THE CHRISTMAS PROPOSITION
by K. A. Mitchell
from the anthology Men Under The Mistletoe
with Josh Lanyon, Harper Fox and Ava March
Publication Date: December 5, 2011
Available now at:
Carina Press
Amazon Kindle BN NOOK
Men Under The Mistletoe available at:
Carina Press
Amazon Kindle
BN NOOK
It's Christmas in Epiphany, Pennsylvania—the busiest time of year for Mel Halner. But running the family Christmas tree farm has worn down his love for the happiest season of all, and lately Mel's been wondering what if he'd said yes to a ticket out of town with millionaire Bryce Campion three years ago.
Bryce isn't used to people saying no to him, and he can't forget Mel or their brief but sizzling affair. He might not have been offering forever, but Bryce can't understand a guy as sexy and smart as Mel choosing to stay rooted on the family farm over enjoying the high life with him. He's determined to make Mel see what he's missed out on the first chance he gets.
Bruce Springsteen was asking Clarence Clemmons if he'd been good this year. Decorative snowflakes drifted onto rows of evergreens. Kids laughed and chased each other around a classically constructed snowman. On the tenth of December, Holly's Tree Farm was enjoying the peak weekend of peak season. And I was counting down the hours until I could escape this Christmas hell for a glorious week in sunny St. Thomas.
"Sixty hours, twenty-two minutes," I grunted as my sister and I swung the nine feet of Douglas fir up to balance on three feet of Prius roof.
"We know, we know." Allie, my brother's wife, stepped around me to offer hot chocolate to the new owners of the Douglas fir.
"So shut up and tie." My sister threw a length of twine across roof and tree, burning my cheek as the end whipped by.
"Nice shot," I told her as I crouched down in half-frozen mud to look for a place to tie off my end.
We were all pretty good at aiming the twine we used to tie down the trees. Gloves or no, we spent all of January digging fiber slivers out of our skin the way other people combed tinsel icicles out of their carpets.
By the time we had wrapped off the twine, The Boss was hoarsely winding down his version of "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town." The eternally upbeat DJ announced, "And now, a special request from Holly's Tree Farm." I looked around in panic. The first few strains of Andy Williams's "We Three Kings" cued up. I was going to kill my brother. If any of the old timers were here, I'd be stuck reliving the worst part of my childhood.
I headed for the tractor to see if any of the cut-your-owners needed help lugging their future fire hazard back to their car. If I wasn't here, no one could—
Mrs. Carmichael appeared right in my path, two grandchildren in tow. "You're all here this year. Please. They've never seen it."
"Yeah, my kids have never seen you guys do your thing." Her son Mark, wore the same smirk I'd gotten used to in high school.
We'd managed to avoid the ritual since my brother Bal left home. Twelve years of freedom because it didn't work with two.
"C'mon, bro." Bal hooked his arm around my neck and led me toward the life-sized Nativity scene on the left side of the parking lot.
I shut my eyes and let him drag me along. It wouldn't be that bad. One or two pictures, no props or robes.
"Allie found the costumes upstairs and brought them down."
My eyes popped open. What had looked like a bolt of cloth propped up against the wall of the roofed platform resolved into three colors purple, blue, red. Three shining plastic crowns, the frankincense, myrrh, and gold. One for each of the name-cursed Halner children, brother Balthasar, sister Caspar, and me, Melchior.
Cas shrugged into her red robe and slapped a crown on me. "Play nice, Mel. Sixty hours and nineteen minutes."
"Sixteen." I knew to the minute exactly how long every damned Christmas song in recorded history was. I heard them a thousand times between Thanksgiving and January 7.
"Right. So behave."
It was easy for Cas. She'd never had to hear Mark Carmichael sneering, "Shouldn't his robes be pink? He's a natural in a dress."
Somehow Bal had never had that problem. Tall, broad-shouldered and blond, the blue satin only made him look like a king. As Andy crooned his way through the verses, each of us moved from position to offer up our gifts to the plastic baby Jesus in the wooden manger.
