Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Nothing unusual happened.

  “I think you can open it,” he said.

  With shaky fingers—both from nerves and excitement—she peeled back the paper. She’d been right. It was a shirt box you could get at any store, especially during the holidays. Her hands on the lid, she glanced at Cleetus, who gave her a quick nod to proceed. She pulled it off, and her heart sank.

  “What is it?” Cleetus asked.

  “A wedding veil.”

  “Who would send you that? Is there a card?” Cleetus leaned forward to peer into the box.

  “No need. It’s from my family. It was my grandmother’s wedding veil, and my mother’s, too.”

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, reaching out to finger the lace.

  She’d always loved the veil, knew it would be hers for when she married and to pass down to her own daughters when the time came. But now, it just felt like a prison sentence. Weary, she slumped down into a chair. “I’ve always loved it.”

  “Your family knew you loved it and wanted you to have it. That’s a good thing, right?” He squatted down to be at eye level with her, concern etching his features.

  How did she explain it to him? How did she tell him her family had plans for her? Plans that really didn’t take into consideration her dreams? Wouldn’t include this man? So, instead of trying to make him understand an archaic family tradition of arranged marriages, she gave him a smile and said, “Yes, it’s a nice gift.” And a terrible threat. They were coming for her.

  * * * * *

  “Bobby told me you had it bad. Even taking Sylvie to help you get fitted for the tux for our wedding,” Gage Justice said beside Cleetus, as they stood off to one side of the crowded ballroom of the Elks club, later that night. As the town sheriff, he was not only Cleetus’ friend, but his boss, as well.

  “I’ve never had a tux. Sylvie was just helping me get it right. Don’t want to mess up your wedding.” Cleetus pretended to be clueless that both Gage and Bobby knew how much Sylvie had come to mean to him. Across the room, she was talking with the Mayor and his date, one of the secretaries from the County Courthouse, at one of the tables framing the dance floor.

  Since he and Sylvie were playing Santa and Elf tonight, they’d changed into their costumes at her house after she found the veil on her doorstep. He hadn’t pushed her about it, and she hadn’t mentioned it again. Even though she assured him she’d loved having the thing, she’d been unusually quiet all the way from her house to the Elks lodge on the other side of town. It wasn’t until they’d gotten to the evening’s potluck dinner dance that she perked up.

  “Don’t try to fake it,” Fire Chief Deke Reynolds said from Cleetus’ other side. “You haven’t taken your eyes off that little elf all night, Santa.”

  Purposefully, he turned and took his eyes from where Sylvie had migrated to the next table of guests. “I think you two have had one too many beers tonight.”

  “First one, big guy,” Deke said, taking a long drink off the bottle in his hand.

  “Haven’t had any,” Gage said with a grin. “I’m technically on call tonight. No drinking for me.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you can’t dance,” his fiancée, Bobby, said, stepping in front of him and taking his hand, wiggling her hips to the slow beat of the music.

  “Duty calls,” Gage said, and grinned over his shoulder, as he let her lead him onto the dance floor.

  “If I were you, I’d take advantage of the chance to hold that little elf any chance you get,” Deke said, setting his beer on the table as his new wife made her way over to them. Lovers years before, they’d let tragedy and misunderstanding keep them separated for years until just this autumn.

  Cleetus pondered all his friend had said, and his eyes caught Sylvie’s across the room. Slowly, he made his way across the room to her side.

  He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “May I have this dance, little elf?”

  She smiled up at him, placing her hand in the one held out to her. “I’d love to dance with you, Santa.”

  As he took her into his arms, he bent his body enough that he could smell the spicy perfume she wore, and feel the spiky tips of her hair against his chin. Something was bothering her—and it wasn’t just that wedding veil. Until she was ready to fill him in, the best he could do was be there for her and let her know how important she was to him.

  CLOSE TO SANTA’S HEART

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By Friday night, Sylvie had buried her concern over the appearance of the wedding veil, and was convinced she now lived in one of those made-for-TV holiday movies.

