It Must Have Been the Mistletoe...
Read It Must Have Been the Mistletoe... Online
Authors: Kate Hoffmann
Of Kate Hoffmannâ¦
“Hoffmann's deeply felt, emotional story is riveting. It's impossible to put down.”
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The Charmer
“Romantic, sexy and heartwarming.”
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Who Needs Mistletoe?
Of Rhonda Nelsonâ¦
“Well plotted and wickedly sexy, this one's got it allâincluding a completely scrumptious hero. A keeper.”
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The Ranger
“Wonderfully written and heart-stirring, the story flies by to the deeply satisfying ending.”
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The Soldier
Of Tawny Weberâ¦
“Sexy, hot, intriguing as well as fun are all hallmarks of a Tawny Weber tale.”
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CataRomance
“If you like laugh-out-loud tales laced with spicy scenes, I recommend Tawny Weber. I look forward to reading more from this talented author.”
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Romance Junkies
Kate Hoffmann
began writing for Harlequin Books in 1993. Since then she's published sixty books, primarily in the Harlequin Temptation and Harlequin Blaze lines. When she isn't writing, she enjoys music, theater and musical theater. She is active working with high school students in the performing arts. She lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her two cats, Chloe and Tally.
A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA
®
Award nominee and
RT Book Reviews
Reviewer's Choice nominee,
Rhonda Nelson
loves dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. In addition to a writing career, she has a husband, two adorable kids, a black Lab, and a beautiful bichon frise who dogs her every step. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure and check her out at www.readRhondaNelson.com.
Tawny Weber
is usually found dreaming up stories in her California home, surrounded by dogs, cats and kids. When she's not writing hot, spicy stories for Harlequin Blaze, she's shopping for the perfect pair of shoes or drooling over Johnny Depp pictures (when her husband isn't looking, of course). Come by and visit her on the web at www.tawnyweber.com.
Rhonda Nelson, Tawny Weber
IT MUST HAVE BEEN THE MISTLETOEâ¦
Kate Hoffmann
T
HE WINDOWS OF THE
converted school bus were caked with frost. Alison Cole peered out at the dimly lit parking lot. Though she loved winter, she'd always imagined it would be much more comfortable spent in a real home, with a fireplace and a functioning furnace and a Christmas tree with lights and tinselânot in an old bus traveling the highways ofâ¦well, whatever state they'd found themselves in that day.
Today, they were at a holiday craft fair in Minot, South Dakota. Or was it North Dakota? Her musician parents were inside the arena, entertaining the crowds, while their three children were supposed to be doing the math homework their mother had assigned that morning.
Though her parents found this gypsy lifestyle fulfilling, Alison couldn't say the same for herself. A thirteen-year-old girl was supposed to experience certain things in lifeâboys, shopping, movies, school dances. She didn't even have a best friend, beyond eleven-year-old Layla and nine-year-old Rita. And who wanted to be best friends with their little sisters?
“That's mine!” Rita screamed.
Alison turned away from the window to see her sisters fighting over a fashion magazine. She broke up the argument and grabbed the offending article. “Where did you get this?”
Rita stared at her sullenly, refusing to answer, her arms crossed over her chest.
“She stole it,” Layla confessed. “She found it on the counter at that diner where we ate dinner last night and she put it in her backpack on the way out.”
“No one wanted it,” Rita cried. “And it was just sitting there. They would have thrown it out anyway.”
“Why would you want this?” Alison asked, flipping through the pages of
Vogue.
“It's for grown-ups, not little girls.”
“I'm not little!” Rita reached out and grabbed the magazine. “Besides, I like the pictures. The models areâ¦pretty. And the clothes are interesting. I'm making my Christmas list.” She pointed to a photo. “I want these shoes.”
Alison shook her head. “We should practice. I have a new song I want to try.”
“We're supposed to do our math,” Layla said.
In order to accommodate a life of touring, their mother had been homeschooling the girls at a table near the front of the bus. In addition to the basic subjects like math and history, the girls also got a large dose of traditional American music from their fatherâfolk, country, bluegrassâalong with a smattering of rock and pop. And all on their parents' collection of instrumentsâguitar, fiddle, mandolin, dulcimer.
When they weren't playing, they were listening, anything from Robert Johnson to Bill Monroe to the most obscure artists their father could find in the discount bin at the music stores they frequented. Alison had saved her meager allowance and made her first purchase a few years agoâa Jean Ritchie cassette she'd found at a flea market where her parents had been playing. From the moment she'd popped the cassette into the player, she knew this was her kind of music, simple mountain songs, full of longing and despair. This was the voice of an angel, and every day since, she'd tried to emulate it.
