The Mistletoe Melody

History was an understatement. “We went to high school together, but Patrick was four years older than Brad, so they were never really friends. Brad and I were in the same classes, but I never knew much about him. I certainly wouldn’t have expected him to be interested in music—he was always hanging around with the jocks and cheerleaders. Anyway, after one of Patrick’s gigs about nine years ago in Beach Haven, where Brad happened to be vacationing with his girlfriend of the week, they caught up on old times and somehow the discussion turned to Brad’s interest in music. Next thing I knew, Brad was joining the band.” She couldn’t keep the disdain from her voice.

She’d liked Brad just fine, but she’d always worried about his playboy influence on her husband when they were on the road—groupies were a simple reality. Her trust in Patrick had been unwavering, but his being with Brad had caused her concern. She wasn’t thrilled about her husband playing wingman for the free-spirited bachelor, no matter how innocent the situation.

“Were you okay with that? Taking a step back?”

Not exactly, but she wasn’t about to tell Heather about all of the arguments she and Pat had had over the decision. The decision that meant walking away from music. “I was pregnant with the boys at the time, so we’d decided it was best for me to step away from performing. Patrick was amazing on the guitar, but even he recognized they needed a new singer. Brad took over the microphone and we all became close friends as well as musical collaborators. Brad is even the boys’ godfather.” She paused. That had been Patrick’s choice, not hers.

“Wow,” Heather said. “But then the accident happened?”

Melody nodded. “The accident report revealed they’d both been drinking—they’d been celebrating the signing of their contract with Propel Records in New York.” She paused, the words still hard to say, “Brad survived. Patrick didn’t.”

In truth, Brad had barely escaped the same fate. He’d suffered critical injuries and a severe concussion that had left him in the hospital for weeks. At Patrick’s funeral, he’d been in a wheelchair.

“Brad was driving?” Heather guessed.

Melody nodded, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. How many times had she told Patrick that Brad couldn’t be trusted when he was drinking? His judgment when sober had been questionable enough.

“And then he left town and that was it? You haven’t heard from him since?” Heather frowned, her expression a mix of anger and sympathy.

“Yeah,” Melody answered, avoiding Heather’s gaze. It wasn’t exactly the truth. Brad had attempted to contact them over the past three years, offering to help in any way he could—emotionally, financially—but Melody had put an end to the contact by changing the family’s phone number and blocking any incoming emails from him.

She didn’t want anything to do with Brad Monroe or Jackson or whatever he called himself.

All she wanted were the things he’d taken away and couldn’t give back—her husband and their dreams for the future.

* * *

“HOW DID YOU get in here?”

“Oh, honey, please. I’m a publicist. I can talk my way into anywhere.”

From the hot tub in the men-only section of BodyWorks, a therapeutic spa and chiropractic clinic in downtown Nashville, Brad watched as Roxanne Klein kicked off her designer shoes. Grabbing a towel to sit on, she lowered herself to the edge of the tub, sinking her tiny feet into the water. He rolled his eyes and then lowered his head back against the towel he had positioned behind him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Roxanne said. “I asked the last guy I saw coming out if there was anyone else in here before going in.”

And that made it okay? The woman was terrible. She had no sense of boundaries, although in truth, it was no doubt the reason she was so fantastic at her job. As one of Nashville’s most sought-after publicists, she could turn acts no one had ever heard of into overnight successes. As much as he hated to admit it, she was worth the astronomical fee she charged—a fee he really couldn’t afford. That’s why he had put the fate of his career in her hands a year before.

So far she’d changed his hair color from light brown to blond and had forced him to buy colored, non-prescription contacts to hide the fact that his eyes were different colors—one a deep blue, the other a sea-foam green. She’d also changed his stage name from Monroe to Jackson and had ordered the name switch on his first CD cover before it had hit store shelves. He’d found out a week later when he’d seen it advertised in a flyer.

“Besides, I wouldn’t have to resort to these measures if you’d stop avoiding my calls,” she said, a chill in her Southern accent.

