A Kiss Under the Mistletoe

by Jennifer Basye Sander

  The couch sat under the window, facing the bookshelves and TV on the opposite wall. On a side wall was an easy chair and a little table and lamp and, opposite it, was the wall that led down the hall.

  “So…where do you want the couch, then?” I asked. She looked around the small space.

  “What if we move the chair over to this wall and put the couch where the chair was?”

  It would be snug, but we could make it work.

  The sofa was heavy—it was a hide-a-bed. We shoved it into place and slid the coffee table in front of it, after moving the little chair and lamp table to the opposite wall. I was sweating by the time we’d made room for the tree, which still rested against the wall outside the apartment.

  Heather disappeared and came back with a metal stand and, after covering the carpet with an old towel, she positioned the stand under the window.

  “Okay, Robby. We’re ready for the tree.”

  Emily jumped up and down, squealing.

  I opened the front door, grabbed the tree and maneuvered it into the stand with ease. Heather, crawling on all fours underneath the lowest branches, tightened the clamps that held it in place.

  “Does it look straight?” she called from below.

  I stepped back and stood beside Emily. “What do you think?”

  “Pick me up, Robby, so I can see better.”

  I hoisted Emily into my arms and we looked at it together, wisps of her hair brushing my cheek.

  “It looks perfect, Mommy.”

  Heather crawled out from under the lower boughs and brushed off her black slacks as she stood. She stepped to one corner, and then she walked around us and went to the hallway to check the view from there. She smiled.

  “You’re right, Em. It is perfect!”

  The room had grown fragrant with the pine scent and, although a little cramped, it seemed very warm and homey. My buttoned-up jacket added to the warmth.

  “Thanks, Robby,” Heather said. She stepped over and quickly kissed my cheek.

  I felt myself blush and grow even warmer under my wool coat. In my fourteen years, no girl had ever reached out to touch me in such a casual way.

  “Well, I guess I should get back to my homework.”

  Heather reached out her arms and took Emily from me. “Can’t you stay a bit? I was hoping you could help us decorate.”

  “Please, Robby,” pleaded Emily. “Puh-leeze.” Only little girls can draw a word out like that.

  I shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” Algebra could wait. My grades were okay in that class anyway.

  Heather lowered Emily, who stepped over and hugged my leg.

  “Let me grab the boxes out of my closet.”

  “Okay,” I said. Feeling a little sweaty, I asked to use the bathroom. “Mind if I clean up a little?”

  “Make yourself at home.”

  I splashed cold water on my face to cool down and then wondered if there was a way I could smell a tiny bit better. Glancing around the room, I noticed deodorant—Mennen—and a small bottle of English Leather aftershave. I used both liberally.

  “Wow, you smell good,” Emily said when I walked into the living room.

  Heather had put a record on—Andy Williams singing Christmas songs—and she was opening a box on the coffee table. She spun around and smiled, saying, “He sure does.”

  For the next hour, we decorated the tree as if we three were a happy little family. Heather asked me to put the star on top and string the lights, and she helped Emily hang ornaments.

  We sang carols along with the record and shared stories as we worked. I told Emily about sledding down the snow-covered hills of Pennsylvania, and Heather promised we’d all go sledding up in the Sierra-Nevada mountains sometime during the break.

  As we worked, sometimes Heather’s hand touched mine, and she often smiled up at me with light in her eyes. Her perfume, the scent of the tree, Emily’s giggles, the warm, dim little room—it was all so intimate, I could barely breathe at times. It was heady stuff for a high school boy.

  When the tree was fully decorated, I plugged in the lights and Emily clapped and squealed. The greens and blues and reds and oranges converged on Heather’s face. She looked radiant. At that moment, I felt older than fourteen, and she seemed younger than twenty-two.

  Standing back, looking at the bright tree together, Heather put her arm around my waist, while holding Emily against her hip.

  “It’s the most adorable tree,” she said.

  “Santa Claus will like it, won’t he, Mommy?”

  “He’ll love it,” Heather assured her.

