Page 43 of Mistletoe & Magic
“Don’t start,” I mutter. “And Junie gets this from you.”
Donna raises a brow. “Start what? I haven’t said a word about the fact that my son hasn’t looked this happy in years. Or that Ivy fits at your side like she’s meant to be here. Or that Junie might be on to something with all that mistletoe she’s been scattering around your house.”
I rub the back of my neck. “She’s the nanny, Ma. Nothing more.”
Donna’s smile softens, and that’s almost worse than when she’s teasing. “Sweetheart, I’m a romance author. I know it when I see a story unfolding. And believe me, this” —she taps the photo— “is a story that’s unfolding.”
I shake my head, but I can still feel Ivy’s warmth pressed into me, her hair brushing my shoulder.
Donna slips the picture into her bag as if it’s evidence. “I’ll get this framed and make copies. Junie will love it.”
“Don’t—” I start, but she’s already walking toward the farm stand, humming like Christmas came early.
I stand there, with the sound of laughter in the distance and the smell of pine wrapping around me. Families wander past with their trees, kids giggling. And in the middle of it, I catch sight of Ivy, laughing as Junie tugs her mitten, both of them glowing in the fading afternoon light as they talk to someone in the farm stand.
My mother’s meddling might drive me crazy. But when I think about the way Ivy fits against me like she belongs, I don’t know what I think anymore. I feel like I’m watching a movie of my life play out and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I just have to sit back and watch as my life unfolds. And for once, it feels like it’s unfolding in a way that doesn’t hurt. But then I think of how it could hurt, and I’m back to shutting down again.
A week after the photography session, we are in town. The whole town turns out every year for the tree-lighting ceremony in downtown Wisteria Cove. Main Street glows with festive lights strung across storefronts, wreaths hanging from every lamppost. The air smells of salt from the harbor. This evening it’s gotten so cold that it bites the nose, but it feels good because everyone’s bundled together, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the countdown.
I stand near the front with Junie perched on my shoulders. She waves her mittened hands at her friends from school, calling out names, giggling so hard I can feel it rattle down into my chest with how happy she is. This right here is why I wanted to move her back to Wisteria Cove, so that she could experience all of these traditions and have a great childhood here like I did. Sure, it was just my Mom, Finn, and me. But wehad Pete, and friends. That almost made up for not having a dad.
This is why when Sloane first told me she was unexpectedly pregnant, I knew that I was made to be a dad. That this was something that was going to change our lives. And it changed mine in the best of ways. I love getting to show Junie everything and have our own family traditions. I knew what kind of dad I was going to be. The kind who stuck around and made sure she felt loved every single day.
Beside me, my mom chats with neighbors, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She’s got her arm looped through Pete’s, steadying him. It makes my chest pull tight.
At Ivy’s insistence, I’m wearing the new scarf she bought me. I have to admit, I like it.
Pete looks smaller tonight. A little more tired. His face is pale under the glow of the lights, his shoulders not as straight as they used to be. He smiles when folks come up to shake his hand, or clap him gently on the back, but there’s a weariness in him now that wasn’t there last Christmas.
The realization that this is his last Christmas kicks me square in the chest. He told us this fall that doctors diagnosed him with stage four lung cancer, and he didn’t have much time. So, I think it was an unspoken agreement amongst all of us that we were going to make sure that Pete felt loved for the rest of his days, us making the most of them with him.
I’ve been bracing for this, telling myself we’ll have plenty of time. But time feels like it’s slipping through our fingers. Pete’s been like a father to me and Finn our whole lives. My dad left when Ma was pregnant with Finn. I don’t even remember his face, and I don’t want to. But I do remember Pete, steady and sure, showing me how to hammer a nail, how to tie the perfect fishing knot, how to drive an old truck withoutstripping the gears.
He’s always been there. And now he looks frail. Mortal. And that doesn’t seem right. The thought rips something sharp in my chest, making my heart squeeze and my nose run with emotion.
My mom and Pete have never been a couple, but they’ve always been best friends. Companions. This fall he moved into her house with her so that she could take care of him. Finn and I are trying to help as much as possible. He’s our family.
Ivy must notice it, too. She’s standing on my other side, hands tucked into her coat pockets, her breath white in the air. When Pete chuckles weakly at something Donna says, Ivy glances at me, and her eyes soften. No words are needed. She just gives me a look as if she understands. She slides her arm through mine and gives the smallest squeeze. Quick. Gentle. Solidarity.
He means so much to all of us.
For a moment, the crowd noise fades, and it’s just us, standing together under the lights with Junie giggling above me and Pete smiling thinly beside Ma. The weight of what’s coming presses down, but Ivy’s touch steadies me. Reminds me I’m not carrying it alone. We’re all going to have a crater in our hearts when Pete passes away. Life is brutally unfair.
The mayor, Sammy Briggs, steps up to the microphone and starts the countdown.Ten, nine, eight… The crowd joins in, voices echoing down the street.
When we hitone, the tree bursts to life. Strings of white and gold blink on, ornaments glittering, the star at the top shining against the night sky. The crowd cheers. Junie gasps, clapping her little hands.
Pete’s smile widens, his eyes bright despite the shadows under them. He leans close to Donna and murmurs something that makes her laugh, a sound that cracks my heart and mends it at the same time.
The ceremony rolls into the cookie swap, tables set up with tins and trays from every family in town. Kids dart between the tables, sugar-high and giddy.
Ivy steps forward to the table where we’d set a big red container. “All right,” she says, grinning, “Junie, and I made my famous hot cocoa peppermint cookies.” She pops the lid, and the smell hits instantly, filling the air with chocolate, mint, and marshmallow. She passes them around, and the first bite is chewy perfection. Rich chocolate, the cool bite of peppermint, gooey marshmallow bits melted right into the dough.
Ivy watches me as I try the cookie and smiles with relief when I nod and smile, “These are really good.”
“Of course they are, Dad. We made them,” Junie says as if this is already a known fact.
“These are sinful,” Donna declares, snatching a second.
