12 Days of Mistletoe

29. Elliot

TWENTY-NINE

elliot

“Come sit,” Gran says, patting the space on the couch beside her. “What time will Bonnie be here?”

“Ten,” I say, glancing down at my watch. “But we could always give her a day off.”

Gran shakes her head. “No days off. I asked for twelve days—in a row—and that’s what you’re going to give me, Elliot James.” She hums, her blue eyes pondering. “I really need to learn Bonnie’s middle name. You know how I like to full-name my grandchildren.”

“It’s Faith,” I say, not remembering when I learned that piece of information.

“Lovely. Bonnie Faith Miller. I will full-name her tonight.”

I breathe out, my chest deflating. I haven’t seen Bonnie all day. She worked and I Christmas shopped. I definitely didn’t wish she had been with me the entire afternoon. Or maybe I did. I should be showing the girl a little mercy by trying to get her out of Gran’s “lesson” tonight. Only Gran has already put her foot down. And if I’m being honest, I want to see her.

I do understand the definitions of fake, false, and fraud. All descriptions of my romantic relationship with Bonnie. I get it.

But Bonnie is like coming up for air after holding your breath for far too long. She makes me laugh, and I’m convinced that her heart is larger than the average human’s. I had all the information wrong when I thought she was trying to pull one over on Gran. Even then, she was trying to survive while being kind. With Bonnie, what you see is what you get. She’s so real. Err—apart from the whole fake girlfriend thing.

Gran pulls a stuffed manila envelope from the drawer on her coffee table.

“What do you have there?” I ask, sitting next to her on the floral couch in her fancy living room. She wants me to ask. I can see it in her twinkling eyes. She loves it when I ask questions. I ask about her growing up and about Gramps. I ask about life in the ’60s and what she would have done with her life had she not chosen to stay home with her children. She always reminds me that she loved staying home with her children. But also that she would have been one heck of an engineer had she chosen to dabble down that path.

“These are notes from a friend.” She breathes in, lacing her fingers and resting her hands overtop of the envelope.

“That’s nice.”

Gran breathes out and studies me. She’s ready to talk. “Growing old is a lonely business, Elliot.”

“Gran—”

“It is. I know I have you and your mother and sisters. But that doesn’t change the fact that your grandfather has been gone more than three years. Finding your soulmate is wonderful, Elliot. Losing them is devastating, even at my age.”

My brows knit and I cover her wrinkled hands with mine. She needs to say this. And even more, I need to listen. She deserves my attention at the very least.

“I have you kids. And I see you often. Especially you, my Elliot.” One of her hands escapes our hold and she cups my cheek for a few short seconds. “And yet, I’m lonely. Holidays are especially lonely. I can’t be with you and your family all of the time. I just can’t. Not unless I moved in with your mother, and I refuse to do so. I lived with the girl for nineteen years already.”

I smother a laugh. “Me too.”

She sighs as if she might be tired. “We love her. Heaven knows we do.”

“We do,” I say.

“One Christmas, I was especially lonely. I think it was the year your parents went on that cruise. Anyway, I got this in the mail, and”—her head bobbles in a shake—“I didn’t feel quite so alone.”

She pulls out one single card from her envelope and hands it over to me. There’s a cartoon Santa on the front, a child on his lap, and his beard is bright pink. An elf at Santa’s right says to another, “He washed his suit with his whites again.”

I smirk at the joke and bring my gaze back to Gran.

“Open it up.” She grins at the silly card, something Gran would never normally pick up, and nods for me to continue.

I do. There are no more jokes inside, just plenty of room for the giver to write, and the right page is filled top to bottom. I dart to the end of the card to see a bubbled B and the name Bonnie Miller scrawled at the bottom.

“Read it,” Gran says next. And apparently, I am a sucker who does whatever his grandmother asks of him—except that I want to read this. Bonnie wrote it.

It’s dated three years ago, and she’s written:

Dear Mrs. Elliot,

Merry Christmas! I hope this season finds you with family and friends and lots of love.

Thank you for providing such a sweet home for me and the others who live in the Cherry Plum apartments. I’ve lived in a couple different places in this city, but this is the nicest. It feels like home. I especially love the trees out front.

I blink. I helped Gramps plant those trees. My chest blooms with warmth at Bonnie’s mention of them. I glance once at Gran, who watches me, then continue.

I just wanted to let you know that the people you are serving appreciate you. You’ve made our lives better by caring.

You are loved this Christmas season.

Thank you!

Bonnie Miller (B4)

I feel emotional with the sincere and kind thank-you she thought to give my grandmother. Has anyone before or after her shown this kind of appreciation to my hardworking gran?

“Just one month later, I got this card.” She reaches in, and without even looking, pulls the next card from her envelope. There’s a cow in a party hat on the front. A word bubble has him saying, “Happy MOO Year!”

It’s ridiculous enough to get a small chuckle out of me.

I open it up, without direction this time, and read another sweet note, top to bottom, from Bonnie. She tells Gran how she always makes one New Year’s goal she knows she can accomplish and one that’s far-fetched. She rarely meets it, but she always has fun trying. She asks questions—ones that I doubt Gran ever answered—and signs the exact same way: Bonnie Miller (B4).

“B4—when I came to you and told you about Bonnie’s dog, you knew exactly who B4 was.”

“I did,” she says without bothering to look at me.

“You told me to work it out. And you wouldn’t allow me to send her any kind of official notice.”

Her brows raise just before she dumps the rest of the cards into my lap. “I’ve saved them all. Many came at a time when I felt a little low. They always picked me up.”

There must be thirty cards here.

“When you find the card with the llama, show it to me.” She titters out a chuckling sigh. “That one always makes me laugh.”

Each card has a joke on it—one that I never would have thought to send to May Elliot. And yet, she enjoyed them, she laughed at them, and they made her feel seen.

My chest warms, and I am more anxious than ever to see Bonnie .

I open another—this one not in order, as it’s dated just last year. But it’s signed the same, Bonnie Miller (B4).

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew her personally when I came to you?”

“Two reasons,” she says with a bob of her white head. “One—I had never met Bonnie Miller in person. Two—you think you were the first to turn her in for having a dog? You are not, my boy. But I like her. I have since she sent that first card.”

Someone might as well have smacked me with a brick. “Whoa. Hold up. You knew about Noel?”

“I did,” she says unapologetically.

“But you didn’t say a thing. You could have told me you already knew. Did you even care about the dog? Why tell me to ‘handle’ it?” I stare down at the myriad of cards in my lap, my head reeling.

“I’m eighty-five, Elliot. I will say whatever I want to say.”

“But what did you want me to do? What was the point?” I tilt my head, waiting for her to answer.

She gives one small shoulder shrug. Before I can ask again—there’s a knock at the door.

Bonnie is here.