A Very Grumpy Lumberjack Christmas

1. Noel

1

NOEL

N othing feels better than driving into Mistletoe, Wisconsin, at Christmas.

The pure joy that rushes through my blood and lifts my spirits.

Simply knowing what I’ll find in the quiet streets of the small town that’s always been home can’t be beat by anything .

Except maybe really good, hot, sweaty, mind-bending, make-your-legs-unusable-after-it sex.

But it’s been so long since I’ve experienced that …I wouldn’t really have any frame of reference anymore.

Just a flicker.

A lingering, distant memory of a man with evergreen eyes and a touch that set my skin and soul on fire.

I expected that inferno to rage on forever. The heat and passion to only grow the way my love for all things Christmas has every year that passes.

Instead, that flame burned out long ago.

Nothing but a wisp of smoke and charred ash now.

Not even a single ember left smoldering in the place where I once felt nothing but warmth .

But I’m not even going to think of him while I’m home.

Or dwell on the fact that he’s merely a few miles down the road. Still living in the same cabin on his parents’ land. Still helping them run the tree farm. Probably still looking sexy as fuck in his lumberjack plaid with that axe over his shoulder that always did me in every time I saw him.

Nope.

Not thinking about it.

I am one hundred percent concentrating on the road and singing along with “White Christmas.”

Up here, you have to love all things Christmas—and pay attention behind the wheel—especially this time of year when the holiday smacks you full force in the face, and Mother Nature does, too.

The steadily falling snow currently covering the road and frozen tundra of Northern Wisconsin is nothing compared to the storm that’s supposed to hit on Christmas Eve and carry into Christmas Day. More like a blustery taste of what could be a disastrous blizzard coming at the worst time possible.

Or the best…depending on how you look at it.

I, for one, need a white Christmas—like the song currently blasting through the speakers says.

Those bizarre years when the Midwest didn’t have snow by the big day, things just felt off . Like some of the magic of the season was missing without the blanket of sparkling white and the frigid temps that always come with it.

But this year has been brutal for Mistletoe. Getting slammed by two major storms already, and—judging by the big, fat flakes drifting from the gray sky above now and the weather predictions splashed across every forecast I’ve checked—I won’t have to worry about a snowless holiday.

What I do have to pay attention to is the slick roads.

The normal hour-and-a-half drive from Green Bay has taken over two today .

I tighten my hands on the wheel and keep my eyes straight ahead, practically bouncing in the seat and not bothering to fight my grin as I anticipate what I’ll see as I make the turn around the approaching bend in the two-lane county highway.

Mistletoe …

As soon as the sign appears, my heart sings the same way I have been to my holiday playlist the entire drive up here from the airport.

Hand-painted vibrant red berries and the easily recognizable, softly rounded green leaves surround the town name—and Santa pops up over the top and waves, welcoming drivers.

Even if the town name didn’t give it away, anyone seeing the sign would know what to expect entering Main Street. Christmas year-round—the sights, the sounds, the smells. There isn’t anywhere to escape it.

And with the big day only two away, things are in full swing.

From half a mile away, the massive tree in the town square towers over the historic courthouse building—the tallest thing for a hundred miles, save for Jolly Mountain. I can picture what the fire trucks looked like a month ago when they used the baskets to lift town workers high enough to string the lights around the massive Norway spruce and to put the star on the top.

I laugh to myself like a total idiot, remembering the year Mayor Evans dropped it from seventy-five feet up and there was a mad scramble to find a new one before the lighting ceremony.

Dad almost lost his shit, but as head of the Mistletoe Decorative Committee, he took his job very seriously and reigned himself in enough to take control of the situation and fix the mayor’s mistake before all the tourists flooded in.

For the first time since I started my drive home, my chest aches and tears I’ve managed to keep at bay start to blur my vision.

Not now, Noel…

If I let myself go down that mental road, I’ll ruin my positive holiday vibes and make it impossible to enjoy my favorite time of the year.

Brushing away a stray trickle down my cheek, I finally make it to the spot where the paved highway changes to the bricked Main Street.

As always, the quaint shops lining either side of the road decked out in vibrant lights and decorations act like a warm hug to anyone visiting town for a dose of holiday spirit.

Red bows brighten up each antique lamppost.

Garland drapes between them all the way as far as the eye can see, with white twinkle lights wrapped around every strand.

Kids skate and play hockey on the two rinks set up in the town square on either side of the massive tree while their parents sip hot cocoa from Tami’s food truck parked at the curb.

Smiling, I release a long, relieved breath.

I needed to come home.

No matter how hard it is to be here for the first Christmas since Dad died, I couldn’t imagine not being in Mistletoe or allowing Mom to spend this time alone.

It wouldn’t have been right.

And I’m going to do my best to concentrate on all the good things and good times rather than on what we so recently lost.

Though that won’t be easy—

My thoughts and Mariah Carey belting out “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” are interrupted by my phone ringing through the car speakers .

“Crap…”

I should have called Mom to let her know the roads were making the drive slow.

Inching down Main Street through all the holiday traffic, I press the button on the steering wheel to accept the call. “Hi, Mom!”

“Noel, where are you?”

Betty Parsons waves at me from the corner as I pass, though I have no idea how she recognized me in this rental car.

I wave back and smile.

That old biddy is going to go running straight into the coffee shop to tell everyone I’m back in town.

Shit.

There are no secrets in Mistletoe. With five hundred residents, everyone knows everyone’s business—and makes it their business, too.

Which means it’s only a matter of time before it makes it through the rumor mill and to him.

But I’ve managed eight Christmases without seeing Luke Crisp in the flesh, and I will do my damnedest to avoid him this year, too.

