Page 1 of Mistletoe All the Way

1 HO, HO, WHAT HAVE WE HERE?

Noah

Fact: Retirement parties should be held on Zoom. Especially ones during the holidays. Then I could raise a glass to my gramps from my Colorado cabin, shut my laptop, and spend the Thanksgiving break with the only company I actually enjoy—my dog, Rusty.

Instead, I’m mere minutes away from my destination after hours on the road, windshield wipers battling snow, listening to the latest crime thriller while I brace myself for two of my least favorite things—people and commercially manufactured cheer.

Rusty catches my attention in the rearview mirror, giving me plaintive sad eyes that only my Irish setter mutt can serve up.

“Next rest stop, buddy. You can sign your name in the snow, and I’ll grab some chocolate-covered orange slices.”

Those treats are the only way I’ll survive Evergreen Falls, an overly festive, overly Christmas-ified, overly everything town near Lake Tahoe where everyone wants to know if you’re enjoying the holiday season. I’m a veterinarian. Enjoy is not a word we associate with the holidays, given the way our business ramps up with emergencies at this time of year, and with unwanted pets delivered to us. Breaks my fucking heart.

The highway curves toward my hometown. I squint at a sign up ahead, a bushy green garland wrapped around it. Barney’s Roadside Snacks and Gas—an institution known for not only its fuel but also its fantastic candy selection—is still in business more than a decade after I took off for college.

Some things never change. Like the fact that Barney sells the best candy in the state.

I pull off the snowy road, then park my truck. After I unhook Rusty from his comfy, custom car seat, I slip some booties onto his feet. Anything for my best friend. You never know what you’ll find in a gas station parking lot, like puddles of antifreeze, that deadly temptress for pups.

We pass a juniper bush, all decked out in Christmas lights—typical Barney—on our way to a nearby patch of snow-covered grass. As Rusty takes care of business, my attention snags on something bright and shiny pulling into the parking lot. Even through the falling snow, it’s hard to miss the vintage red truck complete with a rounded hood and curving fenders. There’s a Christmas tree in the bed.

Of course.

It’s like someone is auditioning for the role of “nostalgia-loving quirky character” in a holiday flick.

Ten bucks says it belongs to Mayor Bumblefritz from Evergreen Falls. But when the driver’s door creaks open, it’s not the Mrs. Claus–esque figure who emerges.

Out steps a woman in sleek black pants, a red wool coat, and a white scarf. Her light brown hair frames her cheekbones in soft waves that look like they took all morning to style. Pretty and way too put together. She’s the type of woman who’d wear stilettos in the snow. And break an ankle in them for the sake of fashion.

But when I glance down, I see she’s actually wearing sturdy snow boots. Okay, then. I’m wrong once a year, and apparently today is the day.

She’s carrying a patch kit, and since she marches straight to the tire at the back of the truck, it seems like she knows what she’s doing. Good. I turn the other way, Rusty trotting by my side as we head into the shop, where “Let It Snow” crackles on an old sound system.

The scent of sugar in all flavors drifts past my nose—tart, sickly sweet, and everything in between. I beeline straight for the second aisle. Some things you just don’t forget—like the location of your favorite treats. I dart out a hand and grab a bag of chocolate-covered orange slices.

At the counter, a grizzled old man in a fisherman’s sweater looks up from his crossword puzzle book when I set down the goods.

“Afternoon, Chris. Still getting used to you with that beard,” says the old guy.

This is great. Barney thinks I’m my identical twin—Chris. The usually clean-shaven local celebrity vet has both an online show and an overabundance of charm. And evidently, some facial hair to match mine.

Time to play my favorite holiday game: annoy my brother by pretending I’m him for as long as I can without getting caught. And while getting some digs in, of course.

“I try hard to grow it to look as cool as my brother,” I say, doing my best to channel Chris’s utterly annoying outgoingness while still complimenting me.

Barney studies my face, arching a white bushy brow as he rings up the oranges. Exaggeratedly he peers over the counter and down at the trusted mutt by my side. “Funny. Millie looks taller, redder, and is now a boy.”

Busted. Chris’s dog is a female Jack Russell mix. But you win some, you lose some. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Barney shakes his head. “You can’t fool me, kid.”

“Evidently.”

“Nice to have you back though, Noah.”

“That’s debatable,” I say.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he adds, since some people can’t help themselves—they’re just happy for no reason.