Page 91 of Mistletoe Season
“Ah, love,” she says after I tell her. “It’s what makes the world go round.”
It’s made mine spin pretty crazily, but not in a good way.
Her parting words to me as we’re leaving the plane are, “I hope some nice young man catches you under the mistletoe.”
No, no, no! If I didn’t have my hands full with my carry-on and my purse, I’d be plugging my ears. Too late. I’ve heard her and the first thing that swims in front of my eyes is a vision of Carwyn Davies coming up to me, moving like an elegant panther and holding up a sprig of mistletoe.
I recite the words Ramona gave me. “I am smart, I am strong, I can conquer any situation, and I can resist mistletoe.” Yes, I can.
Both Mom and Dad are waiting at the cell phone lot at Sea-Tac International Airport to pick me up. Dad owns a masonry supply store, and he’s taken the day off so he can, as he put it, “be with his girls.” He and Mom have been married thirty-nine years, and they still like to hang out together. Now that’s love.
I text them that I’ve arrived and make my way to the passenger pickup area. Within minutes, Dad’s vintage Volvo station wagon is pulling up curbside, and he’s out and running around the car to loadmy suitcase. Mom has ejected herself from the car, too, and is rushing to hug me like I’ve been gone for a million years.
Suddenly it feels like I have, and I’m so glad to see my parents. Moving away and adulting is all well and good, but their excitement over welcoming me back into the nest, knowing they love me and always will, no matter what? That makes me go all mushy inside and happy to have flown back.
Dad was a football player in college. The muscle has turned to flab, and he looks a little like a water heater with legs. And he’s losing his hair, poor guy. Although Mom says that’s okay because he has a perfectly shaped head for being bald. She made him shave his head because she said that ring of hair around his shiny top made him look like a monk, and she doesn’t want to be married to a monk.
Good ol’ Mom. She may be bossy, but she has a heart as big as Mount Rainier.
She looks great. Except for her hair, which she’s dyed an alarming shade of clown-wig red. Yikes! But that’s Mom. She likes to make a statement. I wonder what kind of statement this new hair color is supposed to be.
“Welcome home, Princess,” says Dad, taking my carry-on.
I know he’d hug me, but Mom got to me first and has her arms wrapped around me like a python. “It’s so good to have you back, baby girl,” she says.
“It’s good to be back,” I say.
With Mom’s arms around me, I feel the truth of it. Texts and Zoom are great, but hugs are the best.
“Everyone is excited to see you,” she says.
Everyonemeaning her friends, of course. I don’t have many everyones left in town, other than my best friend Scarlet’s little sister. Scarlet will be in town visiting, though, and I’m looking forward to seeing her. And, of course, I have my brother, Sam. Buthe’ll be obsessed with his new someone. Who will probably be obsessed with making me feel gauche.
“Your brother’s already talking about a Wii bowling marathon tonight.”
“I’ll lose,” I predict. I always do.
She chuckles, then hurries on. “Then I promised I’d bring you by the bookstore tomorrow to see Eloise. She wants to talk to you about your book event. She’s ordered fifty copies of that Christmas anthology you’re in. I hope it will be enough.”
“I hope there won’t be a ton of books left over,” I fret. Author humiliation when that happens!
“There won’t be,” Mom assures me. “Everyone’s coming.”
This is almost scarier than the idea of ending the evening with a pile of unsold books. Being the center of attention in a large group is not an introvert’s idea of a good time. And remember how much I hate reading in front of people.
“Gram’s knitting group alone is going to take up one row,” Mom continues.
I can’t help but smile at that. “Gram’s the best.”
She loves romance novels. She keeps begging me to write something super steamy. My grandma and sexy books—sometimes it’s hard for me to make the connection.
“And the women’s Bible study group from church will all be there,” Mom adds, which makes me glad I’m not listening to Gram’s advice. The last thing I want is the pastor’s wife buying a book of mine and stumbling on a scene I’ve written where clothes are flying everywhere and my characters are too busy doing all kinds of stuff to each other to bother shutting the door.
“Then there’s the talk to Mrs. Wharton’s freshman English class on Monday,” Mom hurries on.
More torture. I groan.
“They’ll love you,” Mom assures me.
