Mail-Order Brides For Christmas

by Frankie Love

  “Are you taking the vitamins I told you to pack?” Grandma Carrie asks worriedly. “Scurvy is real, sweetheart. People don’t get it much these days, but I’m worried about you. Imagine that! A group of girls touring all over the country by themselves!”

  I smile because back in my grandparents’ day, ladies were in bed by the time the sun set. But times have changed, and I’m a musician intent on getting my tunes out to the masses.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve definitely been taking my vitamins,” I say, reassuring her with a squeeze of my hand. Of course, it’s a fib but a little white lie won’t hurt, and Grandma Carrie looks appeased.

  “Oh good,” she says. “We just want you to be healthy and happy, Jenna.”

  I smile and help set the table with the familiar blue-and-white plates, the striped placemats, and the sturdy plastic cups they’ve always used. Grandpa and Grandma always sit on one side, and I sit opposite them. My heart still swells at the sight of them sitting side by side, holding hands and beaming at me. They’ve been married almost fifty years now, and it’s a sight I’ll never grow tired of.

  We say grace, and afterwards, I immediately pile freshly-grated parmesan cheese onto my salad and pasta. God, is there anything better in the world than cheese? I maybe eat a little more of it than I should, but I think it just adds to my cute curves. I’ve always been a bigger girl and I’m proud of it. I think that every woman should love her body, no matter what, and I certainly love mine--cheese or no cheese.

  “Are there still greens under that mountain of cheese and dressing?” my grandpa teases, and I stick my tongue out at him like a kid. He laughs.

  “You eat whatever and however you want,” he tells me as he serves my grandma and himself. “We’re just glad you’re here.”

  “I’m glad, too,” I say honestly. “I really missed you guys.” My grandparents beam at me.

  “Oh that’s sweet honey, but you’re home now. So tell us more about the tour,” Grandma Carrie invites after we’ve taken our first few bites of dinner. “How did it go? Did you and the other Lolly Popz girls have fun?”

  I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “It was really great,” I say. “We were in six different states over the span of a few weeks. Most of the venues were pretty nice, and all the crowds were amazing!”

  “Were the concerts well-attended?” my grandpa asks.

  I nod.

  “We’re not hitting the Billboard 200 anytime soon,” I say with a smile, “but we’re doing pretty damn--sorry, darn--well. I’m really proud of us.” As the lead singer and co-founder of Lolly Popz, I feel largely responsible for our success. If we fail, I consider it my fault. I really do wish we were achieving some more renown, and I do feel a little burnt-out after this tour, but I’m still proud of the success we’ve achieved after six years.

  “We’re proud of you,” Grandpa Peter says. I smile. I’m so grateful for their support.

  “So what happens next for Lolly Popz?” Grandma Carrie asks. “Will you be going on the road again?”

  I shrug. “No idea,” I say truthfully.

  Grandma and Grandpa exchange glances, and I notice it, raising a brow. “What?” I ask.

  “Well,” Grandma says, exchanging another glance with my grandfather, “we’re just a little worried about you, Jenna, that’s all. You know how much we support your dreams, but it’s a little concerning that you’re twenty-five and still gallivanting around the world. Don’t you want to settle down?”

  I laugh. “The last thing I want is to settle down,” I say. “My freedom is way too important to me.”

  Grandpa Peter suddenly looks worried. He looks to Grandma Carrie, who reaches across the table to take my hand.

  “Jenna,” she says, and I realize, very suddenly, that I’m in big trouble.

  “What’s up?” I ask, nervously.

  Grandma Carrie smiles. “It’s not just about settling down in one city. You’re getting older, and you know how men tend to prefer younger ladies. We think it would be beneficial for you to meet someone, sweetie, because you deserve some stability in your life. All this gallivanting around makes it impossible to meet a man.”

  I stare at them.

  “But twenty-five isn’t old!” I protest weakly. “It’s really quite young. Women don’t get married until forty these days.”

  That only makes my grandparents even more concerned. Carrie reaches forward to take my hand with her soft, wrinkled one.