  The entire town was transformed. Every business on Main Street had holiday lights in the windows, and wreaths on the doors. Even the Knobs & Knockers Hardware store had a huge pine bough draped over the entrance, decorated with lights, strings of plaid ribbon running through it, and balls made out of nuts and bolts. She’d giggled while she watched Cleetus hang it with Joe, the owner, earlier in the week. Both men had been offended, telling her it was a very manly decoration.

  It wasn’t just the town that was transformed. The people, usually friendly anyway, seemed to be busting at the seams with joy. She couldn’t walk down the street without every person she met wishing her a Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays.

  That afternoon, she and Cleetus met with the other Deputies, members of the fire department, and the town council at the town square. Mayor Tobias Rawlins and the County Civil Engineer, Harold Russett, went over plans about the erecting of the Christmas Tree and lighting ceremony. They would also erect the town’s Menorah in the square for the Hanukkah celebration that would start on Monday and run eight days. She knew most towns and cities celebrated both, and was glad to see Westen was no exception. What did surprise her was a tradition she’d never heard of before.

  “What about the kissing bough?” Judge Rawlins, the mayor’s father, asked in his big, booming bass voice.

  “We’ve got it in our cold room ready to be hoisted in the center of the gazebo during the tree lighting tonight,” said Henry Dubois, the elderly owner of Petal Pushers Florist.

  “What’s the kissing bough?” Sylvie stood on her tiptoes to whisper to Cleetus.

  “It’s a tradition here in Westen. Every year, a huge ball of mistletoe is made and hung in the gazebo,” he whispered back.

  Twylla, standing on the other side of her, leaned in. “You mean you haven’t told her the legend of the kissing bough yet?”

  Sylvie looked from her friend to Cleetus, whose cheeks had turned another shade of pink not really due to the cold air.

  “No, I haven’t gotten around to that yet,” he said almost in a mutter.

  “What’s the legend of the kissing bough?”

  “Oh, it’s the most romantic thing,” Twylla said with a grin. “The legend goes like this. If you love someone, you must kiss them beneath the bough before Christmas Eve, and you’ll marry them in the next year.”

  “What happens if you don’t?” she asked.

  “Oh, that’s the dreadful part. If you don’t, you’ll lose their love forever.”

  “Really?” she looked from one to the other, and they both nodded with grave solemnity. “I’ve never heard of this legend before.”

  “It’s been around since Isaiah MacNab settled on the outskirts of town back in the early nineteen hundreds. It was a tradition in his family back in Scotland, and the town adopted it.” Cleetus said.

  “Especially after he had a party, and four couples who kissed under the bough, including Isaiah and his girlfriend Hannah, all married within the next year,” Twylla added.

  From that moment on, all Sylvia could think about was, would Cleetus find a way to kiss her under the bough? Several times, she’d been caught staring out into space with a curler half rolled into one of her customers’ hair. Thankfully, never with a hot curling iron!

  “Are you and Cleetus coming in your costumes tonight for the annual tree lighting service?” Emma asked, as Twylla trimmed her sh
oulder-length hair.

  “Yes. He’s been acting really nervous about this event,” she said, as she combed out Emma’s mother’s hair in the chair beside her. Miss Isabelle lived at the nursing home these days, since her Alzheimer’s had progressed. Emma brought her in once every week to get her hair done. Sylvie tried to keep a happy and light atmosphere for them both, but she could see the sorrow in Emma’s eyes, as her mother didn’t recognize her any more than she did a stranger.

  “Cleetus is nervous?” Emma asked.

  Sylvie nodded as she worked. “Apparently, this is the one event that he thinks is the most important. He said if it didn’t go well, the whole holiday season would be ruined.”

  “The only year the tree was lit and the bough wasn’t raised was in nineteen-twenty-eight,” said Miss Isabelle, drawing everyone’s surprised attention to her. It was rare her comments logically fit into a conversation. “And you know what happened the next year.”

  Emma, Twylla, and Sylvie all exchanged looks.

  Isabelle continued. “They all said it was greedy people, but we knew better here in Westen.”

