Mail-Order Brides For Christmas

by Frankie Love

  Then Dad wanted to retire, and the timber yard closed shop — and it seemed like a good enough transition.

  Turns out, business is down. Way down. And I know it’s because Dad isn’t here. I may be a Mistletoe, but I sure as hell am not the one the customers want to see.

  But I’m trying my best, keep showing up at a job that grates at me. Because the last thing I want to do is piss off the people who have spent their entire lives looking out for me.

  Still, getting married is a big fucking deal.

  Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued about the idea of making love to a stranger. A woman in my bed, a sweet naked body pressed tight against mine.

  Some of my brothers already have their wives in town. Not that I’ve met them. We all made a pact to mind our own business with this whole thing — if the women who are sent to us are a good match, then great. But no expectations.

  Or maybe that’s just what I’ve been telling myself. Truth is some of my brothers are better men than me. At least better at relationships.

  My mom stops by Mistletoe Hardware right as I’m closing shop to head out to the small airport outside of town. I’m locking the front door, standing in the cold, the winter chill in the air and the bite of the mountain frost twirling around us. Snow has been falling all afternoon and I frown, thinking about the woman flying to meet me. Hoping like hell her flight is okay.

  Mom has that look in her eye that says she is up to something. She’s wrapped in a winter coat with a red and green plaid scarf around her neck. Her earrings are shaped like little wreaths and she has her nails done up like Christmas trees. She looks so happy, and I know it’s not just because it’s 25 days to Christmas.

  “What is it, Mom?” I ask, trying my best to be a good son. And who knows, maybe she will have some pearl of wisdom I can learn before I go meet my wife.

  “Oh, Hartley,” she says, patting my arm. “I just wanted to stop by and tell you I love you. No matter what happens, nothing will change that.”

  I snort. “Is that supposed to be a vote of confidence or your condolences for what might be a terrible marriage?”

  She frowns. “Oh sweetie, I just meant that no matter what happens, your father and I will be here for you. Don’t worry about disappointing us.”

  I admit to feeling a little hurt by my own mother’s lack of faith in me. Maybe I’ve spent too many years proving everyone right.

  “Look, I want to make you happy. Isn’t that why your sons are all doing this anyways?”

  Mom presses her lips together. “I’m sorry if I’ve pressured you.”

  “A little late for that,” I say a little too tightly.

  “I hate that I’ve upset you, Hartley. I should have never done this. But Mason and Nate seem—”

  I cut her off. “I don’t want to know about their marriages, Mom. I don’t want to start comparing. With five brothers, it’s all I’ve been doing my entire life.”

  Mom sighs, looking across the street. I see her best friend and neighbor Louise wave to her outside the diner.

  “Go, Mom, I’m fine,” I tell her, pulling her in for a hug. “It’s freezing out here and I have a wife to meet.”

  “You have the ring?” she asks.

  I nod. “It’s at home, and Pastor Monroe is meeting us there in a few hours. Which means I really should get going. Especially since it looks like there might be a real snowfall tonight.”

  “Remember,” she says, squeezing my hand, “I told Holly Huckleberry all about you, and she’s going to send you the perfect girl. I know it. Just make sure you express yourself, Hartley. I know how you can get.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Mom clasps her hands to her heart. “You don’t tend to share your emotions, Hartley. And this stranger is going need you to communicate.”

  “Roger that,” I say, feeling more over my head than ever before.

  “I love you,” she says as she leaves. Mom crosses the street and I head to my pick-up truck, wondering what in the hell my perfect girl might be like.

  Jo-Anne, a girl from town who always gives me a hard time, passes me on the sidewalk before I’ve reached my truck. She flips her jet-black hair and purses her lips. “Heard you were going off the market.”

  “You heard right.”

  Jo-Anne rolls her eyes. “There’s no way all the Mistletoe brothers are getting hitched in the same month. Especially you.”

  “It’s none of your business, Jo-Anne.” I exhale, knowing this girl is always looking for an argument with me. She still holds the fact that I wouldn’t take her on a second date when we were juniors in high school against me. Truth is, she’s just not my type.

  “Well, Dylan is devastated. You realize you strung her along for years, don’t you?”

  I groan. Dylan is another girl I should never have taken home from the bar. This town is way too small and everyone remembers everything.

  “She thought you were going to marry her.” Jo-Anne shrugs. “Though I hear Laura Hill thought the same thing.”

  “Not my problem,” I tell her. “And you can let those girls know I was never going to marry them.”

  Jo-Anne shakes her head. “It will never work out. You are not the marrying type, Hartley, you just aren’t. Unless it’s something negative, you never express yourself.” She scoffs. “What really ticks me off is that you think none of the girls you grew up with are good enough, yet you’ll marry a complete stranger.”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I’m doing,” I say, feeling more adamant about the decision than I have all month. Mom doesn’t seem to think I can make this work. I’ve pissed off all the single women in town who don’t seem to believe I’m marriage material.

  Screw that. I may not be the kind of man every girl dreams of marrying, but I sure as hell plan on making this work. And not because I believe it’s possible to fall in love with a complete stranger — but because I really fucking hate to lose.

