Hartley (Mail-Order Brides For Christmas)

I know I’ve given Mom plenty of heartache over the years, so I’m not about to rock the boat and screw this up for everyone. Especially since my father handed his beloved hardware store to me only a year ago. Though when I took over the shop, I didn’t realize I’d have to be such a goddamn people person. I love to build things, and tinker — spent years in the mountains hauling timber for a lumber yard. I could spend entire days without speaking beyond a grunt to a guy on the crew. Spending my nights alone, in my cabin.

Then Dad wanted to retire, and the timber yard closed shop — and it seemed like a good enough transition.

Turns out, business is down. Way down. And I know it’s because Dad isn’t here. I may be a Mistletoe, but I sure as hell am not the one the customers want to see.

But I’m trying my best, keep showing up at a job that grates at me. Because the last thing I want to do is piss off the people who have spent their entire lives looking out for me.

Still, getting married is a big fucking deal.

Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued about the idea of making love to a stranger. A woman in my bed, a sweet naked body pressed tight against mine.

Some of my brothers already have their wives in town. Not that I’ve met them. We all made a pact to mind our own business with this whole thing — if the women who are sent to us are a good match, then great. But no expectations.

Or maybe that’s just what I’ve been telling myself. Truth is some of my brothers are better men than me. At least better at relationships.

My mom stops by Mistletoe Hardware right as I’m closing shop to head out to the small airport outside of town. I’m locking the front door, standing in the cold, the winter chill in the air and the bite of the mountain frost twirling around us. Snow has been falling all afternoon and I frown, thinking about the woman flying in to meet me. Hoping like hell her flight is okay.

Mom has that look in her eye that says she is up to something. She’s wrapped in a winter coat with a red and green plaid scarf around her neck. Her earrings are shaped like little wreaths and she has her nails done up like Christmas trees. She looks so happy, and I know it’s not just because it’s 25 days to Christmas.

“What is it, Mom?” I ask, trying my best to be a good son. And who knows, maybe she will have some pearl of wisdom I can learn before I go meet my wife.

“Oh, Hartley,” she says, patting my arm. “I just wanted to stop by and tell you I love you. No matter what happens, nothing will change that.”

I snort. “Is that supposed to be a vote of confidence or your condolences for what might be a terrible marriage?”

She frowns. “Oh sweetie, I just meant that no matter what happens, your father and I will be here for you. Don’t worry about disappointing us.”

I admit to feeling a little hurt by my own mother’s lack of faith in me. Maybe I’ve spent too many years proving everyone right.

“Look, I want to make you happy. Isn’t that why your sons are all doing this anyways?”

Mom presses her lips together. “I’m sorry if I’ve pressured you.”

“A little late for that,” I say a little too tightly.

“I hate that I’ve upset you, Hartley. I should have never done this. But Mason and Nate seem—”

I cut her off. “I don’t want to know about their marriages, Mom. I don’t want to start comparing. With five brothers, it’s all I’ve been doing my entire life.”

Mom sighs, looking across the street. I see her best friend and neighbor Louise wave to her outside the diner.

“Go, Mom, I’m fine,” I tell her, pulling her in for a hug. “It’s freezing out here and I have a wife to meet.”

“You have the ring?” she asks.

I nod. “It’s at home, and Pastor Monroe is meeting us there in a few hours. Which means I really should get going. Especially since it looks like there might be a real snowfall tonight.”

“Remember,” she says, squeezing my hand, “I told Holly Huckleberry all about you, and she’s going to send you the perfect girl. I know it. Just make sure you express yourself, Hartley. I know how you can get.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Mom clasps her hands to her heart. “You don’t tend to share your emotions, Hartley. And this stranger is going need you to communicate.”

“Roger that,” I say, feeling more over my head than ever before.

“I love you,” she says as she leaves. Mom crosses the street and I head to my pick-up truck, wondering what in the hell my perfect girl might be like.