  “You get more presents if Santa likes your tree,” Emily told me, speaking with great authority.

  I nodded. “I think I heard that, too, when I was a kid.”

  “Oh, Robby,” she said, “thank you so much for helping us.”

  Emily yawned and said, “Mommy, I’m tired.”

  “Okay, Honey. Why don’t you go to the bathroom like a big girl and then change into your pajamas, while I say good night to Robby.”

  “Can Robby tuck me in?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Sweetie. We’ve probably kept him long enough.”

  “Please, Robby! Please tuck me in.”

  I shrugged. “Guess I can stay a little longer.”

  “You hurry, then,” Heather said. She set her down and patted her on the bottom.

  Heather turned toward me and put her hand on my arm. “If you’ve got to get back, it’ll be okay.” Study algebra, or sit in front of a Christmas tree with a girl who’d kissed me on the cheek? It didn’t take me long to decide.

  “Naw. I can stay a while.”

  Heather nodded and turned her attention back to her daughter. “I’ll go help Emily get her pajamas on.”

  “Can I have some water?” I asked.

  “Help yourself.”

  I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with cold water, which tasted great. Sometimes the simplest things are the most satisfying. A white-and-red candy, wrapped in twisted plastic, sat on the counter. I unwrapped it and plopped it into my mouth, as if I owned the place.

  Then I noticed a piece of mistletoe on the table. Thin red ribbon was tied in a bow around the stem, and a new package of thumbtacks lay next to it. I stepped over and opened the package. Somehow I felt more at home in Heather’s apartment than I’d felt in my own.

  I stabbed the tack into the stem of the mistletoe just as Heather appeared.

  “She’s already asleep. She really wanted you to tuck her in, but I picked up her clothes from the bathroom and put them in the hamper. When I looked in, she was sound asleep.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I can tuck her in some other time.”

  Heather glanced at my hands. “So, you found my mistletoe.”

  “Yeah. I mean, I just figured it was one more decoration. You know.”

  Heather nodded. “Yes, I know.” She grinned. “Where should we put it?”

  I shrugged. “The hallway, maybe?”

  She glanced up. “How about right here? Can you reach the archway?”

  Reaching over her shoulder, I pushed the thumbtack into the plaster of the little archway that separated the hall from the kitchen. The mistletoe and the red bow now hung above us.

  “Well?” Heather said. “Should we try it out?”

  My heart raced as she rocked up onto her toes. Was this really happening to me? I bent down and closed my eyes. Our lips touched briefly. Hers were soft and warm, and my heart did a little flip inside my chest. I pulled away and opened my eyes. Heather’s eyes were open, and she was smiling sweetly at me.

  “You’re so young, Robby. Just think how many kisses there are in your future. And whoever she is, she will be a very lucky girl to have you.”

  My heart was breaking. Couldn’t that girl be Heather? I wanted to stand under that archway for the rest of my life. But, no, I knew that was only a young boy’s dream.

  “Guess I should get back,” I said weakly.

  Sh
e nodded. “It’s late, and you’ve got school tomorrow.”

  I looked at the beautiful lights of the Christmas tree for a few more seconds, then stepped toward the door and grabbed its cold handle. I opened it and stood there, hoping she’d insist I stay longer, but she stepped forward and said, “Good night, Robby.”

  When the door closed, I turned away. My heart was broken, but as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I knew there would be other Christmases and other kisses in my future. There have been, but the memory of that first kiss still makes me smile. The soft kiss of a young, single mother struggling to find her place had been the best gift I received that year, giving me a small taste of what my future life would be as a family man with a tree and a daughter of my own.

  THE SCENT OF PINE AND CANDLE WAX

  ILLIA THOMPSON

  It had not been a good year for my small family of three. The trauma of an unexpected divorce had shaken my children and myself. Hamid was just twelve and Malina was younger by two years. The idea of moving somewhere new to start over held great appeal. With this in mind, I went on an autumn weekend visit to a small village near Carmel. Could this be a place for us to heal, I wondered, as I walked down the quaint streets and viewed the small shops.

