The Mistletoe Melody

by Jennifer Snow

  Leigh rolled her eyes. “No. Poor baby girl, who knows when we’ll be able to stop calling her that. Every time I suggest one, it reminds Logan of a character he’s written in one of his novels.” She laughed.

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Thanks. We’ll need to decide in the next few weeks, because her christening is the first week of January. By the way, we wanted to ask if you would sing at the church. Would you?”

  Requests for her vocal talents were frequent in the small town. Whenever there was a wedding, she was usually asked to sing at it. She didn’t mind being a part of her family’s and friends’ special life moments, but since Patrick’s death, it had gotten harder to watch couples in love. A christening might be easier. Besides, how could she say no to Leigh, who never charged her for watching the boys? “I’d be happy to.”

  “Great.”

  “I better go.” She called to the living room, “David, I’m leaving. Can I get a hug?”

  “Can I watch TV?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, no hug.”

  Melody glanced at the baby girl. “Enjoy her while she’s small and can’t fight with you.” She opened the front door. “If David gives you a moment’s trouble...”

  “He never does. Don’t worry.”

  “You’ll have to share with me your secret someday.” As she made her way to her minivan parked in front of the house, Melody heard voices coming from the B and B next door. Three men she didn’t recognize were loading camera equipment into the back of a dark SUV. As one turned, she could see the logo on the back of his jacket: Heartland Country Television.

  Of course, she should have known. Brad hadn’t made any effort to visit his family before now. Only a publicity stunt could have brought him home.

  * * *

  THE ICY GROUND beneath him sent chills through his torso beneath his soaked cable-knit sweater. He blinked several times before finally opening his eyes. He was staring up at the cloudy night sky, big wet snowflakes falling onto his face. His body was lying on an angle and a sharp rock was biting into his right shoulder. He attempted to push himself up, but the searing pain of his muscles contracting took his breath away, and he fell back against the frozen ground. Where were his legs? He couldn’t feel them. In his mind, he tried to move the lower half of his body, but nothing happened. He glanced down and his stomach turned at the image of his legs crushed beneath the metal car several feet away. Oh, God... He closed his eyes as waves of nausea hit. Behind his closed lids he saw again the dark ice patch, the sharp curve in the road, felt the wheel spinning beneath his hands as the car jerked into the opposite lane and then the plunge over the side of the cliff into darkness. His thoughts grew hazy and consciousness started to slip away...

  The sound of moaning to his right snapped him awake. Someone else was there... Patrick. Turning his head and forcing his heavy eyes to focus, he looked for his friend. The headlights of the vehicle shining on the glistening snow made it impossible to see past a few feet. “Patrick!” he called, the effort shattering his lungs. He felt blood trickling down the side of his face as he continued his frantic, immobilized search of the area around him, trapped as he was by the weight of the vehicle. “Patrick!”

  He made no response other than to moan weakly. Brad heard the sound of sirens wailing. Saw flashing lights in the distance. At last came the noise of people talking... What were they saying?

  “You can’t move that.”

  The sound of his mother’s voice shook him from the dream, and Brad opened his eyes to see the familiar spiral design on the stucco ceiling of his old bedroom. Instinctively, he reached his arms out around him, only to feel the floor beneath the deflated air mattress next to Darius’s race-car bed. He let out a choked breath. He was home in Brookhollow, in his old room.

  “That nutcracker statue has stood at the base of that staircase every Christmas for over forty years...”

  Oh, no. Tossing the handmade quilt to the side, Brad jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain shooting through his right shin as he stood. His muscles always took time to warm up. First thing in the morning was the worst. Grabbing his T-shirt from the beanbag chair in the corner of the room where he’d left it the night before, he opened the bedroom door and painfully made his way to the middle landing of the stairs, tugging his shirt over his head as he went.

  “Mrs. Jackson...” said a young man Brad recognized as a member of the staging crew.

  “It’s Monroe,” his mother said.

  “Right, sorry, Mrs. Monroe. We need to make space for the cameras and lighting equipment.”

  Each had a hand on the four-foot nutcracker statue, which had indeed sat in that spot every Christmas for as long as Brad could remember. His mother was holding it in place, while the man was attempting to move it. Good luck to the guy.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” Brad asked, raking a hand through his disheveled hair.

  “You didn’t say anything about rearranging the decorations,” she told him, a deep frown wrinkling her forehead.

  The young man looked at Brad. “We need to set up in this foyer in order to get the best angle shots into the living room,” he said. “This tin soldier thing has to go.”

  “It’s a nutcracker, and it’s not going anywhere.” Beverly’s voice was firm.

  This was going to be worse than he’d expected. “Mom, can’t we move it to the dining room...just for a few days?”

  Beverly looked ready to argue, but Darius ran into the hallway and postponed her response.

  “Uncle Brad! You’re awake,” he said, running up the stairs to meet him.

  Brad’s mother’s face immediately softened and her shoulders relaxed. The entire family cherished the rare sound of the little boy talking. “Hi, buddy,” Brad said, bending to pick up Darius. The boy had been asleep, sprawled across his bed, when Brad had finally made it upstairs the night before.