He felt it, despite the heat of the water. “I got your voice mails and I left you one of my own.” He stood and pushed himself out of the hot tub. There was no relaxing around Roxanne.

Already, he felt his muscles tightening again after the two-hour session with his physical therapist. In the three years since the car accident, he had been going to therapy twice a week to build up the strength in his legs and back. Besides the countless broken bones, he’d had torn muscles and five dislocated disks in his spine.

Yet he’d been the lucky one.

“But you didn’t give me the answer I wanted to hear.” Roxanne kept her eyes on him as he made his way to the towels and wrapped one around his waist. Luckily, he always wore his swim trunks.

“Well, it’s the only answer you’re going to get.” Brad raked a hand through his highlighted hair and watched her as she swung her legs over the side of the tub and stood up. With her shoulder-length blond hair and big blue eyes, he might have found her attractive if she weren’t always trying to convince him to do things he didn’t want to do—such as her latest request.

Even in bare feet, Roxanne was almost as tall as the five-foot-eleven Brad. “Think about this rationally—it’s television. So far, we’ve done the magazine articles, the talk radio, that one-time appearance on that music reality show, but we haven’t been able to secure a prime-time spot focused on you as an artist. This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”

“Heartland Country Television is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for?” He raised an eyebrow. Roxanne could talk, and he suspected 99 percent of the time people bought everything she said. But even she had to know that calling Nashville’s local country television station prime time was a stretch.

“Okay, so it’s not Oprah—and don’t think I haven’t tried calling her—but it’s a start. And their ‘Home for the Holidays’ episode is one of the most watched Christmas Eve programs. Apparently, people love seeing how stars spend their holidays,” she insisted, following him to the men’s change-room door.

“You can’t come in here,” Brad said, pausing with his hand on the door.

“Try to stop me.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Roxanne, I won’t do it. ‘Home for the Holidays’... Do you even know what that means for me?” He shuddered at the thought of returning to his family home in Brookhollow, a place he hadn’t dared visit in three years. He’d tried the year before when he’d been performing an hour from his hometown, but as the town-limits sign had come into view, he’d pulled a U-turn and hightailed it out of there. Facing his past, especially this time of year, would have destroyed him.

“Let me guess—your family’s crazy? So? Whose isn’t? Country music is about crazy mothers, alcoholic fathers, hillbilly farm life and broken-down trucks. Be the stereotype. Embrace it. Trust me, it will surprise you how fans love humble beginnings. It makes you more relatable—”

“Forget it, Roxanne. I don’t think my family would go for it.”

That was a lie. His mother and five older sisters would have eaten it up. Brookhollow did Christmas in a big way, with the colorfully decorated storefronts on Main Street, the twenty-foot evergreen erected in the town center, the parade and the horse-drawn sleigh rides through the park. He didn’t even want to think about his own family’s extreme holiday traditions. At Christmas, not an inch of wall space inside the home was visible beneath the garlands and wall hangings. Outside, the twelve thousand multicolored lights stapled to the roof lit up the entire neighborhood, and the large evergreen trees around the family farm were decorated with hundreds of baubles and bows. Overdone was an understatement. Tacky was more the word.

“Let me talk to them.” She offered him a confident smile.

“No. And besides, you’ve changed my last name, remember?” How did she expect to pull that off?

“So, we’ll change the name on your family’s mailbox. I’m not seeing an issue here, Brad.”

She was unbelievable. He didn’t doubt for a second she would force his entire family to assume the surname Jackson for this publicity stunt. “Can we talk about this later? I’d like to get dressed now.” He had no intention of resuming this conversation, but goose bumps were covering his bare skin now that he was out of the hot tub. Or maybe it was the icy chill he always felt around his publicist.

“Go ahead,” she said with a shrug, daring him to force her to follow him into the change room.

“You’re unreal, you know that?”

“It’s called being persistent. It’s why you hired me. I’m going to take your wavering resolve and lack of a snappy retort as agreement.” She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out the contract for the television spot.

He accepted it with reluctance and scanned the pages. “You forged my signature?” Why her behavior still shocked him, he didn’t know. By now, he knew there was no point in putting up a fight. Roxanne Klein didn’t know the meaning of failure.

