Mistletoe and Holly

A short story by:
By Valerie J. Wood

Everything was perfection. Long tables arrayed with china, crystal, silverware, gleaming silver candelabras and centerpieces newly delivered from Kenneth 's, the Aspen florist currently in vogue. Forty 5-piece Lenox place settings gleamed dutifully and forty Waterford wineglasses elegantly graced the holiday plaid red-and-green table runners. Engraved place cards, in clever crystal holiday figurinel bases regally informed each guest where they would be expected to sit. The room, indeed the entire house, had been cleaned, shined, buffed and decorated with a professional, almost military, precision. Imposing candelabras reflected in wall and mantle mirrors, giving the large dining room an even more enormous appearance.

Laura had commissioned the Christmas Eve party months before. Extra wait staff help had been hired for the twelve-course dinner and waited, in matching liveried perfection. A huge evergreen, decorated with red and gold ornamentation dwarfed the entrance foyer. The dining room hosted an artificial silver tree redolent with bluebirds and bluebells.

I had been requested to make myself presentable to greet guests at six-thirty, punctually. Obliging, I showered, shaved, then dressed in the stylishly single-breasted elegant black suit ordered by Laura for the occasion, and for once I was actually downstairs by six. I wandered around, realizing for the first time what a tremendous amount of money, planning and general work had been expended for this occasion. That didn't bother me; I wasn't sure what did. This isn't Christmas, I thought, somewhat troubled. I walked over to the large mahogany bar, wreathed in greens and gleaming from countless hours of polishing, and leaned against it, noting the vast array of liquors, wines and brandies meticulously arranged behind it.

I turned to look as I heard Laura , descending the staircase, premeditated loveliness in dark red silk selected to set off the sparkling ruby and diamond cascade necklace. Her Christmas present early – and, as usual, by request. Perfection from the top of her long, styled pale blonde hair to the berry red-dyed endangered-species pumps gracing her feet.

I walked over to her, intending to score a kiss under the artificial plastic mistletoe hanging from the foyer’s crystal chandelier. Perfection, the key word she lived and breathed by.

"No, darling, you'll muss my makeup," she said, twisting away half-smiling.

"Then you can fix it," I forced a half-smiled back, unamused.

"Our guests will begin to arrive any moment. Please stand on my right side to receive them. I do hope everything's been taken care of properly!" she fussed, too prettily.

If it's not, I'm sure whoever's fault it is will hear all about it tomorrow, I thought. I wasn’t idiot enough to voice the notion, however.

"I'm sure everything's absolutely perfect," I reassured her. "But, if it ain’t, we can always send out for pizzas."

" Robert !" she scolded, irritated. For not for the first time, I remembered she totally lacked a sense of humor.

She was the only one on earth who called me " Robert " -- except my mother when she was really, really angry at me. To everyone else, I was just plain Bobby Lee and, frankly, I preferred it that way.

I had seen the engraved invitations her secretary had mailed out six weeks ago, "Mr. and Mrs. Robert Lee Rodgers request the honor of your presence...." Entirely too pompous for my taste. Down home, we picked up the phone and called invitations. But, this was pretty far from down home.

Laura and I divided our year between Aspen and Dallas . I didn't like Aspen . Laura didn't like Dallas . We compromised. Christmas in Aspen , because snow-less and warm Dallas didn't suit her, and the rest of the year, except the dead of summer, she suffered to be with me in Dallas . In Aspen , I was Robert Lee Rodgers , ex-jock; in Dallas , hometown's Bobby   Lee , who had quarterbacked the pro football franchise to three national championships a decade before. Naturally, I liked Dallas better. Lately I had begun wondering – treasonably – what this down-home southern boy was doing living even a part of the year in Aspen . Since I had retired three years ago, I had merely traded one regimented system for another.

"Who all's coming to this shindig, anyway?" I asked Laura , who was rechecking her immaculate image in the mirrors.

"Honestly, Robert Lee , don't you remember anything I tell you?"

"Too many knocks on the head, darlin'," I told her, trying to distract her annoyance at me. "Never mind, I'm sure that anyone who's everyone will be here."

