Merry (belated 😅) Christmas darling @blakelysco-pilot! I was beyond excited that you were my giftee for this year’s @hbowardaily Secret Santa— I only hope I did your darling girls justice! I couldn’t wait to give our little gang a proper Christmas together 🤭 Merry Christmas & the happiest of new years to you bestie! I love you sooooo 💕
Merry & Bright
🎄Rosie & Jo Rosenthal join their friends for a Christmas Day celebration at the home of Ev & Val Blakely!
“G’morning, honey pie.”
The sleepy rumble of her husband’s voice and the brush of his mustache against her cheek is more than enough to draw Josephine Harris— now Rosenthal— out of her pleasant sleep.
Her eyes flutter open with a smile, instantly locking onto Rosie’s.
“Good morning, Robbie.”
The distance between them is quickly closed in a kiss, though Rosie reluctantly pulls back enough to remind his wife what day it is.
“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes bright even as his mouth remains hardly an inch from her own, “Merry Christmas.”
Jo beams.
“Merry Christmas, darling.”
After somewhere between a few seconds and eternity of lingering kisses and wandering hands, the Rosanthals finally drag themselves out of bed to start their day.
Which, several hours later, finds Rosie pouting in the kitchen as he watches Jo mix bowl after bowl of cookie dough.
“Just one taste honey pie, c’mon…”
Jo doesn’t even look up as she neatly swats away the hand slowly creeping towards the nearest bowl.
“You taste them after they’re baked, Robbie, or have you forgotten?”
She ignores his mumbled comment about that time Jean replaced him as taste tester as she continues, “I need enough for everyone, and there certainly won’t be if I let you start eating the dough!”
•••
Everett Blakely awakens to his wife already looming over him, green eyes sparkling and fond and his favorite sight to wake up to.
That doesn’t stop him jumping slightly, however, when he opens his eyes to see Valencia Blakely already grinning down at him.
“Good morning, darling. Goodness, that meal really knocked you out, didn’t it?”
The Feast of 7 Fishes, otherwise known as how the DiRosano clan celebrated Christmas Eve, was exactly what it sounded like— a seven-course meal of fish after fish after fish, and it had indeed had him feeling ready to fall into bed the previous night, especially after the hearty helping of post-midnight mass sausage. However…
“The meal, yeah… among other things.” He raises an eyebrow, sleepiness gone in an instant and replaced by a wicked gleam in his eye.
One arm wraps around Val’s waist, tugging her down for a kiss which she happily reciprocates.
Her lips mark a path up to his ear, a whispered “Merry Christmas, Major,” sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.
After a more than pleasant Christmas morning in bed with her husband, Valencia Blakely shifts into hostess mode. It occasionally reminds Ev of his commanding officers, the way she locks into gear and begins ordering around anyone within her line of sight.
Him included.
“Not one more step, mister.”
He freezes, his foot just about to cross the threshold into her lair— er, uh… the kitchen. It was positively uncanny how she did that without even looking up…
“Please go make yourself useful and make sure the bar’s stocked for when everyone arrives? I think we were low on olives last I checked…”
Having learned from Curt Biddick when not to push “the gal”, he replies with a simple “of course, honey,” and goes to do as she asks.
•••
“Robbie!” Jo calls, screwing in an earring as she bustles to and fro down the hall. “You have the gifts, right?”
“Got ‘em, honey pie!”
His voice is… suspiciously thick, and Jo stops mid stride, a single brow raised as she turns in time to see him swipe away a few crumbs from his mouth.
“I see you already got something else, too…”
“It was only one!” He’s quick to defend, “C’mon, Jo, can you blame me?”
That only gets a good-natured roll of her eyes.
“Come on, darling, we don’t want to be late.”
Her husband presses a chocolatey kiss to her mouth as the pair hurries out to the taxi, gift boxes and tins of cookies balanced carefully on their laps.
•••
“Everett!” Val calls, “Could you get the door please?”
“On it!”
He hurries past where Val is arranging platters of appetizers on the table and whisks open the front door.
“Rosie! Hey pal,” he grins, stepping aside to let the Rosenthals in, “Merry Christmas, glad you could make it. Jo, looking lovely as ever,” he adds with a smile, “Those wouldn’t happen to be dessert, would they?”
“Of course,” Jo grins, gesturing to the tins in her arms, “And don’t worry, I managed to save most of them from my husband.”
“I only had one, honey pie—”
“Is that Josephine I hear?”
Val scurries around the corner, graceful as ever as she embraces her friend.
“That’s a lovely coat, honey!”
Jo preens, one gloved hand stroking over the faux fur collar.
“Thank you darling! Robbie’s Christmas gift to me,” she beams, turning her adoring gaze on her husband.
“Well done, Mr. Rosenthal,” Val grins.
“Are those new?” Jo asks, gesturing in the direction of the sparkle coming from Val’s ears— delicate gold roses rest at her earlobes, emeralds sparkling at their center.
Her hand flies to her ear, Val’s smile growing impossibly wider.
“Ev’s present to me,” she beams, “Gets me a new pair every year.”
Her husband’s reply is mock-annoyed, the effect ruined by the wide smile on his face.
