Page 22 of The Mistletoe Mystery

I don’t answer.

His face falls like a cake removed from the oven too soon. “Oh, I see,” he says. “I guess this means you’re not talking to me right now.”

I don’t say anything. Not a word escapes my mouth.

“But, Molly, we never argue. And whenever we disagree, we always talk about things to find a resolution. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

He’s read myMaid’s Guide & Handbook to Housekeeping, Cleaning & Maintaining a State of Pinnacle Perfectionso many times his bedside copy is dog-eared and worn.

I suddenly feel so tired. Maybe if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up and see the world clearly again. Maybe everything will go back to the blissful way it once was.

“I need to rest,” I announce. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Of course,” says Juan. “You’ve had a long day.”

I stand and make my way down the hall, Juan following close behind, but when I veer away from our bedroom, about to turn the knob to enter the other room, Juan stops me.

“Wait,” he says. “You’re going to lie down…in there?”

By “in there,” he means in Gran’s old room. I rarely go “in there.” Her bedroom is a shrine, kept exactly as she left it when she died several years ago. I enter to clean and dust once a week, but otherwise, it’s a door I prefer to keep closed. Except now.

I turn the knob and enter. Juan stands in the hallway, watching me tentatively.

“I need to be alone,” I say. In all our years together, I’ve never said those words, never felt the urge.

Juan’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I understand. I’m here if you need anything,” he says.

I enter the room and click the door closed behind me. Gran’s bedroom is as it always was, the bed neatly made with herruffled blue bedspread, her pillows plump and wrinkle-free. On her bedside table is the heart-shaped brass jewelry box I gave her for Christmas many years ago. I lie down on her bed, curling into a ball and nestling my head into her pillow. “Gran,” I say out loud. “I don’t know what to do. I’m lost, and I’m all alone.”

Getting lost is the first step to being found.

The tears come strong and fast, and only when Gran’s pillow is steeped in my sorrow do I finally surrender to sleep. I’m startled awake by a muted knock on Gran’s door. The knob turns and the door opens slowly. Juan stands in the shadows at the threshold.

“Molly, it’s late,” he whispers. “Are you sleeping in there tonight?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Okay,” he says. “Molly, whatever I did to hurt you, I am so, so sorry. I love you more than anything in the world. I know you don’t want to talk right now, but everything will look better in the morning. I promise.”

With the lights out, I can barely make out his face in the hallway. I turn away from him and focus instead on the only light emanating from Gran’s room—the heart-shaped brass jewelry box shining brightly in the dark.

Chapter 10

When I wake, it takes a moment to orient myself. Why am I in Gran’s room? Then I remember…

I reach up behind me and open the curtains. The light falls across Gran’s bed, bathing everything in a warm glow. It’s true what Juan said last night and what Gran used to say—everything looks better in the morning light. Nothing has changed from yesterday to today, but somehow I feel a bit better.

I don’t know why it comes to me, but suddenly I recall that old childhood game played with a daisy—pick a petal,he loves me;pick the next,he loves me not.It occurs to me that for every petal I’ve plucked lately, I’ve drawn but one conclusion, allowing for no other:he loves me not.In the light of day, I have to wonder: have I been going about this all wrong, plucking and plucking until the flower isn’t even a flower anymore but a bare and spindly stem?

Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative.

It gives me an idea. What if I search for evidence that he loves me instead of fixating on the proof that he does not?

I hear Juan stirring in the kitchen. He’s humming “White Christmas” as he prepares our breakfast. I can smell the scent of coffee drifting through the crack under the door.

I get out of Gran’s bed and head directly to the kitchen. I stand in the doorway underneath the sprig of mistletoe. Juan, bare-chested, his hair a rumpled mess, scrambles eggs for two on the stove. The bags under his eyes are the darkest they’ve ever been, and yet when he sees me, his eyes light up like our little misfit Christmas tree. He doesn’t speak, but I know it’s not the silent treatment. He’s waiting for me to speak first.

“I’m sorry about last night,” I say. “I know it’s not right to go to bed angry, but I felt overwhelmed and didn’t know what else to do.”

---