Fortunately, the doorbell chimed, ending our conversation and the dangerous direction it was taking. I usually wasn't argumentative with her; something about the whole affair was unsettling me. Maybe it was something even more. I decided to reflect on that later.

Guests arrived. Greetings were made; holiday wishes exchanged, new people introduced.

Laura 's elegant, smashing, season-topping party began.

This isn't Christmas, the thought flitted through my mind again, reverberating, as we mingled, conversed, sipped and chatted, drowning out the Christmas-y piped Musak music.

A too-thin woman, in her late thirties perhaps -- you could never tell for sure in Aspen – glided over to me, warbling.

"Oh, Bobby   Lee , I declare this is the most wonderful party I have ever been to in my life!" she babbled. "It's just totally awesome!"

Murmuring a thank you, I smiled tightly and stepped away quickly. She had the look of an aging groupie about her, and the slang was a bit too over the top. Next thing you know she’d be saying it was ‘the bomb.’ I shook my head to clear the roaming thoughts and tried to find a little corner not crammed with houseguests. Somehow, the huge place was oddly claustrophobic. I walked into the foyer, looking around as though I'd never been there before. I gravitated towards the front door and, as I reached it, felt a sharp hand on my arm, pulling me back.

Laura .

" Robert Lee , your guests!" she chided.

I looked at her; this beautiful, regal and stylish woman I had married. I realized that I probably understood my ex-wide receivers far better than I ever knew her.

" Laura , this isn't Christmas," I told her, intently.

" Robert Lee , you're not very funny! How much have you been drinking?" She glared at me, the smile frozen on her face. I was about to ruin her party. The perfect accessory husband was about to become less than.

"You don't understand," I confided in her, smiling reassuringly. Surely she could understand! I could not have underestimated her more completely. "This -- this isn't Christmas. Christmas is – you know, family and friends. Church on Christmas Eve. Mistletoe and holly. Singing and carols. Real carols. Not Musak. Not gaudy strangers dressed to the nines with nowhere better to go because they scored the choicest invite of the season. Christmas isn’t aluminum foil bottlebrush trees. Laura , I don't know these people. You don't know these people. Why on earth are we spending Christmas Eve with them?"

She stared, mouth parted in mute amazement, as I opened the door and walked out.

I headed down the driveway, down the street. The roads had been scraped, which was a good thing, since I hadn't had sense enough to put boots on. I had on a pair of $600 black leather stylish loafers, purchased to match the dinner suit.

I walked, looking at the varied houses -- homes decked out in holiday lights and decorations; some attractive, some gaudy, some bravely sad, but nevertheless garnished with heart. I walked on, not feeling the bite of the cold air, wondering at the compulsion that led me. I found myself perhaps three miles from the house and still felt compelled to walk. It was dark now, with an almost full moon reflecting on the remnants of Friday's snow. Memories of past Christmases hit me full force; Mom and Dad's small rancher over-filled with assorted relatives and my brothers and sisters and menagerie of pets and total chaos. Christmas Eve was a time for midnight service and last minute preparations – laughter, fun and merry mischief.

At the end of the lane, one house stood out, a bit more brightly lit than those nearby. I walked on, thinking I should probably make up my mind whether I was going back to Laura and the house. Funny, I never thought of it as going "home."

As I passed the mailbox, the front door flew open and a young boy, five or six perhaps, clad in pajamas and slippers, dashed outside, into the snow.

"Daddy! Daddy!" he shouted, running towards me with outstretched arms.

Behind him, in the doorway, appeared a young woman. Early thirties, with curly blonde hair pulled back with a ribbon, dressed in slacks and sweater.

" Tommy ! Come back into the house right now!" she called.

I picked him up easily as he reached me, and walked him over to the porch steps.

"I'm so sorry, mister!" she smiled, apologetically, reaching out to take him. He struggled against me. The light reflected on her face, giving her porcelain skin an angelic look.

"Shall I bring him on inside for you, ma’am?" I asked.

"If you don't mind, I'd really be grateful," she turned, holding the door, and followed us in. The boy stopped struggling and didn't protest when I placed him on the long, comfortable sofa. A patchwork quilt gave it a welcoming appeal.