“Because somehow I’m the reason you lost a pair during the war and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
“My favorite pair, darling. And you know exactly how I lost them and why you’re to blame.”
Val cuts off her husband’s attempt at a retort in favor of turning her attention back to Jo.
“You handled dessert, I see,” she giggles, taking the tins from Jo’s arms.
“As long as you handled the pasta.”
“Oh, trust me,” Ev grins, taking the Rosenthal’s coats before they wander through the rest of the house, “she has.”
•••
The rest of the gang arrives in waves— Jean and Croz arrive shortly after the Rosenthals, Olive and Dougie, and Benny and Vika show up on the front step at practically the same time, and John and Juliet Brady are the final couple to arrive. The pile of gifts under the tree in the living room grows as guest after guest arrives, and evening finds the group surrounding it, post-dinner drinks in hand as Jo’s cookies are passed around.
“One of these days,” Juliet teases, “one of these days I will get the recipe out of you, Jo Rosenthal!”
“Jules, I love you, but this is one recipe I’m never sharing with any of you.”
“Alright,” Val stands, daintily brushing crumbs from her hands, “gift time!”
She rummages through the pile under the tree, producing several immaculately wrapped packages of varying sizes, which she distributes to the girls.
“Oh honey!”
“Chicken you shouldn’t have…”
“Val, this is lovely!”
Each box contains an accessory that Val remembered one of her friends mentioning as the holiday season neared: a lovely pair of gloves, a sweet little hat, and…
“Val, sweetheart, this is just darling!”
From the box in her lap, Jo produces the scarf she remembers eyeing in a window on a shopping trip with the girls— something warm but stylish, the perfect shade of blue to match her favorite dress and complement her new coat.
She joins the line of girls waiting to hug their friend in thanks, squeezing her tight.
“Thank you, honey, I love it.”
Val beams, green eyes sparkling. “I hoped you would.”
The pile under the tree shrinks as gifts are distributed and oohed and aahed over— Olive has records of “future music” for everyone, Jean comes through with something handmade for each of her friends, Juliet hands out carefully selected, lovingly wrapped books, Vika shyly hands out masala dabbas— Indian spice boxes, to be used for chai or the recipes she occasionally shares— to everyone, and then it’s Jo’s turn.
She stands, oddly nervous as she smooths down the skirt of her dress before passing out the last few boxes resting under the tree.
“Mine’s a bit more… sentimental, I guess, but I do hope you like it.”
Rosie nudges her gently as she returns to her seat next to him, an encouraging smile on his face as his hand entwines with hers. He doesn’t need to speak for her to hear what he’s trying to convey.
They’ll love it, honey pie.
Gasps erupt around the room as leather-bound books are pulled from boxes, flipped open to reveal pictures.
Pictures of Jo, Jean, Juliet, and Vika at Coney Island.
Of Val and Olive with Tatty and Helen, mid-laugh at their table at the Silver Wings Club at Thorpe Abbotts.
Of Val and Jo deep in conversation, almost certainly a snapshot taken as they compared stories about growing up in Brooklyn.
Picture after picture after picture, showing a blossoming friendship during wartime and after, and with plenty of blank pages to fill in as time goes by.
“Jo…”
Val is valiantly blinking back tears, thumb stroking over the snapshot that captured the day Val and Olive finally arrived in the States, Everett and Dougie there to greet them, along with Ma DiRosano and the girls.
“This is… oh, it’s perfect, darling.”
Val is the first to pull her into a fierce hug, followed quickly by the rest of the girls, arms wrapping around each other in a tangled group hug.
Jo can’t help the relieved laugh that bubbles out of her.
“I was looking through some scrapbooks and photo albums— I have so many pictures of Robbie and I, but I just… I couldn’t help but feel like something was missing? You girls are such a huge, wonderful part of my life, and I thought we deserved something to commemorate that.”
“It’s perfect, Jo,” Val says again, flipping through the pages carefully, “But… goodness, where did you get some of these pictures?”
“I had quite a few of them already, but the ones from Thorpe Abbots— I assume those are the ones you’re referring to?…” A smile creeps onto Jo’s face, “I kept in touch with Joe, the regimental photographer, after Harry helped me find that picture of Robbie for his birthday.” She shoots the navigator a bright grin, “Apparently he had quite a few pictures he was willing to send over.”
“Hang on…” Benny interrupts, peering over Vika’s shoulder at a picture, “Val, is that you painting my dog’s nails? When did Joe get a picture of that?”
Val flips back to the page he’s referring to and cackles.
“You asked us to keep him occupied while you were on missions! I was just doing as you asked, DeMarco!”
“Yeah but why does that look like the Silver Wings—?”
“Well we weren’t just going to leave him while we got drinks, Benny,” Olive jumps in, grinning.
“Missing the point entirely, sorellina.”
The rest of the evening is spent sipping martinis and flipping through pictures, reminiscing on trips to Coney Island and shopping trips and coffee and donuts, and eventually a camera is pulled out, there’s a flash, and the first new addition to the scrapbook is secured— a shot of the whole gang gathered around the tree, the girls standing with their fellas, but also linked together by a pinky here, an arm looped through an elbow there, and Valencia Blakely and Josephine Rosenthal at the center of it all, beaming.
