The Mistletoe Promise by Richard Paul Evans Page A

pretty with short, spiky auburn hair. Over a red knit shirt she wore a black apron that read:
    THE ONLY REASON
    I HAVE A KITCHEN
    IS BECAUSE IT CAME
    WITH THE HOUSE
    “Nicholas,” she said joyfully. “And this must be Elise. I’m Sharon.”
    “Hello,” I said. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
    “Happy Thanksgiving to you too,” she returned. She looked down at the pies we carried. “Those look delicious, let me take that from you,” she said, taking the cookie sheet from my hands. “Boys, come here. Fast.”
    Two young boys, close in age, appeared at her side.
    “Carry these into the kitchen and don’t drop them.”
    “Okay,” they said in unison.
    “Now we can properly greet,” she said, hugging me first then hugging and kissing Nicholas. “It’s so good to see you. You haven’t been around much lately.”
    “Work,” he said. “And more work.”
    “You lawyers work too much. But Scott says your absence might have something to do with your new friend,” shesaid, looking at me. “Elise, we’re so pleased you’ve joined us. Nicholas has told us so much about you.”
    “Good things, I hope.”
    “All good,” she said. Suddenly her brow fell. “Wait, have we met before?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You look familiar. I have a pretty good memory for faces. You aren’t famous, are you?”
    “No.”
    “You haven’t been in the newspaper or on TV?”
    I froze. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, but I was always caught off guard. “I . . .”
    “Sharon,” Nicholas said lightly, “stop interrogating her. She just has one of those faces.”
    Sharon smiled. “She definitely has a pretty one. I’m not often wrong about things like that, but there’s always a first.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “Now come in, come in. We’re almost ready to eat. Make yourself at home. I need to check on the rolls, but let me take your coats.”
    I shrugged off my coat and handed it to her. As she started to turn away, a man, stocky and broad shouldered with blond hair neatly parted to one side, walked up behind her. “St. Nick,” he said, extending his hands to Nicholas in greeting.
    “Hey, buddy,” Nicholas returned. They man-hugged and then, with his arm still across the man’s shoulder, Nicholas said to me, “This is Scott.”
    Scott reached his hand out to me. “So glad you could come. Nick’s told us so much about you.”
    All I could think of was Nicholas’s description of Scott as a potato picking Idaho farm boy, which was exactly what he looked like, except without dirt beneath his fingernails. I took his hand. “Thank you. I was glad to be invited.”
    “I guarantee you won’t go away hungry,” Scott said. He turned to Nicholas. “I hate to do this today, but can I ask you something about the Avalon case? I’ve got to get back to them by seven.”
    “No rest for the wicked,” Nicholas said. He turned back to me. “Sorry, I’ll be right back. Just . . . mingle.”
    As they slipped off to Scott’s den, I walked into the living room and kitchen area. Adjoining the living room was the dining room, with a long table that was beautifully set with a copper-colored linen tablecloth, gold-trimmed china plates on gold chargers, and crystal stemware. There was a floral centerpiece in autumn colors with two unlit red candles rising from its center.
    The two boys were now lying on their stomachs, playing a video game in front of the fireplace. Across from them, on the sofa, was an elderly woman I guessed to be the grandmother. She looked like she was asleep. I drifted toward the kitchen, where Sharon was brushing butter over Parker House rolls.
    “May I help?” I asked.
    “I could use some help,” she said. “Would you mind opening that can of cranberry sauce and putting it on a plate? The can opener is in that drawer right there.”
    I found the can opener, opened the can, and arranged the sauce.
    “Your pies look divine,” Sharon said. “Nick usually just picks them up from