Lorena

 

 

Twenty dollars has never made me feel so happy. It’s December 23rd and finally, after months of scrambling to keep the heat on and have food in the fridge, I have twenty dollars leftover to buy my baby daughter, Cindy, a Christmas present. It hurts to be this grateful for something so small—especially when Christmas dinner will be a cheap takeout pizza—but it’s still a relief, something I haven’t felt in months.

 

So when I walk out of the front door with my two-year-old nestled in my arms, a thick wool blanket wrapped around us both to make up for our inadequate jackets, I’m distracted enough by our good fortune that I don’t notice the mistletoe at first.

 

Phoenicia is one of those tiny little towns in Upstate New York that survives on being pretty, having touristy shops and venues, and having the only late-night gas station for several miles. It has a bed and breakfast, a theater, a fifties-style diner, boutiques, an old German butcher, and a whole lot of drafty old Victorians. One of those drafty Victorians was left to me in my aunt’s will, so Cindy and I moved here from Long Island after my husband, Manny, died.

 

Getting the house was a bittersweet, survival-level stroke of luck—but a big one, with Manny’s benefits tangled up in red tape for over two years. I wouldn’t be so scared if it was just me, but I have our daughter to worry about too—to keep warm, sheltered, and fed. I swore on Manny’s grave that I’d do my best job. Cindy is the one steady light in my life, and as usual my focus is on her more than anything else as we walk along the sidewalk—up until everything starts going weird around us.

 

I smell the fresh scent of cut mistletoe first—that slightly astringent smell, mixed with the slightly piney perfume of the berries. I’m used to catching whiffs of it all through the Christmas season, but as I draw near the main street, the wind picks up and blows the overpowering smell of the plant into my face.

 

I stop, eyes watering from the wind, and look around in confusion. The smell is so intense that it’s almost like someone’s burning a pile of the stuff. I look around and see no fire, but abruptly notice the sheer quantity of the stuff. Mistletoe is hanging everywhere, all over town.

 

Every doorway, the corners of every house and awning, the arching light displays running over the streets, the lampposts, everywhere that a sprig of mistletoe can hang, at least one dangles, hung by a red ribbon. I start moving slowly toward the closest one, not entirely sure what I’m seeing.

 

“Mommy, what’s the smelly green stuff?” Cindy is immediately fascinated, but I gently steer her out of grabbing distance of the sprigs. The stuff is poisonous, but the berries smell nice. Bad combination around a tiny kid.

 

“It’s mistletoe, honey. People kiss under it. See?” I point to an elderly couple smooching while a couple of Millennial girls take their picture, looking charmed. The couple is pretty cute. I wonder how many decades of marriage they have under their belt—and then I remember Manny and look away, my heart stinging.

 

“Oooh. Is it magic?” Cindy sounds excited. Magic is her thing. Her favorite stories are fairy tales—even the creepy ones.

 

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. I’m that way about everything: magic, prayer, Santa, karma, God. I’ve always believed that any kind of religious opinion or paranormal belief should be sorted out by individuals, and not fed to them by their parents.

 

I also never want Cindy thinking that I know everything, or that I never make mistakes. No pedestal for me means less chance of disappointing her later—a consideration I wish my parents had given me. Not that I would ever leave my daughter to drag me to bed at night because Mommy and Daddy had too much happy juice, but still.

 

It’s the middle of the day two days before Christmas, and of course the streets are jammed with last-minute shoppers. There’s a toy store two blocks down that has plushy snowshoe hares. That’s what Cindy wants: a snow bunny. Fifteen dollars plus tax, and enough change left over for a bag of Christmas candy.

 

Unfortunately, I’ll have to push through this gawking crowd to get to our destination. It’s not going to be easy—because like me, they’re shocked by the sudden appearance of all this … greenery. And that means they’re mostly standing around, blocking my way.

 

They’re either standing around talking about the mistletoe, or bustling around trying to clear it from their properties, sweeping small piles of mistletoe into the gutters—and yes, some of them are standing around kissing under it. It’s very cute and kind of ridiculous, and I wonder how many people had to get together early this morning to pull this prank. Not to mention, who they were.

 

There’s a man leaning against a lamppost on the corner as I cross the street. It takes me a moment to recognize him as Jack Whitman, a local billionaire’s son and world-class skier. He’s beautiful, with his pale face and coal black hair, those bright blue eyes and that deep blue overcoat. He gives me a smile and a wink as I walk past, and I blush slightly while Cindy waves at him.

