A Kiss Under the Mistletoe Read online

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  TWO TO TANGO

  TERI WILSON

  THE DRESS

  SHERYL J. BIZE BOUTTE

  TWO TREES

  CHELS KNORR

  VELVETEEN BOYFRIEND

  MARSHA PORTER

  PERFECT PRESENT

  CHARLES KUHN

  CHAINS OF LOVE

  JENNIFER BERN BASYE

  SHORT AND SWEET

  JUDY STEVENS

  CHRISTMAS BLIND DATE

  SUZANNE LILLY

  SNOWY CHRISTMAS IN THE PARK

  CHERIE CARLSON

  FROZEN FRISBEE

  RUTH BREMER

  THE CHRISTMAS VISITOR

  DAWN ARMSTRONG

  FIRST CHRISTMAS KISS

  SCOTT “ROBBY” EVANS

  THE SCENT OF PINE AND CANDLE WAX

  ILLIA THOMPSON

  SONG OF LOVE

  DENA KOUREMETIS

  ANOTHER CHRISTMAS AT UNCLE JOE’S

  JERRY WHITE

  THE QUIET MAN

  MARGARET H. SCANLON

  THE CHRISTMAS THAT ALMOST WASN’T

  KATHRYN CANAN

  THE CHRISTMAS TREE

  NEVA J. HODGES

  ENCHILADAS, HOLD THE BEER

  PAM WALTERS

  PERFECT RECORD

  LELIA KUTGER, AS TOLD TO APRIL KUTGER

  GIVING SHELTER

  MELISSA CHAMBERS

  A CHRISTMAS LETTER TO MY WIFE OF FIFTY YEARS

  JACK SKILLICORN

  THE CRUMPLED CARD

  JULAINA KLEIST-CORWIN

  A BOX OF MEMORIES

  CHRISTINA RICHTER

  DÉJÀ VU CHRISTMAS

  PAULA MUNIER

  LOVE NEVER DIES

  NORMA JEAN THORNTON

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  INTRODUCTION

  JENNIFER BASYE SANDER

  A kiss under the mistletoe? Who doesn’t want that? We all long for it, a quick kiss and a tight hug in a hallway, or a longer, lingering kiss in a darkened living room…Hmm, it must be December, and Christmas must be coming.

  Yes, Christmas is a wonderful time of year, a time when the whole world seems to be decorated with pretty lights and people smile for no reason and do kind things for strangers and exchange really great gifts. But Christmas may also be a time of great strain for married couples—fights over how much was spent at the mall, whose turn it is to mix the eggnog and “What happened to the directions for assembling this bicycle?” It may also be a time of great strain for couples who are dating—lots of time to worry about what type of gift might be appropriate for someone you’ve only known a few months, questions about whether she should invite him home to meet her parents and whose apartment should have a tree. Oh dear.

  Instead, why not focus on the amazing opportunities for accepting love at this time of year? I have gathered up twenty-six stories of love, romance and connections at Christmas from writers around the country. Some are funny, some are sweet and some are heartbreaking, but all of them show that if our hearts are open to giving and receiving love during this special season, incredible things can happen. From a snowy impromptu game of Frisbee in the center of a holiday light display to a woman’s trepidation as she arrives home on Christmas Eve with crates of rescued shelter dogs, these stories will help get you in the mood for love in your own life. Blind dates, well-chosen gifts and even a crumpled holiday card can make our hearts sing at a time when our world is festively lit and celebration surrounds us. Look around you—love is there, yours for the asking…

  May all your dreams come true and all your romantic wishes be granted.

  Merry Christmas!

  TWO TO TANGO

  TERI WILSON

  A breathless four months into our dating relationship and before we were married, my future husband and I gave each other the same Valentine’s Day card. I opened mine first, and when I saw the familiar Shakespeare verse on the front of the card, my heart raced.

  “What is it?” he asked, narrowing his gaze at the giddy smile on my face.

  I didn’t bother answering. I just pushed his red envelope toward him. “Open yours.”

  He broke the seal and his hands froze. He looked back up at me. “We gave each other the same card.”