  Always a book lover, of course I needed to check out the library before deciding if this town seemed right. And that was where I saw it—the small sign on the library bulletin board that read “Preschool Director Needed.” The interview for the position was to be held the very next day!

  The interview was quickly arranged. Yes, all agreed that I fit the requirements well, but there were other, mostly local, applicants under consideration. I left my phone number with the interviewers, but tried not to get my hopes up. As I left town, I made a silent vow to myself: if I were to be chosen, my children and I would make the move. The phone rang two months later. “Can you start January 1st?” I could indeed.

  Settling into a new community is always hard, but so much went well right away. The parent co-op offered me instant acquaintances so I was spared the difficulty of seeking out new friends. My talents were put to good use on the job, and I felt revitalized. Now, if only my romantic life would fall into place so smoothly, I thought. Friends in my former large suburb had warned me, “Don’t move to a small community. They don’t have many single men.” My reply: “I only need one.”

  “I found the man I want you to marry. I found the man I want for a stepfather.” This was my now-fifteen-year-old son, Hamid, speaking from the back seat of the station wagon as we returned from our first community Thanksgiving Dinner in the country.

  “Hmph,” I replied, focusing on the still-unfamiliar road home. But he went on, adding a bit of support to his statement. “Really. He plays the guitar and sings and has an orange truck.” I dismissed his request, “Now, when we get home, go play outside before it gets dark.”

  My daughter, Malina, perked up at the mention of a guitar. “He sounds interesting, Mom. Why don’t you give it a try?” It was true, I had started dating again, but I certainly did not need my son acting as matchmaker. He persisted and I finally agreed to ask his candidate, Locksin, to join us for a Sunday lunch. Lunch seemed harmless, as innocent as any time could be for carrying out my son’s wishes.

  Lunch, as it turned out, was delightful. The four of us seemed like an instant family, comfortably visiting over a midday meal and soon after singing and playing board games together. Locksin and I began to spend more time with each other, and I slowly felt the possibility of a new family in the making. But did he feel the same way I did?

  This bachelor from southern California, who didn’t even wear socks with his Topsiders and who was now working on land as a contractor after being at home on the sea, intrigued me. He of Viking ancestry. I of Mediterranean heritage. He, well over six feet tall, and I, barely five-feet-two. Both of us in our forties. There was an ease between us when it came to sharing our thoughts. Not long after we met, on the ride home after an outing in the nearby redwoods, I suddenly blurted out what was on my mind: “If you asked me to marry you, I wouldn’t necessarily say no.” Hmm, maybe that was a thought I shouldn’t have shared, especially since he didn’t respond at all to my statement. Complete silence reigned for the rest of the long two hours back. Locksin dropped me off at my house without a word and drove off into the night.

  Two long weeks passed. The phone rang at last, with Locksin on the other end. “We have to talk.” Over a quiet dinner in a restaurant, he reached across the table and held my hands while finally sharing his thoughts on the subject. “I love your children. I would love to be married. And I would love for us to have a child together.” I took that as a proposal. “Yes,” I responded quickly, squeezing his hands to seal the deal. We married six months after my son had arranged our first meeting.

  Our first December seemed to arrive quickly after we settled into our new home. Hanukkah was my family tradition and Christmas was his family tradition, so of course we blended both the festivities and the worship. Candlelight in the silver menorah, colored lights on the evergreen tree. Traditional Hebrew prayers and Christmas caroling with neighbors. A wreath on the front door, next to the mezuzah, the small ceramic case that holds the Ten Commandments. Presents wrapped in the traditional Jewish silver and blue and Christmas gifts wrapped in red-and-green paper. And, of course, mistletoe hung from the rafters. That first winter as a new family, the roundness of my form showed clearly that our child would be present at our next December celebration. Our son, Lance, was born into a cradle of love. During the December holidays, wide-eyed, this baby took in all the lights. Every year throughout our marriage our blended celebration took place. Until a December came when Locksin was not there.

