The Mistletoe Promise

by Richard Paul Evans

  The Hitesmans lived in a medium-size home in the northernmost section of the Avenues. A large pine wreath garnished their front door. Nicholas rang the doorbell, then opened the door before anyone could answer. We were engulfed by the warmth of the home, the smell of baking, and the sound of the Carpenters’ Christmas music playing from another room.

  A woman walked into the foyer to greet us. She looked to be about my age, pretty with short, spiky auburn hair. Over a red knit shirt she wore a black apron that read:

  THE ONLY REASON

  I HAVE A KITCHEN

  IS BECAUSE IT CAME

  WITH THE HOUSE

  “Nicholas,” she said joyfully. “And this must be Elise. I’m Sharon.”

  “Hello,” I said. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving to you too,” she returned. She looked down at the pies we carried. “Those look delicious, let me take that from you,” she said, taking the cookie sheet from my hands. “Boys, come here. Fast.”

  Two young boys, close in age, appeared at her side.

  “Carry these into the kitchen and don’t drop them.”

  “Okay,” they said in unison.

  “Now we can properly greet,” she said, hugging me first then hugging and kissing Nicholas. “It’s so good to see you. You haven’t been around much lately.”

  “Work,” he said. “And more work.”

  “You lawyers work too much. But Scott says your absence might have something to do with your new friend,” she said, looking at me. “Elise, we’re so pleased you’ve joined us. Nicholas has told us so much about you.”

  “Good things, I hope.”

  “All good,” she said. Suddenly her brow fell. “Wait, have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You look familiar. I have a pretty good memory for faces. You aren’t famous, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t been in the newspaper or on TV?”

  I froze. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, but I was always caught off guard. “I . . .”

  “Sharon,” Nicholas said lightly, “stop interrogating her. She just has one of those faces.”

  Sharon smiled. “She definitely has a pretty one. I’m not often wrong about things like that, but there’s always a first.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Now come in, come in. We’re almost ready to eat. Make yourself at home. I need to check on the rolls, but let me take your coats.”

  I shrugged off my coat and handed it to her. As she started to turn away, a man, stocky and broad shouldered with blond hair neatly parted to one side, walked up behind her. “St. Nick,” he said, extending his hands to Nicholas in greeting.

  “Hey, buddy,” Nicholas returned. They man-hugged and then, with his arm still across the man’s shoulder, Nicholas said to me, “This is Scott.”

  Scott reached his hand out to me. “So glad you could come. Nick’s told us so much about you.”

  All I could think of was Nicholas’s description of Scott as a potato picking Idaho farm boy, which was exactly what he looked like, except without dirt beneath his fingernails. I took his hand. “Thank you. I was glad to be invited.”

  “I guarantee you won’t go away hungry,” Scott said. He turned to Nicholas. “I hate to do this today, but can I ask you something about the Avalon case? I’ve got to get back to them by seven.”

  “No rest for the wicked,” Nicholas said. He turned back to me. “Sorry, I’ll be right back. Just . . . mingle.”

  As they slipped off to Scott’s den, I walked into the living room and kitchen area. Adjoining the living room was the dining room, with a long table that was beautifully set with a copper-colored linen tablecloth, gold-trimmed china plates on gold chargers, and crystal stemware. There was a floral centerpiece in autumn colors with two unlit red candles rising from its center.

  The two boys were now lying on their stomachs, playing a video game in front of the fireplace. Across from them, on the sofa, was an elderly woman I guessed to be the grandmother. She looked like she was asleep. I drifted toward the kitchen, where Sharon was brushing butter over Parker House rolls.

  “May I help?” I asked.

  “I could use some help,” she said. “Would you mind opening that can of cranberry sauce and putting it on a plate? The can opener is in that drawer right there.”

  I found the can opener, opened the can, and arranged the sauce.

  “Your pies look divine,” Sharon said. “Nick usually just picks them up from Marie Callender’s.”

  “Thank you. I like making pies. Except mincemeat. We bought the mincemeat.”

  “I’m not a mincemeat fan either. It’s really just for Grandma.”

  “That’s what Nicholas said.”

  “He didn’t bring it one year. Grandma let him know that she wasn’t happy.” We both looked over at the old woman. “It’s a lot of work making pies. Especially the lattice tops,” Sharon remarked.

  “I enjoy making them,” I said again. “And Nicholas helped.”

  She looked at me with surprise. “Nicholas helped you make pies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow,” she said. “You domesticated him. Things must be going well with you two.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Finally I said, “We’re having fun.”

  “Fun is good. He said you met at work.”

  “Sort of. We work in the same office building. I’m four floors beneath him.”

  Sharon donned hot mitts, then opened the oven. “Time to bring out the bird,” she said as she pulled a large roaster out and set it on the granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen. She lifted the lid, exposing a large browned turkey.

  At that moment, Nicholas walked in, trailed by Scott. “I see you put her to work,” Nicholas said to Sharon.