It helps that he doesn’t come into town around Christmas anymore, and I spend almost all my time when I’m home either at the rink skating or shopping and enjoying the bright holiday spirit he seems to hate so much.

Though it wasn’t always that way, was it?

I push away thoughts of the Grinch of Mistletoe and concentrate on getting home—to the familiar scents, abundant decorations, and blaring music filled with cheesy lyrics I can’t help but sing along with.

“I’m on Main Street, Mom.” I pause to allow a family to cross, skates draped over their shoulders. “The roads aren’t great, but I should be home soon.”

Mom releases a relieved breath. “Oh, good. I was getting worried…”

“I know.”

Regret instantly sits heavy on my chest for the concern in her voice. After losing Dad, the last thing I want to do is to allow that saint of a woman to worry about me or that something could have happened on the drive up.

“I’ll be home soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Drive safe. The mountain wasn’t friendly when I was coming home this morning.”

Her warning should make me concerned, but I’ve been driving up Jolly Mountain since before I should have even been behind the wheel, and this wintery weather doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the fact that I’m going to have to travel right past Crisp Christmas Tree Farm on my way home.

It’ll be okay.

Everything will be.

I keep telling myself that.

Have been every day for the last six months since Dad died, since I was last here for the funeral, but I’m still not sure I believe it.

First Christmas without Dad.

Born and bred in Mistletoe, Christmas was always his thing. Our thing that we shared. Mom always loved this town and the all-holiday-all-the-time vibes, but she never got as “into” it as we did. And without him here, it feels like finding my groove is going to be impossible.

I swallow back a little sob that threatens to come out and swipe away another round of tears as the snow starts to fall harder.

The one stop sign in downtown Mistletoe halts my slow trek down Main Street. I glance in my rearview mirror to ensure there’s no one behind me, but the road is clear, at least of cars, if not accumulating snow.

It’s my chance to pause for a moment and absorb all of it.

I crack my window and turn down my playlist to hear what they’re pumping through town square. The moment “All I Want for Christmas is You” hits my ears, I cringe and roll it back up.

Of all the damn songs…

The one I never play—the one that inevitably makes me think of Luke and when he played it for me when we were sixteen. The night he kissed me for the first time and changed everything.

But nothing ever changes around here .

Wagner’s bakery sits kitty-corner from me, its massive front window overflowing with pastries, cookies, and cakes. Nancy has undoubtedly already begun stockpiling Christmas treats for those who come in at the last minute—which always seems to be the case. Between locals and all the tourists who hit town for the Christmas Eve celebration at the big tree, she makes a killing every year.

As do most of the other shops—

A horn honks behind me, and I jerk and glance back at a massive pickup truck.

Shit.

I wave an apology, then hit the gas and cross the intersection, traveling past another half-block of shops before heading out of town and up toward the place I lived my entire life.

Until you didn’t.

Until you left.

I try to push away the bad memories of those horrible few days, but it’s nearly impossible as I approach the sharp right turn that will take me up what locals always call “ the mountain.”

Of course, there aren’t really mountains in Wisconsin, but when the glaciers came through during the last ice age, they left the highest point in the state, which just happens to be where the Jollys—and eventually the Crisps—decided to settle three generations ago.

But before I can reach home, I’m going to have to pass the Grinch’s abode.

Crisp Christmas Tree Farm…

Just drive past.

Don’t look.

Get home.

It should be easy enough.

I’ve made this drive a thousand times in my life. Spent the last eight years forcing myself not to look at the farm or the beautifully decorated sales lot, only stopping once a year with Dad to get our annual tree. Knowing Luke never sets foot on the actual sales lot anymore and prefers to spend his time chopping trees and getting them ready for customers than actually interacting with people made the risk of running into him razor thin.

Though it didn’t use to be like that, not when I knew him.

Not before he became the Grinch.

Skulking around the mountain with his axe and sneer.

Grumbling about how annoying the constant Christmas music is, despite the fact that leaning into those vibes brings the only real tourism to our small town.

Rarely leaving the family property or his cabin at all.

And when he does, it’s apparently always with a permanent scowl on his handsome face.

I tighten my grip on the wheel as I approach the edge of the forest, where it opens up to Crisps’ property.

Even Michael Bublé’s smooth voice singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” can’t distract me from what’s coming .

Eyes straight ahead.

Eyes straight ahead.

I keep telling myself that, but as soon as the trees clear to my right, my gaze drifts that direction to the extravagant Christmas display and dozens and dozens of cut trees lining the lot next to a massive sleigh with eight fake reindeer attached to the front of it. Mr. Crisp’s favorite spot to sit between customers and wave at passing cars, trying to encourage people to stop in for a wreath or garland or boughs even if they already have their tree.

He isn’t there now, though.

The increasingly steady snowfall may have something to do with that.

Heavy, wet flakes splatter against the windshield, my wipers barely keeping up with them even though I’m barely going thirty miles per hour.

Hopefully, the weather doesn’t keep the tourists away.

Not only does the town rely on the caravan of outsiders coming into Mistletoe over the next few days, but the Crisps do, too.

While early in the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas is always the busiest for their sales, I learned over my time with Luke that a shocking number of people drive up here to snag a tree immediately before Christmas Eve.

And this one looks to be blanketed in a massive snowstorm that could shut them down on one of their busiest nights.

I strain to see into the huge barn that houses their equipment and the sales office, but something darts across the road, catching my attention from the corner of my eye, and I jerk the wheel to avoid hitting it.

“Shit!”

The tires hit a patch of ice, and the back end slides out.

I death-grip the wheel and try to control the spin, but there’s nothing I can do as the car careens into the ditch.