  “Are you talking about the stock market crash, Mama?” Emma asked.

  Isabelle stared blankly at her daughter, and began to hum to the salon’s overhead Christmas music.

  “Surely she doesn’t believe not performing some old-time tradition caused the Great Depression?” Twylla asked.

  Tears formed in Emma’s eyes, as she continued to stare at her mother. “I have no idea. She has these moments where she seems quite lucid. Then poof, she’s gone.”

  Sylvie’s heart hurt for her new friend, knowing she was slowly losing the mother she loved. It reminded her how much she missed her own mama. Of course, her situation was totally different from Emma and Miss Isabelle’s. Emma’s mother was slowly drifting away, and at some point she would cease to be the person Emma had loved her whole life.

  The chasm between Sylvie and her mother was one of their own making. Her mother had succumbed to the pressure of her dad to force Sylvie do his bidding. Sylvie could not, would not, give into him or his browbeating. She’d known when she left Bartell’s Levee she would do so at the cost of her relationship with her mother. Some things were important. Like standing up for yourself.

  Focusing on her work, she teased one last curl into the soft, white hair. “Close your eyes, Miss Isabelle,” she warned, as she lifted the hairspray and shielded the elderly woman’s eyes with her hand as an added precaution, before leveling a small mist of the spray to hold her handiwork in place.

  “Voilà!” she said, holding the mirror up for Miss Isabelle to see.

  “Oh, how lovely. You do such nice work. One of these days, I’ll have to bring my little girl in to have her hair done, too,” she said, patting her freshly coiffed hair.

  Sylvie’s eyes met Emma’s over her mother’s head. “You do that, Miss Isabelle. I’d love to meet her.”

  “You’ll love doing her hair, it’s the prettiest shade of dark red.”

  Sylvie helped her client out of the chair, handing her the cane she used to walk and taking the one-dollar tip Miss Isabelle always gave her. She’d tried to refuse once, because Emma always included a nice tip when she paid for both their appointments, but Miss Isabelle refused. So now, Sylvie just put the tip aside in a jar. She was going to give it to the Senior Center as a gift.

  “When my mother died of a heart attack, I was devastated that I didn’t get to say goodbye,” Twylla said, as she and Sylvie watched Emma help her mother out the door of the salon. “But seeing your mother’s mind drift slowly away is so sad. Now I’m thinking that losing my mother quickly was a blessing.”

  Sylvie had to agree. Knowing your mother was physically still here, but not being able to reach her, could be worse than not having her at all anymore.

  Losing a mother’s love left a hole in your soul.

  * * * * *

  By the time everyone was gathered in the town square for the tree lighting ceremony, the cold front promised by the weatherman had moved into the area. Snow was falling lightly, but more was predicted during the night. A chilling wind whipped around them in bursts, sending shivers through Sylvie.

  “You sure you don’t want to wear your coat?” Cleetus leaned down to ask her. He’d positioned himself between her and the direction the wind was coming.

  She shook her head. “No. I really want everyone to see the cute outfit Twylla made, and aren’t elves supposed to like the cold like Santa?”

  He grinned. “Santa has a little more padding than his elf.”

  “True,” she said, patting his padded tummy. “But I’ll be fine. I put my thermal underwear on underneath the costume.”

  He laughed as heartily as Santa might’ve, and that had the crowd cheering around them. “So Santa’s elf is as smart as she is cute,” he said, soft enough for only her to hear.

  “Yes, but she’s really hoping there will be hot chocolate left at the refreshment stand when we’re done with the ceremony.”

  “I hope so, too. Depends on how long Tobias talks this year.”

  Before she could ask how long the mayor’s speech was last year, Tobias—dressed in a long, woolen overcoat, gloves, and an old-fashioned top hat—stood at the microphone. Sylvie thought he was a handsome man, like a blond, well-polished, slightly pudgy movie star. While he was pretty to look at, she found Cleetus’ kindness and friendliness much more appealing.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the annual Westen tree lighting ceremony,” he said, pausing to allow everyone to clap and cheer. “Since there are so many new citizens in Westen this year, I’d like to explain what this tradition means to us here in Westen.”

