The Mistletoe Secret Read online

  As I sat there looking out over the mountains, I couldn’t help but think how close I was to LBH. Midway was just east of the range, about thirty miles. I might have seen the town from the air and not known it. She was down there somewhere. LBH had been silent since Thanksgiving weekend. I wondered why she hadn’t been blogging. I realized I was worried about her. Strange that I was worried about someone I didn’t know.

  I arrived back home Thursday night. Daytona Beach was warm compared to where I’d been the last week, but people still wore coats.

  Before going to bed I turned on my computer and pulled up the LBH blog, hoping but not expecting that she’d written something. She had.

  Dear Universe,

  This is my last entry. If you’ve been following my ramblings, let me take this moment to say good-bye. I hoped that blogging would help ease my loneliness, but it hasn’t. Nothing has. I am so weary of hurting all the time. I think it’s time go home. In my heart, home is not a place. It’s a person. It’s my father. I miss my father. I miss him every day. I want to see him again. I want to tell him to his face that I am sorry for what I’ve done.

  I plan to stay here until Christmas. For the sake of the season. That’s what I’m telling myself. Maybe I’m still hoping that something might change. Hope springs eternal.

  I’ll leave on New Year’s Eve. May you, dear wanderer, find what I couldn’t.

  —LBH

  Her last entry. There was a deep melancholy to her message, deeper than anything she’d posted before. There was a finality to it. My heart ached. I didn’t know this woman, yet my heart was breaking for her. I felt loss. I suppose, in a way, I did know her. I knew her because I knew her pain. I knew her because she’d shared her vulnerability and honesty. In that way I’d known her better than someone I’d shared a bed with. I wanted to know her better because of her honesty. And now I knew that if I didn’t find her before New Year’s, I never would.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  The next morning I called Nate. He answered the phone with, “Dude, when’d you get back?”

  “Last night. Do you have time for lunch?”

  “Yes, sir. I always have time for food.”

  “Is Dale around?”

  “Yes, but he’s working from home today. I’ll give him a call. What’s up?”

  “I found her.”

  “You found who?”

  “LBH.”

  “Your blogger woman,” he said. “You spoke with her?”

  “I’ll tell you about it at lunch.”

  Two hours later we met up at a steak house not far from the office. Dale was there. As soon as we sat down he said, “So, don’t leave us hanging. What’s she like?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “But you said that you found her,” Nate said.

  “I know where she lives. In one of her posts she mentioned something called Swiss Days.”

  Nate’s brow furrowed. “She’s in Switzerland?”

  “No. She’s in a small town in Utah called Midway. Every year they have a Swiss Days celebration.”

  Nate sat back, his expression changing from concern to disappointment. “That can’t be the only Swiss Days in the world. There’s probably hundreds of them.”

  “No, there are only three Swiss Days festivals in America, one in Indiana, the other two in Utah. And only one of those matches the date and weather she wrote about.”

  “Impressive, Sherlock,” Dale said.

  Nate still didn’t look convinced. “So you know the town she lives in. That’s a long stretch from knowing who she is. How many people live in this Midway?”

  “A little over four thousand people.”

  “That’s not bad,” Dale said.

  “That’s still a lot of people,” Nate said.

  “Not once you break it down,” I said. I took out a piece of paper I’d written some numbers on. “Listen. According to the last census, there were 2,074 females in Midway. Utah has the youngest population in the US, so thirty-six percent are nineteen or under, that leaves one thousand, three hundred twenty-eight possibilities. Finding one of them with the initials LBH can’t be that difficult.”

  “If this sales thing doesn’t work out, you could find work as a private investigator,” Dale said.

  “I just hope she’s not catfishing,” Nate said.

  I looked at him. “What’s catfishing?”

  “Internet dweebs who pretend they’re someone they’re not.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Nate shrugged. “Lots of reasons. Boredom. Thrill of the hunt. Revenge. Insanity.”

  “He’s right,” Dale said. “There are stories all over the Internet. There was a British woman who convinced a half dozen women that she was a man named Sebastian. She was courting them all at the same time. One of the women figured it out when her Internet lover posted a picture of ‘his’ favorite perfume, not realizing that her own image was reflected in the bottle.” Dale looked me in the eyes. “In other words, LBH might be a bored, twenty-two-year-old manboy.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “If she were really trying to ‘catfish,’ why would she keep her identity hidden?”

  “You’re right,” Nate said. “It would be like running a classified ad in the paper and not leaving a phone number.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “What would be the point?”

  “You know,” Dale said, “I don’t think that finding her will be the most difficult part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean once you find her, what are you going to say? Excuse me, I found you on the Internet and I tracked you down in Utah. You’re going to freak her out. Big-time. If she doesn’t deny it’s her, she’ll probably call the police.”

  I hadn’t thought it through that far. “You’re right,” I finally said. “I guess I’ll jump off that bridge when I reach it.”