  Chapter Two

  Hattie

  When I was a little girl, I would go into the attic of the farmhouse and stand in front of the large mirror there. Placing my grandma’s vintage veil on my head, I would hum the “Wedding March” and close my eyes, pretending to kiss the groom.

  I’d turn on the old record player my grandad had tucked in a corner, lifting the needle and placing Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits on the turntable. I’d twirl around those creaky floorboards, light holding onto dust as it filtered through the tiny attic window. My feet catching on the fabric of the dresses my mom used to wear. The ones that were packed away after she died. I’d pull out the big, thick album dedicated to my parents’ wedding day, December 1st, 1998.

  My fingers would trace their faces, my mom and dad, their smiles as they exchanged rings, their open-mouthed laughter as they fed one another cake. I loved the photo of Grandad dancing with Mom, the father-daughter dance always making me bite back tears. I thought one day I would have all those other things — the veil and bouquet, the big white dress and the glittering ring, the cake and music — but even as a little girl I knew I’d never have that. A dance with my dad.

  And for a long time, I found solace in the idea that Grandad would spin me around on my wedding day. Telling me I looked beautiful, that he was so proud of me, that I deserved all the happiness in the world.

  But now Grandad and Grandma are gone, just like Mom and Dad… and all those little girl hopes and dreams are gone too.

  I’ve finished packing my suitcases, taking only the essentials with me — knowing so many of the family heirlooms must be left behind. The bank seized everything, and the fact I’ve been allowed to stay here in the house the last few months is more than I thought I would get. After Grandad passed from a stroke six months ago, Grandma and I tried our best to hold onto the family property. But as soon as I took a look at the bills I realized Grandma had been keeping the truth from me for years. They were bankrupt. She died of a broken heart a few months after Grandad passed and i
t felt like the entire world collapsed around me.

  Now, I have a few suitcases and a one-way ticket to Snow Valley. And while I’ve always been an optimist, it’s hard to carry much cheer when I am saying goodbye to the only life I’ve ever known.

  A taxi honks outside, and I walk to the front door, opening it up to the blustery winter day, calling out to the driver. “I need two minutes, please.”

  Then I come back inside and grab my parents’ wedding album, and grandma’s veil, and gently tuck them in the suitcase before zippering it closed. The bank may believe they own everything — but they can’t take these memories. They are all I have left.

  As I climb into the taxi, I roll down the window despite the chill in the air. I don’t fight the tears as they fall down my cheeks.

  This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life… yet right now it is also the saddest.

  Still, I need to put my best foot forward. After I’ve cried my little heart out, I wipe my eyes and take deep breaths, reminding myself that just because I’ve lost the people I love, it doesn’t mean my life is over. I am here, alive. I want my family who have gone before me to look down and see that I’m being brave, strong, and giving the world the best version of myself.

  Whoever Holly Huckleberry, the woman who runs Mail-Order Brides For Christmas, matched me with is expecting a wife who is ready to be married. Not a woman who is at the end of her rope, without anyone to catch her when she falls. I may have left the farm under heartbreaking circumstances, but finding Holly’s website truly felt like the saving grace I’d been praying for. I can hold onto that feeling when the nerves that come with marrying a complete stranger start to take over.

  The drive to the airport is quick and I check in my bags without any problems. Takeoff is smooth and there’s no turbulence as we fly in the small passenger plane. I’m seated alone in my row and my favorite romantic comedy is free for me to watch.

  I only hope the rest of the day goes so well.

  When the plane lands, I pull out my compact and press powder to my cheeks, putting a soft rose-colored lipstick on. I hope my husband thinks I’m pretty. Sexy, even. I’m wearing white panties and a white bra… and I hope that tonight we consummate the marriage.

  I may be a virgin, but I want to go to bed with my man. God knows I’ve spent enough nights alone in my bed, using my battery-operated boyfriend as I fantasized about my husband-to-be.

  Yes, I am a very horny twenty-two-year-old who is more than ready to get the deed done. And if the groom is sexy, if he happens to get me wet and wild… well, all the better.

  I smile to myself, my nerves gone.

  And I remember the words my Grandad always said to me before I’d leave the house: Kind heart, fierce mind, brave spirit.

  I have no idea what happens next. But it is December 1st. The same day my parents got married. And my grandparents before them.

  I may not be getting the conventional wedding of my little girl dreams, but I am getting to carry on this tradition. And that means so very much. Holly understood when I told her this was the only date I could arrive. And nothing can ruin that.

  The plane has landed, and the pilot is out of the cockpit to wave goodbye. It gives me a good feeling that Snow Valley might have that small town feel I know and love.

  “Be careful there, little lady,” the pilot says. “You might want to zip up that coat. It’s been snowing buckets for the last hour.”

  Nodding, I zip up my winter parka, stepping from the plane to the staircase that’s been wheeled out for the passengers.

  The pilot wasn’t exaggerating. It’s a snow flurry out here, and I can hardly make out any people.

  My positive vibes about my wedding start to fade… because this much snow can never mean a good thing.

