Evergreens and Angels

by Mary Manners

  “Boy, you sure have a lot to learn.” Dillon shook his head as his lips pursed into a thin, white line. The look he gave her bordered on disgust. “You don’t know the tradition of mistletoe?”

  “I know people like to kiss under it, that’s all. But the berries…no.” Yet, she’d like to know. She inched closer to the age when she might actually welcome a kiss. And what better time, considering the mistletoe and all. It was a holiday tradition, right? Plus, at twelve—almost thirteen—she had to admit curiosity about boys had set in and planned to stick around.

  “Well, I’m sure not going to tell you.” Dillon dipped his head so his dark hair slipped over his eyes. “No way. It might make you want to pick a berry. And you have to kiss to do that.”

  “If you say so.” Curiosity trilled through Brynn, but instead of sharing her thoughts, she wrinkled her nose at Dillon and nodded in agreement. “And you’re right—no kissing here.”

  That brought a round of laughter from the adults, who Brynn had completely forgotten were standing there, gathering in the surround-sound of her and Dillon’s conversation. Ugh!

  “Enough chit-chat.” Gran slipped an arm around Brynn’s shoulders as she ushered Dillon into the house, along with his parents. “Come inside now, before you catch your death of cold.”

  They stomped their boots over the welcome mat, covering it with a flurry of snow as one by one each stepped into the warmth of the living room. A fire crackled in the hearth. Brynn had stoked it herself with quartered wood from the basket there, just the way Gramps had taught her.

  What happened next with the adults was a bit fuzzy. Dillon stole Brynn’s attention as she followed his every move. It was as if he’d captured her in a spell.

  She did recall that Dillon’s father—Rick Cutler—made small-talk with Gramps while he jostled the tree into a stand directly in front of the living room’s bay window. Carefully, Mr. Cutler sank to his knees, tightening the stand until the tree stood straight and tall. While he worked, Hattie Cutler carried her box into the kitchen alongside Gran. Their chatter, light and happy, drifted.

  All the while, Dillon crossed his arms tight over his chest and leveled Brynn a gaze, silently scrutinizing her as if she were a rare lab specimen nestled in a jar. She raked her fingers through her hair and then ran a palm over one heated cheek. Why did he stare at her so intently? Was there a smudge on her face…a sprig of broccoli wedged in her braces?

  Gramps and Mr. Cutler continued their conversation, oblivious to the standoff between their children. They might have been miles away instead of right across the room.

  Dillon finally broke the stare with a slight nod of his head. He toed the wood floor that had puddled with melting snow from their boots as his demeanor seemed to soften. “Do you think you can manage to get that mistletoe hung?” His voice was low and coaxing; Brynn thought that must be exactly the tone movie stars used while being interviewed.

  “Oh, I’ll manage.” She smoothed her sweater and quickly counted the berries on the wreath. Twelve—no, thirteen. A baker’s dozen, Gran would say. “I know how to use a ladder.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t look…” He paused as Brynn’s gaze narrowed to fireballs of heat. One of her hands plastered over a hip.

  “How don’t I look?” Her voice was a razor, the tone definitely not one that might invite paparazzi interviews. “Go ahead, spit it out.”

  “Never mind. I just meant…”

  “I know what you meant.” Brynn drew a breath. The scent of cinnamon wafted from the kitchen where she and Gran had been busy baking a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies. Brynn supposed, by the strength of the scent, that Gran had just taken the pan from the oven. Perfect. “I’m going to have a cookie while they’re warm. Would you like one, too?”

  “Sure.” Dillon shifted feet as he eyed the mistletoe wreath dangling from her fingers. “But, speaking of cookies, don’t eat those berries…they’re poisonous.”

  “I know.” Brynn swung the wreath like a slow-moving pendulum. “They’re pretty, though.”

  “Dad says sometimes beauty is deceiving.”

  “I suppose it can be.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “Come on before Gramps gets ahold of the cookies. He’ll eat every last one. Oatmeal is his favorite.”

  “I heard that.” Gramps called after them, his voice raspy from coughing. “So save me a few, if you don’t mind, in case my appetite fires up in a bit.”