  “That’s exactly why we’re concerned for you, sweetheart. Forty is too old. How will you meet a suitable husband? How will you have children? I had your mother at seventeen, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Carrie says, wiping away a tear.

  I don’t know what to say. I know what my grandparents mean, but in this day and age, some women never even tie the knot. They stay single and ready to mingle forever. However, I know if I mention that, my grandparents will probably go into paroxysms.

  Grandpa smiles at me then.

  “We’re worried about you, Jenna. Maybe it’s time to take a break from your career. We’ve taken the initiative and signed you up for a service called Mail-Order Brides for Christmas.”

  My mouth drops open, and my fork stops in mid-air, halfway to my mouth. I’m not sure what part of this statement offends me more: the “mail-order” part, or the “brides” part. Aren’t mail-order brides a thing of the past? And why the hell am I suddenly going to be married?!

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, holding up my hands. “It’s July right now. What’s this thing about mail-order brides, and why Christmas? Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit?”

  Grandma Carrie shakes her head sadly.

  “Jenna, please. I know it sounds a little extreme, but we wouldn’t have done it if we didn’t believe it would be good for you.”

  I squint at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  My grandma shakes her head. “This isn’t a joke, Jenna. We even already bought you a ticket to Snow Valley, Montana to meet your future husband.”

  “Montana?!” My fork clatters to my plate. “Future husband? Come on, don’t you realize how crazy this is?”

  Grandma Carrie’s smile wavers but still stays on her face. “Trust us, Jenna. The owner of this mail order bride service says she has a bachelor who’s perfect for you. He’s an upstanding lawyer named Matt.”

  “A lawyer?!” I bury my face in my hands for a moment, groaning. “You really think I want to date--no, marry--a stuffy, buttoned-up lawyer? I’m a musician, for crying out loud! I’m trying to become a rock star, with my pink hair and wild ways! That would be a laughable match. He would hate me on sight.”

  I look from Grandma Carrie’s face to Grandpa Peter’s, and they both hold my gaze, looking a little nervous but resolute. They really, genuinely believe that this will be good for me. I shake my head in wonder, folding my arms across my chest. I’m still not even close to convinced.

  “Carrie, you know how much we love you,” Grandpa Peter says after a moment of total silence. “And you know how much your grandmother and I love each other too. We want you to experience a love like this. You deserve someone to settle down and have a family with. Aren’t you getting a little tired of the constant moving around?”

  “No,” I protest. But the truth is, my routine with Lolly Popz has been feeling a little stale. As much as I love my band, touring, and performing, I do wonder sometimes if I want my life to feel a little more relaxed. I’m twenty-five now--not old by any stretch of the imagination, but not an eighteen-year-old wild child anymore, either. Maybe I could give something different a try…

  They must see my expression change, because Grandma and Grandpa smile widely and lean forward. “You have a couple months off now, right?” Grandma Carrie asks.

  I nod mutely, still whirling in the maelstrom of my thoughts.

  “Then why not take a trip to Snow Valley?” she asks persuasively. “Just go out there, meet Matt, see if you two hit it off. If not, you can always come home.
You’re the adventurous type, sweetie; just think of this as a new adventure. Okay? Maybe you can even get your will done for free, seeing that he’s a lawyer.”

  I look between Grandma Carrie and Grandpa Peter, trying not to laugh. Why do I need to get my will done? But they’re both so full of hope, and confident they’ve made the right choice for me. They don’t even realize how ridiculous this scheme is.

  I stab at my spaghetti and slurp up a noodle, before letting out a big sigh.

  “Fine,” I eventually relent. “But if he’s boring, or ugly, or controlling, or doesn’t like leopard print… I’m out. And no, I’m not going to ask him to do my will for me. That’s for old people, and I’m young!”

  Grandma Carrie merely beams and smiles at Grandpa Peter. “Of course, sweetheart. Will or no will, we wouldn’t expect anything less, dear.”

