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“Okay?” Mom exclaims.
“I mean, he’s handsome in arugged mountain mankind of way. He’s living his dream, and he makes a mean pizza pie,” I continue.
“Uh-huh. Sounds more than okay to me. I’d climb him like a tree,” she remarks.
“Mom!”
“What? I’m an old woman, not a dead one,” she quips.
I slide down and sit crisscross beside her.
“What are you two still doing here anyway?” I ask.
“We helped Willa sort all the supplies for the ugly sweater contest tomorrow night, and while searching for bins in the garage, I stumbled upon this thousand-piece Santa’s workshop puzzle. We decided to put it together, for old times’ sake. Your grandfather used to buy one for us every December when we were girls. We’d work on it in the evenings after completing our schoolwork and chores,” Aunt Trixie explains.
“It was one of our favorite things to do,” Mom adds.
It warms my heart that the two of them are getting to spend this time together and reminisce about their shared traditions.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Jump on in,” Aunt Trixie says.
We get lost in matching the tiny pieces for another two hours, and before I know it, it’s two in the morning.
“Why don’t you two go up to my room and get some sleep? I’ll curl up here on the couch,” I suggest.
“No, we don’t want to take your bed,” Mom says.
“I insist.”
“Willa already offered us the spare room over in the owner’s cottage. You go get some rest, and we’ll see you in the morning,” Aunt Trixie says.
I stand, and Mom follows suit.
She embraces me and kisses my cheek. “Good night, sweetheart. Sleep tight.”
“Good night, Mom. I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her.
“Me too.”
Willa and I wake early and head to our meeting with the catering prospect. I’m expecting a sweet grandma, cooking fried chicken in her tiny kitchen, but what I find is a thirty-five-year-old graduate of the Los Angeles Institute of Culinary Education with a state-of-the-art restaurant-quality kitchen and her own serving staff, including an experienced bartender. She has an impressive menu bible and rave reviews from clients in both California, where she began her career before relocating for her husband’s job, and here in Idaho, where she has catered several large events in Sun Valley.
After tasting a few samples she provides, we finalize the menu for the Holly Ball.
Then, we visit the local bakery to order a variety of holiday desserts and stop in the hardware store to meet with Hoyt—the owner and Lake Mistletoe’s newly elected mayor—to order two hundred white folding chairs and one hundred sixty-inch round tables, which he promises to pick up himself in Boise in order to ensure they arrive in plenty of time for the ball.
It seems my snap assumptions about the available professional resources here in Lake Mistletoe might have been a bit hasty.
I look over the spreadsheet as Willa drives us back to the inn.
“We got a lot accomplished today. While you were taking care of the paperwork at the hardware store, I walked over to the little dress shop on the corner. They have a lovely selection of evening gowns. I made an appointment for you, Norah, and me to go in on Friday afternoon to see what she has in stock, have a look at her bridal catalog, and try on some dresses. She doesn’t keep much on hand as far as accessories are concerned, but she offers veils, tiaras, undergarments, shoes, and hosiery on a custom basis, and she’s open to the possibility of expanding into tux rentals. I think if you were to offer her an exclusive contract for future business, that possibility could easily be turned into a reality.”
“Thank you, Hannah. I’m feeling a lot better about all of this. I’m so grateful you were with me today to help me navigate everything.”
“You have the instincts, and you’re business savvy. You’d have been fine without me,” I tell her.
“I’m glad I didn’t have to test that theory.”