“Don’t get caught up on morality,” she said. “We needed to secure the last-minute spot before they gave it to some adorable seventeen-year-old kid who writes all his own songs and plays like eighteen instruments. I did what I had to do. I’ve also confirmed your travel arrangements to Brookville...”

“Brookhollow.”

“Whatever. Middle of nowhere, New Jersey...” She positioned her aqua-blue heels on the concrete floor and held his shoulder for balance as she slid her feet into them.

“Are you going with me?”

“It’s the holidays. Are you kidding? No.” Her eyes fell to his torso and she frowned. “Have we talked about getting a plastic surgeon to look at those?” she asked, pointing to the scar tissue on his chest and upper abdomen.

“No, and we won’t.” He hoped his voice held enough conviction to make her drop the point.

“Fine. I’ll take my victories where I can get them—we’ll discuss it another time. You fly out on Monday morning. Bye, Brad.”

Brad watched her saunter away. He ran a hand over his damaged skin.

He didn’t doubt she would bring it up again, but removing the scars was something he would never consider. They were a permanent souvenir from a bad decision that had cost him so much, as well as a constant reminder that life was short.

Besides, unless the surgeon could remove the scars he carried on the inside, what would be the point?

CHAPTER TWO

“DAVID, COME ON. You’re going to be late for school,” Melody called down the hallway of her two-bedroom bungalow to the room the boys shared. Opening their matching superhero backpacks, she tucked their lunch tins inside before adding juice boxes and sandwich meat to the grocery list on the fridge. She hated running out of things on a Monday, which called for a between-jobs run to the grocery store. But with the three of them recovering from illness all weekend and her shifts at the bowling alley, there really hadn’t been time.

“Worry about Josh!” David called back. “He’s out in the shed again.”

Melody moved to the kitchen window and looked across her backyard. The light in the shed was on, and through the open door she could see Josh sitting on the tiny sofa in what had once been the family’s makeshift recording studio, his father’s electric guitar on his lap. She sighed. He spent so much time out there trying to learn to play. She wished she knew how, but she’d never bothered to learn. Patrick had been playing since he was four years old, and he could play anything simply by hearing it. He’d taught Josh a few simple chords.

If only music lessons weren’t so expensive, she would have signed both boys up for them. She was struggling just to keep the equipment. She hated the idea of selling Patrick’s things, a few times in the past couple of years the idea had tempted her. She didn’t go out to the shed anymore. The sight evoked memories that were too much to take, longings that were too hard to face. But she couldn’t sell the equipment if Josh wanted to use it.

Leaning forward, she opened the window. She shivered in the blast of cold air. “Come on, Josh. Time for school,” she called.

A minute later, the kitchen door opened and Josh entered, leaving a trail of wet snow on the floor. “Here’s the mail, Mom.”

She chose to ignore the mess and thank him for the gesture. Eight-year-old boys were oblivious to things like tracking mud or snow through the house. “Thanks, honey,” she said, accepting the stack and tossing it into a bin on the counter. She unrolled a sheet of paper towel and bent to wipe up the clumps of snow.

“Aren’t you going to check the mail?” Josh asked.

“I will later. We’re in a bit of a hurry now.” She didn’t need to look through the stack to know it held an overwhelming number of overdue notices. Besides, this was exam day, and she was trying her best not to let anything frazzle her.

“But there might be something important in there,” Josh persisted.

He was up to something. “You’re right. I should probably check it now.” Picking up the stack, she noticed a piece of blue construction paper sticking out of one corner. She pretended to flip through the rest. “Bills, bills...ah, what is this?” She shot a glance toward him, then pulled out the construction paper, which was folded like a greeting card. She read aloud, “‘Good luck, Mom.’” On the front was a drawing of a bouquet of flowers and on the inside the boys had signed their names.

Josh’s smile reached from ear to ear. “David and I made it with Lauralee last week. We didn’t actually mail it,” he confessed.

