Read Online Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
Tags: Mystery
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deep and perfect and fulfilling, as if we had been practicing
this lovemaking all our lives.
A little later, McQuaid stirred.
"If I'd known marriage could be like this," he said sleepily,
"we'd have done it a long time ago. Remind me—why did we put it off?"
"One
of us was silly and stubborn," I said.
"Yeah, right." He nuzzled me. "We
won't name any names. 'Night, babe."
I shifted so that I
could see his face. His lashes were long and dark against his tanned cheek.
Gently, I traced the curve of his mouth, set in a face that was at once
familiar and yet strange. The face of my husband.
"Good
night." I looked up at the scrawny little clump of dried leaves, his gift
to me. "Thank you for thinking of the mistletoe," I added. "It's
sweet."
"I knew it would turn you on," he said,
and flung his arm across me.
The moon came out from under a cloud and bathed
the mistletoe in a silvery glow, making it look almost pretty. "In Sweden,
they used to hang mistletoe from the ceiling to protect against fires caused by
lightning," I said. "They had the idea that mistletoe was produced by
lightning, because it grows in trees and never touches the ground. Ergo, it
could serve as a lightning-conductor. If a bolt of lightning hit the house, it
would strike the mistletoe and the house itself would be protected." I
smiled, appreciating this odd bit of folk-logic and glad to be able to share
it. "Isn't that fascinating?"
I was answered by a gende snore. McQuaid was sound
asleep.
Chapter
Four
In the Victorian language of flowers, mistletoe
symbolized "I overcome
everything"; "I surmount
difficulties"; "I rise
above all."
Kathleen Gips Flora's Dictionary
In Northern Italy, mistletoe is thought to grow
where a tree has been struck by lightning. It can be destroyed by neither fire
nor water, and it communicates its indestructibility to the oak on which it
grows.
Italian folklore
When McQuaid and I were married, I
decided to stop opening the shop on Sunday afternoons, to give myself a little
more free time. Since we're not open on Mondays either, I now have two full
days to get more or less caught up on the necessities of life: sleeping,
shopping, and the laundry. On this particular Sunday, I also had to begin
decorating for the Christmas Tour, an event which was looming like a black
cloud over the weekend ahead.
Our rambling old five-bedroom Victorian has a wide
veranda, a large fireplace, and a dignified staircase. I could keep people
from going up to the second floor by putting a red rope across the stairway. I
could put the large Christmas tree in the corner by the living-room fireplace,
where we had it last year, and a tabletop tree in the dining room, along with a
bowl of glass ornaments and holiday cookies and a three-tiered silver epagier
piled with fruit and pine cones. I could put potted poinsettias on the floor,
swags on the banister, a couple of rosemary topiaries in the hallway, and
wreaths in all the windows. Of course! Wreaths and swags—and I had plenty of
those, still in boxes in the back of the truck. I could hang them here until
after the tour, then take them to the shop to sell. Now, if I just had somebody
to help with all this. Not McQuaid, though. His idea of a Christmas decoration
is a poster-board picture of Santa tacked on the front door. Anyway, McQuaid
had gone to pick up Brian and visit with his folks.
And then I thought of
Ruby. Since she apparently wasn't planning a big Christmas at her house, she
would probably be willing to help with mine, and a little holiday cheer might
raise her spirits. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I'd call and invite her
over, and while we were working, we could have some good old-fashioned,
soul-baring girl talk.
I went to the phone and punched in
Ruby's number. There was no answer—and no answering machine, either, which struck
me as strange. Ruby loves to be in touch. Her answering machine is always on.
While I was at the phone, I called Mrs.
this lovemaking all our lives.
A little later, McQuaid stirred.
"If I'd known marriage could be like this," he said sleepily,
"we'd have done it a long time ago. Remind me—why did we put it off?"
"One
of us was silly and stubborn," I said.
"Yeah, right." He nuzzled me. "We
won't name any names. 'Night, babe."
I shifted so that I
could see his face. His lashes were long and dark against his tanned cheek.
Gently, I traced the curve of his mouth, set in a face that was at once
familiar and yet strange. The face of my husband.
"Good
night." I looked up at the scrawny little clump of dried leaves, his gift
to me. "Thank you for thinking of the mistletoe," I added. "It's
sweet."
"I knew it would turn you on," he said,
and flung his arm across me.
The moon came out from under a cloud and bathed
the mistletoe in a silvery glow, making it look almost pretty. "In Sweden,
they used to hang mistletoe from the ceiling to protect against fires caused by
lightning," I said. "They had the idea that mistletoe was produced by
lightning, because it grows in trees and never touches the ground. Ergo, it
could serve as a lightning-conductor. If a bolt of lightning hit the house, it
would strike the mistletoe and the house itself would be protected." I
smiled, appreciating this odd bit of folk-logic and glad to be able to share
it. "Isn't that fascinating?"
I was answered by a gende snore. McQuaid was sound
asleep.
Chapter
Four
In the Victorian language of flowers, mistletoe
symbolized "I overcome
everything"; "I surmount
difficulties"; "I rise
above all."
Kathleen Gips Flora's Dictionary
In Northern Italy, mistletoe is thought to grow
where a tree has been struck by lightning. It can be destroyed by neither fire
nor water, and it communicates its indestructibility to the oak on which it
grows.
Italian folklore
When McQuaid and I were married, I
decided to stop opening the shop on Sunday afternoons, to give myself a little
more free time. Since we're not open on Mondays either, I now have two full
days to get more or less caught up on the necessities of life: sleeping,
shopping, and the laundry. On this particular Sunday, I also had to begin
decorating for the Christmas Tour, an event which was looming like a black
cloud over the weekend ahead.
Our rambling old five-bedroom Victorian has a wide
veranda, a large fireplace, and a dignified staircase. I could keep people
from going up to the second floor by putting a red rope across the stairway. I
could put the large Christmas tree in the corner by the living-room fireplace,
where we had it last year, and a tabletop tree in the dining room, along with a
bowl of glass ornaments and holiday cookies and a three-tiered silver epagier
piled with fruit and pine cones. I could put potted poinsettias on the floor,
swags on the banister, a couple of rosemary topiaries in the hallway, and
wreaths in all the windows. Of course! Wreaths and swags—and I had plenty of
those, still in boxes in the back of the truck. I could hang them here until
after the tour, then take them to the shop to sell. Now, if I just had somebody
to help with all this. Not McQuaid, though. His idea of a Christmas decoration
is a poster-board picture of Santa tacked on the front door. Anyway, McQuaid
had gone to pick up Brian and visit with his folks.
And then I thought of
Ruby. Since she apparently wasn't planning a big Christmas at her house, she
would probably be willing to help with mine, and a little holiday cheer might
raise her spirits. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I'd call and invite her
over, and while we were working, we could have some good old-fashioned,
soul-baring girl talk.
I went to the phone and punched in
Ruby's number. There was no answer—and no answering machine, either, which struck
me as strange. Ruby loves to be in touch. Her answering machine is always on.
While I was at the phone, I called Mrs.
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