Chapter 8
Whatever antics his at-large mother and fake girlfriend caused, Graham knew he’d have to worry about them later. There was certainly nothing he could do now—not so long as he was stuck playing assistant to the local one-man town decorating crew.
Not that Brent was the worst person to be stuck working under. If there was anyone who was going to make Graham their bitch…
Stop it, Graham, he reprimanded himself. God willing, Coco was currently holding up her end of this masquerade by taking in some quality time with her fake future mother-in-law. The least he could do was play his own part in this harebrained charade.
That, however, would be easier said than done now thanks to Mr. Holiday Heartthrob.
He searched his brain for solutions. A moment later, it hit him. Small talk. That was what they needed. Something to distract him. Something to keep his mind—and eyes—from wandering places they definitely shouldn’t go.
“It’s funny, Mistletoe Grove is practically just like I remember it.” He threaded his companion an additional length of string lights.
A silence hung between them as Brent paused to debate his response. “You think?” He seemed to go absent as he tucked the additional lights into the tree.
“Sure,” Graham responded with a shrug. “Same shops, same townies, same nutty mayor…” He shook his head to himself.
“I suppose you’re right. Sometimes it just feels like it’s lost some of the magic it had when we were younger.”
Graham fought not to groan. What was it with everyone and their Christmas-magic-this and their holiday-spirit-that? “What do you mean?”
Up on the ladder, Brent rotated to make eye contact. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
“All of…this.” He gestured broadly to their largely vacant surrounds.
A sullen look came over Graham’s face. “I suppose it is a bit…quieter.”
“Exactly!” The words came out with such fervor that Brent nearly lost his balance on the ladder. “Mistletoe Grove used to be brimming with visitors for the holidays. Now”—he cast a forlorn gaze out at the empty square—“we’re all that’s left.”
Graham would have been lying then if he’d said that, despite his disdain for the Christmas industrial complex, there wasn’t a part of him that felt sympathy for his counterpart. After all, he’d noticed it himself upon arriving in Mistletoe Grove—the crowds just weren’t what they used to be.
He searched for the right words to say. “Why do you think that is? I mean, why do you think that everything that made this town special went and dried up?”
He certainly didn’t have to wait long for a response. “Mistletoe Grove is still as special as ever.” The statement came out with surprising conviction. “What’s changed is that the outside world stopped seeing it.”
Graham nodded silently, as if, perhaps in another life, he could have almost believed the words Brent had just spoken.
Almost.
Brent stifled a scoff then, as if suddenly becoming self-conscious. “But what do I know, right?” He busied himself with stuffing more lights into the tree.
Graham heaved a heavy sigh. So much for small talk. A heart-to-heart with his estranged high school crush was not what he’d signed up for this afternoon. Still, he did feel sorry for the guy. Mistletoe Grove was all Brent had ever known. Of course he was going to feel attached to it.
“Listen,” he said, breaking the silence, “maybe the holidays in Mistletoe Grove aren’t what they used to be. It isn’t your fault, though. People just don’t want an old-fashioned Christmas anymore.”
This time, Brent’s scoff came loud and clear. “Ain’t that the truth. All anyone wants from the holidays now is pre-fab glitz and glam.” His whole body seemed to dim. “The fact of the matter is, we’re just not relevant anymore.”
A heavy silence hung in the air then as Graham debated what to say.
It was Brent, however, who spoke up first. “Let people have their cheap, plastic holiday, though. Us locals aren’t going anywhere. Folks like your mom and me, we intend to stick it out. And so long as there are some people who believe, then there’s still hope yet for Mistletoe Grove.”
Graham merely stood tongue-tied. Certainly, Brent’s devotion was admirable, but if you asked him, it was seriously misguided.
Sure, the truth was no Hallmark greeting card, but the fact of the matter was, Mistletoe Grove’s glory days were over.
It was literally Graham’s job to know what the public wanted, and when it came to Christmas, gone were the days of neighborly caroling and hand-making sweets.
What today’s consumers wanted from the holidays was a big, bold, razzle dazzle spectacular.
And with competition like that, Mistletoe Grove didn’t stand a chance.
