She raised an eyebrow, flashed him a disapproving look, and then fell silent a moment. “I was about to say,” she repeated, “with Robert coming down for the holiday, we’ll all be accounted for. God, I hate this rotten war.”
“You’re not alone there, darling, but I do know what this all means to you, being home together in our safe little haven. It’s your mothering or nesting instinct. Something like that.” He stepped back again, and, with his hands formed a square, as if he were taking a photograph of the scrawny, lopsided decoration. “Doesn’t readily bring to mind O Tannenbaum, but it’s a pretty good imitation, wouldn’t you say?” He put out his arms, and she moved into them.
“Lovely,” she said.
“Hmm. ‘Tis, isn’t it?” He pulled her into a tight squeeze.
“I was talking about the tree.”
“So was I,” he said before smiling mischievously. He planted a firm and very unchaste kiss on her lips.
“Liar!”
“You’ve a wonderful way with words,” he said, pressing his manliness against her.