Page 68 of Mistletoe All the Way

Eloise

I’m humming an upbeat musical number about not missing your chance as I leave Rudy’s in the morning with my to-go cup in hand when I spot a familiar face heading straight toward the coffee shop.

My mother.

Tension slams into my bones as the door to Rudy’s swings shut behind me.

It’s not as if I’m afraid of my mother, but I don’t often run into her around here. I’d be more likely to find her in an upscale department store in the city than on Main Street.

“Ah, there you are, Eloise,” she calls out.

The tension spikes. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s a sneak attack, coordinated to intercept me post-coffee. Maybe she just wants to remind me of their Christmas Eve dinner. I already said I’d be there though.

“Hi, Mom,” I say when she reaches me a few seconds later, dressed smartly in a camel coat and elegant snow boots—only my mother could make snow boots look sharp.

“I was hoping I might run into you. I know you love this place, and always have,” she says, dropping a quick air-kiss to my cheek.

“Ever since I was in high school.”

“You used to come here and do your homework after school,” she says with such fond affection that I want to ask Who are you?

Especially since I came here because my parents weren’t around. My grandparents lived in another state then. My parents were always working after school, and I came here because I preferred to be surrounded by humans, music, and conversation rather than silence, stiff white couches, and monochromatic works of art.

I tip my forehead toward the end of the block, the direction of my apartment. “I did. But I need to get home since I have a meeting soon with a client.”

She doesn’t need to know the meeting’s with a nonpaying client-ish to spy on his cousin.

“Ah, is it about that Mr. Holiday competition?”

And she’s figured it out. Sort of. “Yes,” I say, since there’s no point in lying.

Mom sets a gentle hand on my back as we walk. “About that.”

The tightness coils even tighter. “What about it?”

“I wonder if now is the best time to do something like this?”

“Why do you say that?”

She sighs, then scans the street, like someone might be listening. “Since you’re building your firm, I wonder if maybe it’s more prudent to pursue clients like, say, the local hospital? Or the bank? Surely, they need publicity,” she says, like publicity is snake venom even for such respectable institutions.

“They probably do, but that’s not the type of client I want.”

She blows right past my comment. “And I know you love Christmas, but can’t you picture how lovely it would be to have a Christmas wine auction? Or perhaps a traditional Christmas feast at a local inn.”

Where do I even start? By pointing out that the contest isn’t exactly for the Christmas minimalist. “Those are all wonderful activities, but Mr. Holiday is fun. It brings out so many people. You should see the crowds,” I say, and I’m hopeful the mayor will be more impressed with my work than my mother is. Or isn’t.

Mom clucks her tongue. “But if you become known for this sort of publicity, won’t that box you in?”

Translation: You’ll never land a respectable client.

But I temper my response so I don’t rock the boat. No one likes that during the holidays. “Why don’t you let me show you what I’m doing? And how much fun it is? You could come to one of the events?” I suggest, since for once I’d like my parents to realize—to admit—I’m not chasing something silly.

That my work can have meaning.

“What an interesting idea.” She checks her gold watch. “Oh, I’d better go! I have a breakfast meeting in thirty minutes. Thanks for the tip. I’ll consider it!”

I doubt she’ll do anything of the sort.