Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

4

She snickers at my follow-up yawn.

Seriously, the three o’clock slump is legit. Especially after a night like mine where Audrey HepBun woke me at four thumping her foot against the bottom of her hutch in warning to the neighbor’s free-range cat. Thankfully, I was able to resettle for two more hours of sleep. Since I’m staying for tonight’s holiday kick-off activity, I’d already planned to come in later.

“Are we set for tonight’s movie?”

Pam confirms, and I say a prayer of thanks the maintenance crew didn’t object to an event involving popcorn and bowls of bite-sized candy. But come on, how do we usher in the holiday season with a Christmas movie and not serve the requisite accoutrements? I’ll more than likely wind up sweeping the floors anyway to save myself their side-eye.

The sacrifices I make for this place.

Not ready to face my tiny office and the clutter I’ve yet to disperse, I spend a few minutes adjusting the spacing on the swags of twinkle lights hanging from the front desk. The trees on either side came out great, but she could use a little something on the wall behind the desk. There might be a spare set of stars and a wreath in the closet. I haven’t had the time to finish decorating since my focus has been divided between our usual group activities, wedding checklists, and tackling the devil’s closet.

“Afternoon, ladies. How are you this fine Friday?” The man sounds like a character from one of Paige’s regency novels.

“Hi, Dan!” Pam says, chipper as always.

Traitor. Who brought her the mocha, hmm? Where’s the loyalty?

“Alley Cat.”

I turn to face him, an arch to my brow. “Not a feline, Danger.”

“Just Dan.”

“I’ll get it right when you do.” I give him a saccharine smile while fluttering my eyelashes sarcastically. It’s a special skill I’m thinking about adding to my resume, right below eyerolling. What can I say? I’m good with my eyes.

“What’s showing tonight?” He changes the subject without acknowledging my exceptional talents. Rude.

“Last I checked, you’re under fifty-five and therefore ineligible to be part of the Valle Encantado community.”

“Never took you for an ageist, kitty.”

Since it’s a bad idea to affirm his nickname choices by clawing him to death literally, I choose the high road of ignoring him.

“Now, now, children,” Pam teases. I’d forgotten she was here. “Of course, Dan is welcome. After all, he’s still checked in as Silas’s guest. And Dan, we’re watching It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“A true classic,” he says, nodding as if he knows.

I bet he’s never actually seen it.

“Although,” he continues, “if I had to choose between it and White Christmas, the latter is far superior.”

Color me impressed. I never would have pegged Danger Stevens as a classic film fan. It takes a special kind of patience these days to sit through a long, slow-moving black-and-white (yes, it’s been colorized, but don’t get me started on that subject), even if it is one of the greatest movies of all time.

And a musical? Well, that’s a rare man indeed. Of course, just because he’s seen both doesn’t mean he’s among those truly rare and special.

Movies are my first language. But is he fluent in geek?

“I would agree White Christmas is the superior Christmas movie.” Before he gets too comfortable in his self-satisfied smile, I continue. “However, Capra’s is the superior film.”

“Oh? How so?”

Am I glad he took the bait. This is one argument I will never lose. While he was busy getting his English degree, I was dual majoring in therapeutic recreation (for my career) and film studies (for my soul).

“For one, It’s a Wonderful Life isn’t a Christmas movie.”

Pam groans. She’s heard my rant on this subject since the year I began assisting Danae. The same movies slide onto the calendar year after year by request of the residents. Once, I tried to show Elf, and you’d have thought I planned to incite a riot. But this one?

He protests. “It tops nearly every Christmas movie list!”

Exactly that.

I clear my throat and crack my neck side to side, giving both shoulders a roll before tackling his first point. Here we go.

“First of all, any idiot can compile a movie list, doesn’t mean they’re accurate. Now, on to evidence.” I raise my first finger. “The plot takes place over more than a decade. Not merely the holiday season.”

Adding a second digit, I continue. “One scene that takes place on Christmas, however pivotal, does not define the genre. By that logic, ET: The Extraterrestrial is a Halloween movie.”

