Mistletoe and Holly (6 page)

Before he strapped himself into the harness, he took the rifle out of its leather carrying case. “I saw some mistletoe along the way,” he explained.

It was about a third of the way back along their trail. Before he took aim, Tagg pointed its location out to Leslie. It was growing on some of the highest limbs of the tree. Holly stood behind her father with her hands clamped over her ears and her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Even though Leslie was prepared for it, she jumped involuntarily at the initial explosion of the first rifle shot. A squirrel scolded them in a loud, chattering voice from its perch in another tree. Its tirade nearly drowned out the sound of something falling through the tree limbs to the ground.

Holly and the dog went scampering through the snow to retrieve it, while Tagg waited until both were standing beside him before shooting again. After the third time, he removed the remaining bullets and started to slip the rifle into its case.

“But Daddy, there’s more,” Holly protested when she and the dog came running through the snow with the last sprig of mistletoe.

“We have all we need,” he replied. “Put the mistletoe in the sack with the rest. It’s time we were headed back to the car.”

Leslie caught something in his tone of voice. It
was a full second before she realized the flakes of snow drifting in the air hadn’t been blown from the trees. The temperature had warmed up a little and it had started to snow.

“Daddy, it’s snowing!” Holly made the same discovery, and turned up a hand, trying to catch a flake in her mitten. “What if we get lost? What if it snows so hard we can’t see to find our way back? We should have left pieces of bread like Hansel and Gretel did.”

“I think the sled made some very plain tracks. If we follow them, I bet we’ll find our way to the car,” he replied dryly.

“Let’s pretend the tracks aren’t there. It’d be more fun,” Holly insisted, wanting to taste a little thrill of adventure.

“Okay, you pretend.” He glanced over his shoulder at Leslie. “And I’ll follow the tracks.”

There was something enchanting and magical about the return trip with lazy flakes spiraling down through the trees. All was quiet and hushed, except for the crunch of footsteps and the slicing sound the sled’s runners made through the snow. It seemed much shorter going back to the car.

This time Tagg pulled the sled through the gate and right up next to the rear car door. He was breathing hard when he shrugged off the harness
and came back to help Leslie out of the sled. The last stretch had been a steady uphill pull.

“If I tried to carry you this time, I probably would drop you,” he admitted with a cold-stiffened grin, and helped her to stand up on her good leg, supporting her with an arm around the waist while he opened the car door to the rear seat. “Can you make it, or should I get your crutches?”

“I can make it.” She grabbed hold of the door frame and made short little hops. Then she slid into the car backward, dragging her casted leg onto the seat.

Once he was sure she was safely inside, Tagg shut the door. It took a few minutes more to load the dogsled, the robes, and the tree into the back of the wagon. Holly hugged the collie goodbye for at least the fifth time and climbed into the front seat. Shuddering, Tagg slipped behind the wheel and pulled off his right glove to blow on his fingers.

“Now to get warm,” he declared and started the motor with the ignition key.

By the time they drove out of the farmer’s lane onto the backroad, warm air was blowing from the heat vents. The heat intensified the scent of pine needles in the air. It wasn’t long before Holly became infected with the smell of the tree and broke into song, a loud if occasionally off-key rendition
of “O Christmas Tree.” Tagg joined in, and his voice was a rich baritone. Leslie sat silently in the backseat, feeling alone, unable to take part in this spontaneous joyfest of Christmas carols.

The singing ended when they turned into the driveway to the brick house next door to her aunt’s. Tagg helped Leslie out of the car and passed her the crutches.

“Thanks for asking me to come along.” She stood awkwardly on her crutches, aware that earlier she could have expressed herself with more genuine feeling behind the words. But the caroling had taken something away. “I did enjoy myself.”

“You can’t go home yet,” he stated. “I wouldn’t be much of a host if I sent you home without any refreshments. Come in and have some hot cocoa with us.”

“I—” She was going to accept the invitation, but Holly seemed to think she wouldn’t.