  Chapter Two

  Jenna

  When the door to my apartment swings open, I take a deep breath of relief. Home sweet home. It still smells like the patchouli incense I regularly burn in the bedroom and living room. Things are a little musty, sure, and I maybe left some dirty dishes in the sink for the past two months. But otherwise, my shabby space immediately brings me a sense of peace.

  I drag my leopard-print luggage inside and close the door behind me with my foot. Everything looks the same as I left it. I always worry when I’m on the road that someone will break in. I live, after all, in a not-so-savory part of NYC, where the rent is still only barely cheap enough for me to live without roommates. Thankfully, I’ve always been lucky, and have never forgotten to double-bolt the door after I leave.

  Wheezing with effort—and from the four flights of stairs I climbed to get up here—I bring my luggage into my room. It matches, of course, my leopard-print bedspread, and complements my hot pink curtains and spray-painted black furniture. I immediately light some incense and then flop back onto my bed. The cheap mattress isn’t the most comfortable, but, God, does it feel like heaven after weeks in a tour bus.

  The second I begin to drift off, my phone buzzes in my leggings pocket. I withdraw it and squint at the screen. My best friend and bandmate, Sarah, grins cheekily at me from her contact photo.

  “Hi baby!” she crows as soon as I answer.

  “Hi sweet thing,” I reply. “Didn’t I just see you for two months?”

  She laughs. “Yeah, but I missed you. I’m going to brunch tomorrow at 11:30 in Chelsea. Let’s drink a zillion Bloody Marys.”

  “Ugh, that sounds amazing,” I say, already daydreaming about stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup. Then, I cringe and roll my eyes. “But unfortunately, I can’t go. I’m sorry.”

  “What, you got something better to do?”

  “No,” I deadpan, running a hand over my face. “Definitely not. You’re not going to believe this, but I’m going to Montana tomorrow morning.”

  “Montana?!” Sarah shrieks, and I hold the phone away from my ear, wincing. “What the hell are you going to do in Montana?”

  I sigh. “Apparently, a man…”

  I relay to her my grandparents’ crazy scheme. Sarah, as always, is the best audience, gasping and groaning in all the right places. When I’m finished with my tale of woe, there’s silence.

  “Damn, Jen,” Sarah says finally, with a low whistle. “That’s some wild shit. I can’t get over the fact that mail-order brides are still a thing.”

  “I know!” I yell, sitting up in bed. “Isn’t that the most outdated, patriarchal BS you’ve ever heard?”

  “This is going to sound crazy,” Sarah says, “but maybe you should give it a chance.”

  I stare at my phone for a second. Is my best friend being held at gunpoint, or did she just, of her own free will, tell me to give this ridiculous plan a chance?

  “It honestly might be good for you,” Sarah continues when I’m unable to say anything. “I know how much you love us and the band, but I also know that you’ve been single for a while, and that you’re happiest when you’re in a relationship. You can pretend all you want that you’re gonna be single forever, but you shouldn’t be. You love making someone else happy. And you’ve told me before that you want to settle down and have kids someday.”

  “I was drunk when I said that!” I protest.

  “Drunk words are sober thoughts,” she replies in a solemn tone.

  “Okay, whatever,” I mumble. “I just don’t know if this mail-order craziness is legit.”

  “You should google the service,” Sarah says. Duh. I feel suddenly very stupid. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “I know. I’m full of ‘em.”

  “You’re full of it, that’s for sure.”

  “Okay, I’m running out the door, but go and do some research on the company,” Sarah giggles. “Text me if you find anything juicy. If you decide you don’t want to go tomorrow, tell your grandparents I have a life-threatening illness and that you need to take me to the hospital right away. But if you do decide to go, then tell me all about the hottie you meet!”

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “Love you, babe.”

  “Love you too!”

  She ends the call. I rub my palms over my eyes. Sarah knows me better than anyone else, and I trust her judgment. Maybe I should be giving this crazy idea more of a chance.

  I grab my laptop, plop it down in front of me, and Google “Mail Order Brides for Christmas.” The site pops up immediately. I click the link, holding my breath, not sure what to expect. What if it’s full of pornographic pictures? What if it looks like a twelve-year-old made the website? What if—most terrifying of all—it’s legit?

