A long silence. “You couldn’t turn it on, could you?” she finally asks.
“That’s not an answer.”
More silence. Taylor and I trade looks.
“Does Jon usually plow this road for you?”
“That’s not Jon’s job,” she says.
Taylor shakes her head at me. More evasion.
“Mom, did you and Mama B plot to trap Taylor and me in the cabin to make us live out a warped Hallmark fantasy?”
This is met with the longest pause by far. She clears her throat. “Well? Did it work?”
“Sheryl!” Taylor splutters.
“See you Friday, Mom.” I end the call, and we sit in silence. I’m not going to tell her that I’m not even remotely upset with our meddling mothers.
Then Taylor starts to laugh. “They’re crazy.”
I shake my head and sip my cocoa. “They must be dealt with.” But soon I’m laughing too.
When we settle down, Taylor calls Mr. Earl to inform him we’ll be there midmorning.
“Should be a good amount of time if your reindeer fella knows his stuff,” he says.
The call is on speaker, so I answer for myself. “I do, Mr. Earl. I won’t let you down.”
“See you soon then.”
When Taylor hangs up, I expect her to relax now that we know we can get the reindeer, but she doesn’t. She stays slightly hunched, her fingers tight on the steering wheel, periodically peering up through her windshield, like she can’t trust the sky not to snow.
I wish I knew what to do to help, but she probably won’t feel better until those reindeer are trotting down Main Street in Creekville.
Maybe not even until Rome tells Santa his wish.
I suspect I know it. I suspect all the Bixbys know what it is too. It’s what any kid whose dad is gone for Christmas would ask for. He wants his dadhere. But I have a feeling the Bixbys are clinging to a faint hope that it’s going to be something they can deliver more easily—like an impossible-to-find toy.
There’s nothing I can do to help except show Mr. Earl that his reindeer are safe with me. I brought a stack of ten Franklins to help convince him if my knowledge isn’t enough. It’ll be worth every penny to set Taylor’s mind at ease, if that’s what it takes.
After about an hour and another of her windshield checks, she darts into the road shoulder and brakes fast.
I’d been sipping the last of my cocoa, and I dribble some on my chin. “What was that? Is something wrong with the car?”
“I want to show you something.” She’s already getting out of the car, so I wipe my chin with a gas station napkin and follow her.
She walks quickly over to a tree and waits until I join her. Then she points up. “What do you see?”
I squint and recognize the green sphere. “Mistletoe.”
She cocks her head. “You know what to do.”
I do. I definitely do.
I pull her against me and kiss her. It’s not soft. I’ve been wanting to do this since yesterday, and after the delicious torture of having her sleep in my arms all night, I’m hungry to taste her.
She returns the kiss with just as much passion, her hands coming up, one to clutch the front of my shirt, the other sliding into the hair at my nape to hold me there, like she’s making sure I won’t go anywhere.
