The Mistletoe Melody

Entering the principal’s office, she saw David, head in his hands, slumped over in a chair across from the secretary. His eyes met Melody’s and a look of sadness flickered in them momentarily before it was replaced with stubbornness and anger. She was taken aback—she’d never seen such a look on his young face before. But she was relieved to see he wasn’t hurt. Michael was much taller and heavier than David.

Melody directed her gaze at the secretary, Amy. “So what’s going on?” She resolved to give David the benefit of the doubt. Let him explain what had happened between Michael and him. Her own parents had always treated their children fairly in disciplinary situations, and it was a practice she’d adopted with her own children.

“Principal Andrews has ordered a two-day suspension for David,” Amy said as she stood and slid the paperwork toward Melody.

Melody stared at her. “Why?” She could guess, but she wanted to know for sure.

“Physical violence against a classmate. The school has a zero-tolerance policy.” Amy pointed to that section of the report.

That was all it said. No explanation of what had transpired between the boys to cause the fight. “Do we know what happened?”

Amy shook her head. “It was during lunchtime, and the teacher on duty arrived after it occurred. Principal Andrews questioned David a few minutes ago, but David refused to say what had provoked him.”

Well, something clearly had. Neither of her children had ever demonstrated violent tendencies before. Not even in sports. “Is Principal Andrews available?” Melody refused to sign the suspension form without first receiving more information. A suspension stayed on the child’s permanent school record—it wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

“He’s with the Thompsons now. I can schedule you for tomorrow sometime,” she said, glancing at her calendar.

Melody had to work the following day at Play Hard Sports, and after running out on the exam, she couldn’t ask for more time off. “That won’t work. I’ll have to call in the morning to set up a meeting later in the week.” Inwardly, she winced. Because of her busy work schedule, things like this were always being put off—important things, things that should be top of her priority list. But then where would eating and having a roof over their heads fall?

“Okay. I’ll still need your signature on the suspension form, though.”

“I’ll sign it once I speak to Principal Andrews.” She turned to David. “Let’s go.”

David stood, pushing the chair roughly against the wall behind him.

“You’re on thin ice,” Melody warned.

He scowled as he left the office and glared at Michael as he passed him.

Melody waited until he’d climbed into the van beside her before she spoke. “What happened?”

David only stared outside, his lips locked.

“I can’t talk to Principal Andrews about lifting the suspension if I don’t know what happened.”

Still nothing.

“Did Michael hit you?” David didn’t appear to have any marks, but maybe...

Nothing.

“Did he say something to upset you?”

Silence.

Melody fought to keep her exasperation at bay. Today was not the day for her son to be stubborn. She couldn’t help him if he refused to talk. “David, talk to me.”

“He deserved it” was all David said.

“No one deserves a black eye. Not for any reason. You know that. I thought Michael was your friend. What’s been going on with you two?”

“None of your business.”

Melody gaped. Who was this kid in her van? Not the child she’d raised to have manners and be respectful. “Excuse me? It is my business when my son gets suspended for violence.” She took a deep breath. Stay calm, she reminded herself. She’d get nowhere by yelling. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

“You never have time to listen, anyway.”

The hurtful words tore a hole through her heart. She knew he missed having her around, the way she had been when Patrick was alive, but what choice did she have? She had been so close to changing things. Hadn’t she explained that to him? With the promotion from Play Hard would have come the opportunity to make things better with her children. To spend more time with them. “I’m listening now.”

His defiant stare met hers and sent a shiver through her. “I’ve got nothing to say now.”

* * *

“SO TELL ME about your family,” Bridget Marilyn asked in her smooth Southern drawl. She had warm, chocolate-colored eyes and dark hair that curled around her shoulders, which were only partially concealed by her pink tank top. Under any other circumstance, sitting next to the beautiful woman with the sun-kissed skin and Southern manners for two hours on the plane from Nashville to New Jersey would have been Brad’s idea of the perfect way to travel. Now he just hoped the woman had packed a warm coat and wouldn’t bail on the interview the moment she arrived in cold Newark, only to learn there was still an hour’s drive to Brookhollow. “Roxanne says y’all are very close.”

