Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

2

She laughs, which lightens my mood and eases the ever-present knots in my shoulder muscles. Paige hasn’t had an easy go of it, and she’s far too serious and jaded for twenty-four. Anything I can say or do to ease her load—mentally, emotionally, spiritually—I’ll do without a second thought. Her laughter’s a reward I treasure.

“So,” she says after a while. “Would you maybe want to go with me to Dad’s for Christmas?”

“Ew. I saw him in January. Why would I go again?”

I give up and plop cross-legged on the storage room floor, wishing I liked coffee because my chai was useless this morning.

“Because he’s our father?”

I make an ugly buzzer sound. Nothing she says will convince me to recreate the tension of Four Christmases with my sister.

“Try again.”

“Because you love me?”

“True, but I’d rather fly you to me. We both know he’ll probably cancel on us thanks to a last-minute gig or band crisis.”

Our dad’s not merely a charming, cheating flake, he’s a musician too. Oh, and a first-generation Italian American whose personal mission is to perpetuate the stereotype Italian men are flirtatious womanizers. Except his father loved to coax a laugh from my grandmother, and while Nonno was certainly handsome and charismatic, he was faithful and head over heels for Nonna. So, I know it’s not true for all Italian men.

Maybe just the charming ones.

Paige remains silent. Adjusting my grip on the stubborn tree, I wait for her to upgrade from asking to begging. She’s nothing if not persistent. But her next question surprises me.

“Don’t you think it’s weird he’s asking us to visit? I assume he asked you too.”

Judging by her tone, she’s worried about my feelings. She forgets that where our father is concerned, the only feelings I have are irritation. Everything else remains buried deep under a layer of rejection and drowned in the well of tears I refuse to shed.

“He left a voicemail on Friday, but I haven’t listened to it yet. Why?”

“Dunno. He’s never asked before.”

“He hasn’t actually asked me anything.”

Her snort sparks a smile. “It’s on your voicemail.”

“I haven’t heard anything. Come on, you should know bigger cases have been won on smaller technicalities.”

This earns me a laugh, which is what I was going for as a nod to her final year of law school at UCLA.

“Fine,” she relents. “If it works out, I’ll come to you. But you’ll have to find us a plausible excuse for Dad.”

“Deal. I better run. This tree won’t move itself.” I don’t hear her goodbye because my earbud tumbles to the floor at the same time said tree twists and shoots clean through the doorway.

“What the—”

“Thought you could use a little help, Alley Cat.”

I groan, grumble, mutter, and swallow curses. “What do you want, Danger?”

“It’s just Dan. Say it with me… Dan.” He makes a show of forming the word with his dumb mouth. Two can play this game, though.

“And I’m Alessia,” I repeat, nice and slow, for the four hundred and twenty-seven millionth time since childhood, adding “Danger,” with extra oomph.

Personally, I don’t hate being called Als, Al, Lessi, or Les (though Alley Cat is the actual worst), but until he learns to use my proper name, I will continue to annoy him by using his.

He shakes his head with an irritatingly perfect smile before righting the tree in his grip. “Where do you want this?”

“I’ve got it. Don’t you have somewhere to flirt—I mean be?”

“Aw, honey, there’s nowhere I’d rather flirt than right here.”

“Oh, is that why you’re constantly here? Developed a taste for experienced, mature women, hmm?” I quirk one eyebrow.

“I can’t speak to experienced, but I certainly wouldn’t consider you mature, Als.”

He’s such a—

“Ooh, I earned an infamous Alley Cat eyeroll.”

Good heavens, I’m going to end up with bulging eye muscles from these regular workouts if he keeps showing up.

“Two! I feel extra special. Now, where did you want this?”

He gives the tree a hard shake, and now I’ll have to murder him. Those fake needles spread like glitter, and the janitorial staff here is passive aggressive enough after the confetti cannon debacle of 01.

“Ugh,” I sigh. “Fine. Let me grab the base first.”

I dig inside the storage room for the broom and sweep the needles into a pile in the corner to vacuum later before hunting down the right tree base. It’s up high on the opposite side of the room with the Easter stuff. Makes total sense, right? (Cue an eyeroll with accompanying headshake.) Once I have it in hand, I feel around for the keys clipped to my waist, kick the wedge from under the self-locking door, and let it slam closed on my way out.

