Gina Wilkins: Make-Believe Mistletoe

Miss Annie gave him a sweet smile. “Pop loves his fresh sliced tomatoes.”

Lucy watched the exchange between the couple with a wistful envy. Sixty-two years of marriage, she thought. Children, grandchildren, companionship and memories.

She wanted that for herself. As her twenty-eighth birthday approached, she found herself thinking about it more and more. She was perfectly capable of supporting herself and taking care of herself, but she wanted the fairy tale. The husband and children who loved her and who she could adore in return. The happily-ever-after. The sixty-second wedding anniversary.

The only thing holding her back was the fact that she was having a great deal of difficulty finding anyone she actually wanted to marry.

“Does anyone want more soup?” Banner asked gruffly, drawing her attention back to him.

Gosh, he was gorgeous, she thought, sighing a little as she admired the way the overhead light gleamed in his thick, dark hair. But good looks alone weren't enough to put a guy on her prospect list, as she knew from several disastrous dates with very attractive-and completely unsuitable-men.

No one wanted more soup.

“Let me clean the kitchen,” Joan offered shyly, glancing at Banner and then quickly away. “You've been so generous to all of us. I'd like to help out.”

“I'll help,” Lucy offered.

“Let me help you back to the living room, Miss Annie,” Bobby Ray said, pushing away from the table.

“Actually, I think I'd like to lie down for a few minutes,” Miss Annie replied, her smile weary. “Would that be all right with you, Mr. Banner?”

“Just call me Banner, ma'am.” Lucy noted that he spoke to the old woman with a respectful warmth that was notably missing in his brief dealings with his other guests. “You're welcome to use my room for as long as you're here. There are plenty of other places where I can sleep.”

Miss Annie beamed at him. “Thank you. You're a very kind young man.”

Lucy was fascinated to see the faintest touch of red appear briefly on Banner's tanned cheeks. Were compliments that rare for him?

Tricia was growing tired, too, and stressed by the changes in her routines and holiday plans. She began to whine, and when her brother taunted her about it, a squabble began.

Lucy watched as deep lines appeared around Banner's mouth again. Apparently, he hadn't spent much time around children-and judging by his expression, he would have been content to leave it that way.

“Why don't you take care of the children,” Lucy suggested to Joan. “They're tired and unsettled. I'll clean up in here.”

The harried mother sighed and nodded. “I suppose that would be best.”

“There's a TV in the living room,” Banner said. “I have satellite. Maybe you can find something to entertain the kids.”

Nodding again, Joan ushered her children out of the room, leaving Lucy alone with Banner.

“I can take care of this,” Lucy assured Banner when he reached for a dirty bowl.

“I'd just as soon clean the kitchen as go back in there.”

She couldn't help smiling at his tone. “You must feel as though your home has been overrun.”

“A bit,” he agreed.

She wondered again if he ever smiled. She couldn't help imagining what a smile would do to his already spectacular face. For the sake of her peace of mind, it was probably just as well that he continued to glower.

“I'm sorry your peaceful evening was so rudely interrupted,” she said as she carried a stack of bowls to the sink.

“Couldn't be helped. Too dangerous out on the road, which is why none of you should have been out driving. Especially the Carters.”

“I suppose all of us were so anxious to get to our holiday destinations that we didn't pay enough attention to the weather forecasts-even though the guy I listened to got it all wrong,” she added in a grumble.

Without responding, Banner squirted dishwashing liquid into the warm water filling his deep sink. No dishwasher, Lucy noted as he reached for the first bowl. She supposed he didn't need one just for himself and Hulk.

She picked up a dish towel to dry the bowls after he washed and rinsed them. There wasn't a lot of room in front of the sink, so they stood nearly shoulder to shoulder-or rather, shoulder to forearm, since he was a good ten inches taller. Another reason he wasn't going on her prospect list, she reminded herself. When a woman was just under five-three on her tallest days, men six feet and over were simply too tall for a comfortable match.

Because his silence was making her nervous, she asked, “Do you have any special plans for Christmas, Banner? Or did the weather interfere with your travel, too?”

“I had no plans.”

“Oh. You don't celebrate Christmas?” Not everyone did, she reminded herself belatedly. She should have thought of that already.

But he shook his head. “I do observe Christmas-I just didn't have any plans this year.”

“You don't have a family?” Her admittedly overtender heart immediately twisted. How sad to be alone, especially during the holidays.

“I have family. I simply wasn't in the mood to travel this year.”

“None of them live close by?”

“No.” He put another bowl in her hands, seeming to take care not to touch her in the process.

Okay, maybe she was asking too many questions. Not everyone liked talking about themselves, though most of the men she had encountered lately seemed obsessed with the subject. Maybe he would rather hear about her, instead.

“I love Christmas. I always spend it with my favorite aunt and uncle in Springfield-my father's younger sister and her husband and their two sons. My father is an Army major stationed in Texas, and he'll fly in on Christmas day-weather permitting, of course.”

A hard wind blew against the window over the sink, and the lights flickered again, staying out a bit longer this time. Lucy sighed in relief when they came back on, though she figured it was just a matter of time before the power went out.

Since that thought made her even more nervous, she chattered on. “My mother died when I was almost thirteen. My father sent me to live with my aunt and uncle after that, so they're almost like parents to me.”

“Here.” He set the clean, wet stockpot in her hands. “This goes in the cabinet next to the stove.”

So maybe he wasn't interested in talking about her, either. “Do you think this ice storm will stop soon?” she asked, seizing on the weather as a last-ditch conversational gambit.

He dried his hands on a paper towel, studying her with a slightly quizzical expression. “You're not one to let a moment of silence slip by, are you?”

Something about his wording amused her. Totally unoffended, she chuckled. “I'm afraid not. I tend to talk a lot, anyway, but especially when I'm nervous.”

“You're nervous now?” That seemed to surprise him.

“Maybe a little.”

“Because of the storm?”

It seemed an innocuous enough excuse. “Okay.”

“You're safe here, you know. Even if the power goes out, I have plenty of firewood and a gas stove to cook on.”

She found his somewhat awkward attempt to reassure her rather touching. Darned if she wasn't starting to like him-at least a little-despite his curt manners. “I know we're safe. It's just a little…awkward.”

“Tell me about it.” He glanced toward the doorway as if he still wasn't particularly looking forward to joining the others.

Lucy glanced at her watch. It was only seven-thirty. What were they going to do for the rest of the evening?

Bobby Ray wandered through the kitchen door, pushing a meaty hand through his bushy hair. “Miss Annie is asleep,” he informed them. “I talked Pop into lying down, too. Poor old guy's wiped out, though he won't admit it. Stubborn old bird. Reminds me of my grandpa.”