was easily twice—if not three times—the size of Cynthia's, and sat on a large lot by itself, overlooking the lake below.

"Like it?" Mr. Knott asked, helping her out of his car.

Beverly whistled in astonishment. "Do you ever get lost inside?"

He laughed, leading her up the front steps and pulling open the huge wooden door before waving her inside. "Only a couple of times, right after I bought it. If you want, you can take some bread with you to make a trail."

Beverly snorted, her eyes dancing over the marble floors, high ceilings, and crystal chandeliers. "Like Hansel and Gretel? No thanks—they barely made it out alive, in case you forgot."

Chuckling gamely, Mr. Knott directed her into the lavish kitchen, which reminded Beverly of Cynthia's, only larger (and currently drenched in Christmas decorations). Setting her duffel bag down by the French doors leading out to the snow-covered porch, Beverly climbed onto one of the barstools, watching closely as Mr. Knott padded around the kitchen.

He was clad in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, and it was the first time she'd seen him so relaxed; it took away some of her anxiety, knowing that he wasn't so different after all (regardless of the image of wealth that his house presented).

Pulling open one of the three convection ovens, Mr. Knott huffed at whatever he saw inside. "What is it?" Beverly asked, hopping off the stool and stepping closer.

Moving back so Beverly could see inside, Mr. Knott gestured at the oven with exasperation. "I told Regina, my housekeeper, that I was having a guest for Christmas, and I think she got a bit excited."

Beverly slapped a hand over her mouth to stop a chortle from escaping when she saw the oven's contents.

Both of the racks inside were stuffed to the brim with dishes—a turkey, glazed ham, sweet potatoes, and several different kind of casseroles stared back at Beverly.

"Oh, wow!" she breathed. "How are the other two?"

Opening the remaining ovens, Mr. Knott groaned comically. "Full of pie, as it were. I hope you're hungry, Beverly, because we've got our work cut out for us."

"For pie?" she rubbed her hands together, "Always."

They, of course, barely made it through half an oven's worth of food and didn't even get to the pie before they were both stuffed. With promises for dessert later, Mr. Knott handed Beverly a towel, and they cleaned the dishes while they tried to digest everything.

"I always eat more than I should," Beverly mumbled as she dried off a casserole dish. "At every single holiday, all the time."

"I'd like to think that eating too much is just one of the requirements for appropriate holiday fun." Mr. Knott joked, handing her a plate.

"Either way," Beverly replied, trying and failing to shake some fallen hair out of her vision, "I'm so full I might pop."

"Well, we don't want that. Do you need help?"

"Help? With wha—hey!" Mr. Knott had apparently noticed her struggle with her hair, and had, for whatever reason, decided to brush it back himself. The only problem was that his hands were covered in even more soap suds than Beverly's.

"Mr. Knott!" she shrieked as bubbles ran down her face and the front of her shirt, "Come on!"

"You can call me Francis, you know," he said through his chuckles. "And I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not—I'm just trying to prove that I'm the fun uncle."

Glaring at him, Beverly swiped up her own handful of suds and threw it at his face, laughing when it hit him directly in the nose. "If anything, you're the uncle parents shouldn't leave their kids with; you'd get them all in trouble."

"Nonsense!" he retorted, wagging a sudsy finger at her, "I'm the uncle every parent wants for their kids: fun, kind, generous, rich, a great role model, and—"

"Exceedingly humble in every way?" Beverly chimed in with a cheeky grin.

Francis returned it. "Yes, that too." Then he shook his head, though the smile never left his face, and said, "It's Christmas, Beverly; we should finish up these dishes and watch a movie."

ヾ(⌐■_■)ノ♪