  “I know. Crazy, right?” I smiled.

  We both smiled.

  I don’t remember exactly what we said or did next. The details are a bit fuzzy after nearly two decades. But I don’t think either of us ascribed any huge, earth-shattering meaning to it. We were in love…so in love that we’d chosen the same special card. We were giddy with the effervescent newness of each other, and now we had a glaringly obvious example of what a perfect fit we were. End of story.

  Until it happened again.

  The following Valentine’s Day, my husband opened his card first. This time, he stared at it for a long, quiet moment before he looked up.

  When his gaze met mine, he was clearly shell-shocked. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “No,” I said, reaching for my card.

  No way. We lived in the seventh-largest city in the United States. We hadn’t even bought our cards at the same store. What were the odds of this happening two years in a row?

  Yet when I opened the pink envelope, there I found a card identical to the one I’d chosen for him. Again. Something special was happening. I could feel it. I gazed down at Bouguereau’s romantic painting of Cupid and Psyche on the front of the card, and found it more beautiful than I ever had before. I felt as though, like Psyche, I had butterfly wings, and could float straight up into the clouds.

  Less than three weeks later, my husband proposed. After I’d said yes and wiped happy tears from my eyes, he told me that he’d known we belonged together the moment he opened that second card. He thought God was trying to tell him something, so he wasted no time before slipping a glittering diamond on my finger.

  For years afterward, I held my breath every time I opened a card from my husband. Fifteen Valentine’s Days, fifteen Christmases and fifteen wedding anniversaries came and went, but we never again gave each other duplicate cards.

  I tried not to think too much about it. Obviously, it couldn’t keep happening year after year. That would be impossible. And at least we were still giving each other cards. I knew plenty of married couples our age who’d ceased giving each other cards and gifts altogether. We still did these things.

  Granted, after fifteen-plus years it becomes rather difficult to surprise someone. Typically, I chose gifts for my husband that I knew he wanted—things he’d mentioned in passing, or pointed out in catalogs. Until the Christmas I decided to really go out on a limb.

  “I’m thinking of getting my husband something kind of crazy for Christmas,” I said to my friend, Bess, as we stood in line at the movie theater one chilly December evening.

  She glanced up from her popcorn. “Oh, really? What?”

  “Tango lessons.” I bounced on my toes and waited for her reaction. I was sure she’d be awed.

  She wasn’t.

  There was an awkward pause. Then finally, “Tango lessons?”

  “Yes. It will be romantic, don’t you think?” I nodded, willing her to agree with me.

  “Sure.” She snickered into her popcorn.

  She didn’t sound so sure. In fact, she didn’t sound sure at all. And my own certainty began to slip away.

  I mentioned the tango lessons to two more of my friends, each of whom had the same reaction. By the third uncomfortable pause, I’d really started to doubt myself.

  “Do you think he’ll be surprised?” I said into the phone.

  My oldest friend, Christy, was on the other end.
She’d known my husband even longer than she’d known me, so I figured this was my last chance for someone to tell me what a brilliant idea I’d had. “Oh, I think he’ll definitely be surprised.”

  “In a good way?”

  “My husband would be mortified. But I don’t know…yours might actually like it. Has he ever mentioned wanting to learn how to tango?”

  I swallowed. “Sort of.”

  Once.

  He’d mentioned it once.

  We’d been watching Dancing with the Stars, because that’s what people who’ve been married for fifteen years do on Monday nights. It was tango night, which was always one of our favorites. My husband sat on the sofa with a bowl of peanuts in his lap, while I curled up in my chair with one of our dogs.

  “That looks really fun.” I sighed dreamily at the television, where Derek Hough and his partner were getting their scores from the judges. Perfect tens across the board.

  My husband cracked open a peanut and popped it in his mouth. “I read an article once that said ballroom dance lessons will make you fall in love with your spouse all over again.”

  I slid my gaze toward him, wondering where this thought had come from. Was he just making conversation? Or did he think we needed to fall in love all over again? And, if so, was this the sort of thing we just casually discussed now over peanuts and reality television?

