Mistle Text: 'Twas the Text Before Christmas ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 5) Read online

  Mistle Text

  Whitney Dineen

  Melanie Summers

  Copyright © 2021 by Whitney Dineen and Gretz Corp.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by 33 Partners Publishing and Indigo Group

  First edition

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-988891-43-9

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-988891-44-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the authors’ overactive imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. And we don’t mean maybe.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission of the authors. But let’s face it, if you love it, they’ll probably let you share small portions. You still have to contact them first.

  Made in the United States.

  September 2021

  Cover by: Becky Monson

  The Accidentally in Love Stories

  By Whitney Dineen & Melanie Summers

  Text Me on Tuesday

  The Text God

  Text Wars

  Text in Show

  Mistle Text

  Text and Confused (Coming Soon)

  Also by Whitney Dineen

  Romantic Comedies

  The Mimi Chronicles

  The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan

  Mimi Plus Two

  Kindred Spirits

  Relatively Series

  Relatively Normal

  Relatively Sane

  Relatively Happy

  Creek Water Series

  The Event

  The Move

  The Plan

  The Dream

  Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Series

  Love is a Battlefield

  Ain't She Sweet

  It's My Party

  You’re So Vain

  She Sins at Midnight

  Going Up?

  Love for Sale

  Conspiracy Thriller

  See No More

  Non-Fiction Humor

  Motherhood, Martyrdom & Costco Runs

  Middle Reader

  Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory

  Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?

  Children’s Books

  The Friendship Bench

  Also by Melanie Summers

  ROMANTIC COMEDIES

  The Crown Jewels Series

  The Royal Treatment

  The Royal Wedding

  The Royal Delivery

  Paradise Bay Series

  The Honeymooner

  Whisked Away

  The Suite Life

  Resting Beach Face

  Crazy Royal Love Series

  Royally Crushed

  Royally Wild

  Royally Tied

  WOMEN’S FICTION

  The After Wife

  The Deep End (Coming Soon)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Coming Soon…

  A Sneak Peak at Text Me on Tuesday

  About the Authors

  Chapter 1

  Holly

  “Yes, Mom, I had a great trip,” I say while sorting the laundry. “The South of France is beautiful this time of year.” I rest the phone between my shoulder and ear and whisper to Faith, “Nana’s on the phone. Do you want to say hi?”

  My niece shakes her blonde curls at me, which makes perfect sense since my mom doesn’t know who she is. I watch as Faith tugs a sweater over her teddy bear, Coco’s, head. Poor kid needs more family than just me.

  “No, Mom, I don’t have to perform at Lincoln Center today.” I’m no more a performer than I am a world-traveler, but my mother has early-onset dementia, and she doesn’t know this. I pretend to be whatever her brain tells her I am. Sometimes I’m her daughter, sometimes she’s my daughter, sometimes I’m the housekeeper she’s never had, but always dreamed of. (Those conversations are borderline funny because it turns out she would have been a total taskmaster if she’d had domestic help.)

  I’ve tried to make the best of our ever-evolving relationship. On good days, I even half-convince myself that it’s nice to pretend my life is more glamorous than it is.

  Who am I kidding? A trip upstate to stay at the Clacker Cave Motel would be more exciting than living in a dodgy apartment in Queens. The neighborhood is decent, but our place could use new paint, new floors, new plumbing …

  I’m killing myself to make ends meet, but not only do I not have the money to upgrade, I still don’t have enough to keep Faith in Dartmouth, the preschool for gifted children that I managed to get her into three months ago. She’s on a scholarship (read: poor child with potential), but even with that, it’s five hundred per month that I don’t have. At the time, I was just adding online travel agent to my several side-hustles and thought it was going to be the answer to all my prayers. But, so far, it’s cost me more than I’ve made.

  “Okay, I’ll tell the prince you send your best, Mom. I’m sure he’ll mail you more chocolates soon.” I end the call feeling like I’ve just taken a spin or twelve around a blender. Sadly, without any vodka or rum. As much as I would like to think I’m a self-sufficient capable woman, at the moment I wouldn’t mind Prince Charming coming to my rescue.

  “Faith,” I tell my niece, “why don’t we go down to the deli and get sandwiches for lunch?”

  Her eyes brighten so much, I feel guilty that we don’t have more treats around here.

  “Really? Can we get chips too?”

