A Mistletoe Christmas: Santa's Mistletoe MistakeA Merry Little WeddingMistletoe Magic

by Carla Cassidy

  He stood at the altar, wearing the same tux he had at her mother’s wedding, just as she was wearing the same maroon gown, and looking like her every dream come true. Wait! He was all her dreams come true—and the love of her life.

  Finally, Emma had found the place that felt like home. In Nick’s arms and by his side, where she intended to stay for the rest of their lives.

  * * * * *

  MISTLETOE MAGIC

  Marin Thomas

  To single mothers everywhere who go to great lengths to make Christmas special for their children. Your love and devotion is the real “magic” in their holiday.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOT AGAIN.

  Finley McCarthy swallowed an exasperated sigh Thursday afternoon when she spotted the familiar van parked in the handicapped space in front of her business. With Christmas two weeks away and the Mistletoe Magic crowded with customers searching for last-minute stocking stuffers, she didn’t have time to deal with a geriatric shoplifter.

  “Where’s this potion all the kids in town are talking about?” The question echoed through the old Victorian.

  When Finley had inherited the home after her grandmother died, she’d converted the second-story rooms into an apartment for her and her five-year-old twin sons, then turned the main floor into a new age store—the first of its kind in downtown Mistletoe, Texas.

  She removed a miniature glass vial from the shelf behind the register and wove through the throng of bodies. “Here you are, Viola.” She handed the item to the First Methodist Church children’s-choir director. The church happened to be located next door to Finley’s Victorian. Viola Keller’s age was a mystery, but the streaks of gray running through her black hair and the wrinkles around her eyes hinted that she was in her mid-to late sixties. Viola had married right out of high school, but a year later her husband had run off with another woman. The ladies at the beauty shop claimed Viola’s heart had been shattered, and that was the reason she’d never remarried.

  “The store looks very festive, Finley.”

  “Thank you.” When she’d first opened her business, only a handful of customers stopped by to browse the merchandise. As word spread that she sold herbs, healing stones, candles, incense and oils to promote health, harmony and happiness, her sales had increased. But those first months had hurt Finley’s bottom line, and she needed to hit a home run with her Christmas sales to remain in the black. She’d invested all of her inheritance in the business. If it went bankrupt, she’d be forced to sell the Victorian—a home that had been in her grandmother’s family since 1886.

  “I don’t believe in magic, but this silly potion is all my students talk about.” The fusspot held the vial up to the light.

  “It’s harmless fun.” In hopes of increasing her holiday profits, Finley had marketed a cute make-believe Christmas product geared toward children. Named after the store, Mistletoe Magick was a liquid of crushed mistletoe berries, lavender and peppermint. Children were supposed to sprinkle a few drops onto their pillow Christmas Eve and then they’d dream of the toys they’d find beneath the tree the next morning.

  This past October her sons had taken a sample of the potion to school for show-and-tell and the very next day her phone rang off the hook with mothers placing advance orders for the product. Finley had worked long hours building her holiday inventory, and sales were holding steady.

  “You don’t get much for seven dollars,” Viola said.

  “You only need a few drops.” Finley’s gaze swung to the window across the room. Burt Hollis moved his power chair onto the lift attached to his van and lowered himself to the sidewalk. In less than five minutes he’d be inside her store. “Maybe you’d like a mistletoe charm instead.” The charms were inexpensive and just as popular as the potion. “They’re on sale for three dollars.” She held one out. “Do you know how they work?”

  “Not really.”

  “The recipient of the charm receives good luck,” Finley said.

  “And if I want the good luck for myself?”

  “Someone has to give you the charm.”

  Viola’s mouth puckered. “That will never happen.”

  Finley held out the charm. “Merry Christmas. Now you’ll have good luck.” And hopefully a better attitude.

  Viola’s eyes brightened. “For me?”

  “Everyone deserves a present this time of year.” Finley nodded to the vial. “How many children are in the choir?”

  “Twelve.”

  “I’ll gift wrap twelve Magick potions while you browse.” Finley returned to the register and kept an eye on Burt, who steered his scooter up the handicapped ramp alongside the house. She had no clue why he’d picked her store to target.

  “Thank you for the charm, Finley.” Viola handed over her credit card.

  “You’re welcome. And don’t forget to stop by after Christmas. Everything will be half off.”

  Viola signed the credit slip, but before she took her purchases the sleigh bells jingled on the door and Burt entered, his scooter knocking the table that held a rack of necklaces. The pieces of silver tumbled from their hooks, scattering across the red cloth.

  Finley swallowed her frustration and forced a smile. “Hello, Burt.”

  “Ms. McCarthy.” His bushy white mustache curved as he tipped his Stetson. If he weren’t stealing from her, she’d find his manners charming.

  “What can I help you with today that you didn’t find—” shoplift “—yesterday?”

  “Not sure. Think I’ll mosey around a bit.”

  “Would you like a cup of hot cider?” Finley asked.

  “Is that what I smell?”

  She clasped her hands to keep from squeezing his neck. Burt knew darn well she served apple cider to her customers during the holidays.