  Two years had passed since this short conversation, but I still didn’t share it with Christy. “He mentioned something about it once. A long time ago.”

  “Then he’ll probably be into it.” She didn’t sound altogether convincing.

  With only four days left until Christmas, I drove to the ballroom dance school I’d found on the internet. I had to stop myself from taking a detour to Best Buy along the way to buy something safer. What man wouldn’t be happy with something like a big screen television? But we already had a giant television. We didn’t, however, know how to tango.

  The door to the ballroom dance studio opened to a huge, mirrored room with smooth, wood floors. Music filled the air—a cha-cha, if my Dancing with the Stars education had taught me anything. There was a tall Christmas tree in the window beside a matching his-and-hers set of rhinestone-bedecked ballroom dance costumes. I tried to imagine my husband in the room, wearing even a few sequins. I failed.

  “May I help you?” The man sitting at the desk at the back of the enormous room smiled at me.

  I thought about fleeing. Then a couple appeared in the center of the room and started to dance. I wondered if they were married, or if they were engaged and were learning how to dance for their upcoming wedding. Oddly enough, I couldn’t tell. When was the last time someone mistook my husband and me for an engaged couple? Had anyone ever made that mistake?

  As I watched the dancers, a certain wistfulness came over me. I was reminded of my husband’s comment.

  Ballroom dance lessons will make you fall in love with your spouse all over again.

  Seeing the elegant, happy couple glide across the smooth, wood floor, I became a believer.

  I wrote a check for a package of four private lessons. It was a sizable check. Not big-screen TV sizable, but close. And the lessons had to be used by March, so if my husband wasn’t thrilled with his gift, it looked as if I would be learning how to tango all by myself.

  I wrapped the gift certificate in a box, to make it look like any other gift. It sat innocently under the tree until Christmas Eve, and I was sure my husband thought it was something completely ordinary, like a tie or a pair of socks. If my hands shook when I handed him the box, he didn’t seem to notice.

  He peeled away the wrapping paper, lifted the lid and found the plain white envelope beneath the layers of tissue paper.

  My heart hammered as he lifted the seal. He slid the gift certificate from the envelope and stared at it without uttering a word.

  “Dance lessons,” I said to fill the excruciating quiet. “I thought we could learn to tango. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

  “It does.” He cleared his throat.

  My heart sank. He hadn’t reacted with horror, as some of my friends had predicted, but he didn’t seem exactly thrilled, either. He was pensive. Quiet. Too quiet.

  “Here, open yours.” He handed me a perfectly wrapped box tied with a silver ribbon.

  Disappointment coursed through me as I untied the bow. I’d wanted this Christmas to be special. Different. Romantic.

  I opened my gift. Inside was a plain white envelope. As I lifted it out of the box, my heart fluttered in a familiar way I hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. I searched my husband’s gaze.

  “Open it,” he whispered.

  I did. “Dance lessons? You gave me dance lessons, too?”

  He took me in his arms. “I guess it really does take two to tango.”

  In the soft glow of the lights from the Christmas tree, I kissed my husband. As our lips met, I imagined the two of us dancing on that smooth, wood floor to the dangerous, sultry beat of a tango. And I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that even after all the years, God was still trying to tell us something.

  THE DRESS

  SHERYL J. BIZE BOUTTE

  By the mid-1960s my parents had four school-aged daughters to support and a fifth change-of-life daughter on the way. Birthday and Christmas gifts were often new clothes to supplement outgrown or worn-out school clothes, although we would also get the begged-for doll, bike or skates. Sometimes we got something special: something homemade, handed down or handed over that always gave a unique and precious feel to the celebration.

  It was in this tradition on Christmas Day in 1966, while the lights on the aluminum tree changed from blue to green to red and back again, that my mother gave me the gift. Referring to me by my “old soul” nickname, she said, “This is especially for you, Grandma,” as she handed me a gold-ribboned box.