The sad reality was, the world had moved on. And their forgotten little New England Christmas village had been left behind in the dust.
“Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you.”
The sound of Brent’s voice snapped Graham out of his daze. “Offend me?” He offered another length of string lights to his counterpart up on the ladder.
“I mean, maybe you like all that fancy, fandangled fuss of a modern Christmas holiday.” He climbed a few steps higher on the ladder to continue his stringing.
Graham shook his head, grimacing. “Oh, no. You don’t have to worry about that with me. Personally, I’d rather skip the whole season.”
All of a sudden, Brent’s jaw dropped as if he’d just heard blasphemy. “Not celebrate Christmas? What would make you say something like that?”
A hushed curse escaped under Graham’s breath. Here in Mistletoe Grove, not liking Christmas practically was blasphemy. “Eh, forget about it.”
Brent, however, was not about to let Graham off the hook that easily. “No, tell me. What could you possibly have against Christmas?”
Graham groaned audibly. Well, the cat was out of the bag now.
He might as well indulge his companion. “This whole song and dance about holiday cheer, it’s just a scam, Brent.
Christmas is nothing but more stress, more pressure, and more demands—and that applies both here in Mistletoe Grove and back in LA. ”
“LA?” Brent asked. “Is that where you live now?”
“Sure is.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but life in the city sure has given you a bleak outlook.”
Graham just shrugged indifferently. “I prefer to call it being a realist.”
Brent climbed a few rungs higher to reach the top of the tree. “Well, give it time. Perhaps some R-and-R back home will be good for you. Maybe we can even change your mind about Christmas.”
A loud snort escaped Graham at the suggestion. “Good luck.”
Up on the ladder, Brent brushed his hands together. “All right, that’s it. Done.” He returned to the ground. “And this time, without risking a trip to the ER even. How about that?”
Graham did his best to stifle the chuckle he felt. “I take it you want to light it up now?”
“Oh, no. Not yet. That’ll happen during the tree-lighting ceremony, on Christmas Eve. You and Coco should come.”
Graham furrowed his brow at the suggestion. “I don’t know about that.” With Coco around, any public event was a PR disaster in the making.
Brent shrugged acceptingly. “Just think about it. For the meantime, though, I owe you for all your help.”
Graham waved dismissively. “Nah, you don’t need to—”
“I know I don’t need to. I want to—”
The remark stunned Graham into silence.
“You free this evening?”
“I, well, uh—”
“What would you say to a dinner? On me.”
Inside, Graham’s heart began to beat double-time. “Oh, I’m not dressed for dinner.”
A scheming glint lit up in Brent’s eyes. “Don’t worry. Where we’re going, you won’t need to worry about your clothes.”
Graham felt his heart lodge itself into his throat. Don’t need to worry about clothes?
* * *
The gravel of the parking lot crunched beneath the tires as Brent’s used Ford F-150 rolled to a stop. From the passenger seat, Graham peered into the dusk at their destination.
He felt his stomach bottom out at the sight he beheld. “You have got to be kidding me.”
With a flick, Brent turned off the ignition. “Come on, you remember ol’ Salty Sally’s.”
Graham sized up the hole-in-the-wall dive bar ahead. So this was what Brent had meant about not worrying about their attire.
Well, at least it wasn’t what he had thought Brent had been implying.
Although, truth be told, he wasn’t sure whether that made him relieved or disappointed.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t remember Salty Sally’s.”
Disbelief registered on Brent’s face. “Don’t remember Sally’s? Wasn’t this where all of us snuck beer back in high school?”
“Maybe your crowd.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware there was anyplace else around that didn’t check IDs back then.”
“There wasn’t.”
Realization dawned on Brent’s face then. “Oh, so you never…really? Not once?”
“I know that must come as a shock, me being the party animal I was back in high school.”
Brent rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I do seem to recall you generally having your nose stuck in a book.”
The comment drew an eye roll. “Well, we couldn’t all be the most popular jock at Mistletoe High.”
Brent suppressed a chuckle. “Come on, let’s go inside. Trust me, ol’ Salty Sally’s is unforgettable.”
Heaving a sigh, Graham eyed Brent stepping out of the truck. “Somehow, I believe that.”