Mistletoe and Mr. Right

by Lyla Payne

  But Brennan will be happy to see me at least.

  I pull some face wipes from my toiletry case in the backseat and get rid of the dirt, shed my mud-splattered coat, and pull my hair back into a single braid that immediately starts dripping water on my shoulder. My jeans are still wet and gross, but this is as presentable as it’s going to get, so instead of stressing about it I remind myself why I’m here—to find out whether to push in all my chips or fold this relationship now—and race through the rain for the cover of the front porch.

  The house, or bed-and-breakfast, stands two stories high, with dingy white siding and stark black shutters. Light spills from the windows and onto the wide wooden porch, warming my blood even though the sharp bite of the wind and rain continue to slap at my back. My hand shakes as I knock on the door, but as with most things, once the task is complete and there’s no turning back, most of the fear dances off into the ether.

  A middle-aged woman swings open the door, making the pretty wreath of fresh holly bang in the process. She stands at least two inches shorter than my five-foot-seven—she’s rounder than I am, too, but not in an unattractive way. Her blue eyes study me with more than a little suspicion as she swipes at a stray chunk of gray-streaked auburn hair.

  “Yes?” She demands, looking me up and down with a frown that reveals lines around her mouth.

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth because somehow, in all of my daydreams and planning, I hadn’t consider what I would do if Brennan didn’t answer the door.

  “I, um.” Articulate, Jessica. “Is Brennan home?”

  The question pops her eyes open wide, making room for curiosity to join the annoyance. I suppose visitors aren’t welcome two days before Christmas, but friends of her son’s at least have a chance.

  “Yes, he’s—”

  “Jessica?” Shock nudges my boyfriend’s voice a few ticks higher than normal as he peers around the corner of the entryway. My heart still thuds at the sight of him—he really is stupidly handsome, with his mahogany hair, strong jaw that’s sporting the right amount of stubble at the moment, and broad shoulders that fill out every last inch of his flannel shirt.

  Brennan’s stunned expression loses out to dismay, then the same sort of irritation I’d glimpsed on his mother’s face a moment ago before settling on a smile that’s a little suspect. It’s at least ten breaths before he moves toward me to grab me in a hug.

  My blood feels icy and slick despite the eventual greeting, but I shove the bad juju down and squeeze him back, deciding my surprise had been enough to make him forget how much fun we’ll have during an Irish Christmas. How much fun we always have.

  “What are you doing here?” He murmurs against my ear, lips brushing my skin in a way that sends tingles down my spine.

  I pull away, light-headed and buoyed by the happy, almost genuine light in his eyes. He’s still pale, almost woozy, as though he’s seen a ghost—though whether I’m the ghost of Christmas past or present with an option for future remains to be seen.

  “Surprise!” I spread my arms with a grin, just like I practiced. “I missed you and didn’t have plans for the holidays, and you know I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland.” The whole spiel sounds kind of lame now, much worse than through all of my rounds with the mirror.

  Brennan shakes his head and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s amazed or flabbergasted—in a bad way. The confusion isn’t new to us, though, and he recovers nicely, slipping an arm around my waist. “Mam, this is my girlfriend, Jessica. Jessica, this is Maeve Donnelly, my mother.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” I gush, giving her my best interviewee smile.

  She returns it with less enthusiasm, cutting another irritated glance toward her son. “A pleasure, although I must say this comes as a bit of a surprise, since we weren’t aware Brennan was dating anyone seriously.”

  My heart sinks, landing somewhere around my stomach. He never told his parents about me?

  I’m saved from the oppressive, choking amount of awkwardness spewing out onto the porch when a man who has to be Brennan’s father wanders up, probably to see where all the cold air is coming from. He looks so like my boyfriend—same reddish-brown hair, same grass-green eyes, same freckles. Same easy smile, as though there could never be a reason in the whole world for worry. A teenage girl trails behind him, her arms crossed and curiosity plain on her freckled face.