Danger (not Dan) follows, his muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt as he carries the tree as though it weighs six pounds and not sixty, zigzagging through several corridors to our larger main dining room. It still smells like turkey and green beans in here, although Thanksgiving was four days ago. Then again, there’s a decent chance they’re serving it again since it’s a popular entrée with this crowd.

“Let’s put it over there.” I point toward the gas fireplace on the wall cattycorner to the wall of windows overlooking the lawn.

“Well, aren’t you sweet, helping our Lessi with the heavy lifting! And my, how… capable.” Mrs. Sweeney from Building Four saunters into the room, beaming at Danger like he’s a young Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Last I heard, he became an English teacher, not a bodybuilder. Yeah, but if Mr. Stutz had looked like that, you’d have passed AP Lit with a perfect score.

Shut up, brain.

I flash Mrs. Sweeney a polite smile, praying to the good Lord she doesn’t reach out and squeeze the man’s biceps. There’s a disturbing gleam in her eye that makes me think she would.

“Just keeping myself off the naughty list, ma’am,” he says with a wink.

For the love.

“’Tis the season and all.”

She titters like a girl a quarter her age. “Where’s the fun in that, sugar?”

Oh my word. Seriously?

“It is very sweet of him to help, Mrs. Sweeney, but we’ve got three more trees to move before he needs to skedaddle.” Buh-bye now. Hint, hint.

Mrs. Sweeney leaves with a flirty remark I don’t fully hear as I’m adjusting the tree in its base by myself, since Dan the Man is occupied. Once she’s gone, he turns and gives me a raised eyebrow. I shrug and hightail it to the storage room for the next tree, but he’s not done.

“Skedaddle?”

My bangs blow wildly with my huff. “You try spending forty plus hours a week around seniors and see if you don’t pick up their lingo.”

He chuckles. “Okay, you get a pass. My sister’s a preschool teacher and says the same thing when we tease her about using the potty.”

Oddly enough, I feel less stupid. Turning with my keys in hand before unlocking the storage room door, I suck in a deep breath. Asking for help is so hard, and my body rebels against my next words.

“Do you mind assisting me with the other trees? If you’re not too busy to lend your muscles.”

“Noticed those, did you? Like what you see?” He smirks.

If he winks, I’m going to bruise him.

“Ew. No.” Liar. “Can you help or not?”

He checks his smartwatch. “Sure. I’ll have to be quick to get back before my next class, but it’s fine.”

I drag two of the six-foot trees out of storage and hand him one. “Are you sure? Is someone expecting you?”

Why else would he come to Valle Encantado on his lunch break? It’s not Friday, which I’ve learned is his early dismissal day when he spends the afternoon with Silas Cooper in his apartment.

“Actually, I came to see you.”

“Me?” Why?

He follows me toward the front desk, where I direct him to prop his tree on the left while I set mine in place on the right.

“Yes, you. Silas wants to propose to Peggy James, but he needs something better than slipping a ring into her drink at dinner.”

“And you want my help?”

“Yeah, I had a few ideas, but you’re the activities person now, so—”

“Director.” At his puzzled frown, I add, “Activity Director.” Maybe not an important distinction to anyone else, but the title matters to me.

“Sorry, Activities Director, so I wanted to run it by you and—”

He’s cut off by a booming voice. “Danny Boy! Thought I saw your vehicle in the lot. Shouldn’t you be reading The Great Gatsby to a bunch of twerps right now?”

Danny Boy grins. After hearing that gem, so do I. The older man stands inside the sliding doors holding Ms. Peggy’s hand. They’re also smiling, only theirs is the kind that glows with the joy of true love. According to movies and books, anyway. I’ve never seen it in real life, so I can’t say for sure.

“It’s For Whom the Bell Tolls this time, and I’m on lunch. Thought I’d enlist Ms. Catano here for the project we discussed last week.”

Mr. Silas waves his free hand in the air. “Oh, I already took care of that this morning.”

“You what?” Danger’s voice pitches upward in surprise.

“Told ya I had it covered.” He lifts their joined hands, pointing to a lovely antique-set jade ring with a diamond chip in the center.