  “We will, Gramps.” Brynn set the mistletoe on the mantle and the shopping bag beside the tree before she backtracked to Gramps; whose effort to speak had tumbled him into another hacking fit. She waited for the attack to pass then crouched at his side. “Are you doing OK?” She placed a palm along his scruffy cheek as worry furrowed her brow. “You look a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine, sweetie.” He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief Gran had embroidered. “You go on now and treat Dillon to your grandma’s fine baking.”

  So, together she and Dillon went. Once in the kitchen, Gran ushered them to the table and poured two glasses of milk before setting a platter of warm, moist cookies on the table in front of them. Dillon shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over a chair back before he snatched a cookie and dove right in.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jansen,” he murmured around a mouthful of crumbs.

  “Oh, you’re welcome, son.” Gran handed them each a napkin. “Hattie and I are going to sip our coffee near the fire with Gramps and Mr. Cutler. You two enjoy your cookies.”

  Brynn got the feeling Gran had left them alone on purpose. She seemed to understand Brynn’s need to stretch her wings toward adulthood. Brynn took a cookie and nibbled a raisin, though her belly felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. It dipped and whirled as Dillon glanced her way, his eyes dark as they scrutinized her.

  Somehow, she found her voice. “Thank you for the presents.”

  “Oh, don’t thank me. Thank…Santa.” Dillon chewed and swallowed as he shrugged toward the kitchen doorway and the Christmas tree that peeked through, brushing the ceiling with its height. “That’s a lot of tree to decorate.”

  “We’ll manage.” The scent of the fir tree whispered through the kitchen, mingling with cinnamon and oatmeal. The combination exhilarated Brynn with a sense of adventure. “Do you want to stay and help?”

  “I’d sure like to, but I have to get back soon. My brother Wyatt’s alone at the nursery, and it’s a lot to take care of alone, especially this time of year.” He sat up straighter in the chair, and she noticed his arms weren’t scrawny like most of the boys in school back at home. Instead, the muscle filled out his shirt. Brynn guessed working in the nursery must require a good deal of heavy lifting. “We should head back to help.”

  “Oh…I see.” Brynn sipped her milk. “It was nice of you to bring the tree. Gramps has been awful sick lately, but I noticed a little spark in his eye when your dad brought the Fraser fir in.”

  “Yeah, I caught that, too. He’ll be fine.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do.” Dillon leaned back in the chair, lifting the front legs off the floor. He balanced a few moments before dropping back to grab another cookie. “Dad said so, and he knows practically everything. He and Mom added your Gramps to their prayer list.”

  “Thank you.” Brynn sighed with relief as worry melted away. Somehow she sensed that if Dillon said it was so, it truly was so. “That’s…awfully kind.”

  “So there’s no need to worry, Brynn.” Dillon reached across the table to shelter her hand with his. “And Dad said if your grandfather can’t get back on at the lumber yard that there’s always a job waiting for him at the nursery. Dad said your Gramps was good to him when he needed help starting the nursery, and now it’s Dad’s turn to return the favor. That’s the way it works here in Clover Cove.”

  Brynn held her breath as his fingers brushed her wrist before he lifted his hand and settled back on his side of the table. Her appetite suddenly fired and she polished off the cookie, washing
it down with what remained of her milk. “I like it here. I wish I could stay.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I just can’t.”

  Gran and Mrs. Cutler returned to the kitchen, and Brynn felt a little stab of sadness as Dillon was ushered away. They’d just met, shared only a bit of conversation and a handful of cookies, and yet she felt an odd connection…as if she’d known him her whole life. It was surprising and a bit unsettling, as well.

  When the Cutlers departed with a plate of cookies in hand, washed in a flurry of heartfelt thanks, Brynn and Gran commenced to decorating the tree while Gramps supervised from the recliner. In quick time, lights twinkled and ornaments winked. Gramps gathered enough strength to rise from the recliner long enough to place a treasured star atop the highest bough. Then he led them in a prayer, thanking God for the Cutler’s generosity in this time of need.

  Brynn still remembered the tears that shimmered in Gramps’s eyes, the hitch of his voice as he spoke. Her gifts had been placed beneath the shelter of boughs to be opened on Christmas morning.