  It’s legit.

  The site looks well-made and professional, featuring a decorative banner at the top that proclaims “Mail-Order Brides for Christmas” in a swirling scarlet font. This is definitely a website for a legitimate business, not some skanky, seedy operation. A headshot of a smiling, pretty older woman is on the front page. The caption says that she’s Holly Huckleberry, the boss in charge of the whole operation. A knot of tension releases in my shoulders. The fact that it’s run by a woman instantly makes me less suspicious.

  I continue to scroll through the website, reading testimonials from husbands and brides alike. “I met my dream man through Mail-Order Brides for Christmas!” one of them gushes. Another proclaims, “If you’re skeptical, give it a try! It just might change your life!” Photos of smiling couples dot the pages. Curious, I go to the “Bookings” page to see what kind of price this service costs, but it only directs interested viewers to contact Holly Huckleberry directly.

  I gnaw my bottom lip. This really doesn’t seem so bad. My preconceived notions have all gone out the window. Sure, it could all be a scam, but if it is, it looks like a damn good one…

  I navigate back to my original search. It looks like several blogs have also reviewed the service. I click through a few and they all present glowing reviews, using phrases like “best decision of my life” and “worth every penny.” I click my tongue and go back to Google. These all sound too good to be true, maybe even sponsored. I’m going to have to find some unbiased reviews somewhere.

  Finally, I end up at Reddit, the mecca for honest thoughts and rants. I type “Mail-Order Brides for Christmas” into the search bar and am not disappointed. There’s an entire page dedicated to the site. Surely I’ll get some neutral reviews here.

  But as I click through, I find more of the same, more “OMGs” and “I’m soooooo happy!” exhortations. Several women have linked their Instagram accounts, showing off endless photos of their gorgeous husbands and perfect lives. Well, damn. No one ever posts unanimously positive reviews on Reddit. This has to be the real deal.

  My eyes widen as I almost scroll past a thread titled “Naughty Secrets.” Who am I to resist naughty secrets? I quickly click on it, and am immediately glad that I did.

  “Alright, ladies,” the post reads. “Who else is having the best sex of their lives now that t
hey’ve met their man through MOBfC? I can’t be the only one!”

  “The man I was paired with is soooooooo hot,” someone replied. “Like, hotter than any man I’ve met through a dating app. Our first night together he practically ravished me. It was incredible.”

  Another reply reads, “The guy I met was so KINKY! He asked if I wanted to be tied up. I never had been but I couldn’t say no! He’s such a kind, thoughtful guy, but so dirty in the bedroom. We’ve even gotten into some roleplay…”

  My mouth hangs open as I read through comment after comment detailing incredible, life-altering sex. This Holly Huckleberry must really know how to pick ‘em. The website mentioned something about an extensive interview process with all of the potential husbands, so that only “the most eligible bachelors” are selected. Apparently, one of the factors that makes one “most eligible” is being handsome and virile as hell.

  Alright, I’m sold, I think, and close my laptop. I text Sarah: Googled. Fab reviews. Lots of mentions of hot sex.

  Hot damn! she texts back immediately. This might finally get you laid after all!

  Hardy har har. We’ll see. I’ll text you when I get there tomorrow.

  I lie down on my bed, snuggling into my blankets and pillows, relieved to be home if only for a night. I guess I’ll be jetting to middle-of-nowhere Montana tomorrow after all.

  Despite my lingering reservations, I begin to daydream about what kind of man I’ll meet. I know he’s a lawyer; that puts a bitter taste in my mouth. But maybe he’s a cool lawyer. Maybe he’s tattooed all over his chest and conceals his ink with crisp button-downs. Maybe he has blonde hair, or dark hair, or red hair that shines gold in the sunlight. Maybe he’s tall and thin, or shorter and jacked, with muscular arms to sweep me away. Maybe he likes reading, or music, or sports. Maybe he has a wicked sense of humor. Maybe he’s wicked in the bedroom…

  Before I know it, I’m drifting off to sleep, dreaming of the man I’ll meet in fewer than 24 hours.