Page 42 of Dancing in Lake Mistletoe

Our first stop is the church, where we unload two dozen poinsettias, before stopping into Norah’s flower shop to reload her trailer. Next, we park in front of town hall, where Sela and the mayor meet us outside to collect a couple of strands of garland, six cypress pine wreaths, and six poinsettias. We spend the entire afternoon making stop after stop. I meet so many newfaces. All are warm and welcoming as we deliver their holiday ware.

Our last stop is an eclectic little dress boutique on the far side of town.

“Lydia’s Dress Shop, as in Dutch’s mom, Lydia?” I ask as Norah and I follow Trixie, carrying a six-foot garland.

“The one and only,” Norah confirms.

The door chimes as we make our way inside. We walk to the counter in the middle of the store as Trixie calls out a greeting.

“Hello,” Lydia bellows as she emerges from a door in the back. “Oh, you’re just in time. I was about to change my front display.”

“Do you want some help?” Trixie asks.

“Oh, I don’t want to bother you guys,” she says.

Trixie waves her off. “You’re our last delivery for the day. And I don’t have to be back at the inn until this evening for the tree trimming.”

“Well, in that case, I could use a hand,” Lydia agrees appreciatively.

Norah and I set the garland on the carpet in front of the giant windows that overlook Main Street before dipping back out to the curb to grab the wreaths and poinsettias to complete Lydia’s order. Trixie begins helping her remove mannequins and fall decor from the window display case. Norah and I fix large red bows to the wreath for the entrance and hang it before joining them.

I run my fingers along the edge of the pine garland, smoothing it out as it drapes across the window frame. The pine needles feel rough and a little scratchy against my skin. This isn’t my first time working with holiday decorations, but it’s the first time I’m doing it on this scale and definitely the first time I’m helping a guy’s mom—a guy I’m not even sure what I am toyet. Just a Christmas fling maybe. Probably. Dutch hasn’t said otherwise, and neither have I.

The scent of pine and cinnamon fills the small dress shop. Lydia is standing next to me, holding a spool of red velvet ribbon in her hands. Dutch mentioned that she’s run this place for years, built it up from nothing, and he and his sister, Farah, spent their childhood running around this shop while she worked. But he didn’t mention how vibrant she is, how she practically radiates warmth. There’s an ease to her, something magnetic. Even though we barely know each other, I already feel comfortable around her.

“I was thinking we could add these little golden baubles,” Lydia says, holding up a box of delicate glass ornaments. “What do you think, Mindi?”

I look from her to the holiday scene taking shape before us.

“They’re perfect,” I say, offering her a smile. “They’ll catch the light just right.”

The shop, with its vintage dresses hanging neatly on racks and soft jazz music playing from a speaker in the corner, feels cozy and intimate. The dresses themselves are gorgeous—1950s cocktail numbers, flowy bohemian gowns, and sleek and sophisticated formals, all arranged artfully under the soft glow of string lights. It’s like stepping into a store in Manhattan.

“Your place is gorgeous. It reminds me of the boutiques in SoHo and Tribeca.”

“Really?” she asks, pride in her voice.

I nod. “It’s a gem.”

She passes me one of the ornaments, and I carefully loop it onto the garland. Through the window, I can see the quiet street, lined with snow-dusted cars and twinkling Christmas lights. The air outside is brisk, but here, it’s warm—the heater humming in the background, the smell of Lydia’s chai tea drifting from the counter, where she set a steaming pot and four mugs.

“Willa and I do most of our shopping here. It’s the only place in town to get anything other than practical winter clothes. Sometimes, a girl just wants a feminine touch,” Norah muses.

“Do you do this every year?” I ask, glancing at Lydia as she steps back to survey our work.

“Every year,” she replies, her voice soft and filled with nostalgia. “It’s one of my favorite traditions. Dutch used to help when he was younger, though he was never much for the decorating part. More into the hot cocoa and cookie-eating side of things. Now, I have to bribe him with babysitting or a home-cooked meal to get him out here. The boy stays so busy.”

I laugh, picturing a younger version of Dutch making a mess of things while trying to help his mom.

“I guess he hasn’t changed much,” I say, half-joking.

Lydia chuckles, but there’s something else there too—a knowing look in her eyes. She knows about us, I realize. Dutch must’ve told her. And suddenly, I feel a little exposed, like maybe I’m not just some holiday fling after all. Maybe this means more to him than he’s let on.

“I’m glad he’s spending time with someone like you,” Lydia says, breaking the brief silence. “He’s been … lonely, I think, though he’d never admit it. His entire world revolves around Josie. It’s good to see him living a little.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. Dutch and I haven’t talked about anything serious. It’s been all stolen kisses, a few shared moments, and one toe-curling night together, but nothing with weight behind it. And yet the way Lydia says it—like she knows something I don’t—makes me feel like it could be more. But how? I live in New York. He loves it here. And our remaining time together disappears with every passing day.

I clear my throat, trying to shake off the sudden sadness that washes over me. “Well, I’m happy to help, and this is way morefun than I thought it would be. I’ve never done this before—decorating a storefront.”

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