Cameras clicked and flashed. Humiliation enough for one year, then the News Nine Williamsport truck rolled into the parking lot, and I wondered if you could actually die from embarrassment.
It must have been a slow news day, as the reporter told me they were going to air today's video with one they'd shot twenty years ago, when the three of us still had single-digit ages, a saccharine segment punnily entitled, "Wee Three Kings."
"Can't beat the free advertising." Bal nudged me hard enough to make my crown tip over my forehead.
I clenched my teeth and thanked plastic baby Jesus that Bryce Campion was miles away from Epiphany, Pennsylvania, probably already on his way to St. Thomas for the wedding. At least when I saw him again, I'd be barefoot and relaxed by a couple of rum runners and not suffering eternal shame under five yards of mildewed, billowing satin.
No matter how many times I tried to make my escape, Bal assured me that his wife had things under control. We were in our basic pose when Cas, who was bent in a bow of reverence behind me said, "Five Finger Death Punch is playing in your ass."
Bal wobbled and almost fell from where he bowed with one foot on the raised platform. "Huh?"
"My phone." I shoved my box of myrrh, my crown and my robe at my sister. "Gotta take this. Could be Tiff." I fished the phone out of my pocket.
Ignoring Bal's opinion on the appropriateness of heavy metal as a ring tone on a Christmas tree farm, I sprinted away from the site of my newsworthy humiliation.
"Hey, Tiff."
As soon as I heard my best friend's voice, I knew with a bone deep chill that had nothing to do with the swirling wind sending a fluffy flake up my nose that I wasn't going to St. Thomas.
"What happened? Did Kurt—?"
"No. He's great." Tiffany sobbed at me. "He's here. Holding me."
Not cold feet then.
"You're going to see it on the news, but…but...
Despite having listened to her cry through more than one high school break up, I couldn't understand her through the hysteria.
"Mel?" Either Tiff's breakdown had given her larynx a sex change or her fiancé Kurt was on the phone now. I'd only met him a few times, but he had a thick Boston accent I'd place anywhere.
"The wedding planner turned out to be a bastard. Took the deposits and disappeared. The resort in St. Thomas never heard of us. Fifteen other couples lost out too."
Just in case I'd considered escaping solo to St. Thomas, my deposit had also been entrusted to the bastard. He'd run off with my dreams of sand between my toes, an umbrellaed drink in my hand and stars on the ocean. Left me with sticky sap, cloying hot chocolate and life-sized plastic Nativity sets.
"So what are you guys going to do?"
Boston, my desperate imagination supplied. It wasn't exactly warm but it was on the ocean. And more importantly, not here.
"Mel?"
Tiff again. I bit back a sarcastic Still here. It wasn't her fault, and she was the one suffering the most.
"Everyone was all ready to travel. I know you guys are busy, but is there any way…please, Mel. Can we do the wedding at the farm?"
"The tree farm?" I asked stupidly, as if there were several other farms Tiff and I could possibly be talking about.
"Your parents used to do it for people. We could do it before you open on Friday."
The day before Christmas Eve. No, that won't be an absolute madhouse.
"Mel?"
It didn't matter that Bal and his wife had spent two weeks of vacation time so I could get my one chance to spend Christmas somewhere else. Or that I was still worrying about whether Cas would fall off the wagon. Or—and this was the one, ladies and gentlemen, that really put an icy sweat down my flannels and thermals&mdashthat I'd still be old stuck-in-Epiphany Mel instead of sun-kissed and sexy the next time I saw Bryce Can't-Be-Bothered-To-Say-Goodbye-After-Two-Months-of-Fucking-Me Campion.
None of that mattered when there was only one possible answer. "Of course, Tiff. We'll make it absolutely perfect."
THE CHRISTMAS PROPOSITION available now at:
Carina Press
Amazon Kindle BN NOOK
MEN UNDER THE MISTLETOE available at:
Carina Press
Amazon Kindle
BN NOOK
Coming Soon!