Brightening, I shoved three into my mouth, groaning a little at the sweet and tart flavors bursting across my tongue. “No one makes pie like you.”
“That’s not pie yet,” she mused, shaking her head. “You always were too impatient.”
I plowed through half the bowl of half-made pie and followed it with some coffee.
“There’s a sandwich.” She gestured to the fridge.
“You’re the best mother I’ve ever had,” I told her, helping myself.
She laughed. “I’m the only mother you’ve ever had.”
“Well, why would I need another?” I asked around a bite of the ham and Swiss.
“Charming just like your father.” Her voice was fond with a hint of wistfulness.
Dad had been gone five years now, and while time dulled the pain, it would never erase his absence.
“Oooh, are those cookies?” I asked, sandwich in one hand and bowl of apples in the other.
“And where would you put them?”
I dumped the rest of the apples into my mouth and showed her my newly freed hand.
“Fine, you can have one, but that’s all! We’re going to be busy tonight.”
“‘Tis the season,” I said, stuffing two cookies in my mouth.
“Mayor Schroder will be here later this afternoon to get the mistletoe.” She reminded me.
“I don’t know why he insists on coming up here to help me harvest it. He doesn’t even own a pair of boots and he covers his ears every time I fire the shotgun.”
“It’s tradition,” she said, adding heaping amounts of crumble to the tops of the pies.
“Well, if Winterbury is anything, it’s traditional.” I agreed, polishing off the sandwich.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Sometimes it feels like we’re all living in the past.”
Mom set aside the bowl and wiped her hands on a dish towel tossed over her shoulder. “Tradition isn’t meant to lock us into the past, Archer. It’s a way to honor it and connect us all in the present.”
“Explain to me why we all need to be connected by a town tragedy centered around a ball of green leaves and berries?” I mumbled.
The raising of the mistletoe and lighting of the town tree was the biggest tradition in Winterbury. It was an event that happened faithfully every single year since before I was born and would likely continue long after I was gone.
And I thought it was stupid.
“It’s not necessarily the mistletoe but what it represents.” She repeated the words she said every year.
You’d think she’d be tired of saying it and I’d be tired of asking, but this conversation was a tradition of its own, I suppose, because every year I criticized it and every year she defended it.
“Yes, it’s a tragedy of two people torn apart, but it’s also a lesson in acceptance and unity. A reminder that love endures and should bring people together, not tear them apart. And what better time to issue the reminder than during Christmas?”
“Or maybe sometimes people just really aren’t meant to be and we shouldn’t force it,” I said, a little bite to the words.
Mom’s forehead creased. “Archer?—”
“Thanks for lunch.” I cut her off. “But I have to get back to work. Lots to be done.” I strode out of the bakery and backthrough the shop, where a couple of helpers were making sure everything was stocked for later.