“Congratulations!” I rush to hug Ms. Peggy, whose smile is glowing so bright it’s practically neon.

“Please tell me you didn’t ask her while watching the morning news,” Danny Boy deadpans.

Yes, I’m totally adding that to my nickname repertoire now.

Mr. Silas grunts while Ms. Peggy laughs.

“It was perfect, Dan,” she says as he bends in half to hug her small frame.

Dan releases her and steps to the side where I’m repositioning the second tree. I don’t want to be rude, but also don’t have time to dillydally.

“We went for a walk in the park,” Ms. Peggy begins. “‘A stroll down memory lane,’ he said,” she giggles. “We reminisced about the first time we dated, then he stopped to sit at a park bench. He said his greatest regret would always be letting me go, not fighting hard enough to stay together. He missed sixty years he should’ve spent with me and didn’t want to waste another sixty seconds. Then he dug this ring out of his pocket and asked me to marry him!”

You always hear the term “blushing bride,” and now I see why. Ms. Peggy’s face glows bright and lovely, with the apples of her cheeks turning the prettiest pink as she tells the story of her happiest moment.

My eyes sting.

“I’m so happy for you two,” I say around the bubble in my throat. Despite my doubts about love, proposals always make me a little emotional.

“Thank you! And I’m so glad you’re both here because we’re going to need your help.”

Wait a second. Did she say—

“Both?” Dan asks.

“Yes! My first husband and I went to the courthouse. Silas promised me the wedding of my dreams this time, and I always wanted to be married in style! It’s going to be all hands on deck.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine on my own,” I assure her. “Danny Boy can’t take time away from his students. Have you set a date?”

“The day after Christmas.”

No no no no no.

My mind races, formulating a dozen arguments against helping plan a wedding. My already overflowing calendar of holiday events and the minutiae it takes to pull them off. The myriad of other responsibilities that come with the activity director’s job. Getting the storage room organized. Work-life balance, which I’m already lousy at.

Where am I supposed to find the time or the energy?

Ms. Peggy’s countenance glows. She’s so happy and earnest in her request, I don’t have the strength to refuse.

“I’ll have plenty of time,” says the ever-so-helpful man beside me. “My winter break begins December thirteenth.”

He turns to me with that sideways smirk I loathe. “Als, if you’ll get the ball rolling, I’ll be yours for two whole weeks.”

I barely suppress my groan. There’s no way out of this, even if I found the gumption to tell a sweet old lady no. Which I never will. Guess I’m adding wedding planner to my resumé.

Maybe a little help wouldn’t be the worst idea.

Does it have to be Danger Stevens, though?

Sigh.

At least now I have a legitimate excuse not to visit Dad for Christmas.

Dan

In hindsight, when Ms. Peggy said she wanted to be married in style, we should have asked questions.

“What exactly does in style mean?” for starters.

Better yet, I should’ve politely declined Ms. Peggy’s request for my help and run out of there like my beard was on fire.

“We are not giving them a western-themed wedding. She said in style, not western style!” Alley Cat fumes, her gaze narrowed, muscles coiled, ready to claw my eyes out.

“Silas loves westerns. He lives for them, and it’s his wedding too.” I cross my arms and stand taller for effect.

While it’s true Silas loves old westerns with a level of dedication a younger generation might term fanboy, the man has given no indication as to what sort of wedding he envisions. Not something men typically waste brainpower on. But when I arrived on yet another lunch break slash prep period (the truest sacrifice, as any educator knows) ten minutes ago, something inside me snapped. Alessia’s tiny office resembles the wedding aisle at a thrift store gone wrong.

I had to speak up.

For Silas.

“They’re getting married the end of December,” she huffs, “which is my second busiest month of the year. The entire place is already half decorated for the holidays, and adding elegant touches of white will be simple and stylish.” Her inflection emphasizes stylish, but her brows stress the first word.

She needs this to be simple or she’ll lose her ever loving mind. Got it. Except—

“What if Peggy doesn’t want a wedding that looks like Valentine’s Day and Christmas threw up inside a bridal magazine?” I challenge.

Alessia rounds the desk, mirroring my stance so close I see she’s got a booger flake flickering on each irritated exhale. I smother my grin with a subtle nose rub. She pointedly glares from my hand to the oversized pump bottle of hand sanitizer on the corner of her desk.