  And right now, all I want is this one good thing — to say I do on this exact day.

  Chapter Three

  Hartley

  The snow started coming down hard the moment I left town. But I trust the pilot knows how to navigate this flurry — hell, you couldn’t fly in and out of Snow Valley if you weren’t capable of handling a quick turn of the weather. So I trust that my bride is in safe hands… still, it makes me eager to get to my cabin as soon as possible because I don’t want to be stuck somewhere that isn’t home.

  When I get out of my truck, I see the plane is just landing, and I stuff my hands in my pockets as I head toward the runway. The plane is small, holding eight passengers, and it doesn’t seem full, considering only four people exit down the stairs. An elderly couple, a teenage boy, and then… her.

  She has on a pine green parka, and her long red hair whips around her. She is a Christmas card personified. Her eyes are bright and the snow falls down on her shoulders and she looks up, marveling at the sight.

  Stepping down from the plane onto the apron, she bites her bottom lip, and looks around. Presumably for me. She is cute and curvy, I’m guessing 5’3” to my 6’2”. One look at her and all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and make sure no one takes a bite from my sugar cookie.

  Mine.

  Damn, I’ve never thought of a woman like that before, as something that belongs to me.

  I run a hand over my beard, wondering what the fuck I am going to do with such precious cargo.

  I step forward, my boots making imprints in the snow that’s already nearing six inches deep. She notices me, and her eyes widen — surprise written in them. And I tense, wondering if she doesn’t like what she sees. If she was expecting something else. A different sort of man.

  I’ve never been called gentle. Never talked about my emotions. Never bought a girl flowers or called her back the next day. I am not marriage material, yet here I am, walking toward my bride-to-be.

  I’ve never been so utterly over my head.

  “Are you here for me?” she asks. “Holly Huckleberry sent me and—”

  I cut her off. “Yes, I’m here to pick up my mail-order bride.”

  She draws in a big breath, lifting her shoulders, then letting them fall as she exhales, taking me in. “Wow. I didn’t expect…”

  I frown.

  She grimaces. “No, I meant… I mean, you’re just so handsome.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Did I really say that before I even introduced myself?”

  “I’m Hartley Mistletoe,” I tell her.

  “And I’m Hattie. Well, Henrietta, but everyone calls me Hattie.”

  Hattie. It’s a cute name, and it suits her. “We should get out of the cold,” I say. “You have luggage?”

  “Oh, right. Of course.” She grins, her bubbly personally the utter opposite of mine. “Yes, two suitcases. Over there, the red and green plaid ones.”

  I smirk, thinking how my mother would have picked those ones too. She packed light, though, I have to hand it to her. I lift both bags from the luggage trolley and tell her my truck is the forest green one on the end.

  “It’s snowing so much,” she says. “It wasn’t like this in Southern Oregon.”

  “That where you’re from?”

  She nods. “Yep, born and raised, on a little farm in the middle of nowhere.”

  I think how that bodes well for her. Snow Valley is no metropolis. Hell, the closest Starbucks is a two-hour drive.

  I place the luggage in the bed of the truck and remember my manners, walking over and opening her door for her. “Thanks,” she says, smiling warmly. Her good mood is hard to ignore. And I wonder what her expectations are for this marriage. As I climb into my seat on the other side of the truck, I wonder how in the hell I might meet them, considering I never asked for this.

  “Do you live far from here?” she asks as she buckles herself up. As I turn on the engine, the radio blasts. “Oh, it’s Frank Sinatra, ‘The Christmas Waltz,’” she says with a sigh. “I feel like that’s a sign. A good one.”

  “Oh yeah? You believe in signs?” I turn out from the airport parking lot, wondering what else she believes.

  “I suppose I do. I know w
e just met, but I feel like I am here for a reason. When I was out of hope, I found Holly. And it makes me think… maybe things are going to work out.”

  Her voice is soft, sweet, and filled with so much longing I’m goddamn terrified of fucking this up. I’ve never felt like this before — like the person next to me needs to be handled with care.

  “Fuck,” I say, turning on the windshield wipers. This snow is falling in buckets now.

  “What?” Hattie asks, alarm in her voice.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just want to get home.”

  “Home,” she repeats. “I like the sound of that.”

  Not knowing how to answer, I turn up the radio, hoping like hell we don’t get stuck. And I’m not talking about the snow. I mean her and me.

  I have a history of ruining things when it comes to women… and I can already tell this girl isn’t like Jo-Anne or Laura or the rest of the women I’ve crossed in Snow Valley.

  No. She is something special. And the trouble is, I’m not sure I’m the man for her.

  Chapter Four

  Hattie

  First impression? Hartley is a man of few words. Handsome as heck, but I have no idea how to read his body language. He like to frown, curse and speak in one-word answers.

  But he did open my car door. He did drive carefully. He did carry my luggage. And now, as we park in front of a cabin that is nestled in the mountains of Snow Valley, I try to muster up courage. Kind heart, fierce mind, brave spirit. I can do this. I can figure out who Hartley is.

  He sets down my luggage and walks straight to the wood stove in the corner.