Mistletoe Melody (Christmas Holiday Extravaganza)

by Stacey Weeks

  He shifted in his seat. His standard rule was to protect Janie’s privacy from guests, but Melody wasn’t a regular guest. She knew him. She remembered him. An embarrassing tingle swept up the back of his neck and across his face. She had witnessed his year of intense rebellion against his family’s Christian beliefs, and his nightmare relationship with Ashley, who partook in heroin and other opiates. Melody’s family had moved away shortly after Ashley had given birth to Janie, so they weren’t around to witness her eventual abandonment of her daughter. The pull of drugs had proven stronger than the pull of motherhood. “I don’t usually discuss my daughter with guests.”

  Melody didn’t miss a beat. She tilted her head to the side in an inquisitive manner. “Then tell me what you do for a living, besides helping out your parents.”

  Quentin appreciated her attempt at polite table conversation, but the slight shadowing under her eyes and her pinched smile made him more interested in getting her home early than having a long and drawn out heart to heart conversation.

  “I own a music store in town and teach lessons.”

  She lifted a brow. “Mistletoe Music?”

  He laughed and settled back into his seat. She had an uncanny way of making him feel relaxed and at ease. “How did you guess?’

  She lifted her water goblet and tipped it in his direction. “I’m beginning to sense a trend. Mistletoe Manor, Mistletoe Tea—”

  He clinked his glass to hers. “Your deductive skills are impressive. Tell me about you. Do you still like music?” Back in high school, she had always landed a role as a soloist in the annual school musical.

  She swallowed hard and lowered her glass to the table with a thunk. “I used to play guitar, a bit of piano, and voice.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve lost the ability.” She turned her head toward the window as if appreciating the knotted tree bark on the closest tree, but he recognized the move as avoidance.

  Their light-hearted banter thickened. Did a lack of practice cause her lost ability, or did misfortune steal her talent like the tragedy that stole Janie’s passion for music?

  A waiter placed a tray of assorted desserts on the center of the table. Melody waited until he left to speak. “Does Janie play an instrument?”

  His grip tightened around the stem of his water glass. “No.”

  Before she could ask him to elaborate, Mavis, from the Mistletoe Meadows horticulture society, approached the podium. She tapped the microphone until the room quieted. She pushed her dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose with her index finger. A few wisps of white hair escaped the knot of hair at her neck.

  “Welcome to Mistletoe Talks. We are happy that you have joined us tonight, and I believe that once this evening is over, you’ll all agree that mistletoe is an extraordinary plant with usages that go far beyond Christmas decorating. For example, did you know that mistletoe has been used to treat anxiety naturally? It is a preventative for diabetes; it soothes respiratory distress, lowers blood pressure, and promotes good sleep. Its medicinal usage makes it a fascinating plant to study.”

  As Mavis repeated the same facts she parroted at every welcome talk, Quentin studied Melody’s profile. Her long dark hair fell in loose waves. Her green eyes lit up as she laughed in all the right places. She listened to the presentation with interest. She even asked a question or two. But her involvement in the discussion couldn’t disguise her exhaustion and discomfort. There was something about her, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something wasn’t right.

  “Our students in the seventh grade art class have painted the different varieties of mistletoe that you see on display around the tea house tonight.” Mavis gestured to the multiple art easels around the room. “We’ll break for a few minutes so you can wander around and appreciate their work.”

  Quentin’s gaze snapped to Janie, who was watching him pointedly. Right. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Excuse me,” he leaned across the table so Melody could hear him above the rising chatter in the room. “I promised Janie that I would take a picture of her with her painting.”

  “Janie painted one?” Melody spun around in her seat to locate Janie, who stood proudly by a painting with Melody’s parents. “How wonderful! Of course, go take her picture.” She shooed him away.

  Quentin snapped a few photos with his phone of Janie standing beside her art, but he kept Melody in his peripheral vision. She perused the tea counter and read a pamphlet or two. She stood tall for five foot three, and her chunky knit sweater couldn’t conceal her slender frame.

  Janie poked his leg with her cane.

  “Owe! What was that for?” He rubbed his calf.

  “I’m going to hang with my friends, OK?”

  He blinked. “Right. Sure.”

  She giggled and made a show of gawking at Melody and back at him. She rolled her eyes. “Be a bit more subtle, Dad.”

  His cheeks burned. Was he that obvious? When had Janie grown up and learned to perceive these kinds of social cues?

  She wandered off, still laughing at him.

  He meandered toward Melody, approaching from behind. “Did you know there are more than nine hundred kinds of mistletoe, and some are toxic?” He winced. Who opens with mistletoe facts?

  She spun and lost her footing again. He caught her for the second time that night and held on.

  “You scared me!” Her hand rested over her heart as though she were trying to slow its beating.

  He reluctantly released her. She still seemed too unsteady for his liking, but holding on any longer crossed the lines of appropriate behaviour.

  A pretty blush flushed her cheeks, and she played with the necklace around her neck. “I thought all mistletoe was toxic.”

  “Nope.” He leaned against the counter resting his elbow on the surface. “That’s a common misconception. Are you going to try the tea? Its flavour is quite rich.”