  “Keep it short, Mayor, it’s getting colder by the second!” someone yelled from the crowd.

  Tobias laughed along with everyone else. “I’ll do my best,” he said, which got more laughter. “In Westen we kick off the holiday season by lighting the Christmas tree and raising the mistletoe bower in the center of the gazebo. On Monday night of next week, and for the seven nights following, we’ll also light a candle of the Hanukkah menorah.” Again he paused long enough to get the crowd’s reaction.

  “Now, before all our noses freeze off—” he grinned at the crowd and received laughter “—let’s have Santa and his charming little elf light our tree!”

  Cleetus took one of Sylvie’s hands in his, and waved at the crowd with the other, as he led her over to the big lever that would light the tree.

  “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!” Cleetus said, and they both lifted the lever.

  The huge evergreen tree lit up from bottom to top in multicolored lights, until the star at the top shone brightly.

  As oohs and aahs rang out along with whistles and applause, Sylvie was suddenly warmed from the inside out. No wonder Cleetus loved being the town’s Santa. Bringing so much joy to so many felt great.

  “And now it’s time to raise the Kissing Bough!” Cleetus boomed out the signal to the group of men and teenagers to pull on the ropes, lifting the nearly five-foot-wide ball of lights and mistletoe up to the center of the gazebo.

  “Don’t forget, girls and guys,” Mayor Rawlins said at the microphone. “The legend of this kissing bough says you must kiss your true love beneath the bough before Christmas Day, or you won’t get married next year.”

  “Is that why you keep running away from it every year, Tobias?” someone yelled, and once again the square filled with laughter.

  With a signal from the mayor, the high school marching band struck up O Christmas Tree, and the crowd joined in the singing.

  Movement to her right caught Sylvie’s eye. She glanced that way and for a moment thought she saw a familiar face from her past just behind where the band stood.

  Karl?

  Startled that her oldest brother might’ve come to Westen, she blinked and looked closer, only to have the tuba player shift, blocking her view. When he moved back, no one was there.

  Still, a shiver ran through h
er and she moved closer to Cleetus, who immediately wrapped one of his big arms around her.

  “Let’s go get your coat, and some of that hot chocolate,” he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

  “I don’t want you to leave before the ceremony is over,” she said, still scanning the crowd for her brother.

  “It’s over once the tree carol is finished. Besides, keeping you healthy is part of Santa’s job.”

  “Oh, so I’m a chore,” she teased as they got to his truck and pulled out her down coat. She pulled it on and zipped it up, the sudden warmth making her sigh.

  “You,” he said, pulling her in tight, “are never a chore. Being with you is fun. Protecting you? That’s an honor.”

  The warmth of his body against hers, the heat in his eyes as he stared down at her, and the deepening of his voice, along with the wonderful words, eased her anxiety. She’d been mistaken when she thought she saw her brother in town. She wouldn’t let her family dampen her first happy holiday, and certainly wouldn’t let them put distance between her and Cleetus.

  CLOSE TO SANTA’S HEART

  CHAPTER NINE

  For the next week, Sylvie was able to shove thoughts of her family and the wedding veil out of her mind, while helping Cleetus bring joy to the town of Westen. Dressed as Santa and his elf, they stopped in at the quilting bee, spent an afternoon at the courthouse for the county employees’ party, and visited the high school and all the other schools.

  Drama over Holly Murphy, the teacher in charge of the children’s Christmas pageant, receiving a suspicious package pushed Sylvie’s own problems completely out of her mind. The sheriff asked Cleetus to fingerprint Holly, so they could eliminate her prints from those on the package. After the children’s final rehearsal the next night, the sheriff and his deputies set a trap for Holly’s would-be stalker. Sylvie had paced the floor of her tiny house, waiting and worrying for Cleetus to call and tell her everything was okay—that he was okay. She realized how much she’d come to care for the big man.