Excerpt of Sweet Memories by LaVyrle Spencer

At last, Jeff was coming home, but he wasn't alone.
Watching the big-bellied jet taxiing to a stop, Theresa
Brubaker felt two conflicting emotions — excitement that
her "baby brother" would be here for two whole weeks, and
annoyance that he'd dragged along some stranger to
interfere with their family holiday. Theresa never liked
meeting strangers, and at the thought of meeting one now,
especially a man, a nervous ache grabbed her between the
shoulder blades. She worked her head in a circle, flexed
her shoulders and tried to shrug away the annoyance.

Through the soles of her knee-high snow boots she felt the
shudder and rumble of the engines as they wheezed a last
inflated breath, then whistled through a dying decrescendo
and sighed into silence. The accordion pleats of the
jetway eased forward, its mouth molded against the curve
of the plane, and Theresa riveted her eyes on the doorway
set in the wall of glass. As the first footsteps of
disembarking passengers thudded down the tunnel, she self-
consciously glanced down and made sure her heavy gray wool
coat was buttoned up completely. She clutched a small
black leather purse against her left side in a way that
partially concealed her breast and gave her reason to
cross her arms.

Her heart tripped out a staccato beat of anticipation —
Jeff. My crazy clown of a brother, the life of the family,
coming home to make Christmas what all the songs said it
should be. Oh, there's no place like home for the
holidays. Jeff — how she'd missed him. She bit her lower
lip and trained her eyes on the door as the first
passengers debarked: a young mother carrying a squalling
baby, a businessman with a topcoat and briefcase, a
bearded, blue-jeaned ski bum hefting a blue satchel
boasting the word Vail, two long-legged military men clad
in dress blues and garrison caps with visors set squarely
across their eyebrows. Two long-legged military men!

"Jeff!" Her arm flew up joyously.

He caught sight of Theresa at the same moment she saw his
lips form her name. But sister and brother were separated
by a fifteen-foot-long ramp and handrail, and what seemed
to be one-quarter of the population of Minneapolis
greeting incoming arrivals. Jeff pointed her out while she
read his lips again —"There she is" — and shouldered
through the crowd toward the crown of the ramp.

She was scarcely conscious of her brother's companion as
she flew into Jeff's arms, lifting her own around his neck
while he scooped her off the floor and whirled her in a
circle. His shoulders were broad and hard, his neck
smelled of lime, and her eyes were suddenly swimming with
tears while he laughed against her temple.