  He’d come home from work early complaining of a stomachache, something unusual for this strong, healthy-looking man. Sixteen-year-old Lance left me a note, scrawled on the back of an envelope: “Dad’s not feeling well. I’m taking him to the doctor’s. Don’t worry. I’m in charge of the situation. Love, Lance.”

  It was a quick year once his cancer diagnosis was made. For the last three months, his bedside became a place for stories and sharing with family and friends. Alone together in the evenings, my husband and I talked deep into the night, speaking our deepest truths. On an early June morning, when no one was around, he took his last breath. I later held his cool hand for the last time, remembering his declaration from years ago. “We hold hands well together.”

  For me, the following December lost its festive feeling. Locksin was gone. No Christmas tree. Christmas Eve found me driving alone past a small nursery. “Should I stop and buy something festive?” I wondered. Red would liven up my gloomy house, add a bit of brightness. The parking lot was deserted; everyone else had long since made their holiday purchases. I wandered through the quiet aisles, trying to decide on a small something. A lovely evergreen wreath sat alone. Pine? No, I needed to stick with something less symbolic of Christmas this year, I thought, shaking my head and walking past it to the poinsettias. Red ribbons tied around red sparkling pots. Just what my living room needs right now, I decided, picking up the one closest to me and heading for the cash register. I glanced down at the wreath again as I walked past. Maybe…but no. I wasn’t ready yet.

  Standing at the counter, I looked again to where the lone green wreath sat near the entrance. Maybe I did need it after all. Something to acknowledge my husband’s love of Christmas. He wasn’t there with me this year, but at least the house could smell as if he were.

  “There’s a wreath back there. Just sitting there,” I said to the clerk as he wrapped the poinsettia in plastic to protect my car seat. He nodded and began to ring up my plant. Quietly, I asked, “How much is it? That wreath.” Again, he paid no attention. “What’s the price?” I finally said in a louder voice. “Here’s your plant. Where is your car?” he asked. I pointed to the only one in the parking lot.

  On the way out, he bent down smoothly and scooped the wreath up with his free hand, nev
er breaking stride. “Merry Christmas,” he said quietly, as we walked together to my car. “You can have it.” Startled, I protested. “Oh, but I can buy it. You don’t have to give it to me.”

  “Nope,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “It would give me great pleasure to give it to you. It’s late in the season, and it needs a good home.”

  With a poinsettia dressed in red and the pine-scented wreath filling my car with the familiar scent of Locksin’s beloved pine trees, my holiday spirit revived at last. “Locksin, are you there?” I asked out loud in the car. “Did you do this, dear? Thank you for the wreath.” I hung it by the front door, encircled by his love once again.

  SONG OF LOVE

  DENA KOUREMETIS

  There he is, in his tux up on the stage of our local performing arts center. It’s our pop choir’s fourth performance of the Christmas season. As I peek from backstage at the group singing “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” I see my salt-and-pepper-haired husband, elegantly moving to the beat of this jazzy rendition, not knowing just how very smitten I am with his crooning and how thrilled I am that he loves being up there as well. Smiling and shifting my weight from one patent-leather pump to the other one, in anticipation of my turn onstage, I remember my childhood dreams of the perfect Christmas. It looked just like this. But for many decades of my adult life, Christmas was far from harmonious.

  I came from a very close, fun-loving family. We laughed a lot. We traveled a lot. And from my earliest recollection, my two brothers and I made music together, encouraged by two piano-playing, singing, whistling parents. As we embarked on cross-country trips to visit our Midwestern relatives each summer, my brothers and I had our own little band going in the back seat of our family Mercury. One brother was the (voice-produced) bass player, the other was the drum section and I was the diva singer.

  As I got older, singing became an important part of my life. My teenage insecurities kept me from auditioning for school musicals or singing in choral groups, so instead I learned to play guitar and imitate my folk-singing heroes of the 1960s in my own, private way. By the time I got to college and gained more confidence, I was sharing my love of singing with my friends, regaling girls in the dormitory with my doleful version of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” I spent a year in Greece during college, and I wowed my Greek relatives by strumming my guitar and singing Nana Mouskouri songs.