Tanya Michaels: Mistletoe Hero

What is he doing here? Gabe’s father should have been in some congregation pew among his righteous brethren, not skulking the aisles of the Mistletoe Mart.

“Gabriel.” The older man spoke without the banked anger Gabe remembered. Instead his tone was flat.

Gabe floundered for a response.

How’ve you been, Pops?

I see you’re eating the same brand of cereal after all these years.

Still hate me?

Gabe had shifted his gaze to the contents of his father’s cart because it seemed far more innocuous than looking at the man who’d dutifully raised him but never warmed to him. Yet now that Gabe took a closer look, the groceries he saw sent a ripple of foreboding through him. Cereal, a large can of coffee, some ground round, dairy, orange juice and shaving supplies. So what? We both drink coffee and eat red meat. I’m nothing like him.

Not in the ways that mattered anyway. Their physical, superficial resemblances were undeniable. The same icy eyes, too devoid of color to be called blue; the same tall, muscular frames. Though Jeremy was fast approaching sixty-and showed it in every bitter line on his face-he was undoubtedly stronger than a lot of men in their forties.

Jeremy cleared his throat. “Need to get this milk and cheese home. Into the fridge.”

Gabe nodded, feeling both relief and anger when his father turned to go. But the anger was more of a remembered, phantom emotion-a holdover from the past-than what he was experiencing now. The truth was, encounters with his own parent were in some ways more painful than the times Gabe ran into Shay’s parents. Gabe was grateful the awkward moment had passed so quickly.

He progressed to the frozen-foods section and grabbed a gallon of Breckfield Banana Crème ice cream. With effort he managed not to look over his shoulder. Even if he caught you buying it, so what? Gabe was no longer a child who could be scolded for smuggling sweets into the house.

I don’t want to see you dishonoring your mother’s memory by eating that sugary garbage, boy. Diabetes is hereditary.

Beth Ann Sloan’s diabetes had fatally complicated her post-Cesarean infection. Gabe had grown up unsure whether his father blamed the disease or the baby who’d been brought into the world from that C-section.

A surge of negative emotions rose in him, and Gabe added a half gallon of chocolate ice cream to his buggy. He was reaching for a pint of home-style vanilla when he stopped himself with a sigh. Was he going to let seeing his father reduce him to the level of a rebellious twelve-year-old, or finally grow a pair and decide not to care that his own flesh and blood couldn’t stand the sight of him?

He put back the chocolate and moved on to the next row.

Moving on. Now there was an idea. It wouldn’t have to be fleeing Mistletoe with his tail tucked between his legs-no one’s opinion here mattered enough to run him out of town-but simply leaving for a fresh start. As early as middle school, he’d started dreaming of college. Going somewhere, any where, away from his father.

Arianne Waide appeared in his mind just as abruptly as she’d materialized at the barbecue house earlier this week. Why do you stay? she’d asked. Good question. Granted, college scholarships had ceased to be an option after the deaths of Shay and Roger Templeton. Gabe had graduated by the skin of his teeth, but high school had been a long time ago.

Gabe told himself that he didn’t care about the past. Could he let himself care about a future?

“I hate to say this because you’ll probably let it go to your head,” Quinn teased, “but your advice was absolutely spot-on.”

“That’s because I’m wise beyond my years.” In the crowded lot outside the Dixieland Diner, Arianne narrowly squeezed her car into a space between an oversize truck and a sedan that had parked crookedly. “I should run for mayor.”

Quinn unfastened her seat belt with a chuckle. “This is sort of what I meant by letting it go to your head.”

Meeting for Sunday brunch was a semiregular tradition for the two friends, and Arianne had known as soon as she’d seen the other woman’s bright smile that Quinn had finally talked to Patrick Flannery. On the drive to the diner, Quinn had said he’d agreed to help with the festival; he’d even admitted that he’d been looking for a way to get more involved and meet people in the community but hadn’t known where to start. Quinn had casually mentioned that they could discuss the festival more over dinner this week.

As they got out of the car, Arianne asked, “So are you grateful enough for my suggestion that you’re buying?”

“On a teacher’s salary?” Quinn snorted. “Dream on.”

“When I become mayor, I’ll see what I can do about getting you guys pay raises.”

“I’d laugh, except part of me thinks you’ll actually run someday and probably talk me into being your campaign manager.”

Grinning, Arianne turned to look at her friend, but she forgot what she was going to say when she noticed the red pickup truck driving past the diner. Gabe. Her heart beat faster, and she had one of those annoying flashback moments she’d been experiencing for the past few days. In random moments-as she drifted to sleep, or when the shop bell rang and she thought it might be him coming into the store-she would relive their last conversation, when they’d been toe-to-toe and she could feel the heat coming off his body. When she’d been deliciously uncertain whether he’d been about to shake her or kiss her.

All right, that last part might have been a fanciful embellishment. Gabe showed no signs of wanting to kiss her, and he was too aloof to shake anyone. If he’d once been swept away with passion over a married woman, he’d learned from his mistakes.

Quinn followed her gaze. “Isn’t that-”

A squeal of tires interrupted her question. Although the pickup hadn’t been going that fast, Gabe had apparently decided at the last minute to make the left-hand turn.

“He’s coming toward us,” Quinn whispered.

Arianne nodded, watching wide-eyed as he navigated the crowded parking lot and finally rolled to a stop a few feet away from them.

He crooked his finger out the open window and beckoned toward them. Under other circumstances, Arianne might have scoffed that she wasn’t the type who could be summoned like that, but there was no chance she would deny her raging curiosity. Both women exchanged puzzled glances and walked forward.

After Arianne’s last meeting with Gabe, he’d seemed more likely to peel out in the opposite direction than pursue her. Unless he’d deduced her plans to follow up with him later in the week and was making a preemptive strike, she couldn’t imagine what he wanted to discuss.

“Hi, Quinn.” Gabe called out a relaxed greeting that ignored Arianne entirely. Except that his gaze was locked with hers.

“H-hi.”

He continued in that same easy tone that didn’t match the banked intensity of his eyes. “Your friend tells me that you could use a hand. With the fair.”

Quinn couldn’t quite mask her surprise; Arianne didn’t bother trying. Her mouth fell open. She’d planned to wear him down, but she hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Damn, I’m good.

“That’s right,” Quinn said. “The fair’s October 24, and we would appreciate any help you can give us getting ready.”

“Two weeks,” Gabe muttered, almost to himself. Then he nodded. “I should be able to make that work.”

Make it work? Was he still talking about the festival?

Recalling the times her mom had used a good meal to coax conversation from reluctant men, Arianne invited, “Why don’t you join us for breakfast and we can talk about the fair some more?”