“Thank you, Josh. I love it.” She gave him a hug. She didn’t doubt the card had been his idea. Her boys may have been identical in appearance, but they had different personalities. Josh was more thoughtful than David, whose hardheadedness she knew he’d inherited from her. David kept his emotions to himself most of the time, while Josh was more like his father—open and kind. Tucking the card into her purse, she said, “Can you please go get that brother of yours? We’re going to be late.”

She checked her watch, noticing the slight trembling of her hand. She didn’t feel nervous about the exam, though she suspected she must be, subconsciously. A lot was riding on this opportunity. She would feel much better about things once it was over. She was the only employee at the Brookhollow store who had completed the course, so she was confident the position would be hers if things went well today.

Flipping through the rest of the mail only reinforced how much she needed this promotion. The envelope for her power bill was stamped with a huge red Final Notice. The overdue stamp on the cable-bill envelope was smaller—it would have to wait. The boys would lose their minds if the cable was shut off, but sleeping in a cold, dark house would have been far worse. Hopefully, she’d be able to catch up on the outstanding debt in the first half of the new year.

As she placed a stack of flyers on the edge of the counter for recycling, another envelope fell to the floor. When she picked it up, her heart rate soared—it was from the Brookhollow Trust, her bank. It wasn’t her usual bank statement, which always came in a white envelope, or the mortgage bill, which came in a small tan one. This was a thick, heavy legal-size manila envelope.

“Ready, Mom!” David announced, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen. He grabbed his backpack and tossed Josh’s to him.

“Okay, take the keys and go get in the van. I’ll be right out. Don’t forget your hat and gloves.” She returned her attention to the envelope as the boys disappeared down the hall. She waited until she heard the front door close before she opened the mailing. She paused. Did she really need to read this now? Maybe she should wait until the evening. But if she didn’t, it would be on her mind all day, anyway.

Inside was a copy of the mortgage and a statement summary showing the current balance and payment history. She swallowed hard. Six missed payments that year. Had it been that many? She’d expected two, maybe three, but six? She scanned the missed months. Yeah, six was correct. Money had been tight that year, especially with David needing glasses for school and the front window of the house needing replacing after Josh had thrown a baseball through it that summer.

She turned to the last page, which was a letter from Jeff Thompson, the bank’s branch manager and a guy she’d gone to school with. Now their boys played together on the same hockey team. Her knees all but gave way beneath her as she read.

Dear Ms. Myers,

We regret to inform you that due to the arrears owing on your mortgage, we are obligated to ask for payment to bring your account up-to-date. If you are unable to settle the debt, we will be forced to foreclose on the property as of January 1...

The letter continued, but that was all she needed to read. They were going to take her house? The room around her began to spin, and the little blue flowers on the outdated wallpaper she’d loved when they first moved in danced around her. She closed her eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the spinning. January 1 was less than a month away. Even with the promotion, she wasn’t sure if she could settle the debt that quickly. Thirty-two-hundred dollars just to bring the payments up-to-date. She folded the letter and slid everything back into the envelope, then hid it under the stack on the counter. She forced herself to take several deep breaths as the van’s horn sounded outside. The exam needed to be her only focus. She would figure this out. She always did. There was no way she was losing her family’s home.

* * *

THE STAFF LUNCHROOM in the back of the Play Hard Sports store served as the exam room. Melody and two other management trainees competing for the same position at the Newark store sat in the overheated room waiting to begin. Again, she was relieved there had been no one else interested in the position in the Brookhollow store. The whole process had been stressful enough, and she’d have hated to compete for the promotion. Staring at the closed booklet, she replayed over and over the things she’d studied. Heather had taught her to visualize charts and definitions in order to recall them more easily during the test, but today whenever she closed her eyes, all she saw was the notice from the bank. She forced all thoughts of that morning’s disturbing news away. The exam facilitator, a woman from head office, checked her watch and told them to begin.

Melody opened the exam booklet and scanned the first section. She felt the tension in her shoulders begin to melt. Product knowledge—her strongest subject. Not only had she worked in the store for eight months, but she also had the advantage of growing up with two athletic brothers. Now her boys were playing on every sports team in town. Sports equipment was something she knew. She flew through the hundred multiple-choice questions quickly, never second-guessing her answers.