“Next you’re going to say Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.”

“Completely separate debate. Also, Die Hard only counts as a Christmas movie if Lethal Weapon does.”

“I’m willing to consider,” he says with a casual shrug.

The nerve.

“As I was saying.” I lift a third finger. “Christmas movies are about Christmas. Capra’s film is not. It’s about, among other things, a man’s personal and financial struggles as he contemplates suicide.”

“Yes, but it’s inspirational and uplifting, which is a key element to the best Christmas movies.”

I’ll give him credit for trying. Some.

“True, but you wouldn’t consider Good Will Hunting or Remember the Titans Christmas movies though they’re similarly inspirational and uplifting. Shall I keep going?” I cross both arms before leaning a hip against Pam’s desk.

“Honey, you’ll save us a whole lotta time and headache if you go ahead and concede.” Pam gives him a consoling pat on the forearm.

We’re caught in a staring match, and I almost win until a fleck of mascara falls from the edge of my upper lashes into my left eye.

It stings! Oh, my goodness. My eye won’t quit watering like someone’s got the saltwater tap turned full blast. Now I’m going to have one swollen red racoon eye and one normal.

Pam earns a grateful smile with the pass of a tissue. Danger-Dan stands there, wisely remaining silent, with a look of pity on his face. Ugh. If there’s one facial expression I can’t stomach, it’s pity. When my dad’s philandering came to light, I saw enough to last a lifetime.

He surprises me, though, not commenting on my struggle or mega-sexy eye makeup smears. Instead, he gives me a smile bordering on affection followed by the lopsided smirk that made twelve-year-old me draw hearts and initials on the inside cover of her science notebook.

Let’s forget I said that.

“I guess we’ll have to watch the movie tonight and analyze it together,” he announces once I’ve regained my composure.

“T–together?”

“Yes, Als. Together. As in, my chair beside yours while we stare at a screen and share popcorn. For discussion purposes.”

He’s backed me into a corner. Must be a family trait, I think, recalling the way his sister steamrolled me into giving him my number at the grocery store the other night. Not that he’s used it.

I mean, it’s not as though I’ve used his either, so…

What was I saying?

“I’m getting my own popcorn, Mr. Warning Label.”

He smirks, and I want to smudge it off his face like an ugly shade of lipstick. “Been staring at my contact, huh? Debating whether or not to text? You don’t have to overthink it. A simple ‘hi’ will do.”

Here comes the eyeroll. I’ve tried hard to suppress them, I promise I have. But this man has a terrible knack for coaxing them out of me. Along with smiles, but we won’t be talking about those.

“You’re the worst.”

“That’s what my sisters have been saying for years.”

“Maybe I will text you. For their numbers.” I push off the desk and nod to Pam as I head toward my office to get back to work.

“Deal.” He winks, matching my stride as he passes me a paper cup. “You might want this, though I’m guessing it’s ice cold now.”

“Um, thanks,” I murmur, oddly touched he noticed my cocoa and thought to grab it for me when I’d completely forgotten it.

“Hi, Dan,” Mrs. Mahoney’s granddaughter says with a bleached white smile and a finger wave as she passes us in the hall. The girl can’t be more than twenty-two, if that, and she’s model-gorgeous.

Surprisingly, Danger keeps walking. Didn’t he notice the slender curves and long blonde hair being tossed his direction in blatant invitation?

Huh.

Each time I think I have him figured out, he surprises and confuses me.

Which is why, when he asks about joining him for the movie tonight one more time on his way to see Silas, I find myself accepting.

Dan

As far back as I remember, the first Saturday in December has been craft fair day. The annual Heights High School craft fair is the Stevens family’s official holiday season opener.

“Which side are we starting with this year?” Mave yawns as we walk through the rear entrance into the cafeteria.

“Let’s go left,” Tory answers, nodding toward the line of tables manned by teenagers in blue polos selling breakfast burritos and doughnuts. “I see coffee.”

Mave, our resident coffee addict, moans. “Where’s your solidarity, huh?”