  “We have a guest!” Mr. Donnelly sticks out a hand, greeting me in a rich brogue much harder to understand than his son’s. “Colin Donnelly.”

  “Jessica.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jessie.”

  My hand disappears into his weathered one. Calluses that could tell stories of baling hay and clearing land and probably birthing litters for the goat I nearly killed scrape my palm. “It’s Jessica, if it’s not too much trouble. And likewise.”

  “I’m Molly,” the girl chimes in, pinching Brennan’s bicep so hard he yelps. “His sister.”

  Brennan recovers and looks me over, seeming to notice for the first time that I’m not as put together as I am pretty much always. “You look wrecked, chicken.”

  “Yeah, it’s raining.”

  “Been pissing like a hellhound all day,” Mr. Donnelly nods, nudging his wife out of the way. “Come on in out of the chill, why don’t you?”

  Warmth and light gush over me, around me, comforting the way I’ve always imagined a mother’s touch. It improves my mood in an instant, especially when Mr. Donnelly swings the door shut on the storm. Being in the house is like being wrapped in cotton.

  Catholic markers hang everywhere, along with crucifixes and little shrines to the Virgin Mary and … some other saints that aren’t familiar to my untrained eyes. Even though I researched Ireland and its history for days before leaving, my brain refuses to recall facts about the struggles of the people, the reason behind the wars that ripped it in two, or even which country belongs to the United Kingdom. It has something to do with the split of the Catholic and Protestant Churches. Maybe.

  What good is being anal if it leaves me at the least opportune moment?

  Family pictures and religious sayings decorate the walls, and the former brings a slight smile to my face. Brennan hasn’t changed much in the past fifteen years if the photos are any indication. The easy smiles on the family’s faces, the way they touch each other without thinking about whether it will be awkward, stabs my heart with a sliver of envy. If I took it out and examined it, the real true reason for my plan, for coming here, would glint in my palm, but that’s a hundred percent off-limits.

  Mrs. Donnelly, apparently recovered from the shock of my arrival, nudges us toward the kitchen. “Come in, come in. We were just about to have an evening snack to warm us up before bed.”

  A pot of tea steams in a knitted cozy in the center of an ancient oak table, delicate painted cups and saucers set out in a circle. There are tarts and cakes, some cookies—or biscuits, as Brennan calls them—arranged on a pretty Christmas-themed platter.

  It’s like something off a Christmas in Ireland greeting card. All of the charm and intrigue that drew me into Brennan’s life fills the room, snuggling around me. The strong, aching desire to know more, to understand enough to be able to at least pretend to be a part of their family, escapes without my permission. I blink back the tears that prick my tired eyes, more sure than ever that coming here was the right move for us.

  Slow down, Jessica. You’ve been here five minutes. You’re not allowed to reveal the freak for a few days.

  “Sit, dear. Have a biscuit and tell us why you’re soaked to the bone.” Mrs. Donnelly doesn’t take her own advice, bustling around as we all settle in, making sure we have what we need. Her fluttering—and her question—return my nerves to their polished dance floor.

  But Mr. Donnelly rescues me for the second time in ten minutes. “Maeve, for the sake of everything holy, please park. You haven’t stopped moving since we woke up at four this morning and my blood pressure is
soaring.”

  “Fine.” She whacks him with a dish towel, a smile touching her lips as she slides into the seat to his right, on my left. “Please tell us about yourself, Jessica. Brennan is a typical lad in most ways, I’m afraid, which means we’ve been left clean in the dark about this whole courtship. What’s your last name? Where are you from?”

  I give Brennan an exasperated look that he misses because he’s too busy scooping homemade goodies onto the china in front of him. “Well, my last name is MacFarlane.”

  Molly chokes on her tea, sputtering as drops of amber liquid hit the holly-embroidered tablecloth and soak in. Mrs. Donnelly hides an expression of dismay, leaving me to assume something—no idea what—is wrong with my last name. Brennan thumps his sister between the shoulder blades a bit harder than necessary and she smacks his arm, their tussle distracting everyone from me, at least for the moment.

