Page 26 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
It’s fine.
People go up in planes all the time. People leave Mistletoe Springs all the time.
I don’t want Max growing up scared, and now we’re getting a real adventure.
King Erik’s staff remove our bags, putting Max and my bright duffel bags with the fancy brown leather suitcases with their sharp edges and shiny hardware.
King Erik’s men move efficiently, and I do my best to smile, even though returning to where you were fired isn’t the ideal way to start the day. Not the worst, mind you, but definitely not the best.
Olav explains that we can go straight to the plane. I’m happy that Max and I already had passports when Dean and we were going to visit Italy for vacation. That never happened, and Max and I went to a funeral instead. If we didn’t have passports, Olav would have arranged for us to get emergency ones in Vegas.
A row of staff members stands in front of the big doors leading to the tarmac, like they’re in a goodbye scene in Downton Abbey. Personally, I think they just want a close look at the king, but I suppose it does look rather respectful.
King Erik glances at me, and for some reason, his expression is worried.
And then I see him.
Mr. Brenner.
It ain’t no problem, but my nerves don’t seem to know that, because they zing anyway, like they’re trying to escape him.
I focus straight in front of me, like I’m one of the king’s bodyguards, and don’t make eye contact. It doesn’t work.
“Glen? What are you doing here? These people are important!”
“Good morning, Mr. Brenner.”
“Back to beg for your job, Garland?” He smirks, and I’m humiliated all over again.
“I—uh—” My collar strangles my throat.
Mr. Brenner’s smirk widens, and my heart does a frantic pitter-patter thing, like a rabbit hightailing into a not large-enough burrow entrance.
Then, someone takes my hand. I look to my side, and it’s King Erik. His calm gaze is fixed on Mr. Brenner. Heat zooms through me, which is probably due to the surprise. Not the factthat my fingers are suddenly entwined with the soft, smooth fingers of an adult male who already makes my heart think someone strapped it on a bull in a rodeo. King Erik’s hand is warm and reassuring, and he doesn’t let go, even in front of the man who scoffed and demeaned me.
“Glen is accompanying me home to Solberg,” King Erik says.
Mr. Brenner’s eyebrows move together. “But you’re...”
“A king?”
Mr. Brenner’s jaw drops, and laughter bubbles up within me. I glance at King Erik quickly. Maybe laughing is one of those things that isn’t etiquette-approved. But when I look at him, his eyes dance, and he presses his lips together, and I wonder if it’s so he can contain his own laugh.
Anders seems to be watching us carefully, but he doesn’t seem upset, and we pass a stunned Mr. Brenner.
Finally, we stop in front of the plane, and King Erik releases my hand. I examine the jet. As far as planes go, it’s mighty fancy. It’s a sleek black that I haven’t seen on any of the commercial airlines. The acrid scent of jet fuel and whirr of engines remind me that this ain’t no natural thing, and though the plane soars over us on its giant wheels, it doesn’t seem big enough to take us to a whole new country.
We’re going to leave Mistletoe Springs. We’re going to fly over the red sandstone mountains, over the farms and the cities and the great big Atlantic, all the way to Scandinavia.
I take Max’s hand in mine. Too late it occurs to me that he doesn’t like me to hold his hand, now that he’s a big third grader, but luckily, he just gives me a surprised look, then squeezes his fingers with mine. Maybe he can feel that my fingers are trembling.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Max says. “They don’t do carjackings in the sky.”
“That’s right.” I chuckle, because that’s the sort of thing I should be telling him.
King Erik and Anders exchange worried glances. Don’t think I ever did mention how Dean died. Dean never came back after he left Mistletoe Springs, and I tell myself that Solberg is different, Solberg is safe, and nothing bad will happen to me and Max.
“Ain’t left Mistletoe Springs since my husband died,” I explain. “Guess it took a king to drag me out.”