“Oh, sorry. I left it at home.” Tory grins, retrieving her wallet and exchanging a few loose dollars for a tiny Styrofoam cup. “Danny might have some to spare, though.”

She nods toward the farthest table with a raised eyebrow.

“No…” I groan. They can’t expect me to sacrifice the one and only thing that brought me here today. I’ve been looking forward to this event all year with a single goal.

As a kid trying to prove his coolness, I loudly objected to Grams and Mom dragging my sisters and me out of bed early to be the first ones through the door. Sure, some of the booths had cool stuff to see, and one year I found the pocketknife that started my collection. Mostly, though, it’s pottery and jewelry and crocheted goods made by older ladies who’d sell more if they paid attention to style trends. Not exactly a guy’s dream Saturday.

Until the cinnamon roll lady.

Once she joined the fair, I didn’t complain quite so much. They’re amazing—pillowy and gooey, with exactly the right amount of cinnamon and icing. Somehow, they’re not over-the-top sweet like the place in the mall.

And now two of my sisters are giving me that look—the one men cringe at, knowing we’re about to sacrifice something very precious. Or there will be consequences.

“Poor Mave,” Tory says, really heaping it on thick. “Can’t have coffee… can’t have sugar…”

Stinking gestational diabetes.

I stare longingly at the plastic wrapped rolls, round and bulging and so delicious, allowing myself a moment to consider whether it’s worth the guilt trips I’m sure to receive. Four women’s subtle jabs the rest of the day until I’m bleeding out like Caesar.

Correction, five women. My oldest sister, Scout, just showed up pushing her fancy three-kid stroller.

“Where’s Rick?” I ask once everyone’s passed around hugs and greetings to her and the munchkins.

She snorts. “Please. You won’t catch him dead here.”

Lucky duck.

The cinnamon roll lady meets my sad gaze with a wink. “How ‘bout I bag you one to take home, sugar?”

Aye, aye, aye. Temptation.

Mave sighs. “Just eat your stupid cinnamon roll.”

This smells like a trap.

“Nah, I’m good,” I meet Tory’s gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Unlike some siblings, I didn’t leave my solidarity at home.” See how she likes being thrown under the bus.

The flicker of annoyance in her steel gaze is quickly replaced with defiance and a victorious gleam. Whatever her look means, I’m not going to enjoy it. Sure enough, she leaps on me.

“Aw, still the sweetest wittle brudder ever!” Tory purses her lips into a fish face while pinching my cheeks like Great Aunt Kay did when we were little.

Mindful of the rest of the group, I give Tory a sly shove toward a nearby booth. She trips and catches herself on the edge of a rolling cart stacked with hand knit blankets. The cart topples and the thick stacks go tumbling onto the floor.

Mom gasps loudly. “Victory Magdalene! What on earth?”

Mom’s exclamation is like old times. Tory and I were fifty-fifty for who got the blame most in our childhood scuffles. Might’ve been sixty-forty, since I’m Mom’s precious baby boy and all. Satisfaction puts a grin on my face that’s hard to smother, but I manage. Mom continues to fuss over the mess Victory made while apologizing to the blanket vendor.

Not one to miss an opportunity, I slip the cinnamon roll lady a ten and flash two fingers. She tucks two rolls into a white paper bag and stashes it under the table with a wink, whispering, “They’ll be here for you on the way out.”

“You’re the best,” I mouth with a discreet thumbs up.

She shakes her head and smiles, then moves on to the next customer a split second before my sisters fix their gaze on me.

“What?”

I’m the picture of innocence.

We walk as a group toward the next row of booths, Mom and Mave in the front, Tory and Scout in the middle with the stroller limousine, leaving me to walk at a more leisurely pace with Grams. It works since Mom and Mave prefer to power shop. Tory will take her time at each booth while Scout wrangles her minions. I can pretend to check stuff out while getting Grams’s undivided attention.

Grams nerfs my shoulder. “I saw that.” She tips her head toward the baked goods behind us.