  “Kids, come on. You’ve been in the same room for two minutes,” Mr. Donnelly admonishes before turning his steady gaze back to me. “Go on, Jessica.”

  Something about the way he says my full name makes me wonder if he finds my insistence on using it ridiculous, but nothing in his expectant expression backs up my feeling. It’s probably my own ears hearing it that way after years of correcting people.

  “Well, I grew up in Missouri and I’m majoring in journalism.” My neck feels hot from all of the attention, but there’s nowhere else to toss it. I kind of asked for it, showing up like this.

  “Why are you so dirty?” Molly wrinkles her nose, her cheeks still pink and her hair out of sorts from the choking incident.

  She had to remind everyone I hadn’t answered that part of the question. Lying went against my code, but telling them I mauled their livestock on the way into town doesn’t appeal to me, either. “I, um, had to get out of the car and move a tree branch.”

  “How did you and Brennan meet?” The teenager peppers me with the next question around a mouthful of what looks like cranberry scone.

  “At a frat party,” Brennan grunts. “Nothing too special about how it started, I guess.”

  I wait for him to add something sweet about how it’s been special since or how quickly we connected but he doesn’t, and the silence twirling through the room goes faster and faster until it’s hard to breathe. It’s accompanied by the scraping of forks against china, the occasional murmur about snow arriving in time for Christmas morning, and the chiming of a cuckoo clock on the wall.

  Mrs. Donnelly looks up at it, then gives me another tired smile. “Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you, Jessica.”

  A yawn stretches her lips wide and inspires one of my own, a reminder that I’ve been up nearly twenty-four hours. My eyes burn, nothing on my mind now but a sincere hope that she’s going to show me to a bedroom.

  I’m guessing Catholicism has something to say about Brennan and I sharing a room.

  No one moves, and a desperate urge for conversation tugs at my tongue. “I know it’s unbearably rude of me, showing up like this two days before Christmas, but I couldn’t think of a good gift for Brennan and this seemed right.” I try a smile, earning matching nods in return, as though they’re a family of bobbleheads. “Anyway, you know us Americans. Unbearably rude is kind of our national slogan.”

  The joke tumbles flat on its face, and Mrs. Donnelly reaches over and pats my hand. “It’s no trouble, dear. We’ve missed our boy these past few months, and it’ll be refreshing to hear about his time in the States from one of his friends. Not much of a talker, our Brennan.”

  “That’s the truth,” I reply, a little miffed that she referred to me as his friend. And that he didn’t correct her.

  She takes me down the hall to my room and then gives me a tour of the guest bathroom before handing over clean towels and bidding me good night. I collapse on my bed as she closes the door, wondering how much to read into my not getting to say a proper good night to my boyfriend before being herded away.

  Maybe he’ll sneak in to see me in a bit, to tell me how happy he is to see me, how glad I made the three-thousand-mile trip to surprise him, and apologize for being so stoic upon my arrival.

  I fall asleep before I can even think about changing clothes, so if Brennan does knock on my door, it falls on deaf ears. Ghosts fill my dreams, but unlike old Ebenezer Scrooge, mine all lurk in the past. My spirits don’t have anything nice to say about the future.

  Then again, they never do.

  Chapter Three

  Rays of sun peer through the sheer curtains framing my window before I’m ready, but at least last night’s storm has dissipated. My body craves coffee, even knowing it’s probably going to be tea from here on out, which is better than nothing when it comes down to a choice between chugging caffeinated tea or suffering withdrawals.

  I put on a bra and tug on a pair of jeans, then grab a sweater before peeking out into the hallway. The quiet in the house makes the squeaks of my boots on the hardwood floors sound like cymbals. Even so, I make it out to the front porch without running into anyone else, and I breathe the crisp sea air deep into my lungs.