  “Guess I am a little thirsty.”

  “I’d be happy to fetch Mr. Hollis a glass of cider.” Viola nodded to Burt, then made her way to the small kitchen at the back of the house.

  “Do you know Mrs. Keller, Burt?”

  He nodded. “Used to attend church services every Sunday until—” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Always enjoyed listening to the children sing.”

  “Here you are, Mr. Hollis.” Viola held out a cup. “You haven’t been to church in a long time.” Evidently she’d kept track of Burt’s attendance.

  His gaze zeroed in on the choir director’s bosom. “Reckon I should get back into the habit of going.”

  “Yes, you should.” Viola’s cheeks turned pink. “And bring that boy of yours with you.” She nodded to Finley, then waltzed out the door.

  A customer snagged Finley’s attention, and by the time she’d helped the woman locate the holiday potpourri, Burt had disappeared. How he navigated from room to room in a scooter without making noise was a mystery.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for gold Christmas candles.”

  Chasing after Burt would have to wait. “Follow me.” Finley led the lady to the candle display in the front hall, then went to help another customer. The afternoon flew by, and it wasn’t until closing that she noticed Burt’s van was no longer parked at the curb.

  After ringing up her final sale, she flipped the sign to Closed in the front window and locked the doors, then climbed the staircase off the kitchen. She found the twins playing video games in the living room. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” her sons answered in unison.

  “I’ll be up after I straighten the store.”

  “O
kay.”

  Feeling guilty for using TV and video games as a babysitter, she returned downstairs and stowed the leftover cider in the fridge, then bagged the garbage. Next she restocked the shelves and discovered a crystal necklace missing from her inventory. She’d begun the day with four but hadn’t sold any. Now there were three. Burt.

  Finley had priced most of her merchandise below twenty dollars, except the necklaces worn to promote spiritual harmony. She had to special order the crystals from Vermont, and sold them for $39.95.

  Enough was enough. She intended to put a stop to Burt’s shoplifting. She hollered upstairs. “Flint! Tuff! Turn off the TV and grab your coats. We’re going for a ride.”

  The boys slid down the handrail and stumbled into the kitchen. She’d told them a thousand times that the house wasn’t a playground, but she didn’t have the heart to scold them when their faces glowed with excitement. Finley hated that she had to restrict her sons to the upstairs apartment during business hours.

  “If you’re good,” she said as they piled into her 2005 Subaru wagon, “we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home.” It was Christmas break—who cared if they ate dessert before dinner?

  “Where are we going?” Flint asked.

  “To visit a neighbor.”

  “Is it Burt?” Tuff asked.

  “How do you know Mr. Hollis?” Finley turned onto Main Street and drove west out of town.

  “Burt asked us what we wanted from Santa for Christmas,” Flint said.

  “It’s Mr. Hollis, and when did you speak to him?”

  “When we were playing in the backyard,” Tuff said.

  “He wanted to know where our dad was. We told him he lives on another planet.” Flint giggled.

  Finley had explained numerous times that Iceland was not another planet, but her sons had decided it was more exciting to tell people that the father they’d never met lived in a different solar system. Finley had no regrets that things hadn’t worked out between her and Alexander, but now that her grandmother was gone, she wished Alex would make an effort to get to know his sons. Besides, the boys needed a male role model in their lives, and Burt Hollis was not who she had in mind.

  The Buckhorn Ranch was located five miles outside of town. Burt and his son, Cooper, raised South Texas whitetail deer, which were sold to ranchers looking to build their own herds. When she arrived at the house, Burt’s van wasn’t parked in the driveway. That didn’t deter her—she’d speak with Cooper. “Wait in the car.” She climbed the porch steps and rang the bell. No one answered, so she banged her fist on the door.

  “Hold on, I’m coming!” The door swung open and Cooper Hollis glared down at her.

  Finley’s breath caught in her chest as she gazed into striking blue eyes. They’d never met in person. She’d only seen him from a distance. Up close he was drop-dead gorgeous. Short-cropped whiskers covered his chiseled jaw, reminding her of an outlaw from the Old West.

  “May I help you?”

  His question startled her. “I’m Finley McCarthy.” She held out her hand. “I own the Mistletoe Magic in town.” He shook her hand, his callused fingers sending a tingle up her arm. Her physical reaction to a near stranger confused Finley. Since the twins had been born, she’d lost interest in dating. Being a single mom took all her energy. By the end of the day the only thing she looked forward to was a hot bath and a good book. “I’m here about Burt.”

  “What happened? Is he all right?” Cooper grabbed his coat from a hook inside the door and shrugged it on.

  “He’s fine,” Finley said, relieved Cooper was worried about his father. Surely he’d be concerned over Burt’s stealing and would want to rectify the situation.

  “Okay. Well, what is it you want?”

  She’d rehearsed a speech during the drive to the ranch, but she’d forgotten every word and cursed her adolescent nervousness. Why was she tongue-tied all of a sudden? “Maybe I should come back when Burt’s home.”

  “If you drove all the way out here from town, it must be important.”

