Sweet Mistletoe

by Elizabeth Bromke

  “Hasn’t been well for a while. He had a stroke and still goes through different medical dilemmas. It’s hard on them all. Especially Knox.” The waitress eyed Paisley. “Have you met Knox?”

  “Briefly at the party.”

  “Don’t tell me he was your date.” A scowl replaced the woman’s evergreen smile.

  “Oh, no,” Paisley rushed to reply. “No, no.” Then she cocked her head, and a slow smile curled on her own mouth. “Why? Is he up to no good?”

  No good, indeed. No good would come from Paisley tugging gossip from an Indigo Bay local. She’d be in hot water with Betsy come Christmas morning.

  The waitress’ eyes widened. “Knox Calhoun? No. He’s as pure as the snow is white. If we had snow down here in Indigo Bay.” She winked again. “Knox is a mama’s boy. And he’d have been the apple of that ol’ Bridger’s eye if it weren’t for war. That changed them both. It always does.” Her voice faded off, and Paisley kept quiet.

  “It’s a good family. It’s a good town, Indigo Bay,” Paisley commented.

  “The Calhouns are good people, and yes—we have a nice little town here. If you’re settled. That’s the reason that poor boy hasn’t been married off yet, you know. Not many young women looking to get hitched around these parts. And those who are weren’t quite perfect.”

  “No one is perfect,” Paisley scoffed, hearing the all-too familiar excuse of her hopeless clients.

  “True, no one person is perfect,” the woman replied, her gaze narrowing on Paisley. “But two people can be perfect together.”

  It was the sort of line that might catapult Mistletoe to national-level success. Break it free from its stagnancy. The very adage that everyone had a soulmate, and it was just a matter of finding that person. Then, poof, like magic, things fell into place.

  The only problem was, Paisley was losing her faith. Not only in her career or her business, but in herself, too.

  “I’d better be going,” Paisley set her fork down, the pie reduced to nothing but a spray of crumbs, although she eyed those, as well. “This was divine, Miss—”

  “You can call me Caroline,” the woman beamed back. “Come back anytime.”

  Chapter 18—Knox

  Spending the night in a hospital waiting room was bad enough. But on Christmas Eve? Clear through to Christmas morning?

  A true holiday nightmare.

  Bliss’ husband had already dialed 911 once Bridger complained that something didn’t feel right. That was just before Knox witnessed his father collapse into the sand. He immediately started CPR, and the ambulance arrived in no time flat, thank God.

  From there, who knows what happened at the party. Bliss was the one to stick around and sweep people out, according to Shelby.

  The only thing that nagged Knox was his plans to meet CarolinaGirl. But once they got to the hospital, Knox found out he didn’t have his phone. He had to have dropped it on the beach when he rushed to his dad. Soon enough, the growing despair of sitting in plastic chairs and hushing his weeping mother had taken full precedence, anyway. He couldn’t think about some girl in a dating app. Not with his dad on the brink of death.

  Now, Knox and Shelby held their mother’s hands, all three of them wracked with exhaustion by the time the doctor arrived to give his update.

  If there had been any opportunity for levity, the Calhouns would be placing bets on what had happened. That’s only because they’d grown used to the mini strokes. The migraines. The seizures.

  So when the doctor announced a heart attack, they sat in shock.

  “But he’s okay?” Betsy asked tearfully, squeezing Knox’s hand so hard, he was worried for her heart, too.

  “He’s okay,” the doctor reassured. “He’ll be okay. But,” the woman’s voice dropped meaningfully, “he needs to make some lifestyle changes.”

  Knox frowned. “He’s the picture of fitness. I mean… I thought he was.”

  “Fit, yes,” she agreed. “But sometimes, a heart attack presents because of separate underlying conditions.”

  “Like his strokes and all that?” Shelby offered.

  “The neurological component is potentially a factor, but what I’m actually referring to is his stress.”

