Page 7 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
I do my best, of course. I hang up garlands and lights and make snowmen in the yard like they’re eviscerating every terrible memory.
I try to make Max happy, and I’m mostly successful. But then, Max is good at being cheerful.
Dean and I found Mistletoe Springs together and moved up from Texas. We loved the old western-style Main Street with its raised pastel painted houses, high up wooden sidewalks, and shutters for doors that made entering any store fun. He was gonna be the town doctor, and I was gonna be a stay-at-home dad until Max got older.
Things didn’t work out how we planned.
He was presenting at a medical conference out of state. He wasn’t supposed to get carjacked while he was driving back to the airport. He wasn’t supposed to... My chest tightens, and I gulp water before bile can enter my throat and I relive all the horribleness.
He was supposed to return home.
After Dean passed, I wanted a job where I could be available to take care of Max easily, where I could do school pick-ups and drop-offs. I didn’t want to simply live off Dean’s life insurance.
Contracting work seemed the answer. I always was handy.
Less good with my feet apparently. I definitely failed at staying on a ladder during an airport stampede. Mr. Brennersaid I should have prepared for that anyway and reckon he’s right.
I glance at photos of Dean in the kitchen.
“Sorry, babe,” I tell him.
He smiles at me, shiny teeth in place.
“At some point you’re gonna look significantly younger than me,” I say. “You’ll win the good-looking contest.”
He continues to beam.
I snort and shake my head, then text a few of my contacts, letting them know I’m available for work.
I can’t believe I got my team fired from the airport. I’ll need to pay my team out of my own pocket and find new work for us. Not an ideal position before Christmas, that’s for sure. People think about construction projects when the whole world isn’t covered in ice and snow, and now that it is... My gut twists.
When the business stuff is sorted, and I’ve officially let my contacts know that my company is available for new projects, I start browsing cookbooks. At least I’ll be able to make Max a fancy meal tonight.
Hopefully. Cooking ain’t my thing.
I flip through the pages. Why has no one bothered to put pictures in these recipes? How am I supposed to know what these various types of food are supposed to look like?
I bake snickerdoodles, and the room fills with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. Then I prepare meat pie, and the good scent in the room vanishes. I try to roll the pastry out, but must have made a mistake somewhere, because it don’t stick together. I press the pastry with my hands, hoping my fingerprints will disappear once it bakes. Right now, it looks like something a first grader would be embarrassed to have made in art class. I remove some of the dough and roll it into circles, trying to make cute snowmen, though somehow they look vicious instead.
When the school bus drops Max off outside this house, when he leaps from the steps and waves goodbye to the driver, and everything in my heart eases and feels right, I tell myself that everything is wonderful.
And it is.
And I’m not wondering about what the King of Solberg is making of Mistletoe Springs at all. Not wondering if he’s gazing wide-eyed at them red hills with the same wonder I thought he glanced at me with.
But of course, he’s gazing at them with more wonder. Mistletoe Springs is awfully pretty. Anything between us was because I got the oxygen knocked out of me, and he’d never seen a man with mistletoe on his cheek and sparkling with crushed Christmas ornaments.
I let Max play outside after he gets home from school, then I hang Max’s coat on one of the wooden knobs by the kitchen door and tell Max to start his homework while I put the meat pie into the oven.
When my mind wanders to blue-green eyes and flaxen hair for the umpteenth time, I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but I google the king anyway. I immediately regret it when I see the king in lots of grand rooms with a pretty blonde woman. They gaze adoringly at each other. Guess that’s his dead wife. Apparently, she got sick. Why do people sometimes have to die so early? Ain’t fair.
There’s no sign that the king ain’t anything but straight. I’m being a real fool. If he weren’t straight, he would be dating fancy rich men who don’t get themselves fired in public.
I set my phone down and clean up the kitchen. I hope the food will taste good this time. I should have paid more attention when Dean explained how to cook and not just got lost in his smooth tenor voice and his sparkling green eyes.
“Dinner!” I call from the kitchen, putting on my best cheerful dad voice, the one that tries to sound like everything’s fine even when it’s not.
Patters sound over the floor. Then, Max slides into his seat like a baseball player sliding into home plate.