  “I did,” Sharon said.

  Nicholas said to me, “She comes across as nice, but she’s really a heartless taskmaster. Last year she made Scott and me put together the boys’ Christmas bikes before we could eat.”

  “Shhh!” she said. “They’re right there. Santa brought those bikes.”

  Nicholas grinned. “Sorry.” He turned to me. “Did you meet Grandma?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “She’s asleep.”

  “And don’t wake her,” Sharon said. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “I heard that,” Grandma shouted. “I’m not a dog. I’m old, not deaf.”

  I glanced furtively at Nicholas, who looked like he might burst out laughing.

  “I want a Dr Pepper,” she shouted. “No ice.”

  “Would you mind?” Sharon said to Nicholas. “There’s one in the fridge. She likes it in a plastic cup, no ice.”

  “Sure,” he said. He retrieved the soda, poured it into the cup, then took my hand and led me over to the woman. “Here you go, Grandma,” he said, offering her the drink.

  She snatched it from him, took a long drink, burped, then handed the half full cup back to him without thanks.

  “Elise, this is Grandma Wilma,” Nicholas said. “Grandma, this is Elise.”

  “Did you bring the mincemeat?” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “One year he didn’t bring it,” she said to me.

  “That must have been really awful,” I said.

  Nicholas stifled a laugh. Grandma just looked at me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Elise.”

  “You his wife?”

  “No. We’re just friends.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with marriage,” she said. “No one gets married these days. Why would they buy the cow when the milk’s free?”

  “Grandma,” Sharon said from the kitchen. “That’s enough.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.<
br />
  “It’s time to eat?” she said back.

  “She said meet,” Nicholas clarified.

  “We got a turkey,” she said. “That’s all the meat we need.” She turned to Sharon. “When do we eat? I haven’t got all day.”

  “Nick,” Sharon said. “Will you carve the turkey? Then we can eat. Scott, take the rolls in. Boys, stop playing that stupid game.”

  The boys just continued playing. Nicholas walked over to the bird. “Where’s your electric knife?”

  “I don’t know where it went,” Sharon said. “I think Scott ruined it making the boys’ pinewood derby cars.”

  “That’s possible,” Scott said.

  “You’re going to have to do it the old-fashioned way,” Sharon said.

  Nicholas pulled a knife from a wooden block and began carving while I helped Sharon carry the last of the food over to the table.

  “I’d have Scott do the carving,” she said to me, loud enough for her husband to hear, “but he just makes a mess of it. I end up using most of it for turkey noodle soup. You’d think, being raised on a farm, he’d know how to carve a turkey.”

  “I know how to raise and kill a turkey,” Scott said.

  “Fortunately, this one came dead,” Sharon replied. “Boys, put away the game and help Grandma to the table.”

  After we had all settled in at the table, Sharon and Scott held hands and Sharon said, “Nick, will you say a prayer over the food.”

  “I’d be happy to,” he said. He took my hand, and we all bowed our heads.

  “Dear Father in Heaven, we are grateful for this day to consider our blessings. We are grateful for the abundance of our lives. We are grateful to be together, safe and well. We ask a blessing to be upon this home and Scott and Sharon and their family. Please bless them for their generosity and love. We are grateful that Elise has joined us this year and ask that she might feel as blessed as she makes others feel. We ask this in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  I looked over at him. “Thank you. That was sweet.”

  “He says the best prayers,” Sharon said. “That’s why we always ask him to pray.”

  “I want turkey,” Wilma said.

  “Scott, get her some turkey,” Sharon said. “Just white meat.”

  Scott was right: there was no way we were leaving the table hungry. There was turkey, corn-bread stuffing, pecan-crusted candied yams, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet corn, Parker House rolls, apple-pineapple salad, and green beans with bacon. By the time we were through eating, I was too full for pie. We all helped with the dishes. Then Nicholas said, “I think I need a walk.”

  “I’ll join you,” I said.

  We retrieved our coats and went outside. The sun had just fallen below the western mountains, and we walked out into the middle of the vacant, snow-packed street. Nicholas turned to me. “Having fun?”

  “Yes. They’re nice people. Grandma’s a hoot.”

  “I know. Every year they say this is her last year, but it never is. I think she’ll outlive all of us. When death comes for her, she’ll slap his face and tell him to get her a Dr Pepper, no ice.”

  I laughed. “Why do you think old age does that to people?”

  “I don’t know. Old age seems to make some people meaner and some sweeter. Maybe it’s just an amplifier.” I slipped on a patch of ice, and Nicholas grabbed my arm. I noticed that he didn’t let go. “So how does this compare to your normal Thanksgiving?”

  “The food is better. The company is much better.”

  “I’m sure the harem isn’t the same without you.”

  “Dan will survive.”

  “So what is Dan like? Or have I crossed the line of addendum one.”