  Inside was a simple frock; a multicolored, multiflowered shirtwaist dress with a wide belt and a full skirt. It was clearly a gently worn hand-me-down from one of my mother’s wealthy acquaintances, but I rushed up to my room immediately to try it on. The bottom of the hem hit just below my knobby knees and fit my still-growing fifteen-year-old body perfectly. It was a spring dress, of course, but I could not wait to wear it to school when the holidays were over.

  That next Monday I dressed with a new sense of pride and, in my mind, womanly elegance. My fingers were already turning the front doorknob when my mother’s voice called out, “Girl, don’t you know it’s January? You are going to catch pneumonia in that thin little dress!” But I was halfway down the street and around the corner on my way to school before she could finish her warning. My inaugural wearing of this dress would also be the day a seventeen-year-old boy would look out his window from the third house on the right and see me for the first time.

  I wore The Dress much too often, but I had never had anything like it. It had the power to make my teenage self feel like a big, grownup lady, and it quickly became the favorite in my sparse wardrobe. It also made that neighbor boy wait for me to pass his house each day and then fall into step behind me. He walked behind me, stealthily and silently, for the five blocks to school for the rest of the school year. A bookworm and a loner, I was totally inside my own head as I made my way, and I never once thought to look back.

  Months later the forces emanating from The Dress would give that boy the courage to ring my doorbell.

  “Hi, I’m Anthony from down the street. Does the girl with the flowery dress live here?” he asked the sister who answered the door. Rolling her eyes, she said, “You must be looking for Sheryl. She is always wearing that old-timey dress.”

  From that day forward, Anthony, the boy who had been my silent and unseen companion, became my boyfriend and, soon after that, my fiancé.

  On a beautiful spring day in 1971, we married in the living room of my family home with only our parents, my grandmother and a few friends in attendance. I did not wear The Dress, choosing instead an elegant nonflowery peach ch
iffon and silk, the perfect complement to my new husband’s ruffled peach shirt and coordinating bow tie. Our reception consisted of postwedding photos taken in my parent’s parklike backyard, while our few guests dined on crustless tuna and chicken salad sandwiches cut into little squares accompanied by Mumm’s extra-dry champagne.

  The years passed as we settled into married life, our college graduations, career building and then child rearing. Anthony and I were so destined to be together that people came to refer to us as “Sheryl and Anthony” or “Anthony and Sheryl,” as though they could not bring themselves to separate our names. Friends would say, “If you see one you see the other” and actually seemed proud to know a couple that had been high school sweethearts. Our love for each other remained strong and true, but after a time, The Dress that had brought us together became so faded that the flowers were barely visible, and so threadbare that it was no longer wearable. Tearfully, I threw it away.

  A thoughtful gift-giver, Anthony would often come home on my birthday, our anniversary or Christmas with a ribbon-tied box containing an exquisite dress, suit or shoes from a small boutique he claimed as his territory for his gifts to me. Once he presented me with a beautiful white suit, and when I asked what the occasion was, he replied, “Because it’s Tuesday.” He always chose the correct size and only stopped the practice when his boutique of choice went out of business. But of all the wonderful clothes he bought for me, he never found anything as special as The Dress had been.

  Then one rainy December day, while flipping through a Christmas catalog, I saw it. A multiflowered shirtwaist dress with a white background, a full skirt and a wide belt. Could it be? I ordered it immediately. When it arrived I was a bit disappointed to find that the fabric had an unworn stiffness, the flowers were not as vibrant and the belt was a skinnier version of its beloved predecessor. But after so many years of The Dress drought, I decided this dress and I would make a pact to stay together, even though we both knew the relationship would never be ideal.

  Anthony loved me in this dress, even though I knew it for the poseur it was. And because he loved it, I wore it to work and out to dinner. I wore it to the movies and to the supermarket. I wore it with a shawl in the spring and with boots and a jacket in the winter. I continued to wear it after our daughter was born in 1977, and I was surprised yet happy that, after I punched an extra hole in the belt for just a bit more room, it continued to fit. I wore it through my daughter’s early school years and into her entry to junior high. After she told me how much she liked it, I wore it even more. Still, through all that, this dress could not convince me that it was The One.