Page 2 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

No cousins shouting “proteggi la tua signora!” across our yard from their bedroom windows next door.

Which was totally unnecessary.

No need to “protect my ladyhood” or any other part of me when my dating experience is literally in the negative.

Nope. Just me and Italy.

I would take pictures of anything and everything and then write it all down. My stories would be so front-page newsworthy that Sarah Lawrence would, of course, put me on the staff of The Phoenix as a freshman because Steadfast G had become Globetrotter G.

“But first you actually have to get in, Gianna,” I said to myself as I remembered I hadn’t yet opened the email burning a hole in my inbox.

My fingers hovered over the screen.

I had successfully distracted myself from obsessing over the program for weeks, but now that the answer was finally here, I couldn’t bring myself to read it.

Just breathe…

I took in another deep breath and released it as I swiped open the alert. No sooner had I read the opening lines of “Congratulations, Gianna Mancini! You have been chosen to study abroad in Italy’s…” than I leaped out of my beanbag and screamed.

I GOT IN!

I GOT IN?

Oh my God, I can’t believe I got in!

I mean, yeah, a small, foolish part of me had hoped I would, but come on.

Their acceptance rate made Harvard’s look easy.

My head spun with possibilities. In just over a month, I would be on the other side of the Atlantic, taking classes like Ancient Cultures while being a stone’s throw away from some of the oldest ruins and landmarks in the world. My notebooks would be filled cover to cover with my adventures, stories so vivid that it’d be like the reader was right there, floating along with me on the Tiber.

I wanted to open my door and shout the news to my mom the way Scrooge shouted “Merry Christmas!” after his visits with three spirits, and I almost did until I remembered Mom wasn’t here. She was already in her studio above The Market, working on her new holiday pieces that would be displayed in a couple of days. Everyone else in town was probably there or nearby, too, doing the same thing they did every year the Saturday after Thanksgiving: blasting Christmas music, debating about their window displays and whether or not they needed more twinkle lights (please…why would you not want more twinkle lights?), and then ultimately asking me for my opinion.

Oh crap. My calendar alert!

I snatched my phone off the floor.

How is it already 11:45?

Nona and the others were expecting me two hours ago to help them get things ready.

I started to FaceTime Mom about the news and let her know I was on the way, and then I stopped. News this big needed to be delivered in person, especially when it was Mom who encouraged me to apply to begin with.

So, ten minutes later, I said goodbye to Esther and John, promising to finish their story after dinner tonight, before I dashed out the door and all but fell onto my bike. Within seconds, I wished I had remembered my earmuffs and a pair of gloves, but I was too late to pedal back home for either. At least my puffy vest would keep part of me warm for the quick ride into town, and the sprawling quiet streets and their charming homes didn’t hurt the eyes much either.

Mullings Creek looked like something straight out of a Hallmark movie: a mix of alpine-style cabins and cozy brick bungalows with Victorian-pitched roofs framed by tall trees and pristine fences.

The off-key bells of the local clock tower chimed the hour, and I cursed under my breath.

Nico and Marco would definitely hold this against me. My cousins, who also happened to be twins, loved keeping tallies of my “faults,” so they could bring them up in an attempt to distract Nona whenever she started prying into their personal lives. It rarely worked, though.

That woman was as dedicated to meddling as Buddy the Elf was to spreading Christmas cheer.

When I turned onto Mistletoe Lane—our town’s Main Street, renamed decades ago when a write-up in the Post called Mullings Creek “the place to visit if you want the real Christmas experience”—the first request for help arrived. Eve, owner of Eve’s Drop, the best and only coffee shop in town, was once again arguing with the owner of the Wanderin’ Eats Diner, Phineas, about the proper placement for her light-up snowman. Every Tudor-style store had one that they adorned with something that represented their brand. Eve’s snowman held a to-go coffee cup with her logo on it. Phineas’s had a bib with the diner’s slogan of Great Food, Good Mood.

“Gianna! Thank God you’re here.” Eve adjusted her reindeer antler headband over her short caramel-colored hair before blowing the bangs off her forehead. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her brown skin. “Phineas Krampus believes my snowman will block the flow of traffic if I put him to the right of my entrance instead of the left—”

“Everyone puts their snowman on the left and the Holt poinsettias on the right!” Phineas yelled from across the street. His long curly hair was tucked underneath his worn blue baseball cap. If Luke Danes from Gilmore Girls had a twin brother, it would be Phineas.