  Dillon’s prediction of “girly things” had been spot on, much to Brynn’s relief. She still had the diary, which she’d quickly filled from cover to cover with thoughts of Dillon and this magical holiday season. It lay safely tucked in a dresser drawer. A silver heart necklace had graced her neck each day since, and she thought of Dillon every time it caught the light.

  The Cutlers’ kindness was strong and lasting. It had ignited in Brynn the desire to help others, which led to a degree in pediatric nursing. The knowledge afforded her the ability to care for Nana following her car accident and to keep watch over Gramps as he fretted because he’d been the one driving.

  Wind moaned through trees outside the bedroom window, drawing Brynn from her memories. Gran shifted in the bed and sighed through a dream as her body continued its journey toward healing. Once again, Brynn thanked God that neither Gran nor Gramps had been injured worse in the car accident along Highway 441, that in time Gran’s fractured arm would heal and Gramps’s bruises would fade and he’d fully recover. It was a miracle, for sure, given the speed of impact and the state of their SUV.

  Totaled—completely.

  A chill whispered as Brynn delved into the basket on the floor beside the rocker, that Gran kept stocked with magazines. Settling on a periodical graced with a bright splash of blooms along the cover, she spread it open across her lap and thumbed through the articles, gasping as she came to one sprawled along the centerfold.

  “Cutler Nursery Draws Acclaim…” The article was paired with a portrait photo. The caption read, “Youngest Cutler sibling arrives home to round out the family team.”

  It was him…the handsome boy from that snowy December night.

  Dillon Cutler.

  There was no mistaking the slight, mischievous grin paired with a tousle of coal-black hair and chocolate eyes. Only now he was grown up…all grown up. Brynn wondered if Dillon’s thoughts on the merits of mistletoe had changed.

  She scanned the article, trying her best to focus on the content. But her gaze kept drifting back to the photo, her memories to that snowy night so long ago. Her fingers latched onto the silver heart tucked beneath the collar of her blouse.

  “Brynn, honey?” Gramps lumbered into the room, stretching kinks from his back and pressing a palm to his midsection. His nap had been short and wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes, still shadowed by bruises. His voice was gruff with remnants of sleep. “Would you mind to run an errand for me?”

  “Not at all.” Brynn stilled the rocker, whispering so as not to wake Gran. “What do you need, Gramps?”

  “You know how your Gran loves the holidays. She took care of me—you too—that year I lay flat on my back with pneumonia. Now it’s my turn to lift her up. I do believe a Christmas tree, with all of the trimmings, is in order. Would you head to Cutler Nursery and pick up one of their Frasier firs?”

  “I…” Her gaze drifted back to the magazine spread across her lap. Dillon’s photo stared back at her. Did he even remember that long-ago night when they’d shared cookies? Did he ever think of her? There was only one way to find out. She nodded to Gramps as she closed the magazine and slipped it back into the basket. “Of course I will. I think that’s a great idea. We can decorate the tree when Gran wakes up. She’ll like that.”

  “Good. I’ll phone ahead then to let Hattie Cutler know you’re coming that way. She’ll have one of her sons waiting on you to load the tree into the truck after you make your selection.”

  “Big, small, or something in between…what do you prefer, Gramps?”

  “No preference. Let your heart be your guide. You’ll know when you’ve found the right one.” He winked, his rheumy gray eyes twinkling with delight while his mottled pate, now completely bald, reflected muted light that filtered through the window. “And bring one of Hattie’s mistletoe wreaths, too.”

  2

  Dillon hoisted a Fraser fir onto his shoulder and carried it over to the tree baler. A quick wrap of netting would render the tree ready for transport. Nestled safely in her mother’s arms a few yards away, little Tilly Parker drank in his every move with dancing blue eyes. The machine whirred and sang. Then Tilly giggled as Dillon grabbed the modest tree from the baler and carried it to an SUV where the back hatch stood wide as a yawning mouth. He slid the tree in over a tarp and gathered a length of yellow rope. A few knots through the bumper, and the fir was ready to go.