  Shelby scoffed. “Stress? He’s retired. All he does is re-arrange the doo-dads in his flag room and work out. And pester Mama—”

  “No,” Betsy replied, her voice calm. “Bridger is as tense as they come. That’s absolutely true, and both of you know it.” She gave Knox and Shelby each a look. “Spend a day with him, and you’ll see. He thinks he’s still in the military the way he keeps the house and the front garden. His workout routine and diet are non-negotiable.” She sighed and pressed the pad of her finger beneath her eyes.

  “I’m going to put him on heart medication,” the doctor said, “as well as bed rest for the week. After that, it’s up to him how he wants to live his life, but if he intends to make it even five more years, it’s time he learn to relax a little.”

  Later, after Knox returned home to a hungry and moody Hickory, he took a hot shower and grabbed a protein bar.

  After he and Hickory were a little less hungry and a little less moody, they headed back to the scene of the almost-tragedy from the night before.

  He knew his mother was probably sleeping—at least, he hoped she was. So instead of bothering her, he let Hickory off the leash to run the beach as he retraced his steps, searching the white sand for a hint of black.

  With their father scheduled to be home the next day, Betsy had asked Knox, Shelby, and Bliss to return home then. They could open presents and have a light meal together. Give thanks to God for sparing poor, cranky ol’ Bridger.

  Knox agreed, but he wondered what the future held for the Calhoun family parties. Planning another could be traumatic, after what happened the night before. It was the sort of thing that could burn you to an experience. Like when you get sick from a food truck burrito and can’t stand to look at burritos again for a while. Or when someone breaks up with you during a movie. You can’t watch that movie again without reliving your real-life drama.

  Knox kicked at sand weeds and kept one eye on Hickory until he found his phone, sitting closer to the seawall, saved from the tide.

  Picking it up, he stilled himself for one of two things: a dead battery or a million missed messages from CarolinaGirl. He considered what she must have been thinking. That he ditched her. Stood her up. He considered the excuses women often made on behalf of men who “ghosted.”

  In fact, his phone wasn’t dead. But that’s not what surprised him. What surprised him was that he had no notifications from the Mistletoe app.

  Text messages from Beau and other family trying to gain information about Bridger, yes. Missed calls from aunts and uncles aplenty.

  Ignoring those, he opened the app, still somehow expecting a long list of Where are yous or insults or even maybe Is everything okay?

  Instead, he just saw her last text. The one he’d already read the night before.

  Sweet Caroline’s. See you there!

  He tapped out a quick message.

  CarolinaGirl, I am so sorry. You’re not going to believe this, but my dad had a heart attack last night and…

  He stopped. It sounded made up.

  CarolinaGirl, what a crazy night. I’ll explain everything as soon as I hear back from you…

  No. He shook his head.

  Simple was best.

  CarolinaGirl. I need to talk to you.

  Chapter 19—Paisley

  Christmas came and went, like a snowflake melting on the boardwalk. On December twenty-sixth, Paisley tried to return to her routine—yoga, breakfast, work, walk, read/watch TV, hit the hay, start again.

  And in the meantime, she kept checking her app for any other potentials.

  BeachBum had landed himself in her rearview mirror. Paisley would rather be single and jobless than desperate enough to fall for whatever excuse he came up with. So, when she saw his message the day bef
ore—the one about “needing to talk” —a phrase that always bugged the tar out of her—she gave it one passing moment of attention and moved on, opting to ignore him entirely. Just like he had ignored her two nights earlier.

  As Paisley perused other profiles, she found glimpses of promise here and there. Still, something compelled her to move on and shuffle ahead in the pile, never stopping at any one man. It was a useless endeavor. Her heart wasn’t in it.

  With the clock ticking on her investors’ ultimatum, she had no choice but to call Shelby for reinforcements. Paisley may not be willing to settle for BeachBum, but she needed help settling for someone—anyone else.

  Maybe it wasn’t even a matter of Paisley’s own tastes. Maybe it was a problem with the app and the sort of single man Mistletoe attracted.

  After emailing out the new ad copies to her marketing and tech folks—Christmas is over, but the season of love has only just begun! And Don’t wait for the ball to drop when the mistletoe is still green!—she grabbed her phone.