Oh, she’s worried about my snot when she’s got a boog the size of Rhode Island?

Wisely, I keep my mouth shut and pump a generous amount of sanitizer into my hand, making a show of rubbing it in nice and careful without breaking eye contact.

She rolls her eyes with a trademark huff. “It’s chaotic in here because I wasn’t sure what Ms. Peggy wanted, so I went into storage and brought out everything we’ve used for past weddings. Which, admittedly, is no small amount.”

“Ah. That explains the bells. I’m guessing the height of style for weddings in 1985?”

They’re hideous. The once-white hard plastic is a dingy yellow. The top is tied with a crumpled mass that I assume was red velvet ribbon at one time but is now the shade of dried blood.

Alessia huffs through her nose, dislodging the bat from its cave, which goes flying onto the bells. She freezes, staring at the dry flake in horror. Her face blanches before turning completely red. I’ve never seen a human this red aside from sunburns. She springs into action, grabbing the bells and launching them into the wastebasket at the end of her desk.

“I’m also cleaning out the storage room. Clearly.”

My family’s efforts to raise a gentleman kick in, and I purposefully examine a set of silver candlesticks like an expert appraiser, all the while watching her frantically sanitize her own hands in my periphery. She glances my way three or four times, but I wait until her face returns to a normal shade before angling my body toward her.

I saw nothing. Nothing at all.

It’s harder than it should be to keep my lips from twitching, though. She’s always been adorable when she’s mad, but blushing and hiding the evidence of her humanness? Might be my new favorite.

She’s just always so poised. Completely put together and perfect with everything flawlessly organized and precisely ordered for as long as I’ve known her.

Maybe that’s why seeing her office a mess today threw me off.

Or maybe it was all the lace.

I shudder, searching the room for anything remotely masculine among these piles of white and fluff.

There. A cowboy boot. Plucking it from under a pile of faux pearl strands, I realize it’s a vase for flowers, but it’ll help me paint the scene for something far more fun than a typical, classic Christmas wedding.

“A Western theme can be elegant too, and simple if we do it right. I mean, check out how cool this boot shaped vase is.”

“It’s really not. I think it’s a relic someone made in Jobie March’s art class ten years ago.” She points to the pile of assorted ugliness. “You’re in my pitch pile. Not the wedding pile.”

I shoot her a look. “Humor me. How long would it take to remove the Christmas stuff from the chapel and reception area? A few hours?”

She scoffs. “It took me a whole week to decorate! You think I can tear everything down in a few hours and transform the space into an old western saloon like that?” Her fingers snap.

I shrug. “What, move a few trees, some wreaths, and a few sprigs of mistletoe?”

The sound she produces is part scoff, part snort. It’s adorable.

Then thoughts of mistletoe and what it stands for remind me of thoughts I haven’t had for this woman in years. Shut it down, man. I’m here for Silas and Peggy, and nothing else.

“I’ll pitch in. It’ll be easy.” I only need mention it to my family, and they’ll have a whole crew here to finish the job in an hour.

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Then I guess there’s only one way to solve this.”

“You leave me alone and let me handle it my way?”

I chuckle. “Nope. We ask the bride and groom what they want.”

“Fine.” Alessia drops the string of pearls she’d been running through her fingers and marches through the door.

She doesn’t stop marching (stomping, really) until we reach Ms. Peggy’s apartment. No one answers, so I follow her down two floors to Silas’s.

The pair answers after a long minute, breathing heavily. The corner of my mouth fights to tilt upward as I take in the piece of Silas’s thin gray hair sticking up in the back and the smudge of lipstick on Peggy’s upper lip.

“Y’all need a chaperone?” I drawl with a smirk.

Silas glares. Ms. Peggy’s cheeks flush pink. But Silas throws an arm over her shoulder and kisses her cheek. They both grin with no shame over being caught making out like teenagers.

“Not necessary,” Peggy says, regaining her usual poise. “Now, to what do we owe this… unexpected visit?”

“Wedding!” Alessia shouts. She clears her throat before speaking in a normal tone. “We had some ideas for the wedding we needed to run past you.”