  “So what now?” Nate asked.

  I looked at them for a moment, then said, “I guess I’m going to Utah.”

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  That night was our company party. It was held in downtown Daytona Beach at Bratten’s Cove, a swanky seafood restaurant overlooking the ocean. There were a little more than fifty employees there, most with their spouses or partners. I intentionally arrived late. I hated going alone and I didn’t want to arrive before Dale or Nate. I did anyway.

  I got a glass of merlot, then sat down with a dish of cocktail sauce and a cold plate of peel-and-eat shrimp. I had sat there alone for a half hour when Dale and his wife arrived. Michelle, a stunner, was the best evidence of Dale’s sales expertise.

  “Hey, how’s my favorite wallflower?” Dale said.

  “If it isn’t Beauty and the Beast,” I replied.

  “Don’t call my wife a beast,” Dale said. Michelle just rolled her eyes.

  “How does he keep you?” I asked.

  “I guess he’s a good salesman,” she said, hugging me. “How are you, Alex?”

  “Hanging in there.”

  “Dale says you met someone on the Internet?”

  “There are no secrets.”

  “I’m happy for you. She’s from Utah?”

  “Yes.”

  “I used to ski in Utah in my college days. Mostly Deer Valley and Park City. Sometimes Alta. It’s really beautiful. You won’t believe the mountains out there. They’re incredible.”

  “She lives near Park City,” I said.

  Michelle’s smile grew. “That’s really great. You’re going to love it. Does ‘she’ have a name?”

  “I’m sure she does,” I said. “I just don’t know it.”

  Michelle looked at me and then at Dale with an amused grin. “I can’t tell if he’s kidding.”

  Dale shook his head. “He’s not. It’s compl
icated.”

  Michelle hesitated for a moment, as if still trying to figure things out, then said, “Well, I hope things work out.”

  “Thank you. Me too.”

  Dale saluted. “We’re going to get something to eat. When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good luck, buddy. Keep in touch.”

  “Will do.”

  They wandered off to the food table with all the other couples.

  The evening just got more depressing. Technically, the party was great. The food was great. Everyone looked great. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. I just kept drinking and peeling shrimp. I was finally about to leave when Nate walked up to me.

  “Dale said I’d find you here.”

  I looked up at him. “Where have you been?”

  He groaned as he sat down next to me. “Just as we were walking out of the house, Ashley’s sister called. She got in a big fight with her husband and was crying buckets. Ashley was on the phone with her for an hour. I finally had to drag her out to the car.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s still in the car talking to her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hold on, I’m going to get a drink.” He returned a minute later holding a short glass. “So, I’m glad we’re alone. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m worried. Are you really going to Utah to find that woman?”

  “Yes.”

  He frowned. “Is now really the best time?”

  “It’s the perfect time. I don’t have any appointments until January.”

  “I mean . . . emotionally. You know how it is, the holidays can make you kind of . . .”

  “What? Crazy?”

  “Yes,” he said, owning up to his concern. “Being alone during the holidays can make you crazy. I looked up LBH on the Internet. It’s code for Let’s be honest. Think about it. Isn’t that what you liked about the blog entries—her ­honesty? What if those aren’t even her real initials?”

  I had considered the possibility but had always pushed it from my mind. “Then I’m screwed.”

  “Exactly. So why not wait?”

  I took another drink, then said, “Because she posted her last entry. She wrote that she’s going home, wherever that is, and she’s leaving on New Year’s Eve. If I don’t find her before New Year’s, I’ll never find her.”

  Nate continued to look at me grimly.

  “I take it you don’t approve.”

  “No, I don’t. You don’t know her name, you don’t know anything about this woman.”

  “I know.” I took a breath. “Look, it’s hard to explain, but it’s like there’s this voice inside telling me that I’ve got to do this. Maybe it’s desperation. Maybe it’s just crazy, but it’s there. I feel it.”

  “You’re right,” Nate said. “It is crazy. It’s a lunatic affair.”

  “So what if it is? Look at me. I’m all alone drinking while everyone else is having a good time. I’ve been doing predictable and sane for my whole life, and where has it gotten me? I’m thirty-two, divorced, lonely, living in an apartment I hate, working the same job for the last decade, and watching Netflix alone every night before going to bed. Maybe it’s time I tried something crazy.”

  Nate didn’t answer.

  “Haven’t you ever just had a feeling deep in your heart that you needed to do something, even if you didn’t know why? Even if it seemed a little crazy?”

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Yes. I have.”

  “So do I ignore it? Do I pretend it’s not there?”

  Again he didn’t answer.

  “Have you forgotten what it was like before Ashley?”

  Nate shook his head. “No. I remember.” His mouth rose in a sad smile, then he reached over and patted me on the shoulder. “Do what you need to do, brother. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When do you fly out?”

