Page 7 of Dancing in Lake Mistletoe

“Oh, we like to be scared to death, but we have a couple of tiny humans helping out, so the first show of the night will beHocus Pocus. Then, once the kiddos are off to bed, we’ll pull out the big guns.”

Keller snickers beside her.

She turns to him and cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just bracing myself to get no sleep for the next few nights because someone will be elbowing me to go check things out every time the wind blows outside.”

She narrows her eyes. “That tree branch broke loose and was scraping against the windowpane every time the breeze kicked up.”

“That branch was a twig,” he corrects.

“A very noisy twig.”

Beckham chooses this moment to spit out the nipple of his bottle and giggle.

All our eyes go to him as he coos up at his grandmother.

“See,” Keller muses. “Even little man knows his momma’s a big chicken.”

I step out onto the porch, and a shiver runs through me as I wrap the scarf around my neck. Mid-October in New York still sees high temperatures of close to seventy, but here, in the mountains of Idaho, it’s already in the forties.

Looking at the lake, I pop my earbuds in as I cross the street to the footpath that follows the shoreline for a light, easy jog. I usually swim or jump rope to get my cardio in since dancers are advised against running, especially on asphalt or concrete, because it can lead to injuries, such as shin splints, stress fractures, or joint pain. We rely on our bodies for precise movements, and any injury can significantly impact our performance. Power walking and what I refer to aswogging—a combination of walking and jogging—are generally safe as long as we pay close attention to our surroundings.

Careful to keep my pace slow and steady, I make my way onto the path and head toward the pedestrian bridge I see in the distance. The trail is empty, save for a few people walking their dogs, and as I make my way around, I take in the sights.

The town is decorated for fall. All the homes and inns that dot the foothills surrounding the lake are adorned with rustic-hued floral displays, hay bales, corn stalks, and spooky Halloween scenes. The public spaces around town hall are filled with harvest-themed decor—wheelbarrows full of pumpkins and gourds, lampposts wrapped with autumn leaf garlands, giant scarecrows, and large planters bursting with fall flowers, like chrysanthemums, asters, and ornamental cabbage. All of it gives the town a cozy ambiance, but if you look closely, you can see the beginnings of the Christmas preparations. Strings of lights are twined around the posts of the gazebo. Window displays on the storefronts are being removed, and some have already been replaced with holiday scenes and lights. An area on the south side of the lake has a temporary outbuilding, assembled and fenced off to hold what looks to probably be a Christmas tree lot.

I can’t wait to see it all come together. Before I left for the airport, I did a little online snooping and found a bounty of photos of Lake Mistletoe in all its festive glory. They were breathtaking.

I bet it will be a hundred times better in person.

As I round a corner, I catch sight of a group of little girls in leotards and tutus, their hair in topknots, filing out of a two-story brick building. I slow as I watch them excitedly sprint out to meet grown-ups, most likely their parents, in the parking lot.

One girl in particular draws my attention. She has dark brown hair, and she leaps across the asphalt into the arms of a man. A tall, handsome man with broad shoulders and a sharp jawline. He catches her with ease and turns to carry her to a red truck.

They remind me of Leia and her dad. She’s a little girl I met this past summer in North Carolina. My best friend, Eden, is her dance teacher. She was the cutest little thing.

I remember being a tiny dancer, and my teachers were like family. My mother was in the military, and we moved around a lot when I was young. So, making friends wasn’t easy. As soon as I formed a bond with someone, I’d have to change cities and start at a new school. No matter where we landed, Mom would find the closest studio and enroll me immediately.

Back then, dance was a lifeline. My one constant.

It was my only friend.

Dutch

Ipick up Josie, and we head to the Snow Bird Café for cheeseburgers and fries.

When we enter, I lead her to the counter in front of the grill. I pick her up and place her on one of the red leather stools. The owner, Joe Walsh, greets us as I scoot her up close to the ledge.

“Hello there. How’s my favorite ballerina this evening?” Joe asks as he places two fountain Cokes, loaded with maraschino cherries, in front of us.

“I learned how to doa-sheppytoday,” Josie tells him.

“A-sheppy? That sounds fun,” Joe says.

“It is! See, you jump and open your legs and make a house, and then you jump and bring them in and make a diamond.” Shegets down from the stool and demonstrates the move for him. Her little feet turn out to the sides, and her arms go over her head as she jumps in the air.

“Wow! That was something else,” Joe says as he claps.

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