"Oh, you are soaked!" the woman exclaimed to me. "You'll catch your death of cold! What were you doing out there --” Her large brown eyes grew wide as she suddenly realized that I could be a thief or worse. She looked at my clothing, then apparently decided just as quickly that no thief would be caught outside in an outfit like I had on.

“Don't worry," I told her. "I was just out taking a bit of a walk. I guess I'm one of your neighbors. My name's Bobby Lee Rodgers ."

"How do you do?" she introduced herself. "My name's Holly , Holly Carson . This is my son, Tommy ."

"Pleased to meet you, ma’am."

She smiled, probably at the amenity. I looked around, mentally approving the little home, not overly furnished but clean and tidy. Candles and firelight lit the small room. My eyes roamed to the five-foot soft pine anointing the corner, cheerful with strands of multicolored lights, glittering silver icicles, homemade ornaments, tinsel and popcorn strings. It was the prettiest tree I'd ever seen. Perhaps because it had obviously been decorated with loving care. A small Nativity and several gaily wrapped boxes were nestled underneath its branches.

"Won't you sit down? Please – let me get you a glass of something to warm you. Some bourbon or brandy, perhaps?"

"Please - don't go to any trouble," I told her.

“No trouble at all,” she smiled. “It’s the least I can do for your kindness. Besides, you need to warm up.”

She walked quickly into the kitchen. I heard glass clinking, water run, a cabinet open, and she returned, bearing a snifter of brandy. She placed the glass on the table in the corner and indicated for me to sit. Tommy curled up under the patchwork quilt and watched.

"It's funny--"

" Tommy was--"

We both started, then stopped.

"Go ahead," I urged.

Holly laughed, nervously. " Tommy was certain his father would appear tonight and I have to admit, when I saw you in the distance, there is a bit of a resemblance. You’re a good bit taller, though.” She shook her head. “His father won't be back. He's remarried and has a new family. I do try to help him understand, but, you know how kids are, especially this time of the year."

"No, I don't."

She looked puzzled.

"I mean, I don't have any. My wife is not --."

I surprised myself, saying something so intensely personal to her. But, I had instinctively felt as though I had known her forever and I could tell her what I was thinking and she would understand.

"I suppose I had better go." I rose reluctantly, finished the brandy.

Suddenly I realized, with a strong sense of longing piercing through me, that this was what I wanted. What I had been missing. Only I hadn't known.

Until now.

She fingered the loose strands of her tousled golden hair, gazing at me without expectations. "Shall I call a cab for you?"

"That would probably be a good idea," I told her.

She dialed, ordered, hung up the phone.

"I have to -- I know this sounds really kind of -- crazy, but, I just want you to know something. I'm going to get a divorce. Do you like it here? In Aspen , I mean?"

I prayed she didn't.

"I hate it," she said plainly. "When I can, we’re moving to Oklahoma or Texas ."

" Texas ," I looked at her, expectantly. "I'm from Dallas ."

She nodded, her eyes smiling, and I could tell she had a sense of the same awed wonder I felt.

We waited for the cab, watching from the window. Some minutes later, the shrill horn from the taxi sounded three short blasts. We walked over to the door, and I opened it. Turning back to her, I looked up, seeing the sprig of fresh green mistletoe hanging from a thin gold string over the doorway. I looked back at the child asleep on the sofa, the woman standing beside me. The lone red felt stocking hanging expectantly on the mantle. The lights on the Christmas tree glowing expectantly in the darkness, and the star on the top twinkling in the darkness. Star of wonder, I thought fleetingly. Whatever would come next, I was certain of one thing.

This was Christmas. This was the way it should be.

Holly gazed at me, then reached up, on tiptoes, and impulsively stole a soft, lingering kiss under the mistletoe. Her lips were warm and soft, and I felt as though I were at last home. The taxi’s horn sounded again. Reluctantly, I turned to leave. My hands found hers, and I squeezed them gently. I did not know what spirit had brought me here, on this of all nights, but I knew that whatever had led me here was giving me a chance at the most amazingly precious gift I had ever received.

"I'll be back," I promised solemnly.

And she knew that I would.

For information on Valerie Wood's novel, Enforcer, visit http://www.enforcer.fcpages.com/ (Official Website for Enforcer) or http://www.1stbooks.com/bookview/14441 (Publisher's Website/read an excerpt). 

 

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