Page 5 of The Mistletoe Mystery

“I’ve suddenly woken up,” he replies. “You?”

“Wide awake. For hours.”

His hands find my face, and he holds them to my cheeks as though reciting a silent prayer. Then he kisses me.

It’s like this every time—I melt at his touch. There’s a fire in me I never knew existed, one that ignites the second he lays his hands upon me. Somehow, he expels all shadows of grief and doubt that creep into my being with alarming regularity. He is my balm and my comfort. No one but him can so easily banish my worldly concerns. Before Juan, I had no idea that such a pure pleasure as this existed, that love could be expressed in this physical form. It is a delight I could never have dreamed of, a wonder for which I have no words.

Later, we rest in each other’s arms as the light streams through the crack in the curtains. For once, the dust motes dance on the sunbeams and I have not the least inclination to clean them. Never in my life have I felt more content than in this moment.

Suddenly, Juan gasps out loud, and I almost jump out of my skin. “What is it?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“The Advent calendar! I almost forgot—today is averyspecial day.”

“Juan, you scared me half to death. I thought there was some sort of emergency.”

“Sorry,” he says. “You know how excited I get about the Advent calendar. Come! I can’t wait for you to see today’s gift.”

With that, he hops out of bed, stumbles into his reindeer pajama bottoms, and shuffles to the living room while singing “Feliz Navidad” at a decibel level that I fear may elicit noise complaints from our neighbors.

Alone in our bedroom, I make my way back into my matching reindeer pj’s and smooth out my rumpled hair. I wonder what treat Juan has in store for me today. For a couple of weeks now, he’s been thrilling me with daily delights, populating each index-card drawer with thoughtful trinkets and treasures. So far this month, I’ve received a silver thimble, an upcycled turn-down chocolate from the Regency Grand, a green pet pom-pom named Frank (complete with googly eyes Juan glued on himself), some jingle bells, a fresh and festive dusting cloth, and a miscellany of other marvelousobjets.

Once I’m properly dressed, I check myself in the full-length mirror on our bedroom door. My cheeks are unusually flushed. My sharp black bob is mostly back in ship-shape order, if not perfectly coiffed then at least acceptably neat for first thing on a Sunday morning. As I study myself, a dark shadow crosses my face. What does Juan see in me? I wonder. When he could choose so many others, why in the world would he choose me?

There’s no one more precious in all the world.

It’s Gran’s voice I hear, and for a moment, I swear I can see her behind me in the mirror, her hands on my shoulders. Butwhen I turn, she’s gone. My eyes are playing tricks on me as they sometimes do.

I smooth out my bob one more time, then amble to the living room, where Juan has tuned in to Christmas carols on the radio; he’s singing along, making up the words when he can’t remember the real ones. He stands by Gran’s giant Advent calendar, a Cheshire cat smile on his face and his tousled hair like a rooster’s off-kilter coxcomb. He points to today’s date on a drawer. “Open sesame,” he says.

I approach and slide the drawer open. Inside is a snow globe, which I pick up and cradle in the palms of my hands. The scene within the glass orb takes my breath away. It’s the Regency Grand in miniature, complete with two tiny figures poised halfway up the red-carpeted stairs.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“Mr. Snow was throwing it away,” says Juan. “Apparently, these were made years ago to drum up special-events business at the hotel. Give it a shake, Molly.”

I do so, and the globe swirls with white specks, turning the hotel into a magical wintry wonderland.

“Snowflakes!” I exclaim. “And look! There’s a little tuxedoed doorman on one knee helping a woman in white up the stairs.”

“Really, Molly?” says Juan. “Is that what you see?”

“Yes,” I reply. “What do you see?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answers. He turns away from me then, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve made some kind of faux pas because his smile has completely disappeared. But when he turns back to me, all is well again, his smile kind and warm.

“I should know better than to insist you see what I do, Molly,” he says. “And besides, this is your gift, not mine. Do you like it?” he asks, pointing to the miniature world in my hands.

“I love it,” I reply. “It’s a treasure. And so are you.”

He wraps his arms around me. “Tell me, Molly. What do you want for Christmas more than anything else?”

I consider this. Gran and I used to make long Christmas lists for each other, filled with impossible items that we could never afford or that simply didn’t exist—a time-traveling unicorn; a luxurious rent-free apartment; education without school or bullies; endless clotted cream with scones. Buried amongst the impossible was the one item within reach.

“Tea towels?” I say now.

“Honestly, Molly.” He looks at me with an expression that may very well be exasperation. “Can you dream just a little bigger for once? Please? If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

On the radio, a familiar singer croons a carol, offering the exact answer I hear in my head.

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