 

I wonder what he’s doing out watching all this? Is he involved? Is he behind this, maybe? He certainly does seem to be gloating a little. I glance back at him and see that he’s wiggling his fingers back at Cindy, his eyes dancing with mischief and good humor. No way of knowing.

 

The Whitmans—just the father and his adult son, as far as I know—live in a giant old house far up the mountainside, and venture down to see us once every week or so. The local rich eccentrics, they are known for their grand gestures around the holidays—such as the massive food donations to the local church that I hope Dr. Whitman will make again. Last time netted each of us enough frozen and canned food to see every poor person in and around Phoenicia through to mid-January.

 

The elder Whitman is his son’s opposite in looks, aside from them both being tall and blue-eyed. Dr. Whitman’s complexion is ruddy; his features are generous. He wears a full white beard and mustache, and he always wears a cap over his bald spot, with silver hair flowing from beneath it. Nobody knows why the pair picked a tiny, sleepy town like Phoenicia to settle in, but the kids love them, and they never seem to do any harm.

 

If the mistletoe prank is their doing, though, this latest grand gesture is … beyond bizarre.

 

“I’m cold, Mommy. Can we stop for a cocoa?” The chirpy little voice at my ear drags me back to earth. Cindy’s getting big—I’m strong, but my arm is starting to ache. Still, we only have the one wool blanket to use as a shawl, and I can’t wrap it around us both if she walks beside me.

 

I do a quick bit of poverty math in my mind. A big cup of cocoa with whipped cream and sprinkles for each of us at the candy shop will mean temporary relief from the cold, but no Christmas candy. But I do have baking chocolate, sugar, vanilla, and milk at home.

 

“Can you hold out until after we get your bunny and go home? If you can wait that long, you can have two mugs of chocolate.” Made from scratch, each mug costs maybe forty cents apiece.

 

I hate having to bargain with my baby daughter over tiny things, but I have no choice. Not even at Christmas. That’s just how it is. She’ll get two gifts from the toy drive that she won’t get to pick, Christmas cookies because I bake them, a five-dollar pizza, one bag of chocolate drops in bright foil for her stocking, and her snow bunny. And then I’ll be broke again until my next check, and praying that the Whitmans give us another break.

 

She lifts her head to peer at me, her dark eyes thoughtful in her round little face. She has her father’s looks and his way of drawing her little brows together as she thinks something over. “All right, Mommy,” she says very solemnly, and snuggles closer to me. “But hurry up!”

 

“I’ll do my best.” The sidewalks are slippery from all the slush from a recent snowfall. The shopkeepers try to sweep the worst of it back into the gutters, but I can feel my worn boot treads slide slightly every few steps. I take deep breaths and fight a surge of panic every time I slip more than half an inch, praying we won’t go down in this crowd of shoppers and gawkers.

 

We’re half a block from the toy store when I see a man step out of the tobacco shop two doors down and stop dead for a moment, my eyes widening. It’s him—James Norris. Former leading man, billionaire media mogul, and the only man associated with Phoenicia who could give the mysterious Whitmans a run for their money in terms of wealth and success. I’ve heard before that he sometimes visit town, but I’ve never seen him myself.

 

I’ve had a crush on him since I hit puberty. Now in his forties, he’s every bit as hot as he was back when I fell asleep next to open magazines filled with pictures of his tanned and smiling face. His thick brown hair sweeps back from a high forehead; his features are rugged and his mouth generous. His smile is like a flash of light, making his golden-hazel eyes twinkle. Only the slight crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes give him away as being over thirty.

 

He’s dressed down today in jeans, snow boots, and a thick Irish sweater in storm-cloud gray. He rocks on his heels as he checks his phone, seemingly oblivious to the gigantic bundle of mistletoe he’s just stopped under. We’re headed straight for him.

 

Oh God. For a split second I’m torn between marching up and ambushing him for a kiss that would probably warm me through the next year, and crossing the street just to avoid him. My heart bangs in my ears. I’m suddenly terribly aware of the way my pale blonde hair has slipped loose in wisps from my messy braid, of my cheap lipstick and wind-flushed cheeks.

 

It’s the chance of a lifetime, but weird proliferation of mistletoe or not, I just can’t face him.

 

I take the third option, walking toward him in the crowd, stepping around him politely, and pretending I don’t recognize him even though my whole body feels like it’s vibrating with rushes of adrenaline. I’m almost past him when I feel Cindy’s weight shift. I turn around—just in time to see her lean over and lay a big kiss on James Norris’s cheek.