After dinner, Dave starts to help my mother clean up the table, but she shoos him into the living room. “Bobby can help me, dear,” she says. “Guests don’t clean up.”
He shoots me a quick glance as Jenna pats the floor where she sits beside the tree. “Dave! Come sit by me!”
I lean across the table to take the plate from in front of him, and Dave rests his face against my arm. “When can I get you to myself again?”
“Good luck.” I laugh and nudge him with my elbow, pushing his head off my arm. “The Bean goes to bed at 8:30—”
“Nine!” she calls out from the living room, obviously eavesdropping.
I argue back, “If you’re still up that late, Santa won’t come.”
With a tiny squeal, she covers her mouth with both hands, eyes wide as she looks at my father for confirmation. “Back in my day, it was eight,” he tells her.
“That’s too early!” She turns back to me, pleading from the living room. “Daddy, eight?”
“Eight-thirty is fine,” I clarify.