The next section was tougher—questions about the principles of management—but as she skimmed them, images of the cue cards around her house popped into her mind. Thank you, Heather. Furiously, she scribbled detailed responses and even provided examples that weren’t required. Better to give too much in the way of an answer than not enough.

As she turned to the last section an hour later, she felt her cell phone vibrate. She’d put the cell in her purse, which was sitting on the floor against the chair leg. Who was trying to reach her at twelve-thirty on a Monday afternoon? Everyone knew she was writing an exam at that time. She contemplated not reaching for it...but what if it was an emergency? When the boys weren’t with her, she liked to be available. Lowering her right hand, she slid the zipper open on the purse and glanced down to see the caller ID. Brookhollow Elementary. The boys’ school never called unless they were sick or injured.

“Um, excuse me,” she said to the exam moderator.

“Yes?” The woman looked up from the home-and-garden magazine she was reading.

The other two employees glanced up from their exams.

“Sorry,” Melody said. “It’s my son’s school. Can I take it outside?” She held the vibrating phone.

The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, but if you leave the testing area, you can’t reenter.”

“Well, can I answer it quickly here?”

“No.”

Melody stared at the vibrating phone. She was almost done the exam. Another hour at most. Could the call wait? The exam was too important to mess up, especially now, but family always came first. What was she supposed to do? If she left the exam, she wouldn’t get the promotion and the kids would suffer...but what if one of them were hurt? Damn it. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.” She grabbed her purse and rushed from the room, dropping the unfinished exam on the facilitator’s desk as she passed. “Hello?” she said as the room door closed behind her.

“Melody?”

She recognized the school secretary’s voice. “Yes, Amy. Are the boys okay?” She pushed her purse strap up her arm as she rushed down the hockey stick aisle in the showroom toward the front doors.

“It’s David.” The woman paused.

If only I could reach through the phone and strangle this woman. “Is he hurt?”

“No. He’s suspended.”

Melody struggled to catch the phone as it slipped from her fingers. David was suspended? How was that possible? He was a good kid. Sure, he’d been going through a bit of a rebellious phase lately, but that was normal for a boy his age, wasn’t it? Brookhollow Elementary never suspended anyone. At least this was the first suspension she’d ever heard of. “Why?”

“I’d rather tell you in person. Can you come to the school?”

Did she have a choice? “Yes, of course. I’ll be there soon,” she said. She disconnected the call.

Outside in the parking lot, she struggled with the stubborn handle on the minivan, her anxiety making her oblivious to the bitter cold whipping through her long-sleeved, ribbed shirt. She’d forgotten her winter coat in her haste to leave the exam room and answer her vibrating phone. “Come on,” she muttered, yanking the handle and steadying herself as the door flew open. Inside, her hand shook as she shoved the key in the ignition and reached for her seat belt. The strap wouldn’t budge, and glancing down, she saw it was trapped in the door. “Seriously?” Swinging the door open again, she freed the seat belt and slammed the door shut.

She tore out of the parking lot. The tires spun on a snowy patch and she cringed. She really couldn’t put off getting those winter tires any longer. Maybe she needed to allow Bailey to do them for free. If the boys got hurt because of the useless vehicle, she would be devastated.

As she drove, her mind reeled. Her son was suspended. Of all things. Of all days. What possibly could have happened that would have warranted a suspension. Lost in thought, she almost didn’t hear the wail of a police siren behind her. That couldn’t be for her...but a glance at the speedometer confirmed it was. She checked the rearview mirror, hit the brake slowly and pulled the van to the side of the road. She rolled down the window and waited, rubbing her arms for warmth. The van’s heater was useless.

“In a rush?” her father asked, coming up to the open window a minute later.

As the town police chief, her father took his job seriously. She just hoped he’d give her a break this time. A speeding ticket was the last thing she needed. “Hi, Dad. I’m sorry. I wasn’t really paying attention to the speed.”