  “Thank you.” Joyce Parker nodded appreciatively as Dillon handed her a receipt for her purchase. Her auburn hair, once a fiery halo, had been trimmed to a short, spiky length since Tilly’s birth three years ago. “I appreciate the help since Kevin got caught up at work and couldn’t meet me. You’ve made Tilly’s night.”

  They’d been high school friends of his—Kevin and Joyce high school and college sweethearts, as well. The three shared a handful of adventurous memories and one best-forgotten scrape with the law.

  “My pleasure.” Dillon tweaked Tilly’s rosy nose and then adjusted her toboggan over ringlets of light red curls. “I suppose Santa will bring a load of gifts for you, Tilly, since you’ve been such a good little girl this year.”

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded. “’cept for pullin’ Cousin Billy’s hair.”

  “I don’t suppose Santa will hold that against you. You mind your mama now, though, and be sure to leave a few extra cookies for Santa’s reindeer, OK?”

  “I will. Thanks Mr. Dillon.”

  He waved them off and then turned as an older-model pickup pulled into the lot and jockeyed into a space along the fence. The truck could use some maintenance; the rattle of the engine echoed off the hills beyond and muffled the Christmas melody. No wonder; the vehicle was ancient. Maybe he’d suggest the driver run it by Gunnar’s garage for a tune-up.

  Floodlights, sensitive to the growing darkness, switched on as swollen snow clouds gathered along the horizon. At the nursery’s entrance, the tree that Maddie had decorated danced merrily with light. O Holy Night played over the loudspeakers and Dillon found himself humming happily along; the song remained one of his all-time favorites. With the dinner hour upon them, the nursery crowd had thinned significantly. Things would pick up again later that evening, providing the storm backed off, when families ventured beneath the moonlight to tree-hunt.

  The driver of the pickup switched off the engine, drawing Dillon’s attention back as a run-on knock lingered. Yeah, the truck definitely needed some serious attention. The door creaked on rusted hinges and a blonde head bobbed through the opening. Long, loose strands of hair whipped as a breeze kicked up. A red knit hat fell to the ground and skittered across the gravel. Dillon rushed to retrieve it.

  “Oh, thanks.” The voice was positively female and held a slight southern accent that Dillon found vaguely familiar. He turned back, arm outstretched with the hat, to find the woman smiling at him. She took it from him and tugged it back over her ears. “I didn’t expect such a breeze. I
t’s really picking up. And just look at the sky to the—what is that, west?”

  “Uh huh. Storm’s coming over the mountains.” Already, powdery flakes two-stepped through the air. White specks clung to the woman’s eyelashes, illuminating eyes the color of rich, sweet toffee. “It’s going to dump some snow.”

  “The first snow of the season…Gramps always claimed it was magical.” She sighed and glossed lips rounded into a little, whimsical O. “It’s the perfect day to take home a tree to trim. Can you help me find what I’m looking for?”

  He knew her. How? From where?

  Dillon studied her as he answered. “That depends. What, exactly, are you looking for?”

  About his age, chin-height, she had sleek blonde hair and eyes large enough to get lost in. And that slight tilt of her chin and toss of her hair…

  Not to mention the soft lilt of her voice…so familiar. “I’m not sure. Something tall, green, fragrant, and yearning to be decorated…Gramps said I would know when I saw it.”

  “That sounds about right. So sure, I can help you.” He turned and motioned her to follow. “Let’s head this way.”

  Dillon strode toward the grove as she fell in step beside him. She wore faded jeans that disappeared into ankle boots, and a hunter-green blouse flapped in the breeze. A waterfall of hair spilled loose over her shoulders, nearly kissing her slim waist. His brain whirled with a tug of memories. He knew this woman; the slight curve of her lips and the way she twirled a lock of hair around her index finger jostled something inside him. They’d met once before, but when and where?

  He was about to ask when they turned a corner to find his mom heading toward them. A huge smile plastered her face and her arms were outstretched as if welcoming home a long lost friend.

  “Brynn, oh my! Is it really you?”

  Brynn. Dillon stopped dead in his tracks as the name brought everything back in a single snapshot…the long-ago winter evening, a Christmas tree, and oatmeal cookies.

  Mistletoe.