Page 3 of Moonlight Over Mistletoe
Christopher had to admit he wasn't being fair to either of his children. Perhaps the time had come for him to pass on the reins. However, he wasn't sure which one to choose. That was a decision he hoped would work itself out. With a groan, he stood and walked across the room, stepping over piles of paper and around antique furniture. He needed to clean his office before he injured himself. “Coffee?” he asked his daughter as he filled his mug.
“No, thanks.”
He rested against the bureau and took a sip. “I'll think about it. That's all I can promise. Just don't go planning your coronation as Chief Operating Santa quite yet.”
Shelly chuckled. “I wouldn't dream of it. Besides, I don't look good in red. Adam, on the other hand—”
“Glad to see that you've worked it all out without me,” he said with feigned annoyance. At least that Christmas wish came true.
Shelly left his office after giving him a peck on the cheek, and he returned to his desk, nearly tripping over the binder of this year's candy order. He really needed to stop using paper. It's not that he was a technophobe. Far from it, but he liked to see things, to hold them in his hands. Perhaps that's why his office was jam-packed, full of both work and memorabilia.
He picked the glass paperweight off his desk and stared into it as if it would provide answers. The paperweight had been his grandfather's. The desk had been handed down through the generations. The globe had belonged to his mother. Shelly was right in her assessment of his office. It was indeed a shrine to Christmas past. For the first time, Christopher wondered if his grip on the past was so strong that he'd sacrificed his future.
3
Eleanorclutchedherparcelsas she exited the post office. The day was spectacular. No wind and not a cloud in the sky. The sun, low on the horizon, was bright and intense, forcing Eleanor to bow her head as tears pricked her eyes. Head down, she didn't notice the solid figure in her path until she collided with what hit like a wall. Her parcels fell to the ground.
Indignation flared. What a careless oaf. Couldn’t they see she had her arms full? She snapped her head up, a sharp retort ready on her lips, and froze.
Why, it was Christoper Kringle, Martin's grandfather. He was a large, burly man, probably close to six feet tall. His white hair and white beard certainly played into his name. Still, with a moniker like Christopher Kringle, Eleanor supposed it was easier to go with the image than fight it. But really, what had his parents been thinking?
She shouldn't have been too surprised to find Christopher in Mistletoe. From what she'd heard, he frequently visited Martin's toy factory. However, the only time they’d met was at Martin's wedding to Sadie, when he'd asked her to dance.
She glanced up to find Christopher's sparkling blue eyes and his white beard twitching with a smile of recognition. Eleanor's stomach dropped.
“Hello, Mr. Kringle. I didn't expect to see you here in Mistletoe.”
“Please, call me Christopher,” he said as he bent down to pick up her packages. As he rose, packages in hand, and passed them to her, he said, “That was quite the welcome.”
Eleanor felt heat creep up her neck, prickling beneath her tightly coiled bun. “My apologies. The sun. It’s very bright, you see. Now, if you'll excuse me.” She made to step around him, but he placed a large hand on her arm. Oh boy. That touch brought back the memories of his hands when they’d danced. One on her back, the other holding hers, as they’d waltzed. It had been her first dance in years and had felt almost magical. Not that he needed to know that.
“No need to rush off. Tell me how you've been,” Christopher asked.
“How I've been?” she blurted out. Immediately regretting it. It was a simple question between two people who'd met before. But aside from Vivian, she'd become accustomed to people being more than happy for her to rush off. Eleanor knew she had few friends. She was fine with that. But was she so out of practice with common niceties that she behaved like a fool? “I'm fine, thank you. Yourself?”
He gave a hearty chuckle. “This time of year keeps me busy.”
Was that a hint that he wanted to get going? “Well, I'm sure you have more important business to attend to than standing in the cold with me. I wouldn't want to keep you.”
A gust of wind whipped around them, causing Eleanor to shiver and pull her coat tighter.
“Perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere warmer?” he asked.
What? No. Absolutely not. What would the townspeople think? Eleanor Frost, out socializing with Christopher Kringle. It was ridiculous. “I'm afraid I have errands to run.”
“Ah, of course. Another time then, Eleanor.”
The use of her first name sent an unexpected jolt through her body.
His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his smile grew beneath his snowy white beard as he stepped back and tipped his hat at her. “It was lovely to see you, Eleanor. Perhaps we'll bump into each other again soon.”
Eleanor's step faltered. “Yes. Perhaps,” she said, leaving Christopher in front of the post office. She quickened her already brisk pace. What nonsense. He was merely being polite. Yet the memory of their dancing at Martin's wedding surged before her yet again—his steady hand at her waist, the surprising grace in his movements as they waltzed across the dance floor.
Nonsense, she chided herself. Still… as the wind stung her cheeks, Eleanor hoped, just a little, that they might cross paths again.
***
As Christopher continued down the street, he couldn't help but steal a glance back at Eleanor Frost. Her posture was rigid and unyielding, her sharp features etched with lines of experience and maybe a hint of sorrow. And yet, when they’d danced, she’d transformed. Her movements had become graceful. Her eyes filled with fire.