Roxanne. The definition of a troublemaker. “Uh...she may have stretched the truth a little. I haven’t been home in a while, but we used to be close.” When the brunette’s perfectly arched eyebrows met in the middle, he added, “I’ve just been so busy these last few years.” As much as he’d initially been opposed to the idea of this television segment, after he’d agreed, he’d done his research. It turned out Roxanne may not have been lying about this “Home for the Holidays” Christmas Eve program having done wonders for the careers of several other up-and-coming performers. He’d found three separate lesser-known acts that had become headliners after appearing on the show. Of course, they’d also recorded breakout hits shortly afterward, something else Brad had yet to do. His first CD was good, but none of its singles had skyrocketed to the top of the country music charts.

“That’s only natural,” Bridget said, smiling once more as she crossed one long leg over the other. She wore a pencil skirt and stilettos, and Brad had a difficult time picturing her in his mother’s messy home. Of course, Beverly Monroe preferred the term “lived-in” when referring to the state in which she kept the family’s two-story farmhouse. He hoped she allowed the staging crew to make the necessary changes for filming. “And it’s yourself and five older sisters?”

“Yes, that’s right. Bobbi, Becky, Brooke, Bethany and Breanne.”

Bridget laughed. “And your parents, Beverly and Bernie. I assume the B names were on purpose?”

“Yes. You’ll fit right in.” Brad liked how at ease she made him feel. He’d expected the famous Heartland Country Television host to be standoffish, but she was anything but. “We’re all about two years apart, with Bobbi being the oldest—though she will deny having just turned forty-five until she’s blue in the face—and me being the baby.”

“Five girls and finally a boy.”

“I love to tease my sisters that my parents had been hoping each of them were a boy.” He stretched his legs out in the limited space in front of him. His right shin ached as it always did when he sat for long periods of time. The muscles in the front of that leg had taken a lot longer to heal than the others, and they still gave him trouble.

“And the family home is...”

“It’s a farm on the outskirts of Brookhollow. Three hundred acres of land. We grow crops and Christmas trees. As a kid, I worked the Christmas-tree part with my father.” It had always been one of the highlights of the season for him. Away from the house of six women, Brad and his father had bonded in those silent moments on the farm.

“I can’t say I’ve ever been to a Christmas-tree farm. Growing up, we had an artificial tree—not quite the same experience, I bet.”

Brad grinned. “Yeah, that’s a little different. My youngest sister, Breanne, and her husband, Troy, took over running the farm during the holidays four years ago when my dad got sick. Of all us kids, she’s the only one who still lives in Brookhollow. She and Troy live in the family farmhouse with my mom and their two children, Gracie and Darius.” The mention of his young nephew made him pause as a wave of guilt washed over him. The six-year-old boy suffered from what the doctors called select mutism. He refused to talk to most people, with the exceptions of his older sister, Gracie, and for some reason, Brad. It had made Brad’s absence from home over the past few years that much tougher, especially on Darius.

“I did my research on Brookhollow last night,” Bridget said, “and it seems the town has some impressive holiday traditions, as well—sleigh rides, an ice-sculpting contest...”

The small town of less than ten thousand did indeed do Christmas in a big way. As a kid, Brad had loved the festivities, and spending the holidays in Nashville the past three years just hadn’t been the same. Still, returning home hadn’t felt like an option. His past mistakes haunted him even more the closer he got to town. He let out a deep breath. Like it or not, he would have to face them now.

“Yeah, if it’s Christmas spirit you’re looking for, Brookhollow’s the place.”

* * *

ARRIVING IN HIS HOMETOWN four hours later, the television camera crew and Bridget had gone straight to the Brookhollow Inn, the local B and B, to check in. Brad had continued on in the rental car toward his family home. Now as he drove the familiar roads, the knot in his stomach grew tighter. The last time he’d gone through this area was the day after Patrick’s funeral. Despite his still being confined to a wheelchair in a disoriented state, he’d known he had to get away. Against the doctor’s recommendations and his family’s protests, he’d enlisted the help of his good friend Luke Dawson. With Dawson’s Architecture working on large projects in New York, Luke had sublet an apartment in the city for himself and his crew, and he’d let Brad stay there during his recovery, to be closer to Propel Records. It was that fragile period during which Brad had feared the record company might cancel the entire recording deal. He owed a great deal to Luke. He pulled onto the shoulder to dial his friend’s number, and then put on the headset and pulled back onto the road.

Luke answered on the third ring. “Hey, man. So, are the rumors true?”