  “Mom and I cooked breakfast. Your favorite—blueberry pancakes with whipped cream.” His nephew’s eyes lit up as he revealed this.

  Brad didn’t have the heart to tell him his rigorous diet and exercise routine didn’t allow for refined sugars and carbs. “Sounds delicious. I’ll be right there—as soon as Grandma agrees to move the nutcracker.” He shot his mother a pleading look.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s not the way we do things.”

  “Can it be the way we do things...just for a few days?”

  His mother still hesitated. Brad set Darius down and whispered, “Go give Grandma a hug and say please.”

  The little boy did as he was told, and Beverly’s eyes watered. “That was a new low, Brad,” she said.

  “So, are we moving it?” the guy from the crew asked impatiently, checking his watch.

  “Fine, go ahead,” Brad’s mother said. “But, Brad, you are putting everything back once they are done.” His mother pointed a finger at him.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brad said. He tapped the man on the shoulder as he passed. “I warned you this wasn’t going to be easy.”

  In the kitchen, his sister Breanne was standing at the stove, a reindeer apron hung around her neck. She was flipping the next batch of pancakes. Gracie and her father, Troy, were sitting at the table with stacks in front of them. “Morning, everyone,” Brad said, setting Darius down on his chair next to his sister. He kissed the little girl’s cheek.

  She smiled, her mouth full of pancake.

  “Hey, Brad. I hope you slept okay. I wasn’t sure how that air mattress would hold up.” Troy took a sip of his coffee.

  “It was fine,” Brad said, sitting next to him on the wooden bench behind the table, near the large bay window that overlooked the yard. The bare maple trees were already decorated with lights, and garlands, bows and holly adorned the white picket fence surrounding the property. Several cars w
ere parked along the gate near the Christmas tree–farm entrance, waiting for the business to open. “Wow, they’re lining up already.” A quick glance at the time on the stove revealed it was just after eight.

  “Every day,” Troy said, tucking in a last mouthful of pancake and standing up from the table. He poured his coffee into a travel mug and kissed Breanne’s cheek. “See you out there.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” she said, carrying Brad’s plate of pancakes to the table. She set them in front of him with a raised eyebrow.

  “What?”

  “I’m just waiting to see if you’re really going to eat these.”

  “Of course I am,” Brad said, picking up the fork and mentally calculating the caloric intake of six blueberry pancakes topped with a mound of whipped cream. He could work out later by helping at the tree farm. Besides, it was the holidays. Everyone deserved a break from their diets this time of year. Cutting into the pile, he took a big bite. He could feel whipped cream smearing his lips and chin.

  The children giggled. Breanna removed her apron and sat across from him. “So...Jackson, really?”

  “I know. Look, it wasn’t my idea. Please just bear with me for three days. That’s all I’m asking,” he said as he chewed. The blueberry pancake was heaven.

  “All I’m saying is, you’re lucky the other four couldn’t be here on such short notice,” she said, referring to their older sisters. They’d all left Brookhollow for different reasons over the years. While they usually made it back for the holidays, it was only early December now, so the recording for Heartland Country Television would be without them—to his relief. Six Monroe women on that show? The country wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

  The sound of his mother’s voice drifted into the kitchen. “But the Christmas tree always goes in that corner...”

  He shot a pleading look at his sister. “Help me out here.”

  Breanne stood and pointed a finger at him. “You owe me. I expect a really good Christmas gift.”

  “Done. Name it, and it’s yours. Just get her to cooperate. Three days, that’s all I’m asking for,” he said, savoring another bite of his breakfast. He would enjoy it while he could. Turning to his niece, he asked, “So, how’s school?”

  “It’s good. We’re getting assigned parts for the Christmas play this week. I’m probably going to be a donkey in the Nativity scene again,” she said. She poured maple syrup over the whipped cream on her pancakes.

  He winced. If her mother saw her do that... Then he reached for the syrup and did the same. “So you were a donkey last year?” He hadn’t been able to attend, but he’d seen the photos Breanne had posted online of his niece’s school concert.

  “Yes. I’ve been a donkey the last three years.” She played with the rim of her glass of milk.

  “Do you want to be something else?”

  “She does, but she always chokes,” Darius said, fighting to remove a paper napkin from his sticky, maple-syruped fingers.

  His sister kicked him under the table. He shot Gracie a look and rubbed his knee.

  Brad reached over and freed the little boy’s hand from the sticky mess. “What do you mean?”

  Gracie sighed. “Every year, I practice for one of the speaking roles, but then when it comes time to audition, I freeze. I forget the lines.”

  “Stage fright?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s normal,” he said.

  “Do you get stage fright, Uncle Brad?” Darius asked, his eyes wide over his glass of milk.

  “Of course. Every time. You just need to remember certain tricks to get over it.” He stood and poured a cup of coffee.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I always find one friendly, smiling face in the crowd, and for the first few minutes, until I get comfortable onstage again, I just look at that person whenever I start to feel nervous.”

  “That works?”

