Page 20 of Cocoa Kisses
“Go to Mr. Earl’s house to wrangle reindeer and save Christmas? What else is a world-class journalist and high school best friend for?”
“Seriously?” Hope drives up her inflection at the end.
I shrug. In less than two seconds, I’m squished in a Bixby sandwich as Sara and Taylor compete to squeeze me the hardest.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” they say, tripping over each other’s words.
I work an arm free and pat Taylor’s head. “I’m doing it for the twins, of course.”
They let me go, and Taylor grins at me. “Of course. Let me see if Mr. Earl will go for that.”
It turns out the answer is yes, but only after Taylor puts me on the phone to answer his questions about the care and feeding of reindeer to his satisfaction. It’s a long conversation, and I sort of feel like I’ve done an oral defense of a master’s thesis in reindeer wrangling before Mr. Earl begins to sound too tired to be on the phone.
“All right, son,” Mr. Earl says. “If you and Miss Taylor will agree to listen to whatever my nephew tells you to do, and you’ll turn around and bring those deer back to me Sunday after resting them up in a large enough barn somewhere local to yourselves, then I suppose I can agree to that.”
We’ve been on speaker this whole time, and Taylor swoops in to speak directly to him. “It’s a deal, Mr. Earl. Thank you for working with us on this.”
He coughs and gives a phlegmy sniffle. “I try to be in the business of saving Christmas whenever I can.”
“You’ve certainly done that here, Mr. Earl,” she tells him. “I’ll email you with further details later today.”
I end the call, and Taylor and I stare at each other, both of us smiling.
Celia’s head pokes in from the kitchen. “Sorry, could use some help, Sara.”
Sara immediately heads out, but Taylor gets up to follow, so I do too. We all emerge behind the coffee bar to find that the line at the register is four people deep, including a face I know very well.
“Mrs. Green,” I say, hurrying around the counter to the elderly woman standing in line. Although elderly doesn’t feel like the right word. She’s at least eighty now, and she has a head covered in snowy white curls, but between her perfect posture and the twinkle in her eye, it’s hard to think of Lily Green as old. She’s more like timeless.
“You may call me Miss Lily, Levi,” she says, holding out her arms and turning her cheek up for a kiss.
I hug her and drop the expected kiss on her cheek. “You remember me.”
“It hasn’t beenthatlong since you were last in town,” she says. “Besides, I’m not likely to forget one of the most brilliant writers I ever taught, am I?”
In one of the luckiest strokes of my life, I’d had Lily Green for sophomore English in her last year before retirement. “You are being way too generous, Mrs. Green.”
“First of all, it’s Miss Lily,” she corrects me. “You’re not my student anymore.”
“You’re always going to be my teacher,” I say, but when she fixes me with her finely honed teacher “look” that only proves my point, I quickly add, “but I’ll call you Miss Lily.”
She gives a satisfied nod. “Secondly, have you ever known me to be given to empty flattery?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re a brilliant writer if I say you are. Now come sit with me while I drink my tea.”
“Oh, but do you need to order?”
She waves at the register. “Taylor knows my order. Come and visit.”
We sit and catch up, and it reminds me how much I adore this tiny woman. I’m floored to discover she’s kept up with my work.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, twinkling at me again. “I bought a subscription toWorld Viewso I can read your articles. You truly have a gift, Levi Taft.”
Taylor arrives with a cup of tea and one of those cursed blondies. “Here you are, Miss Lily.”
I groan at the sight of the blondie and rub my stomach. “Worst thing that’s happened to me in forever.”
