Page 35 of A Little Merry

“Dusty Springfield,Wishin’ and Hopin’,1964.”

“Who? And when? How is this relevant?”

“Oh honey, you’re truly missing out. Dusty was a marvelous singer. Look her up.Son of a Preacher Manis one of my all-time favorites, but that’s for another story… wait… Billy Ray… our Billy Ray… Dusty’s Billy Ray. By any chance is Billy Ray related to a minister or a man of the cloth?”

“How do you know about Billy Ray’s father? I thought he was out of your scope, or did he tell you that his dad was a minister in our town. He retired last year.”

“Oh. My. Santa!” she said, then sat down hard on the bed. “You’re not going to believe this, but Billy Ray is the character in the song…Son of a Preacher Man.My all-time favorite song. The one song I used to play over and over again.Being good isn’t always easy.It’s my destiny…started telling me everything is all right.It’s our destiny. Your Billy Ray is my destiny.Can I get away again tonight?Oh, my word! Thishasto work.” She jumped out of bed like she had a spring under her butt. “You’ve got to get out of that bed right now! We have some hard work to do,‘cause we won’t get ‘em wishin’ and hopin’.Now let’s go! We’ve got to mend a broken heart.”

AFTER LISTENING TO Dusty Springfield’s greatest hits enough times so that I knew most of the lyrics by heart, I felt empowered to confront Lucas.

I did the only thing I knew would work.

I played my Christmas music so loud, my windows rattled.

And sure enough, not five minutes later, Lucas stood in my doorway looking especially good, shirt open to reveal his perfectly ripped chest, hair all tousled, and a scruffy chin that begged me to touch it… but I didn’t.

“What the hell are you doing, Merry?” he asked, over Nat King Cole.

“Wrapping last-minute gifts,” I told him, ignoring his real question.

“I’m talking about the music,” he yelled. “I can’t handle the music.”

I held out some earplugs. “These should help.”

He peered down at them, then back up at me. “I can’t make a video with this music coming through my walls.”

“You might try the roof. I don’t think you can hear it up there.”

“This isn’t fair.”

“Who said anything about playing fair?”

“We have rules.” He sounded official, like if he were a cop, he’d haul me away.

“So do I, but you don’t seem to care about my rules. Only yours.”

“What do I have to do to get you to turn it down?”

“You’re standing under the mistletoe.” I took a step closer. “And now, so am I.”

He stared at me for a moment longer, as if he were contemplating the situation. I walked in even closer, but it didn’t work. He shook his head and walked back to his apartment.

I still wasn’t ready to give up.

“Think,” I told myself. “What can you do next?”

I shut the door and paced around my apartment for a moment, then I remembered that he’d forgotten that he lefthis toolbelt in my toolbox. I found it and raced back to his apartment, knocking on his door.

He swung it open. “What?”

“You forgot this,” I told him, holding it up.

“I don’t need it anymore. You can keep it.”

He went to close the door, but I stood in his way. “I’m not giving up. Other folks in your life might have given up on you, but I’m not going to. Just so you know, I’m here for the duration.”

“A big waste of your time. Now, will you please leave me alone and turn down your music?”

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