Page 95 of The Holiday Fakers
She scoffs. “I’ve got more important people to be photographing.”
“I’ve got the mistletoe in my bag!” Mom calls over. “And some white string to tie it up with so no one will see it against the snow.”
“You’d rather shoot a Hallmark Christmas card than me?” Hudson asks Mia.
“Well, duh! One of our generation’s finest actors, or someone who thinks fart jokes are funny?”
“I don’t need you anyway,” he replies. “Channel 6’sDown East News Nowis sending a crew to cover it.”
“That’s exciting, honey!” Mom says. “We’ll all be there cheering you on when you cross the line!”
Woven rugs have been placed at the start and finish lines of the race to help with traction, and marshals are verifying the socks that competitors are wearing. Hudson takes off his boots and puts on two more pairs of socks.
“How many are you allowed to wear?” Brody asks him.
“As many as you like, but three are recommended,” he replies. “And the outer one must be 100% wool and either knitted yourself or made by someone in Hideaway.”
He pulls the socks up his calves and secures tape around the top so they won’t fall down while he’s running.
“There’s a two-kilometer or a six-kilometer race,” Dad tells Brody. “With different categories, as well as prizes for the best outfits. The faster runners usually compete in the longer distance, meaning the two races don’t finish too far apart in time.”
Hudson gets his socks checked, has a number pinned to his front, and then joins the fastest at the front for the beginning of the longer race.
Despite claiming not to want to photograph him, Mia still gets into position to shoot the runners as they set off.
The gun fires, and Hudson sprints away, leading the pack as we all shout and cheer. The marshals give them a five-minute head start, and then the two-k race begins.
“Photo time!” Mom cries, brushing snow off the top of her bag. “I’ve got the mistletoe right here.”
I swallow. Yes, of course I want to kiss Brody, but even more than that, I want to talk to him. To untangle our history now that there’s a new lens on my memories.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says quietly to me.
“It won’t take long, and we’ve got time to kill before the runners return.”
He nods, seeming as unsure as I am. The photo Mom has planned feels wrong. It’s not that it won’t be pretty; it’s just too staged. Like something you’d do to celebrate an engagement.
“John!” An older man runs toward us from the direction of the town, one arm raised.
Dad strides to meet him, and we all follow.
“Walter, is everything all right?”
“No!” He reaches us and bends over, his hands braced on his thighs as he catches his breath. “My grandson’s missing.”
“Cathy! Bryan! Pete! Get over here!” Dad yells at the race marshals. Then he turns back to Walter, who’s still struggling to breathe. “What can you tell us? Have you called the police?”
Walter shakes his head. “Not yet. He was spending the afternoon with me, you know my house is at the edge of the reserve, and I fell asleep.”
He covers his face with his hand as he sobs. “John, I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to him.”
Mom rubs his back. “I’m sure he hasn’t gone far. We’ll find him. I promise.”
“What was he wearing, and where do you think he went?” Dad asks.
“He had on his boots and coat and took his backpack. He came this way with his dog. Have you seen them?”
Brody goes rigid beside me. “What’s the dog’s name?”
