Page 1 of Mistletoe Season
Return to Mistletoe
Kathleen Fuller
One
Emmy Banks hummed along to a cheery Christmas carol playing through the speakers as she hung a third sprig of mistletoe over the doorway of her antique shop, Mistletoe Antiques. She clasped her hands together and tilted her head. “Maybe one more—”
“Three isn’t enough, Mom?”
She glanced at Carina, who was standing behind a glass display case that doubled as a checkout counter. “There’s never enough mistletoe in Mistletoe, Missouri,” Emmy told her daughter.
Carina groaned. But she was smiling, her plum lipstick contrasting beautifully with her mahogany skin. She started unpacking a box of old books that had been dropped off earlier that morning. Emmy joined her, turning up the volume on her phone. Another Christmas hymn sang through the three Bluetooth speakers strategically placed around Emmy’s shop.
“Christmas carols too?” Carina asked.
“It’s December 1! Most places have been playing carols since before Thanksgiving.” Emmy slipped on her purple glasses with sparkly rhinestones on the arms, and picked up the pile of receipts next to the cash register. Just because she needed reading glasses at forty-one years old, those glasses didn’t have to be boring, and she had several pairs in different colors and styles. “When did you become a scrooge, Carina?”
“I’m not a scrooge.” She pulled out a worn book with a brownfrayed cover and brushed off the dust. “But by the time the Christmas season is in full swing, I’m a little tired of hearing the music.”
Emmy never was. She wouldn’t mind listening to Christmas carols and enjoying holiday decorations year-round. In fact, she had a fully adorned fake tree in her apartment living room that she meant to take down two years ago, but she kept it displayed because it was so festive. Dusting the tree was a pain, but worth it. During the summer, she even organized holiday movie watch parties in the small café in the back of the store—one movie every Thursday night. She also sold quite a few early Christmas gifts on those nights.
“Don’t forget, we’re decorating the store tomorrow night after we close,” she said to Carina.
Her daughter winced. “Sorry, Mom. I’ve got a date.”
Emmy peered at her over her glasses. “With Jeremy?”
Carina smiled shyly. “Yes. We’re going bowling.”
“Howromantic.” Emmy snickered and grabbed her accounting ledger and calculator. Ever since they opened the shop five years ago, Carina had tried to convince her to computerize the records. Emmy refused. She enjoyed the physical action of entering numbers on paper and tabulating them with her slim Sinclair Cambridge, a vintage calculator from the seventies she’d picked up at one of the many estate sales she loved to frequent.
Carina scoffed. “I think bowling is very romantic.”
“But you’re a terrible bowler,” Emmy pointed out. “And I mean that in the best way.”
“Oh, I’m awful, all right. But Jeremy doesn’t know that.” She sighed, hugging the book to her chest. “And when he finds out, he’ll have to give mepersonalcoaching.”
Laughing, Emmy slid past Carina. “Just don’t let him get toopersonal.”
“Mom,” Carina said, rolling her eyes. “I’m twenty-one years old. I can handle myself.”
Emmy kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I know you can. I should probably tell Jeremy to watch out.”
Carina gave her a good-natured grin and looked at the front of the book. “Marshall Blankenship?”
“Author or title?” Emmy snatched a pencil off the counter and tucked it behind her ear.
“Author.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said. “You’ll have to look him up. I’ll be in the café if you need me.”
“Oh wait,” Carina said, pulling out her phone. “We need today’s selfie.”
Emmy put her arm around Carina and pressed her cheek against her daughter’s as Carina held up the camera and they both smiled. For a split second Emmy saw their images on the phone screen—her own fair skin and short, straight blond hair a stark contrast to Carina’s dark complexion and short braids.
“Perfect!” Carina tapped on the screen to post the image on their social media platforms. Then she held out the phone to Emmy to show her the pic. “You look so cute, Mom.”
“And you’re gorgeous. I really should talk to Jeremy—”
