Mom gasped again. She was a gasper. “That’s the perfect idea! I had no idea you were planning to attend tonight, Toby.”
“I’m not,” I deadpanned.
“Just wait until you see how much the farm has grown. It’s just beautiful.” She went on as though I didn’t even speak.
“You and Dad are going?” I questioned.
“Of course,” she said. “We’ve been there every year since Archer started the tradition.”
If we talked about Archer any more, I was going to hurl myself into his fun,amazing,andtraditionalbonfire.
“Great. Then you and Dad can pick up a tree and wreath,” I said. Look at me being a problem solver. I held up the schedule, waving it around. “I have client files to go over.”
“Oh, please. You’ve known these people all your life.”
“But their pets are new,” I pointed out.
Mom waved away my words. “You can go over them in the morning.” To Brandy, she said, “Do you know he wakes up before the sun?”
“He’s a workaholic,” Brandy told her like it was some official diagnosis.
Mom made a sound of agreement. “And I thought George was bad.”
I glanced at Brett for help.
“Don’t look at me. My dad is making me harvest mistletoe with him. In the dark.”
“That’s a town tradition too,” Mom told him. “And if you go now, you’ll get there before the sun is completely set.”
Brett grimaced and then said to me, “They shoot it down from the tree with a shotgun.”
I nodded. “I know.”
Brett’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’ve done it?”
“Are you kidding?” Mom chimed in. “From the time he was knee high, he and Archer were out there every year to see who would be the first to catch it when it fell from the branches. One year, it hit him in the head, and he cried. He wouldn’t stop until Archer hit himself in the head with it too.”
“Mom,” I admonished. Completely embarrassed, I turned to Brett. “I was like five.”
“Eight.” Mom corrected me. “When they were thirteen, Archer’s father—God rest his soul—taught the boys how to shoot it down. Toby’s first shot hit an old hornet nest, and it fell at their feet, making them scream bloody murder until they realized the bees were long gone because it was winter.”
Well, how was I supposed to know that? All I saw was some huge nest hurtling toward me. At thirteen, I thought the bees might be hibernating inside and were going to be mad as hell that their nest was destroyed.
“You can shoot too?” Brett seemed impressed.
“Clearly not very well,” I muttered.
“Of course he can. Warren taught both boys. Of course, it’s a skill only Archer uses now since Toby’s in Boston.” Mom was just a wealth of information today, wasn’t she?
Even still, I couldn’t help but ask, “Archer shoots it down?”
Mom nodded. “Every year since his father passed. I imagine it’s a bittersweet thing to do.”
A lump formed in my throat. Warren Hodge died five years ago, and I hadn’t even come home for the funeral. It seemed like the wrong thing to do, even if I had wanted to be there. He’d been a good man, a second father to me. I still felt guilty, but given the relationship between me and Archer, I thought it best to let him grieve in peace. I thought about Archer with his father’s shotgun, standing under that big oak tree at the edge of their property every year, alone except for all the memories of the years before. How painful it must be to carry on a tradition after someone who taught you was no longer here.
“And then one year—” Mom started, and I nearly kicked off my sneakers, turning to Brett to speak over her.
“Actually, do you mind if I tag along? I haven’t seen the old oak tree in years or the harvesting of the mistletoe.”