  Her friend picked up right away.

  “Shelby,” Paisley started, ready with a whole spiel about the in-app questionnaire, the in-person application, and a laundry list of other concerns that had only become apparent now that Paisley was a bonified client.

  But Shelby cut her off immediately. “Did you hear?”

  “Hear? Hear what?” Paisley asked.

  “My dad. Christmas Eve. He had a heart attack, Paisley. I was going to text you, but it’s been crazy here.”

  Shelby wasn’t due to return to work until the next day, and Paisley figured she wouldn’t bug her. Personally or otherwise. Now that was shaping up to have been a mistake.

  “Oh my gosh, Shelby. Is he okay? Did he—”

  “Yes, yes. He’s okay. But my mom has lost her mind over it. She’s mad at him and just… just sad. It’s weird. I’ve never seen her so unhappy and anxious. She’s researching ways to relax. Researching, Paisley. Who researches that kind of thing? The doctor says he’s too high strung. Needs to come back down to earth, I guess. I don’t know. But anyway, I’m stuck here flipping through TV channels and refilling his sweet tea.”

  “Do you need anything?” Even as she said it, Paisley jotted down a note to herself to send flowers.

  “No. Well… yes. I need to come back to Charleston and get away from all of this. It’s too much. You know?”

  “That’s so hard. At least he’s okay, though, right?” Paisley chewed on her lower lip. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. Resentment, even. She didn’t want her friends to lose their parents, obviously. She didn’t want anyone to go through what she went through. Paisley wasn’t like that. But Shelby was effectively complaining in the wake of a veritable miracle.

  Surviving a heart attack was nothing to sneeze at. Or gripe over.

  “Yeah, he’s fine. Anyway, how are you? How did your date go!” She gasped. “Oh my gosh, you never told me how it went with BeachBum!”

  Paisley hated to have the attention now, in the wake of such news. “Oh, we just… he didn’t… it didn’t happen. We didn’t end up going.”

  “He stood you up.” Her reply was flat, lifeless.

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, Paisley. I’m sorry. But who cares about him anyway? You barely knew each other. He might have been a troll. I don’t mean an internet troll, either. I mean like a real-life troll with warts on his nose and eyebrow hair so long you could backcomb it.”

  They laughed together over the phone, and it dawned on Paisley that Shelby really had become her friend. Slowly and just recently, they’d bonded.

  “That’s true, sadly. Maybe we need to rethink the blind date aspect of the app.” She jotted another note for herself—A troll with warts on his nose and eyebrow hair so long…

  It was the type of reminder she’d like to cross stitch onto a pillow and hug to her chest at night when she was ten-chapters deep in a romance so sweet, it would make her cry. If only Paisley knew how to cross stich.

  “We can talk about it. I mean, I think we have other priorities regarding the business, but…” Shelby’s voice drifted off meaningfully, and Paisley could picture her in her parents’ airy beach house, a red flannel blanket draped around her lap as she sat in her childhood bed in her childhood room—her parents (both alive) downstairs, fussing over each other and fretting about the kids upstairs.

  “Is there anything I can do, Shelby? For you or your dad? Or your mom? How are your siblings handling it?”

  “Everyone is sort of freaked out. I mean, usually we’d be planning our New Year’s Eve Party right now. Mom would have given us all jobs and errands, and Knox would be worming his way out of any commitment.”

  Paisley’s mind flew to Shelby’s handsome brother and their brief, chaste moment beneath the mistletoe. She desperately wanted more information about him. Especially in the wake of losing the one shot she had at a good date.

  But then, didn’t Shelby mention he was something of a man-child? Refused to grow up. Clung to his youth?

  Her phone chimed. I know what you must think. But seriously, I’d love to get together, CarolinaGirl. Let me explain what happened. Can you call me?

  She swallowed and clicked out of the app once again. “New Year’s Eve party?” she asked casually. “Do you think you’ll still have it?”

  “Honestly, no, and it’s killing me to accept that,” Shelby answered.