  She hesitated.

  “I don’t think you should have it, dear.” Her mother joined them waving her water glass in her hand. A concerned frown pulled the corners of her lips downward.

  “I know, Mom.”

  Was it just him or did Melody’s voice tighten at her mother’s unsolicited advice?

  Mavis tapped the microphone again, and the room hushed. “If you can all retake your seats, Stewart Huebert, our herbalist, will come to the front and explain how we make our mistletoe tea. You might be surprised to learn that you can brew mistletoe as a hot or cold tea. If you consume it through a reliable and trusted herbalist or natural practitioner, you can enjoy the wide range of health benefits this herb provides. I assure you that Mr. Heubert is recognized nationally, and he knows how to prepare the tea safely.”

  “Thank you, Mavis.” Stewart cleared his throat. “Mistletoe tea can be brewed by adding 5 grams of chopped mistletoe…”

  Quentin didn’t hear a word Stewart said. There was something off about Melody’s interaction with her mother. Typically, he steered clear of family drama that involved guests at their bed and breakfast, but the Staff family was living in his home for the next week, and Janie had taken a shine to little Ava. As long as Janie was involved, their business was his business. His gut told him that Christmas in Mistletoe Meadows was more than a simple Staff family reunion. Something else was going on. Something that no one wanted to talk about.

  4

  Melody poked a dull threaded needle through a piece of stale popcorn and let Ava tug it toward the knot holding the string of popped garland together.

  “Again!” Ava clapped her hands and laughed.

  “I think Auntie is done for the night.” Julie picked up Ava and twirled her around the room. Ava’s girlish giggle made everyone smile. Julie plopped Ava in front of the television and turned on a princess cartoon.

  Melody wrapped her fingers around her mug of hot chocolate and closed her eyes. Daisy, the cat, had curled up at her feet purring out sounds of contentment, and the fireplace sen
t swirls of glorious warmth through Melody’s body. Sensitivity to extreme hot or cold was a side effect of her medical condition. She had always hated either extreme, but now they were downright painful.

  But right now, she was perfectly warm, and for the first time in months, happy. Or as close to happy as she could be. It had been over a year since her first worrisome symptom of tingling in her extremities had appeared, but she was dealing with it. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that God owed every believer a long and healthy life, so she wasn’t mad at Him. Disease and hardship were part of life on a fallen earth. What stung, what she hadn’t seen coming, was her ex-fiancé’s rejection. He hadn’t considered the cost of promising her his love in sickness and in health until sickness became a certainty. Thankfully, his awakening came before they exchanged wedding vows. Yes, it was better to find out only a few months before the wedding, but it didn’t remove the sting. Not even a little.

  “Do you want to get married one day, Melody?”

  She snapped open her eyes. Janie stood in front of her twirling her cane like a baton half watching Melody and half watching the cartoon bride that had captivated Ava’s attention.

  “No.” Melody was surprised to hear the certainty in her voice. That was the first time she had told anyone outside her family that she would never get married. In fact, until this very moment, she hadn’t realized how strongly she felt about it.

  “Really?” Quentin looked up from the piano bench where he was searching for a Christmas arrangement to play on the piano.

  “You shouldn’t say that, Melody. You don’t know what God has in store for you.” Her mother made a tsking sound of disapproval. Her father just frowned.

  Melody wasn’t about to debate the topic. Her parents would never understand.

  “Mrs. Staff says we are having a Happy Birthday Jesus cake this year.” Janie changed the topic, utterly oblivious to the tension swirling around the adults.

  But then, Janie threw Melody a wry smile and winked.

  How old was this girl? She seemed strangely in tune with the undercurrents. Melody made a note never to underestimate Janie.

  “Yes.” Melody’s mother looked at Janie with grandmotherly affection. “It’s one of our traditions. I usually make it, but this year, I hoped that Melody would bake the cake.”

  Melody felt her eyes widen. Quentin’s hands stilled and the shuffling of papers ceased. The room quieted. Everyone watched her. Her skin tingled as sweat formed on her forehead, and her throat gave an odd croak, “I don’t know, Mom; you’re the baker.”

  “I’m a good baker,” Janie piped up.

  “Hush, darling, this is their tradition,” Quentin softly corrected her.

  “Nonsense.” Her mother dismissively waved her hand in Quentin’s direction.

  Melody flinched. How long would Quentin tolerate her mom’s overbearing methods?

  “We are in your home and taking it over for the holidays,” her mother said. “Our Christmas is your Christmas. Janie, you will have the first piece of cake.”

  Melody held her breath. Would Quentin resent the way her mom dictated? Would he dig in and draw unbreachable lines around Janie? In their short time together, his protective instincts regarding Janie had reared more than once.

  Quentin rubbed the back of his neck as he assessed her mother. He nodded stiffly. “Thank you for including us. Now, who wants to sing some carols?”

  Quentin redirected the conversation, and Melody exhaled a release of tension as if he’d flicked the valve on a pressure cooker.

  Quentin skillfully worked the piano keys, and everyone joined in to sing the familiar carol. Melody closed her eyes and let the harmonies wash over her. She tried to will her spirit to rejoice. Heat radiated through her chest. Her palms tingled. Music used to make everything easier, but not anymore. Not since last year.

