Page 2 of The Mistletoe Mystery

His eyes lit up then, and that devious little dimple on his cheek made an appearance as it always does when he gets an outrageous idea. “You’re right, Molly. I have a better plan.”

This is how I found myself back in the main square the day after. This time, I sat in a discarded children’s sleigh fished from a dumpster by Juan Manuel, who was wearing an old fur coat that once belonged to Gran, dollar-store reindeer antlers on hishead, and a red clown nose. He pulled me around the main square on the sleigh—twice!—and I laughed the entire time, as did everyone else who witnessed our silly, joy-filled spectacle. A photo of this moment sits on Gran’s curio cabinet to this day. My head is thrown back in laughter, and Juan is looking back at me—expectant, jubilant, and maybe (I hope) a little bit in love. Who knew a reindeer could cherish a carriage ride so much?

Now, as I lie in bed struggling to sleep through the early Sunday morning hours, I watch Juan in the shadowy light, slumbering peacefully on his pillow. So many memories of Christmases past swirl in my mind. Soon, we will spend our fifth holiday season together—may it be as merry and bright as all the ones we’ve shared before.

Juan’s face is soft and so dreamy sweet. Even though it’s nearly eight o’clock, I won’t wake him. Not yet. He deserves a good lie-in. He’s been so tired lately. That man of mine never stops. He’s always seeing to some chore or another, making sure everyone’s okay—taking care of friends, family, colleagues, guests at the hotel, and me.

Yesterday, we worked a long day at the Regency Grand, me toiling in guest rooms as Head Maid and Juan doing double duty in the downstairs kitchen. He was promoted to Head of Pastry a couple of years ago. This means that during the holidays, he’s in charge of many more preparations, all of them above and beyond his regular responsibilities.

When we arrived home after yesterday’s shift, I was totally exhausted. I took my shoes off, wiped the bottoms, put themaway in the front closet, then immediately flopped on the sofa in the living room.

“Good golly, Miss Molly,” Juan said, eyeing me from the front entrance. “You’re socansada.”

“I am tired,” I replied. “It’s Christmas mayhem in that hotel. You must be exhausted, too.”

He shrugged, then took off his shoes, wiped them down, and placed them neatly beside mine in the closet. A moment later, he was by my side, throwing Gran’s lone-star quilt over me and planting a gentle kiss on my forehead.

“You rest. I’ll cook us dinner.”

I noticed then how dark circles had taken refuge under his lovely brown eyes. He looked so pale and worn out. I know he’s working too hard, but he never complains, despite burning the candle at both ends. Sometimes, I think there’s a lot on his mind, too, maybe more than I know. But what it is that troubles him, I couldn’t say. He’s not one to share his worries. Like Gran, he prefers to keep them contained and out of sight, hoping that if he does so, they’ll simply shrivel from lack of light and cease to plague him. If only it were that simple.

“Juan,” I said as he stood above me where I lay on the sofa. “You don’t have to cook me dinner. You cooked for hundreds of people today at the hotel. We’ll just have toast and tea.”

“But it’s Spaghetti Saturday!” he replied. “And it’s date night with my tired but most dazzling princess.”

He danced all the way to the kitchen then, throwing on Gran’s old paisley apron and doing a little salsa spin in the threshold to make me laugh. It worked.

Spaghetti Saturday, Taco Tuesday, Huevos Wednesday…. For years, I’ve tried to convince Juan that I, too, can cook for us and relieve some of the burden in the kitchen, but he insists on doing it all himself, every meal laid before me as proof of his love.

“Molly, you clean from dusk to dawn. The least I can do is make our meals. Don’t you know what they say about happiness?La felicidad, así como el amor, entra por la cocina.”

“Which means?” I asked.

“Happiness, like love, enters through the kitchen.”

He started to hum then, disappearing amid a clatter of pots and pans. The sound lulled me, and before I knew it, I’d fallen asleep right there in the living room. I woke up only when Juan was by my side again, kissing my cheek and announcing, “Princesa,your dinner is served.”

I peeled back Gran’s quilt and groggily made my way to the kitchen, where the lights were dimmed and our worn wooden table was set with two heaping plates of spaghetti and meatballs. A lit candle between them cast a warm glow over everything, including the beautiful man in a paisley apron who was pulling out my chair for me and urging me to sit, eat, and enjoy.

And I do enjoy. Every minute of our lives together is a pure and simple pleasure. How I managed to be so lucky as to win this man, I’ll never know. Sometimes, I wonder what I did to deserve him.

Last night, after dinner, I insisted on doing the dishes. Juan eventually relented.

“Fine,” he said. “While you’re cleaning up, I’ll do some chores downstairs. And I’ll pick up our mail.”

He returned awhile later with a small package in his hands. “My mother sent something from Mexico,” he said. “I wonder what it could be.”

He opened the package as I looked on, removing a strange contraption from the envelope—a colorful braided tube made of dried palm leaves.

“Ay, mamá,” he said, laughing to himself. “I can’t believe she sent one.”

“What on earth is that?” I asked.

“Proof that my mother has ideas. And that she’s very clever,” he replied. “Come closer. Let me show you,” Juan said as that devious little dimple made a reappearance on his cheek.

“Hold out your hand,” he instructed.

I held it out.

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