  “Tomorrow around noon.”

  “Where do you land?”

  “Salt Lake City. I’ve got a rental car. Midway’s only an hour’s drive from the airport.”

  “Are there any decent hotels?”

  “I’m staying at a little place called the Blue Boar Inn. If it’s half as nice as it sounds on the Internet, I will be very happy.”

  He smiled. “I hope the same is true of LBH.”

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  My flight landed at Salt Lake City International Airport around half past four. Even though I’d been through it just days before, it seemed different. It was the first time I’d landed there as a final destination.

  The airport was decorated for the holidays with tinsel snowflakes pinned to the walls and hanging from the tile ceiling by wire.

  As I stepped outside the terminal the cold hit me like a slap. It rarely gets below seventy degrees in Daytona Beach, so I didn’t have much (actually any) experience with nostril-freezing cold—which is exactly what the cold did. It froze the inside of my nose as it turned each breath into a visible cloud.

  I had brought the warmest coat I owned, a sheepskin-lined leather aviator jacket, but against this kind of a cold it was about as much protection as Bubble Wrap on a demolition derby car. Just dragging my bag across the terminal road to the car rental center was enough to convince me that I would probably be investing in a parka. How did people live in such cold weather? Why would they?

  Truthfully, I felt a little wimpy as I looked over and saw, on the curb near the passenger pickup, two teenagers wearing nothing but shorts and T-shirts. For the record, one of them was shaking and both were hugging themselves, so at least they were not oblivious to the cold. I guess coats aren’t cool but hypothermia is.

  The man at the car rental booth asked if I was going to one of the ski resorts.

  “No. Midway.”

  “Same thing,” he said. “You’re just next to Park City. You should have four-wheel drive for the snow.”

  “Is there a lot of snow?”

  He smiled. “Yeah.”

  He upgraded me to a Ford Explorer and within ten minutes I was on my way to Midway.

  Following my GPS, I drove the I-215 freeway south to I-80 east toward the mountains until I reached the mouth of the canyon. The guy at the car rental wasn’t kidding about snow. Snow-covered rock walls rose more than a hundred feet above me on both sides of the freeway. It was beautiful but made me feel anxious and claustrophobic. The traffic was somewhat heavy, not just because of the weather conditions, but because it was six o’clock and I had hit the tail end of rush hour.

  I passed the sign for the Park City and Deer Valley ski resorts, then took exit 146 for US-40 toward Heber/Vernal. No mention of Midway. Fortunately, the man at the rental car place had also told me that Heber and Midway were sister cities and even many of the locals didn’t know where one ended and the other began. About ten miles after the exit, a sign directed me west toward Midway and I turned off the highway.

  Midway was more rural than I had imagined, and both sides of the two-lane road were lined with snow-covered trees, pastures, and red, rustic, snowcapped barns. It looked like something out of a Grandma Moses painting.

  I crossed a bridge over a small river and followed the road west past a roundabout with a miniature bell tower in the center, then farther west past a development of Swiss-style chalets, until the road ended in a T. On the side of the road there was a round wooden post with blue metal signs that pointed south to several resorts and one that pointed north, with the words The Blue Boar Inn.

  I turned right. The narrow road wound between more open fields for a hundred yards until it curved west again leading up to a large Swiss chalet. On the wall of a second-story balcony, overhanging the flags of America, Switzerland, France, and Germany, was the inn
’s logo—a blue, tusked boar painted above a flourish of olive leaves. In Gothic lettering it read:

  THE BLUE BOAR INN

  On the front corner of the property was a large bronze statue of a boar. Both sides of the road were lined in thick, ice-crusted snowbanks nearly four feet tall.

  The inn’s cobblestone driveway had been cleared and I drove up to the front door beneath a brook stone façade overhang with a massive Alpine clock. I got my bag out of the backseat and walked up the stairs.

  There was a large Christmas wreath on the arched front door, encircling a door knocker, a boar’s head made of dark, rustic metal.

  I pulled open the door and walked inside, stepping onto the parquet floor of an elaborately decorated lobby. The room smelled of cinnamon and apple, and a dozen or so poinsettias lined the tile floor.

  The dining room was directly ahead of me, a luxurious, red velvet curtain pulled back to one side of the room as if revealing the opening of a show. On the far side was a large, intricately decorated Christmas tree.

  The inn was every bit as luxurious as the webpage had described it to be. More so. I thought of Nate’s words, hoping that I would be as impressed with LBH as I was with the inn.

  I was admiring a picture of a boar set in a frame made of deer antlers, when someone said, “That etching is from the seventeen hundreds.”

  I turned back to see a petite Asian woman standing at the counter, smiling at me. “Are you Mr. Bartlett?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “You’re the last of our guests to check in. Welcome to the Blue Boar Inn.”

  “Thank you,” I said, walking up to the reception counter. “This place is beautiful.”