Love Under the Mistletoe

*Holly*

I should have expected my parents' bakery to be busy with the official kickoff of Christmas starting this weekend, but the mountains of boxes of Christmas cookies piled on the counter and near the back door were clear evidence that Christmas was in full swing. And I knew it wasn't a minute too soon as I caught a glimpse of the first snow beginning to fall flake by fluffy flake outside the small window in the bakery's back room. I topped one final swirl of baby Jesus' hair on his sugar cookie-baked head. Perfect, I thought, but the sound of my mom calling to me from the front of the store brought me out of the zone. 

"Holly! You're fixin' to be late if you don't get out of here soon!" she called. It was a sweet, sugar-coated, well-meaning threat. I was my parents' only kid, and while I'd been a regular attendee of the Santa Claus Ball for my whole life, this was the first year I would be attending as a single adult woman. I technically could have participated in the one adult activity–mistletoe kissing–for a few years now, but I had missed out because I hadn't made it home from the dorms in time for my first three years of college. But considering my mom's love for the Santa Claus Ball, you could say she was a little eager to see me off, not to mention the assumed and unsaid reason she was so excited for me to go.... 

"Are you sure you guys can keep up here?" I asked though I was already lifting the apron over my head. "I can stay a little longer...."

"Holly Lane Garland, you are going to leave this sweet-toothed beast to us, the owners–" 

"And Jack!" my father added.

"Yes, yes, and Jack," my mother said. I could imagine the way her eyes rolled around in their sockets as she recalled sweet, freckle-faced Jack, the young man they were training to help manage the bakery as they geared up for retirement. It seemed my father was all for more free time, while my mother was hesitant to lay down her oven mitts and her piping bags. She'd built this place from the ground up–literally–and after they'd married, my dad agreed to help her manage it. 

I poked my head around the curtain draped across the doorway leading from the storefront to the back room. I spotted my mom ringing up a new customer while my dad walked toward the front door with his arms full of four boxes of snowman cupcakes. As much as he was ready to relax and spend some leisure time with my mom, he never slowed down. For her sake, he barreled on through, even as the arthritis creeped into his knees, giving him a distinctive hobble. 

I imagined him walking out and spotting the silver-white of snow flurrying from the sky and explaining to the customer he was following that his knees had been telling him all morning that snow was due.

"We've only got a couple more hours left before Jack shows up to kickstart the rest of tomorrow's orders," she said after sending her customer away with a smile. She turned to me and leaned back against the register. "I'm telling you, cookie, we'll be fine. We've been doing this longer than you've been alive."

I sighed, glancing back at the full, chaotic kitchen behind me. As fun and exciting as it was to help my mom decorate cookies, especially during the Christmas season, I felt a little overwhelmed by what people expected of them. How had they managed this madness by themselves for so long?

Just then, I felt the distinctive double vibration indicative of a text message for my phone in my back pocket. I patted the little bits of flour dust from my hands before I grabbed it. It was Gretchen. Her text read, "Don't forget that you need to pick up your mask and your dress," and then, "Are you coming here or am I going there?" then, "Maybe your house is better? It's closer." A split second later, she added, "Can I borrow that extra pair of Mary Janes you have?"

I chuckled. Gretchen was my organized mess of a best friend, and she was looking forward to the Santa Claus Ball just as much as I was. I wasn't sure if her boyfriend knew it, but every special occasion for the last two months had sent her into an excited tizzy, anticipating the moment he'd finally pop the question. 

I shot back a quick line of messages.

"My house." 

"My shoes." 

"My dear best friend...."

"Please don't forget to breathe."

When I glanced up from my phone, my mom was smiling softly at me, amused and surely annoyed that I hadn't left yet. 

"Mom, c'mon," I said, walking up to her and leaning against the counter next to her. "How many other girls do you know who are willing to put off leaving for a party to spend a few extra minutes with their mother?"

She craned her neck up at me and tucked the loose strand of peppered gray hair behind her ear. She did that slow blink she always made when she was giving in to my or my dad's wishes. 

"Okay, then, tell me about the Santa Claus Ball. How are you doing your hair? Are you gonna kiss anyone?" She blinked her eyes expectantly at her last remark. 

I'd been fed captivating stories about the Santa Claus Ball since I was a baby. It was where my mother and father met twenty-four years ago, after all. But she'd painted so many beautiful scenes in my mind, magical scenes really, of the silver and gold shining off the Christmas garland, the tantalizing smell of hot toddy and pie. She had spoken about how the dazzling shine of the multi-color Christmas lights had felt so alluring that she was sure she was in a dream. And when my dad tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to dance, she'd been entranced by the low tenor of his voice and the gentle way he'd led her in the dance. When they took off their Christmas masks and revealed their faces, her breath had caught in her throat because of the young man's bright shining eyes and radiating smile. 

My mom never said anything to make me believe that she expected the same thing to happen to me, but I could tell that there was a small smidgen of hope reserved for just that. And it was Christmas, that special time of year my mom went softer than butter in a hot pan for all things love and cheer. She was a sucker for Christmas-she wasn't shy about admitting that their first encounter was directly related to my arguably overly-Christmasy name.  And I'd managed to obtain a large part of that character trait, too, but with a more subtle approach.

While I was in awe of my parents' love and marriage, I wasn't so naive to believe every love was like that. I'd had friends of divorced parents, met women and men alike in college who were in tortuous relationships. So I had decided a long time ago–and after I learned that the son of Santa Claus in the Santa Clause movies had grown up and had children of his own by now–that I would take my time. I would focus on school first and worry about love later, one thing at a time.   

"Mom, really? You're not going to ask about the foods I'm going to eat or the decorations?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

"What can I say?" she said with a shrug. "I'm up to my elbows in deserts all day every day. I wanna hear about the other sweet stuff."

I couldn't help but chuckle. "You'd think you were the twenty-two-year-old college student and not me."

My dad had just shut the door behind him and wiped his feet on the Christmas present-shaped welcome mat. "Oh, if there's anything that makes this old tree sap up, it's the Santa Claus Ball." He leaned over the counter and kissed my mom on the hair. "Though you'd think meeting me there was enough for her."