Page 35 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

Not that you pay much attention to anyone other than yourself.

“Eve’s Drop, sir.” I pointed to the café a block away. “And while you’re there, ask Jo for a couple of the hazelnut biscotti and a cup of the organic dark roast. The beans are locally roasted. Best around.”

Mr. Bailey gave the smallest of nods and smiles. “I will do that. Thank you.”

“What’s that you have there?” James pointed to the posters I still held.

“Oh, these are for all the events coming up for Holly Days.” I opened one to show them both. “You haven’t experienced Christmas till you’ve celebrated it in Mullings Creek.”

James’s and Mr. Bailey’s eyes scanned over the events.

“Who designed these? They’re pretty impressive,” Mr. Bailey said.

“That’d be me.” I shrugged. “It’s not hard. I just used Canva.”

“I use Canva for all my stuff, too,” James added.

“James here is vice president of the honor society and co-captain of the chess club and varsity soccer.” Mr. Bailey patted his son’s back.

“And I wear a T-shirt listing all of my accomplishments every Friday,” James deadpanned.

“There’s nothing wrong with keeping busy. It’s an admirable trait, son.” Mr. Bailey tapped a few things on his phone, missing the way James scowled at him before turning his attention back to the poster.

“Ringing Rudloph!” James tapped the image. “Hey, remember when we won that goldfish at the Goshen County Fair ring toss?”

Mr. Bailey rubbed his cleanly shaved jawline. “You named the fish Cyclops because it had one golden spot above its eyes. The rest of him was white.”

James looked away wistfully. “He was a good fish.”

Mr. Bailey smiled at his son, and then, as if to catch himself in the act, went back to looking at the flier more seriously. “So, they’re called ‘Reindeer Games’? Don’t tell me you guys fly here, too?”

“No,” I replied. “But my Aunt Sofia swears she did once, after drinking four pints of green beer at the St. Paddy’s Day parade.”

Mr. Bailey laughed a rich, hearty laugh, loud enough to make several people on the street stop and stare. “Four pints…That would make anyone think of flying, I imagine.” He wiped his eyes as he walked away toward Eve’s, but James lingered behind.

“I haven’t heard him laugh like that in years, and I’m supposed to be the funny one,” he said to me, voice low.

“Or maybe you’re not as funny as you think,” I said, grinning.

He made a sound like I hit him and pressed a hand against his chest. “Shots fired by the Italian. I’m impressed.” His eyes crinkled in the corners as he walked away. “I meant what I said earlier, by the way.” He whirled around and walked backward. “You could’ve kept my sweater.”

“It wasn’t my color,” I called back, my heartbeat quickening.

“Gasp!” he yelled back before turning around and hurrying into Eve’s.

“You do look better in red than green, dear,” a voice said from above, making me cry out and leap off the curb.

Aunt Helen sat on the roof of The Market just outside of Mom’s open studio window with a half-eaten apple in her hand.

Nico and Marco would flip if they found out she climbed up there again.

Last July on Amelia Earhart’s birthday, the window jammed shut, and the fire department had to come rescue her.

“Why must you always go up so high?” I asked her, squinting against the sun reflecting off the small stained glass window hanging.

She took a bite of her apple and chewed with a pensive expression before saying simply, “Perspective.”

That night, Jo and I sat in the den with The Family Stone on TV and a plate of cookies between us. Our Chromebooks were open to give the appearance of studying for our upcoming Pre-Calc final exam, but in reality, Jo scoured Google Maps and added more restaurants for me to visit in Rome based off her favorite TikTok accounts, and I worked on new signage for the pastries she’d sell at the upcoming Reindeer Games.