  She felt the weight of Quentin’s gaze, and she opened her eyes. His brow was furrowed. He played flawlessly without consulting the sheet music and kept his gaze fixed on her. She read the question in his visage. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to hide the truth from someone as perceptive as he was. His probing visual caress unnerved her in its thoroughness.

  She parted her lips, but she couldn’t force out the words. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, but like it had happened a million times before, her throat tightened. She slammed her eyes shut.

  Why Lord? How long? She dipped her head forward and allowed her hair to fall like a shield. She hadn’t been able to sing for months, quite a problem for a worship leader. It was why she’d stepped down from her position at the church, the public reason anyway. Privately, the onset of Christmas had only highlighted her struggle to celebrate a Saviour whose presence she didn’t feel.

  Some people said God felt close to them in trials, but Melody didn’t feel carried by the prayers of the saints. She didn’t feel buoyed by their intercessions. She didn’t feel like their prayers—or her prayers—had ushered her into the presence of God. If anything, she felt farther from Him now than when she first heard the words Multiple Sclerosis. She felt like a Pharisee leading the congregation into worship while she struggled to bridge the increasing distance between God and her.

  Quentin patted the space on the bench beside him.

  Melody’s stomach rolled. She wrapped her arms around her mid-section. No, no, no.

  Janie stiffened beside her.

  Ah, he was inviting Janie to join him. She ducked her chin to hide her warm face.

  Janie stood up rigidly. Her smile vanished, and she pressed her lips together in a slight grimace. Melody recognized her confliction. Janie’s expression captured Melody’s turmoil about music, about leading worship again, about finding a new normal because the old normal was never coming back.

  Janie’s lips moved as if she were trying to find the right words, but no sound emerged. Her head swivelled between her dad and Melody. Melody reached out a hand, but Janie dropped her cane and fled. Her distinctive gait thumped up the staircase one slow step at a time.

  Melody picked up the cane and turned it over in her fingers.

  Quentin’s song never missed a measure. He continued to play with a weak smile pasted on his face, but the light in his eyes had dissipated.

  Melody’s mom nudged Quentin off the bench and took over the piano in a surprising move of sensitivity. “I got this,” she whispered. She nodded toward the staircase. “Go.”

  Quentin had to walk past Melody to follow Janie. Melody held out the cane. “Will she be OK?” She saw so much of herself in the little girl’s expression.

  Quentin winced and took the cane. He shrugged. “Janie hasn’t played anything since her stroke. It’s like she’s afraid to try.”

  “Stroke?” Melody choked on the word. “I thought stokes only happened to the elderly.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” Quentin’s voice dropped a notch. “It was a few years ago. We don’t talk about it in front of the guests. It makes her uncomfortable.” He raked his hand through his hair. “They had to perform emergency surgery to relieve the increasing pressure on her brain, but it left her with limited mobility. She’s regained more usage in her left side than doctors expected she would, but she hasn’t played any instrument since. She won’t even try in therapy.”

  Melody ached. The pain in the back of her throat intensified. She understood what it was to lose the ability to do something you once loved, to have it stolen from you. For the first time since her arrival, she considered that maybe this Christmas reunion wasn’t about her family forcing her to face her diagnosis. What if it was about something more? What if it was about Quentin and Janie?

  Would God use someone as damaged as she was to help someone as sweet as Janie? If that was His plan, would she have the courage to speak up? Would she even know what to say?

  5

  “Can we go, Dad? Please? I’ve wanted to go to Pine Valley Tree Farms all winter.”

  Janie’s plea weighed heavy
on Quentin. He wanted to say yes. He always wanted to say yes to Janie, but her stroke left physical limitations her eleven-year-old mind refused to accept. Quentin looked past his daughter’s hopeful expression to Melody, who quietly observed them from her spot on the sofa.

  Her entire family anchored their attention on him, waiting for his decision before solidifying their plans. Their baffled expressions indicated they didn’t understand his hesitation. But how could they? They couldn’t know what it was like raising a pre-teen daughter after a stroke that nearly killed her.

  He drummed his fingers against his thighs. The doctors found no medical reason for Janie’s stroke. They offered no closure or reassurances that it wouldn’t happen again. Something like that had a way of making a father circle the wagons to protect his child.

  But Melody didn’t look at him like the rest of the family did. She searched him with piercing scrutiny that screamed she understood; but how could she? The winter sun spilled through the window behind her, framing her angelically.

  She did understand. He didn’t have to explain anything to her. He didn’t have to validate his concerns. Somehow, she had recognized that the ordinary things other people took for granted were not simple decisions post trauma.

  She smiled a half smile and pulled her lower lip into her mouth. Was she hopeful they would join her? He had assumed Mrs. Staff’s invitation was politeness or another attempt at match-making.

  “Please, Dad?” Janie pressed. “We can bring the horse and the sleigh, and I can show Ava where the best trees are—”

  “Horsies!” Ava clapped her little palms together.

  His gaze ping-ponged from Melody to Janie to Ava. He didn’t have the strength to resist them all. He relented. “Sure.”