“Yes, do, Leslie.” She grabbed at her hand to lend force to her plea. “Daddy makes the best cocoa you ever tasted, with lots of gooey marshmallows melting on top.”

“All right, I’ll come,” she laughed. Her pleasure in the day had returned. Leslie couldn’t sort through the reasons and come up with the right one, but it had something to do with being included, and sharing,
of being a part of a whole. It didn’t really matter as long as it felt good.

The living room was done in warm colors—cranberrys and golds with a smattering of orange. Richly grained maple woodwork was used throughout, including the staircase to the second floor. The house was comfortable and old and lived-in.

“Have a seat,” Tagg invited, giving her the choice of the sofa or the matching chair with an ottoman.

Leslie chose the chair with the ottoman so she could rest her leg on it. When he started toward the dining room with the kitchen presumably beyond it, she asked quickly. “Would you like me to help you fix the cocoa?”

“Thanks, but I can manage,” he refused with an easy smile.

“Look.” Holly claimed her attention. “Over here is where we’re going to put our tree. Right in front of the window. And when we turn on the lights at night, everyone who goes by can see it.”

“That’s true,” Leslie agreed.

“Daddy and I finished the paper chain. Let me show you.” She didn’t wait to see if Leslie wanted to see it or not, and dashed off to another room.

Before Tagg brought the mugs of cocoa to the living room, Holly had an endless number of things to show Leslie. Some of them were
Christmas oriented and some were not. Leslie looked at all of them and listened patiently to the little girl’s prattle.

“Has she talked your leg off yet?” Tagg asked as he handed Leslie a mug of cocoa with frothy, melted marshmallows floating on top.

“Almost,” she smiled in understanding.

Holly immediately took a sip of her own cocoa and stretched the tip of her tongue way out, trying to reach the sticking ring of marshmallow on her upper lip. “I got a white mustache just like Santa Claus,” she laughed.

“You certainly do. You’d better go get a napkin,” Tagg advised. “And bring some back for us.”

“Okay.” She set her mug carefully down on a coaster, then took off at a run for the kitchen.

“Believe it or not, she wears down about nine o’clock every night,” he said to Leslie.

“She’s certainly full of life and energy,” Leslie agreed. “She was right about your cocoa, too. It’s delicious. I’ve never had an instant mix that tasted this good.”

“It isn’t instant.” He leaned forward, as if he was telling her a secret. “I made it from scratch. You are drinking the real McCoy, with milk, cocoa, sugar—the works.”

She felt she’d really put her foot in it this time.
“I … I’m sorry,” she awkwardly laughed out the apology. “I just assumed—”

“I couldn’t always cook. You should have tasted some of my first biscuits. They were harder than any bride could make.” He smoothed over the situation by making light of it. “But like a bride, a father can learn to cook out of necessity, too.”

“I guess so,” she conceded and took another sip of her cocoa.

“Your aunt mentioned you work for a large advertising agency in New York.” Tagg made the comment as Holly came racing back into the room and passed napkins around.

“I’m an assistant to the senior vice-president—which is a fancy way of saying I’m a glorified secretary,” Leslie explained with a ruefully dry smile, and didn’t mention that she earned a salary considerably higher than a secretary’s. “I’m on a first name basis with the maître d’s at the best restaurants in New York even though I’ve never eaten in one of them. And I know where you can get a suit cleaned in an hour—and the birthdays and anniversaries of my boss’s children. But I don’t make coffee.”

“And you don’t have to report for work until after the holidays?” The rising inflection of his voice turned the statement into a question.

“That’s right,” Leslie nodded and patted the hard
cast under her pant’s leg. “My cast will be off by then.”

“Seems to me, your boss missed a good bet.” A smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Why?” Curious, Leslie tipped her head to the side, not following his meaning.

“It’s rather obvious.” There was a wicked glint in his blue eyes, dancing and mischievous. “If a man took a notion to chase a girl with a broken leg around the desk, it’s a sure thing that she couldn’t run very far or very fast.”