  I’ve been Faith’s guardian ever since my sister, Joy, and her husband, Tom, were killed in a car accident three years ago. She was only two. I curse my brother-in-law for the millionth time for canceling his life insurance policy. I was twenty-five when they died and could barely take care of myself. Now that I’ve added a child to the mix, things have really gotten tight. Believe me when I say, kids do not get cheaper as they age.

  “Chips and lemonade,” I tell her like I’m suddenly Daddy Warbucks.

  “Oh, Aunt Holly, thank you!” She jumps up and starts to dance around our tiny living room.

  “Let’s take our wash down first and we’ll go from there.” I point to her room, which is really the walk-in closet in my room. “Go get your laundry.”

  “Can Aunt Toni come with us?” she asks. Toni has been my best friend since
we were eight years old when she accidentally broke my nose with a ping-pong paddle. We bonded over blood and stitches.

  Handing Faith my phone, I say, “Why don’t you call her and ask.”

  I finish sorting my whites while she calls. I love the sound of her sweet voice. It gives me hope and breaks my heart at the same time. While I have the most darling little girl in my life, she needed my responsible, put-together sister to raise her, not her auntie who can’t seem to catch a break.

  “Aunt Toni, it’s me,” Faith says into the phone, sounding like a mini grown-up. She’s five going on fifteen. “Aunt Holly is taking me out for a sandwich! I want you to come, too.” She listens to her for a minute before asking me, “What time?”

  “Tell her thirty minutes at Farantelli’s.”

  Faith repeats my words and then hands me the phone. “I want to wash my tennis shoes, but I don’t have anything else to put on my feet. Can I wear my slippers?”

  “No, wear your tennies. We’ll stop off and buy you another pair of shoes while we’re out.” At this point, what’s another twenty bucks on the old credit card?

  “Wow, did we win the lottery?” she asks, her eyes wide.

  Throwing a towel at her, I say, “What does Auntie say about the lotto?”

  “It’s a tax for the uninformed.”

  “Exactly. Now get me your clothes or we’re not going anywhere.”

  She runs out of the room as fast as her feet will carry her.

  I schlep the basket down three flights to the laundry room while my niece drags her laundry sack behind her. Thump, thump, thump … it goes down every step.

  Mrs. Firestone is taking her clothes out of the dryer when we walk in. She looks up and says, “There’s my best girl!” Then she opens her arms for Faith to run into them.

  Mrs. Firestone is like a grandmother to Faith and is an absolute godsend to me. She takes care of my niece whenever I need her to. I try not to rely on her too much, as I don’t have the money to pay her, but if she doesn’t see us for a couple of days, she knocks on our door so she can get in her “Faith time,” as she calls it.

  “I was thinking I could come over and clean for you this afternoon,” I say.

  “Honey, you don’t have to clean for me. I don’t get the place that dirty.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” I tell her. And it truly is. Mrs. Firestone brings us supper a couple times a week, she makes cookies for us, and she watches Faith. All I do is take out her trash and clean her apartment. We have the better end of the deal by far.

  “We’re getting a sandwich out today,” Faith tells our neighbor. “Do you want us to bring you one?”

  “I had such a huge breakfast, I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat another bite all day,” she says. Then she pulls out her coin purse and opens it. She hands Faith a twenty-dollar bill. “I found this in the wash, if you can believe it. Why don’t you treat your aunt to lunch?”

  I feel tears prickle behind my eyes. “We’re okay, Mrs. Firestone, but we appreciate the offer.” I really, really want to take the money, but I hate feeling like a charity case.

  Our neighbor shakes her head. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was bad luck to turn down found money?”

  “No, she never did.” I look at Faith, who’s staring between me and her friend. I say, “I guess you better take it, Faithy. We don’t need any bad luck.”

  My niece cheers before folding up the money and shoving it into the pocket of her blue jeans. “It’s getting to be winter out there,” Mrs. Firestone says, while packing up her newly-folded clothes. “You better get your heavy coats out soon.”

  Gah, Faith’s coat is getting tight on her and mine is so old, it’s starting to get holes. With two new coats, along with Christmas presents to purchase from me and Santa Claus, who am I kidding? I’m never going to be able to afford that preschool tuition.

  We hurry to start our three loads of laundry, and then head out the front door of our building.

  “I think I’m going to get a meatball hero, how about you?” Faith asks.

  “I don’t know, I think I might get peanut butter and pickles.”

  She laughs out loud. “Why not pastrami and boogers?”

  “Yum,” I tell her as I continue our favorite game. “How about whale and water chestnuts?”

