Page 9 of The Mistletoe Mystery

“I did. But it was small, almost nothing, really. Look at that,” says Juan as he stops by a placard in front of the jewelry store. On the poster is a giant diamond bracelet on a woman’s thin wrist.

“Diamonds are forever. This Christmas, give her the gift shereally wants,” Juan says, reading the slogan from the placard. “What do you think? Is that the gift she really wants?”

“It most certainly isnot,” I say. What Juan has failed to notice is the fine print at the bottom of the poster, which I’ve actually read before on my way to this very store a few days ago. Gran always taught me to read the fine print very carefully. “Juan, do you realize that bracelet costs over ten thousand dollars?”

Juan squints at the poster, scanning the fine print for himself, our Charlie Brown tree quivering beneath his arm. “But the money’s due in installments. That makes it better, no?”

“It doesn’t matter!” I say. “What man would be daft enough to spend that much on a frivolity? You’d have to be a fool.”

“A fool, yes. You’d have to be,” says Juan as he takes a deep breath, then slings his free arm around my shoulder. “Oh, Molly. Sometimes, I love you so much, I worry I might go soft in the head. They say love makes people crazy.”

“Please keep your wits about you. What use would you be without them?” I say as I pinch one of his cheeks. “Do you still want to go into the store?” I ask.

“No,” he replies. “Let’s just go home.”

Chapter 4

Juan and I spend the rest of the afternoon in our apartment, decorating our misfit Christmas tree with popcorn garlands we make ourselves and all manner of baubles and trinkets collected from Christmases past. Even though it’s only a rejected branch, it’s remarkably sturdy and strong. As we decorate, it occurs to me that a Christmas tree holds so much more than ornaments. Resting on all those boughs is a treasure trove of memories that remain long after the tree is gone and Christmas itself is over for another year.

From the box of decorations at my feet, I gingerly pick up the miniature elf with legs like spindly green beans. Gran used to hang him high on the tree, claiming he kept watch over us, assuring that no harm would come our way during the holidays or in the year ahead. Reaching into the box, Juan removes an ornament in a wreath-shaped frame—a photo of his family assembled in three rows in front of a Christmas tree in Mexico.He places the decoration at eye level so he can admire it every time he walks by the tree. His family is so far away, and yet they’re near and dear to us, remembered every day.

After an hour of arranging, Juan and I are down to the final ornament, a bright star that Gran and I made years ago out of dry macaroni that we glued into an elaborate pattern and sprinkled with gold glitter from the dollar store. Juan places the star on top of the tree’s funny evergreen tuft, where it twinkles in the late afternoon light.

He adjusts the topper several times to no avail. “I can’t seem to straighten it. Our tree is horribly crooked,” he says.

Years ago, such a predicament would have caused me great anxiety. A pit would have opened in the bottom of my stomach, rendering me as off kilter as the tree. But not anymore. I stare at the lilting evergreen with its akimbo star topper. “It’s perfectly imperfect,” I pronounce. “If I can lean into it, you can, too.”

And Juan does exactly that. He leaves the leaning tree and comes to my side, taking hold of my hand, and for a moment we both stand there admiring the imperfection.

That’s when there’s a knock at our door. “Are you expecting anyone?” I ask.

“No,” Juan replies.

I walk over to the door and peer out the peephole—a safety habit drilled into me by Gran when I was but a child. It’s a stranger, a striking young woman about my age, with high cheekbones, feline eyes, and bouncy blond hair tied back in a ponytail. She’s holding a long implement in her hand, but dueto the distortion of the fish-eye lens, it’s hard to tell what exactly it is.

“How can I be of assistance?” I call out as I keep watch through the peephole.

“I’m looking for the super,” the woman says as she bats a wisp of blond hair out of her eyes. “I just moved in two weeks ago. Toilet’s clogged again. Is he there?”

It’s then that I recognize what’s in her hand—a harmless plunger. I slide the dead bolt back and open the door.

“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong apartment,” I say. “Mr. Rosso, the landlord, is just down the hall. That door right there.”

Though I’m pointing very clearly to the door across the corridor, the woman pays me no mind whatsoever. Rather, she’s fixated on what—or rather who—is behind me.

“Am I ever glad to see you!” she says, and when I turn, I realize she’s talking to Juan. “My toilet’s acting up again, and I can’t figure out what the trick is. Any chance you can help?” she asks.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to the woman. “Juan’s a chef, not a plumber.”

“A chef?” the blonde repeats, her nose crinkling up as though she’s just sniffed the bell end of her plunger.

“I’m happy to help,” says Juan. “Just give me a second.”

Before I can say anything more, Juan saunters down our hallway toward the closet by our bathroom. He starts pulling out boxes and bins.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” I say to the plunger-wielding blonde. “My gran always advised me not to open doors to strangers, so…”

With that, I close the door in her face as gently as I can, then bolt it shut. I hurry down the hall to where Juan is rummaging through his toolkit.

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