“Can I buy your silence?”

“It’ll cost you a half.”

“Deal,” I tell her with a grin. Knowing she loves those buns nearly as much as I do, I bought the second for her anyway.

“How are you liking the new school?”

I allow myself a moment before answering. “It’s different.”

“Strange having girls in your class?”

“Certainly changes the dynamic.”

When I came to her struggling to choose between the all-boys’ school in Texas and a public school position closer to home, Grams was the one to encourage me to venture out of state and live on my own terms.

You’ll never regret the risks you take, only the ones you don’t.

Her words made me brave at a time when I felt anything but.

Grams has always been able to see right through to my deepest fears and insecurities.

She was the one to encourage me to try out for track in high school, knowing I wasn’t confident enough in my ball skills to go for baseball or football. Silas taught me the basics, but he injured his shoulder in Vietnam, and could only handle playing catch for so long. And while there are plenty of female athletes who throw like a boss, my sisters aren’t among them. Mom would’ve covered me in bubble wrap if possible.

Grams understood the importance of letting boys be boys while giving me subtle lessons on what it takes to become a man who respects women. Under her watchful eye, I was never afraid to fall or to fly. I owe all of my skinned knees—both literal and metaphorical—to my grandmother.

“This is cool,” I say, picking up a hand carved wooden charcuterie board. “Think Scout will use it?”

“Mm-hmm.” Grams nods, playing lookout while I pay for my purchase and ask the vendor to hold on to the paper-wrapped board until we leave. “She’s been on a charcuterie kick this year.”

“Yeah. She’ll enjoy having something to serve on that’s not plastic and the kids can’t destroy. Lord willing.”

Grams snickers in reply.

My niece and nephews are adorable hellions. Scout does what she can to teach them to behave in public, but Rick’s one of those dads who loves to rile the kids up during bedtime and turns the living room into a WrestleMania ring any chance he gets. The kids have a tough time figuring out which behavior is okay.

Take now, for example. Six-year-old Izzy has abandoned her post on the stroller’s standing platform and is gushing over a booth of handmade Barbie doll outfits. Her eyes brim with tears as she begs for a white dress that has more lace and ruffles than Alessia’s office last week. Meanwhile, three-year-old twins Zeke and Zack are furiously working the buckles on their seats, straining to free themselves to reach the polished rocks vendor across the aisle. The three of them make enough noise to drown out the Christmas music coming through the loudspeaker.

While Scout and Tory work to distract the kids, I race ahead of Grams to intervene. Scout’ll lecture me for positively reinforcing negative behavior, but I remember how hard it was being dragged around to these same booths and wanting everything I couldn’t have. Or at minimum, the opportunity to explore and touch. So, I reach for my wallet once more and cough up the cash to buy Iz a doll, asking the vendor to bag the fancy white dress separately for her Christmas gift. Then I purchase two velvet pouches of polished rocks for the boys.

Once my sisters have the kids wrangled, I bribe them to stay in the stroller with my purchases. Scout narrows her eyes, but before she launches into a tirade, I gently lift a hand.

“I know. Poor behavior shouldn’t be rewarded. But you deserve a little peace while you enjoy the fair, too.”

Her frown melts away, and she gives me a pinched smile. “Fine. But only because I’m so tired I don’t have the strength to fight you.”

“How about I make it up to you? Let the kids stay at my place tonight so you and Rick can catch up on sleep.” I waggle my eyebrows on the last word to restore color to her face.

“Dang, we did a good job raising you, kid.” She grins, the same sideways tilt as mine. “You’re on.”

We eventually catch up to Mom and Mave and spend the next three hours winding up and down each hall and concourse through the massive building. I’ve bought gifts for two-thirds of the people on my list, including a self-care basket for my boss and a supply tote for Tory that says I’m not crazy because I teach preschool. I’m crazy because I love it.

Random teacher gifts are our thing. Last year she got me a T-shirt printed with What has two thumbs and loves teaching English? bracketed by two cartoon hands, thumbs pointed inward. It's goofy, but I wear it regularly.