She had a sudden vision of that scene with Tagg as the pursuer. Her heart seemed to do a funny little somersault against her ribs. The breath she drew in became lodged in her throat, making it difficult to laugh off his little scenario.

“Why would he want to chase her?” Holly frowned in bewilderment.

“To catch her, of course.” He reached out and rumpled the top of his daughter’s head, then his gaze swung back to Leslie with veiled intensity. “That’s why every man chases a woman—and vice versa.”

There was a message in his remark, a statement of his interest in her. It quivered through her nerve endings, but it was accompanied by little fingerlings of personal doubt. She didn’t want to rush into something, only to discover she was in over her
head. In her experience, it had proved wiser to test the water by stages and not jump in.

“What happens when he catches her?” Holly’s curiosity was thoroughly aroused.

“That, little lady, is something you’ll discover for yourself when you’re older,” Tagg dodged the question. “That’s part of the fun of growing up.”

Holly turned to Leslie, a somewhat bored look on her face. “I’ll bet he kisses her. Bobby Jenkins is always trying to kiss me.”

There was a second of stunned silence as their glances met above Holly’s dark head. Tagg couldn’t keep a short laugh from escaping his throat. “When I was her age, I was putting spiders down Lucy Vining’s dress. They grow up quick nowadays.”

The conversation shifted to less provocative topics. A half an hour later, Leslie had finished her cocoa and made excuses to leave. Tagg accompanied her the short distance to her aunt’s house. A fine film of snow had collected on the steps, just enough to make the footing slippery, but it had stopped snowing.

With a crutch propping the storm door open, Leslie rested her weight on her good leg and one crutch and turned to thank Tagg for seeing her safely home. He was standing on the next to the top step.

“Thanks to you, I made it without one slip.” She smiled.

“We’ll be putting the tree up Sunday afternoon. Why don’t you come over and help us?” he suggested.

“No thanks,” Leslie refused with a quick shake of her head.

“You don’t believe in Santa Claus and you don’t believe in decorating Christmas trees.” He shook his head at her in mock dismay.

“I just don’t like anything associated with Christmas period,” she admitted without apology. “There’s nothing ‘merry’ about it.”

“You’re too young to be such a cynic,” Tagg declared and stepped down a step. “I’m going to have to have a talk with Santa Claus.”

“Sure,” she laughed without humor. “And his flying reindeer, too.” She pushed the inner door open and hopped inside before the storm door banged shut on her.

“Leslie?! Is that you?” Her aunt called from the living room.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m back!” She balanced on her crutches and began taking off the layers of outer garments she’d worn for warmth.

Footsteps approached the kitchen in advance of her aunt’s arrival. “I thought I heard the car drive in some time ago. Are you just getting back?”

“No. That was probably us you heard,” Leslie
said and hopped over to a chair so she could take her snow boot off. “Tagg invited me in for cocoa.”

An eyebrow was lifted at the ease with which she used his given name, but Patsy Evans made no comment on that. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

She thought about it a minute, then nodded. “Yes, I enjoyed myself.” Oddly enough, it had been more fun than she had thought it would be.

“It isn’t often that you meet someone who gets so much pleasure from their child,” her aunt observed. “It’s very heartwarming to see them together.”

“I don’t imagine it’s easy for a man to be both father and mother,” Leslie mused and tugged off her boot, tossing it onto the rug. A smile made a quick slant on her mouth. “Holly certainly isn’t suffering any hardship having a bachelor father. Tagg is quite domestic. He made hot chocolate from scratch. That’s something even I can’t do.”

SUNDAY MORNING AT
Patsy Evans’s house meant a late breakfast of pancakes with homemade Vermont maple syrup, sausages, and eggs. When the dishes were washed, Leslie took a cup of coffee into the living room and arranged herself in a chair with the Sunday newspaper spread around her to begin reading it section by section.