  This morning, Ireland greets me like I imagined—a thick mist drapes the boulder-dotted shoreline like a shawl as sunlight winks off of the crashing gray waves. The rain turned to snow sometime during the night, so there’s still no green, but the pristine white blankets covering the hills add the perfect ambiance to the late-December morning. A white Christmas in Ireland. This trip can’t be a mistake.

  The door creaks open behind me and a sleep-tousled Brennan steps up beside me, a colorful, handmade afghan wrapped tight around his shoulders. Pieces of his hair stick up in chunks and there are reddened creases on his cheeks, but when he smiles at me, there’s no one more beautiful in the entire world.

  “Morning, chicken.” His brogue thickens enough when he’s sleepy to trip me up, but I’ve gotten used to the nickname, which weirded me out at first. Apparently it’s normal to him.

  “Morning.” I lean in for a kiss, not caring whether either of us has morning breath. We dispensed with that formality a few weeks after we started sleeping over. He lapses into silence, reigniting my lingering doubts. “Are you mad?”

  “About you showing up?” He doesn’t look at me at first, choosing to squint toward the sea instead. An eternity passes before he shrugs, turns, and slings an arm around my shoulders. “Nah. I mean, I was pretty surprised and my mam’s a planner like you, so she might have a panic attack, but it’s good to see you.”

  “Also we’ve been together four months now. It’s time I met your family.”

  “And you took the initiative, as usual.” He smiles to soften the judgment in his words, then leans down to kiss the tip of my nose. “How can I get mad at you for being Jessica?”

  And that’s that. It’s so Brennan; he’s entirely go-with-the-flow and nothing bothers him. Ever.

  Which, honestly, is starting to bother me. Because if he doesn’t care about anything, what does that say about his attitude toward me or the potential for our relationship?

  Chris would roll her eyes and tell me to shut up. That we’ve only been together four months and we’re twenty years old, so who cares if we don’t know right now if we’ll get married. If it’s forever.

  I look at my handsome Irish boyfriend who does his best to understand me, and also happens to be dynamite in bed, and decide to listen to her. Try to relax and explore, to revel in the new experience.

  “You guys, Mam is going to beat you both if you don’t get in here for breakfast,” Molly chirps, sticking a head full of frizzy strawberry curls out into the morning. She eyes us. “Are you two being gross or what?”

  “Not as gross as your breath,” Brennan retorts, tossing me a wink before chasing his sister into the house.

  I take one last look around the magnificent scene before heading into the dining room, feeling better about this whole thing. Brennan and I might not be there yet, but I still think a holiday with his family, in his country, will make him real
ize he wants to hang on to me.

  The family gathers around the rough, pitted table, along with an addition from last night. An elderly man perches on one end, the sun glinting off the age spots on his bald head. He peers up at me through giant owl-like glasses with a skeptical expression, as though maybe I’m a cantaloupe he can’t quite decide on buying based on smell.

  “This the Scottish girl?” he grunts.

  “Granddad, Jaysus!” Molly’s cheeks go pink.

  At least now it’s clear why she choked last night at the mention of my last name.

  “I’m not Scottish, I’m American. My father never even mentioned it.” Not that I remember much before my ninth birthday, when he died. But it seems like a fair protest.

  “You’ve got the blue eyes and the stature. Can’t breed that out.” The old man waves a dismissive hand. “You’d probably walk two miles out of your way to pick up a penny, too.”

  “Dad, seriously.” Mr. Donnelly reaches for a piece of flat oatmeal-colored bread. “Knock it off. We’re supposed to pretend to like the Scots now, and that guy who stole your girlfriend at university died ten years ago. Give up the fight.”

  “Ten years too late,” he grunts, still giving me a look like he’s wondering what crimes—real or imagined—I’ve committed. “You’re pretty, though. So that’s something.”

  Brennan shoots me an apologetic look and pulls out a chair next to the old man. Mortification heats my face even though it’s ridiculous to feel embarrassed about my last name. I didn’t choose it and it doesn’t mean anything—not to what’s left of my family, anyhow.