Page 65 of Mistletoe All the Way

Later, with Honey safely back in her trailer but watching from the window cutout on a side street, I take my spot next to Eloise in the town square. The mayor bounds up the steps to the gazebo, lifts that candy cane megaphone, then booms into it.

“And now, we’re ready to announce the winner of the first challenge in the Mr. Holiday competition.” She pauses, taking a breath, making us wait for it. “As you know, winners for most of the challenges are voted on by the townspeople. We’ve just finished tallying the vote.”

She gives a nod toward Lucy, who’s standing at the foot of the gazebo in that elf hat. On command, Lucy walks the plank of the steps, holding a green envelope.

“Lucy, would you like the megaphone?” the mayor asks dotingly, like the megaphone is a great gift.

Pretty sure the answer is no.

With a small nod and barely masked dread, Lucy takes the megaphone, then monotones into it: “The results were independently verified by respected Evergreen Falls accountant Rima Khalid of Khalid and Co.” She gives a nod to a woman standing near the gazebo with black braids and dark glasses, looking intensely serious.

“Our digital polling has been tested and checked,” the woman with braids says.

“And here you go,” Lucy says, hitting a land-speed record in returning the megaphone to her aunt. She hands over the envelope and darts down the steps.

“The second runner-up is Henry on his golf cart, followed by Stephen in his car. And the winner is…” Mayor Bumblefritz pauses dramatically, clearly enjoying the theatrics.

It won’t be me. There’s no way it’ll be me.

“Noah Lennox, because he rode a horse.”

Holy shit. Maybe I can pull this off. People around me clap. I give a wave to the crowd, even though it was all because of the horse. And Honey seems to know that, because over there in her trailer, the shameless ham bobs her head, her braided mane glittering before she whinnies.

Like she knows it was all her. Something warm, a mix of pride and possibility, takes root in my chest. Maybe I can help take care of her as she trots into her golden years. And the rest of the farm too.

19 CHRISTMAS COMPENSATING

Noah

That evening, with Honey munching on well-deserved hay at Silver Bells, Eloise texts me with a change of plans—to meet her at Rudy’s before we head to the diner, where we’ll prep for the next challenge in the Mr. Holiday contest. Who can sell the most goods at the Christmas market.

The coffee shop is open late during the holidays, and the owner makes sure we know it the second we walk in. “Frothy drinks are good any time of day, and so are hot cowboy vets hanging lights on my tree.”

Ah. So that’s what Eloise is up to.

“More pics?” I ask my social media strategist. “Or should I say, more tricks?”

“You should say more pics, Noah.” Eloise’s Cheshire cat smile is all lipstick and mischief.

I blow out a breath, scrub a hand across my jaw, then turn to Rudy, a grandmotherly woman with warm brown skin and bright eyes. My head is spinning with all this Christmas performance. I do my best to channel Eloise as I say, “Happy to help.”

I focus on the task—hanging colorful lights on the shop’s spruce while Rudy hands them up to me. It’s weird. A little uncomfortable. But isn’t that the story of my life today? Be in the holiday circus spotlight whether I want to or not.

But I have to if this Mr. Holiday plan is going to work.

It’s only lights. Just string them with a smile.

When the last strand is in place, I step back. Rudy waggles her phone, pride in her eyes as she shows off the photos she took. “Trish is going to be seriously proud of me when I post these online,” she says. “My wife is always reminding me that as hard as it is, you’ve gotta sell, sell, sell.” She shrugs with a resigned little smile. “That’s how you stay in business these days.”

I mull that over—the truth of it. Yes, this town can be ridiculous in its obsession with Christmas, but that obsession is also how these small businesses survive.

When we leave, Eloise gives my biceps a squeeze. “Good job.”

Evidently, I’m a dog, since that little positive reinforcement makes me forget her tricks as we head to the Candy Cane Diner.

She snags a booth with the ease of a regular and quickly orders two hot cocoas. Eloise lifts her mug in a toast. “I knew you could do it today. When it comes to parades, horses beat cars,” she says.

“Evidently.” I clink my cocoa to hers, still feeling a little on top of the world from the victory earlier. Or maybe from her praise. Either way, I let myself briefly enjoy this feeling of… triumph. I usually only experience it when I’ve spayed a colony of feral cats or helped an injured dog. Though that’s more pride in a job well done. This is different. Today I won a parade. Who even am I?