We’re about to round the last hall before it circles back to the cafeteria when I spot a display of the ugliest figurines I’ve ever seen. Not because the artist lacks talent—quite the opposite. The figures are intentionally hideous with overexaggerated features and comical facial expressions. To the left of the booth on a set of shelves I spot a cat with an arched spine, its hair standing on end and tail straight in the air. Its eyes are bugged, and the teeth-baring snarl is classic. It’s going home with me.

Now to figure out how to put it in Alessia’s office where she won’t immediately find it, and somehow ensure I’m there when she does, so I get to enjoy her reaction.

Or not. She might take one glance and chuck it at my head. The critter is only about four inches by two, but it’s heavier than it looks. Picturing her face screwed up in outrage, it’s hard not to laugh. Worth it.

I make my purchase and am still grinning to myself as I hold the door into the cafeteria open for the rest of my family. Three more people sneak through before I let go, only one murmuring thanks, but it’s okay. Holding doors for people is one of the first courtesies Mom drilled into me from the time I had the strength. Right alongside saying please and thank you and yes, ma’am.

One more person is about to walk through from the cafeteria side when suddenly they pivot and walk briskly in the other direction.

Curious, I step through and let the door close behind me, peering after a familiar swish of dark hair. A smile creeps to my lips as Mave steps into Alessia’s path.

“Alley Cat!” Mave cries, raising her arms in the air for a hug whether Alessia wants one or not.

The woman surprises me by not correcting my sister and stepping willingly into her embrace. If I’d tried that, Alessia would’ve fileted me like a trout.

“Nice to see you again, Maverick,” she says calmly.

I know that tone. Plus, she whole-named Mave, which means she’s not as happy to let the Alley Cat slide as she let on.

Once my sister releases her, Alessia glances around, eyes widening at the circle of people flanking her until her gaze lands on me. “Danger.”

Mom gives me a firm nudge from behind, sending me stumbling forward much like I did to Tory earlier. I catch Tory’s eye, and she discreetly mimes a tiny cat claw as she flashes a knowing smirk. Sisters are the worst.

Clearing my throat, I go for a calm, in-control greeting.

“You look pretty today,” I blurt, surprising both of us.

It’s the truth, but normally I’d never say so out loud. She’s got her long black-brown hair down and styled the way she wore it in college. Lately when I see her at Valle, it’s piled into a bun, twisted into a braid, or smoothed into a high ponytail. All of which are lovely, but I can’t take my eyes off her when it’s smooth and shiny like this.

Somebody pokes me in the shoulder blade, and I’m grateful for the reminder other people are here to witness my stupidity.

I clear my throat and begin introducing each of my family members, my face and neck growing hotter the longer it goes on. We’re no small clan, and she’s probably itching to go on her way. Still, she’s smiling and repeating each name as if committing it to memory. No doubt she’s doing exactly that—at her core, Alessia cares about people.

“It’s so nice to meet Danger’s family,” she says, her honey-brown eyes glinting with that sparkle she gets when she knows she’s got the upper hand.

The T-shirt under my favorite flannel feels two sizes too small, and I have a sudden itch to beeline toward the exit. She’s getting a huge glimpse into my life. While I’m proud of my family, something’s happening here that makes me feel exposed.

I drag a hand through my hair, wishing I’d worn a beanie or something. Should’ve gotten a trim two weeks ago, but Thanksgiving was hard on Mave, so I spent my free time distracting her from missing Brian by helping her set up the nursery in my old bedroom at Mom’s.

After Brian was killed, Mave couldn’t stay in their apartment with the memories, and her body rebelled against climbing three flights of stairs every day. Moving home was the obvious choice. Someday she’ll be ready to go out on her own again, but for now she needs family, and we’re happy to be there for her with no expectations.

Everyone’s gone silent. They’re staring at me expectantly, but I have no idea who said what or how I’m supposed to respond.

Clearing my throat, I mumble, “Well, uh, we should probably let you go. There’s a lot to see.”