  “You think your mom won’t host one?”

  “How can she?” Shelby asked. “My dad can’t get worked up. He needs peace and calm, and a big blow-out bash is the last thing in the world that would make sense. And it’s crushing, you know? I can’t remember the last time Mama didn’t have a New Year’s Eve bash. She’s going to be so depressed.”

  The holiday season was coming to a disappointing end for everyone, it seemed, and if Paisley didn’t act fast, the New Year would begin much the same. Or worse. Especially for her and Shelby.

  “Shelby,” she said, wheels turning in her mind. “What if we put on a New Year’s Eve party?”

  “You and me?”

  “Yes. You and me. We can invite the office, expense it. We’d need to act now. But I mean, I think when you’re single, your New Year’s Eve can be a last-minute thing and—”

  “Are you saying that we should do a matchmaking event?” Shelby asked.

  “Yes!” Paisley’s heart pounded with excitement. “A mixer. I mean, think about it: when you’re single, what is the one night of the year you feel the loneliest? Most people have family to hang out with on Christmas. But on New Year’s Eve? I mean, I know I dread the holiday. And if your mom’s party is out then—” Paisley grew more excited as she thought about it.

  “A New Year’s mixer!” Shelby squealed. “I’ve told you we should do a mixer.”

  “And now we will. We can advertise it as a New Year’s Eve Party and Matchmaking Mixer, brought to you by Mistletoe Matchmaking!”

  “Sweet Mistletoe, you’re onto something, girl!” Shelby cheered over the phone.

  Paisley laughed. “That might be my favorite Shelby-ism yet,” she said.

  “What? It’s better than taking the Lord’s name…”

  “I know, I know. Shelby Calhoun, listen to me.” Paisley put her pen down and grabbed her phone with both hands. All her angst over BeachBum and her own singleness and the investors was suspended—overshadowed. Drowned out by the hope of something new, promising, and exciting. “We’re going to put on a matchmaking event so fabulous, Mr. Cook will forget about me being a lonely old spinster forever.”

  “Wait a minute,” Shelby cut in.

  Paisley frowned. “What?”

  “Where will we have it?”

  “Where will we have it? I mean… well…” Paisley hadn’t gotten that far. She picked her pen back up and grabbed a fresh page for notes, labeling the top Event Locale. “There’s that space west of the office—it’s like a warehouse, but—”

  “What can we do with a warehouse in exact
ly five days, Paisley?” Shelby asked.

  Paisley was unused to Shelby being the practical one. She was also unused to being the dreamer. Sure, she dreamed up a company and brought it to life—but in their president/vice president dynamic so far, it was usually Paisley asking the hard questions while Shelby peppered her with easy answers. I’m nervous that it’ll become a one-night-stand app, Paisley had said at the start. Then eliminate profile pictures, Shelby had answered with a snap of her fingers. What if they share photos in texts, Paisley fretted. Then you’ve gotten them that far, and that’s all we can do. Always a simple response. Always free of worry.

  Now the roles were reversed, and Paisley wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “Well, let me ask you this,” she returned to Shelby. “How does your mom usually decorate for her New Year’s Eve party?”

  Shelby scoffed. “She doesn’t.”

  “She doesn’t decorate?” Paisley shook her head. “Betsy Calhoun doesn’t decorate for a party?”

  “I mean, she leaves all the Christmas stuff up. Isn’t that what most people do? Who takes down Christmas decorations before January first? Or January thirty-first, for that matter?”

  “Oh, good point. I guess I haven’t been to many New Year’s Eve parties.”

  “I mean, I would say we could have it at my apartment, but I think that might just kill your business.” Shelby sighed on the other end of the line. “The Mansion B&B would be the perfect location, but there’s no way we could rent it on such short notice. That’s assuming it’s not already booked.”

  “We wouldn’t want to have it in Indigo Bay, anyway,” Paisley pointed out. “Our clients are based in Charleston.”

  “Indigo Bay isn’t that far. I mean you could host a party anywhere in Charleston, and it might be a half hour from the next party anyway.”