“Get your mandolin out, Layla. We can do math later.”
Her sister eagerly scrambled over a pile of laundry that their mother had left for them to fold and grabbed the battered case of the mandolin she'd received the previous Christmas. Layla glanced over at Rita, who was now absorbed in her magazine, an anxious expression on her face.
Their youngest sister had never been interested in music. At only nine, she'd made it her goal to hate everything that Alison and Layla loved. She refused to conform to what anyone expected of her. She was stubborn and rebellious and a general pain in the butt. And yet, Alison still hadn't given up on her. If Rita had inherited any musical talent at all, it wouldn't take long to teach her what she needed to know.
“Skeeter, you have to sing, too,” Alison said. She used her pet name for Rita, hoping she might persuade her sister to join in willingly. “This song really needs harmony and I can't sing both parts.”
Rita rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “No. I'm reading. Make Layla sing.”
“You're looking at pictures,” Layla said. “And I can't sing and play at the same time.”
“If you try, just for a little while,” Alison said, “I'll get you another fashion magazine the next time we're in town.”
“How are you going to do that?” Rita asked. “You don't have any money.”
Alison wasn't sure how she'd keep her promise, but that didn't matter now. She'd heard an interesting song on one of her father's cassettes and was dying to try it out with her own little trio. The Cole Sisters. That's what they'd call themselves. Just like the Carter Family or the Judds. Since they were on the road anyway, why not become the opening act for their parents?
“I want to start with âBarbara Allen,'” Alison said. “And then, âThe Cherry Tree.' And âGypsy Laddie.' And the new one is called âMolly Ban.' It's so sad and pretty. It's about a
boy who shoots his girlfriend because he mistakes her for a swan.”
“Jeez,” Rita grumbled. “What? Are you working up an act?”
“What if I am?” Alison glanced over at Layla. “It's not so impossible. Kid acts are really big and there are plenty of families who sing together.”
“Yeah, when they're old,” Layla countered.
“It's already been done,” Rita said, her nose still stuck in the pages of her magazine. “They called it the Partridge Family.”
“Who?” Layla and Alison asked in tandem.
Rita glanced up and sighed dramatically. “Some really old group from the seventies. The Partridge Family? They had a show on television.”
“Mom doesn't let us watch television. When did you see it?”
“Those kids I met at the folk festival last fall,” Rita explained. “They had a television in their bus and they had lots of tapes.” She set her magazine down. “The show's about this family who rides around on a bus and plays music together. But they play rock music. And they have a regular house, too. And there's no father. And there are five of them and only three of us. Two, if you don't count me. And one if you don't count Layla.”
“Next time you find someone with a television, you have to invite me along,” Layla said. “When I get older, I'm going to have a television in every room of my house. And I'm going to eat as much candy as I want. And regular bread, not that whole wheat stuff that Mom makes us eat.”
“So, what do you think?” Alison asked.
“About what?” Layla looked puzzled.
“A group. The three of us, together onstage. We could do it. We'd need to work on our harmonies, and Rita would have
to learn to play an instrument, but if we perform together, we could make a little money.”
Rita frowned. “Except that I
can't
sing or play or do anything that anyone wants to pay to watch. And Layla won't do it.”
“Why not?” Alison turned to her middle sister. “You're the best musician of us all.”
“She's scared,” Rita said.
“I'm not,” Layla countered.
“You are so. That time Mom and Dad brought us onstage last year at the Christmas show, you almost peed your pants you were so scared. And we were just singing âSilent Night' along with them. You forgot the words and your face turned all red and then you had a stomachache for two days.”
Alison looked at the stricken expression on Layla's face. “It's all right,” she murmured, her dreams suddenly fading. “We can work on that. You'll get more comfortable the more you perform.”
Layla shook her head. “No, I won't.” She grabbed her mandolin and headed for the rear of the bus, then plopped down on the bunk bed she called her own.
Rita shrugged and went back to her magazine. “I guess you're just going to have to make a solo act,” she said, a satisfied smirk curling the corners of her mouth.
Alison reached around her sister and picked up her dulcimer. “Well, Merry Christmas to you, too.” She stomped up to the driver's seat and plopped down. “I hate this bus. I can never get far enough away from you two.”
Someday, she'd have everything she dreamed about. Someday, she'd own a placeâand it wouldn't have wheels! And she'd be the one making decisions about where she'd go and what she'd do. And when she performed, people would listen to her and smile and clap for hours on end. And when she traveled, she'd sleep in a proper hotel with a bed and a real bathroom. And when Christmas came around, she'd have a
real tree, not some silly plastic thing they found at a flea market.
“Someday,” Alison murmured. “Someday, everything will be different.”