  “We have pretty much obliterated addendum one,” I said. “How do I describe Dan?” I thought a moment then said, “His good side, he’s not bad-looking and he’s ambitious. He has big dreams. Not really practical ones, but big. At least he did when we were dating.”

  “And the dark side?”

  “He’s got a nasty temper and he’s a narcissist. He’s insecure but conceited at the same time. He’s a chronic womanizer. On our wedding day he flirted with some of the guests. Probably the best compliment I could give him is that he’s not my father.”

  “That’s a short measuring stick,” Nicholas said.

  “It’s the measuring stick life gave me,” I replied. “It’s funny how different kids can be from their parents.”

  “Like you,” Nicholas said.

  “Yes, but I meant Dan. Dan’s father is the most humble man you’ll ever meet. He’s had his same job as a hospital administrator for more than thirty years. He adores his wife and treats her like a queen. Sometimes I wish I had married Dan’s father instead of him.”

  “No you don’t,” Nicholas said. “He’s too old.”

  I smiled. “You’re right.” I breathed the cold air in deeply. “Now, may I ask you a deep, probing question?”

  “It’s only fair,” he said.

  “Do you ever wish you were married and had children?”

  He thought a moment. “Yes. To both.”

  “Then why don’t you? It’s not like that would be hard for you. Just in my office I know two women who would be more than happy to oblige you.”

  “I guess it’s just taken me a little while to get to this place.”

  “So why the contract? Why not just date?”

  “Training wheels,” he replied.

  “Training wheels,” I repeated, smiling. “I like that.” I slipped again. Again Nicholas caught me.

  “It’s the shoes,” I said. “They don’t do snow.”

  “I think you need training wheels.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Let’s go back and have some of that pie,” he said.

  “All right. Just don’t let me fall.”

  By the time we returned from our walk, the boys had disappeared and Grandma Wilma had already eaten her sliver of mincemeat and retired to the guest room to nap. Nicholas and I joined Scott and Sharon at the table for coffee and pie.

  “Elise,” Sharon said. “Your pies are divine. This pecan pie is amazing.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re definitely on our guest list next year.”

  “Or at least your pies are,” Scott joked. “In case this doesn’t work out.”

  I furtively glanced at Nicholas, who didn’t respond.

  We sat around and talked for nearly an hour. Eventually our conversation turned to the natural sleep agent properties of tryptophan in turkey, to which Nicholas yawned and said, “I need a nap.” He looked at me as if seeking permission.

  “Go for it,” I said.

  He went into the living room, leaving the three of us still at the table.

  “The food was really great,” I said to Sharon. “Thank you for letting me join you.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Sharon said. “You know, you’re good for him.”

  Scott nodded. “In all the years I’ve known Nick, I’ve never seen him this happy.”

  “We’ve only known each other for three weeks,” I said.

  “And the last three weeks he’s been a changed man,” Scott said.

  Sharon nodded. “He’s definitely in love.”

  The word paralyzed me. The L word. I suddenly wished that Nicholas had told them the truth about us.

  “I think I’ll check on Nicholas,” I said. I pushed back from the table and went into the living room. The light was off, and the room was lit by the orange-yellow fire.

  Nicholas was asleep on the sofa in front of the fireplace. I sat down next to the couch and just looked at him, the flickering flames reflecting off his face. He was beautiful. More beautiful since I’d gotten to know him. Do I really make him happy? Why does our relati
onship feel so real? I took a deep breath. An inner voice said to me, You’re losing it, Elise. You know it’s not real. You’re going to get your heart broken. Then another voice said back, I don’t care. I lay my head against him and closed my eyes and pretended that we were the couple everyone thought we were.

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  Cars are remarkable machines. A man may devote his life to charity, but put him in a car and take his parking stall and he’ll cut your throat.

  Elise Dutton’s Diary

  I woke the next morning to my phone ringing. It was still dark outside.

  “Hello?” I said groggily.

  “What are you doing?” Nicholas asked.

  “I’m sleeping. What time is it?”

  “Six. Almost.”

  “Why are you calling me so early?”

  “It’s Black Friday,” he said. “I need to do some Christmas shopping. Want to come?”

  “Is this on our schedule?”

  “No, I’m completely ad-libbing here.”

  “Can I get ready first?”

  “Of course. I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Wait, I can’t be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “How long do you need?”

  “Give me an hour.”

  “That’s a lot of daylight,” he said.

  “I need an hour,” I said firmly.

  “All right. See you in an hour. Bye.”

  “Bye.” I hung up, then climbed out of bed and took a shower to wake myself up. As usual, Nicholas was right on time.

  “Where are we going?” I asked with my eyes closed, reclining the seat in his car.

  “City Creek Center.”

  “It’s going to be a zoo.”

  “I know,” he said.

  A few minutes later I asked, “Why aren’t you tired?”

  “It’s a day off. Do you really want to sleep through it?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  The shopping center was crazy crowded, and parking was at a premium. We passed two people trying to pull into the same slot in the parking garage, both unwilling to yield. They just kept honking at each other.