  “Bologna and bubble gum!” She’s laughing so hard she stops to slap her leg. When she settles down, she asks, “If you could go out to a fancy restaurant, what would you order?”

  “I’m not sure I even know what fancy food is,” I tell her. “But I think I read somewhere that the French love snails. Maybe I’d get those.”

  She stops in her tracks and stares up at me, the chilly wind blowing her wild pale curls onto her cheek. “You’re making that up, right?”

  “No, for real,” I tell her. “It’s called escargot. They pay a fortune for it.” I take her hand and start to hurry along the sidewalk so we can get out of the cold.

  “Yuck! In that case, let’s stay poor,” she tells me.

  My gut aches at the fact that she understands our financial status so well, but when you’re dealing with a child as perceptive as Faith, secrets are hard to keep. “Well, how about we end up being in the middle? Not so rich that we have to eat snails but with enough money for a meal where they bring the food to your table.”

  “Deal!” she says, hopping up over a big crack in the cement.

  “What will you get when we go?”

  “Where?” I ask, dodging a double stroller being pushed by a bleary-eyed woman.

  “At the restaurant that brings the food to us?” Faith asks, looking up at me like my very last marble has rolled into the storm drain.

  “I think I’d want Italian food. Maybe lasagna or spaghetti, but definitely garlic bread.” I start to salivate. “How about you?”

  “Meghan from my preschool said that she went out and ordered macaroni and cheese. But not the kind from a box,” she says, her face filled with wonder. “Apparently, it’s got about fifty times the cheese as the box kind. Meghan said it’s real cheese, too, not powdered garbage.”

  The more I hear about Meghan, the more I want to pop her uppity mother in her cute little surgically-enhanced nose. When the feeling wears off, I just feel sad that Faith thinks homemade mac and cheese is exotic. I have got to figure out how to make some more money so that she doesn’t have to be poor for her whole childhood.

  When we walk into Farantelli’s, we see Toni standing in line. She’s holding our place, which is good because the line wraps around the room nearly twice. Everyone wants to eat out on Saturday.

  “Heya girlies.” She turns to hug us. “Lunch is on me today.”

  “No way, Aunt Toni, I’m buying,” Faith says.

  “Your money’s no good here,” Toni tells her. Then she looks at me and says, “We’re celebrating!”

  “What are we celebrating?” I could really use some good news right about now, so I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with the Jets winning. I couldn't care less about sports.

  “I may have figured out a way to solve your cash flow issue.”

  Please God, let it not involve lap dances. Toni’s sister works at a gentlemen's club and the last time I complained about money, she suggested asking Tonya if there were any openings.

  I give her a skeptical look while we take a couple steps forward in the line.

  Toni immediately knows what I’m thinking of and whispers, “Not that. Although, cha-ching! Tonya’s pulling in eight hundred in tips on the weekends alone. She figured out this new way to slide down the pole … apparently it’s quite the hit.”

  “What pole?” Faith asks in her loud preschool voice. “And how does Auntie Tonya slide down it so special?”

  I glower at Toni, who gives me an apologetic look. “You’ve got such good hearing, kiddo.”

  “The one at the big park,” I tell her.

  “Oh yeah, that’s the best pole in the city,” Faith announces authoritat
ively.

  We’re next in line, so by the time we order, get our food, and snag a table up against the window, I’ve all but forgotten about Toni’s latest “get rich quick” plans. We peel off our jackets and breathe a collective sigh of relief as the air becomes less stifling. After we hang them over the wooden chairs, we finally settle down to eat.

  Faith unwraps her sandwich and carefully smooths out the paper to turn it into a makeshift plate while I open her bag of plain chips for her.

  “Okay, so I’ve got three words for you,” Toni says, her words muffled by her tuna salad on rye. “Rent-a-Pal.”

  “What?” I ask, pouring out the chips.

  “Rent-a-Pal. It’s a new website that people can advertise themselves on. You can make anywhere from twenty to fifty bucks an hour, just hanging out with someone who needs a friend,” she says.

  “That sounds really sketchy.”

  “It’s not. I read an article about it on Buzzfeed. Totally above board. For the most part,” Toni says.

  “Come on, for fifty bucks an hour, there’s got to be a catch,” I tell her, having my first bite of my clubhouse. Oh, yes … salty bacon goodness with just the right amount of melted cheese, crisp lettuce, fresh tomato, turkey, and ham. It’s my meat for the entire week, so I’m going to enjoy every bite.