  Finley wasn’t a mean person, and even though Burt was in the wrong, tattling on him didn’t sit well with her. Still...she couldn’t afford to continue losing money. “For the past six months your father has been visiting my business and—”

  “What business?”

  If he’d forgotten already, then she hadn’t made much of an impression on him. “Mistletoe Magic. The mint-green Victorian at the end of Main Street.”

  She ignored his blank stare. “Your father is stealing from my store.”

  Cooper’s mouth sagged open and she rushed on. “Each time he visits, a piece of merchandise comes up missing.”

  “You’re crazy if you believe my father’s taking your magic tricks.”

  “I don’t sell magic tricks, Mr. Hollis. My business promotes harmony and spiritual well-being. I sell herbs, healing stones, crystals—” his eyes glazed over “—and white sage or charcoal if you’re looking to rid yourself of a ghost.”

  “Sounds like a bunch of hocus-pocus crap to me,” he said. “What would an old man want with your rocks?”

  She removed a crystal necklace from her coat pocket. “One of these went missing today after he came into the store.”

  Cooper stared at the piece of jewelry. “You’re coming after the wrong person.”

  Finley’s gut insisted Burt was the culprit. “I need your father to return all the items he’s taken.”

  “You have a lot of nerve accusing a cripple of theft. Do you have surveillance video of him stashing things in his pockets?”

  Finley didn’t have the money to install a security camera in the Victorian. “No.”

  “Then we’re done talking.” The door shut in her face.

  That went well. Hopefully, Cooper would warn Burt to steer clear of the store. When she got into the car, the backseat was empty. “Flint! Tuff!” Heart pounding, she raced into the barn. “Boys?”

  “Here, Mom.”

  Finley followed Tuff’s voice to the back of the structure, where the boys ogled a pair of baby fawns. “Oh, how sweet.”

  Flint pointed to the deer with antlers. “Is that one of Santa’s?”

  “Santa’s reindeer live at the North Pole,” she said. “C’mon. Let’s go.” She grabbed their hands and led them outside.

  “Can we come back and see the reindeer?” Flint asked.

  “I don’t think so, honey.” The next time she visited the Buckhorn Ranch she’d probably be greeted by a shotgun.

  * * *

  COOPER CHECKED HIS watch for the hundredth time. The ditzy blond businesswoman had left over an hour ago. Where the heck was his father?

  Since they’d purchased the handicapped-accessible van, Burt hardly remained at home. Cooper didn’t begrudge the old man his freedom. He appreciated not having his day interrupted with doctor appointments and grocery shopping. The van had alleviated much of the stress in their relationship, but they still argued on occasion—the last quarrel having to do with not putting up a Christmas tree this year.

  Cooper found it tough to get into the holiday spirit after his former fiancée had broken off their engagement last year on Christmas Eve. Denise had gotten cold feet because she hadn’t wanted to be burdened with the responsibility of caring for his father, and he’d refused to put Burt in a retirement home.

  By the time Cooper had finished his second cup of coffee, the van pulled into the driveway. He was out the door in a flash. “Are you stealing from that blonde’s shop in town?”

  “What are you talking about?” Burt moved his chair onto the lift, then lowered himself to the ground.

  “She came by.”

  “Who?”

  “Finley McCarthy.”

  Burt hit the key fob and the lift returned inside the van, then t
he door locked. Cooper followed his father up the ramp at the front of the house. “She said you’ve been visiting her store.”

  “I may have stopped in the Mistletoe Magic a time or two.”

  “Why in the heck would you shop at a store like that?” Cooper opened the front door and they faced off in the living room. “Have you been stealing from that woman?” His father wouldn’t make eye contact. “Dad?”

  Burt steered the scooter into the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator. Fed up with the silent treatment, Cooper went into Burt’s bedroom. The place was a pigsty, but when he offered to clean, his father became defensive. He rummaged through the nightstand drawers and found a pair of scissors, nail clippers, pocket change, a Bible, three pens and a rock. A rock? Cooper examined the polished stone—his father hadn’t found it in the yard, that was for sure.

  The dresser drawers revealed bottles of scented oil and sticks of incense and miniature candles. Unbelievable. He gathered the evidence and dumped it on the kitchen table. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “Since when do you have permission to go through my personal belongings?”

  “Since that hippie woman appeared on our doorstep, accusing you of shoplifting.” Burt’s face glowed as red as the fake poinsettia on the kitchen table. “Dad, tell me you didn’t steal from her.”

  Burt hit the power switch on the scooter and escaped to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Cooper wasn’t letting him off that easy. He rapped his knuckles on the door.

  “Go away.”

  “You have to return that stuff to her store.”

  Silence.

  Burt had been acting odd lately. Maybe Cooper should have him evaluated by a geriatric physician. He might be suffering from the beginning stages of dementia. Heck, he might have even forgotten that he’d stolen the items.

  Tomorrow Cooper would take the junk to the blonde’s shop and apologize for his father. He’d look like a fool, but what did he care? A year ago he’d looked like the biggest fool ever in front of the whole town when his fiancée had given back his engagement ring on Christmas Eve.