  “Always.”

  “Well, if I decide to try out for a different part this year—and I’m not saying I will—but if I do, I’ll try it,” the little girl said.

  “Great.” Brad ruffled his nephew’s hair. “How about you, sport? Are you planning to try out for a part?”

  “Are you kidding? He won’t even go onstage,” Gracie said. “Although I heard Mrs. Angleman say he might have to this year, if David Myers can’t do it because of his suspension.” She ate one last mouthful of pancake, stood and carried her plate to the open dishwasher.

  Brad frowned. “Suspension?” Melody’s son had gotten suspended from school?

  “Yeah. Yesterday he punched Michael Thompson at lunchtime,” Gracie explained as she put her and Darius’s lunch boxes into their backpacks.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. They were arguing about something, and the next thing, Michael’s crying and David’s in the principal’s office.” Gracie shrugged.

  Odd. True, he hadn’t seen the Myers twins for almost three years, but they’d always been sweet little boys. Melody and Patrick had been raising them to be well mannered. A school fight leading to a suspension was the last thing he would have expected from either of the boys. Clearly, things weren’t going as well for Melody as he’d hoped. And then he’d shown up. No wonder she’d fallen apart the night before. Vulnerability wasn’t a trait he’d ever witnessed in her before that.

  “Come on, Darius,” Gracie said. “The bus is waiting outside.”

  The little boy jumped up and grabbed his coat from the hook on the door. “We’ll see you later?” he asked Brad.

  “You bet,” Brad said, leaning against the counter. His mind was still on the Myers family. If only there were some way for him to help them. Melody had refused money from him in the past, and after last night, he knew his involvement with her family was still not welcome. He respected and understood that—but still he wished he could do something...

  * * *

  “OKAY, ARE YOU both buckled in?” Melody glanced in the rearview mirror at the twins.

  Josh nodded eagerly, a thermos of hot chocolate clenched in his hands. David remained silent, his thermos untouched in the cup holder in the seat in front of him.

  Once again, Melody struggled with her decision to do this today. David still hadn’t talked to her about the incident at school, despite her attempts to draw it out of him when she’d picked him up from Leigh’s after her shift at Play Hard. The moment they’d gotten home, he’d locked himself in his room with his headphones on—the one piece of technology she hadn’t taken away—and ignored her. He’d even refused to come out for a snack when Josh had arrived home from school. Most days, with her nonstop schedule, she longed for a shorter shift at the sporting-goods store, but today, at home with a stubborn, angry, uncooperative eight-year-old, she wished she’d stayed at work.

  In light of her son’s punishment, she would have been hard-pressed to justify this outing. At least she could tell herself Josh hadn’t done anything wrong and he deserved to go get a tree, as they always did three weeks before Christmas. And with her unpredictable work schedule, this might have been their only opportunity to do it. So, for now, in an attempt not to ruin one of their favorite holiday traditions, she’d put David’s grounding on hold temporarily.

  Flicking through the collection of Christmas CDs in the glove box, she held up two of their favorites. “Chipmunks Christmas or Pop Tunes Holiday Hits?”

  “Chipmunks!” Josh said.

  David remained silent, looking out the window.

  “David, do you have a preference?”

  “I don’t care,” he mumbled.

  Melody held on to her patience as she said, “Okay, Chipmunks it is.” She opened the case, slid the CD into the player and then backed the van out of their driveway. It was after three. In a couple of hours it would be dark, and she want
ed to get the tree set up and eat supper before the boys had to go to bed. She refused to think about her troubles for the next few hours. Especially the one that had kept her tossing and turning the night before—Brad’s presence in town. And here she was on her way to his family’s farm, heading straight for the place she desperately wanted to avoid. Though, she reasoned, Brad would be much too busy with the filming of the Heartland Country Television special to be anywhere near the tree farm. She hoped.

  Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the farm entrance, under the direction of a teenage boy she recognized from Brookhollow Junior High. Dylan Chapman often helped coach the junior boys’ hockey team with her brother Ethan. She waved as he directed her to the busy parking lot. Real Christmas trees were a tradition in many Brookhollow homes, and most families put their trees up early in the month, ignoring warnings from the local fire department about the potential hazards of real trees. Freshly cut, a tree could last two months—Mel wasn’t worried.

  She shut off the van, and then pulled her tan-and-red knitted hat over her wavy chestnut hair and shoved her hands into mismatched gloves. She’d searched the hall closet for a matching pair, but she’d only been able to find a red one and a blue one. Oh, well, they were for warmth. She wasn’t trying to make a fashion statement. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Josh was out of the van in an instant, but David lingered, making no move to get out.

  Patience.

  “Come on, David.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  “No. We are doing this as a family, like we do every year,” she said, zipping her thermal winter coat higher around her bare neck.

  “Oh, yeah? What are we going to do next year?”

  Melody frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” He removed his seat belt and jumped down from the van.

  “Don’t forget your gloves,” she said, reaching into the backseat for them. They always took turns cutting down the tree with the two-handled saw the farm provided, and his hands would hurt holding the cold metal without them.