Broken Clocks and Mistletoe

The clock shop has become one of my favorite places in the winter. The shop used to be a house wedged between two other buildings: a coffee shop and a bookstore. Just the thought of someone giving up a house between coffee and books confuses me, but nevertheless, it’s a clock shop now. The ticking fades after being inside for a while, which is good because the first time I was dragged in this place I thought I was going to go mad.

A fire burns with warmth in the old brick fireplace and I perch next to it like a bird in the cold. With a book unfurled in my lap, I can hardly read a single word before my ears are filled with the sound of a small voice.

“Mama, look at this one!”

I turn my gaze from the novel to my boy’s bright eyes, the one who brought me here for the first time. The clock in his hands is broken. That’s what Magnus does, he finds the broken clocks. It’s the hands that are wrong; it’s not nine-thirty yet. It couldn’t be past eight, but I haven’t checked the time in a while. Ironic, isn’t it, since I’m in a clock shop?

“You’d think the maker would notice these things,” I mutter. I smile at my son, just four years old. I haven’t told him about the sibling he’ll have soon, but every time I look at the kid I just want to spill. “Good find, Bug.” He smiles with pride.

It’s been hard since his father left three months ago. It’s been hard on both of us.

He points to the four feet that hold up the clock’s face and intricate gold-painted wood. “One is facing the wrong way, see?”

I study the feet and realize he's right. One prong is facing the wrong way, all the others face the front. I look at all the other clocks mounted on the walls of the shop. The hands match up after all.

It is nine-thirty. Of course, the sun had gone down hours ago, but I dismissed it for the cold ways of winter. “It couldn’t be nine-thirty already, can it?”

He frowns, and his big brown eyes, which thankfully, he got from me, fill with concern. He knows I have the intention of taking him home. “Can we stay longer?”

I thumb his cheek and pull him close. His hair is curly, thank the Lord, otherwise it’d be covering his eyes by now. Money has been thin, lately, and I’ve been busy working two jobs to scrape by, but with the house prices going up so much. . . I hardly have time to feed the kid, let alone find a barber to cut his hair. “We’ve got to get you to bed, Bug.”

His nose crinkles as though tears are about to fall from his eyes. “Mama. . .” he whines.

I press my forehead to his—that’s our thing. We do it when we need each other most. He looks up at me as I stand and fold the book under my arm. “I’ll read you a story when we get home, how about that?”

Magnus smiles. Curse that child! He could get anything with that smile. I tussle his hair and take his hand to lead him out of the clock shop.

“Goodnight, Tom,” I say with a wave. The old clockmaker, with lines of time riddled in his face, smiles at me through a bushy white mustache. Magnus, with the clock still in his hand, runs over to him waving the time-teller.

He chuckles in his grandfatherly way and waves at me. “Come again tomorrow, Elaine, your son is a master at finding my mistakes.” He winks at Magnus and accepts the flawed clock. He flips a quarter to which my son catches on a lucky whim.

“Tom,” I say, drawing out his name. “You shouldn’t have—”

“Consider it a Christmas present to my favorite customers.”

I offer a protesting smile. “We’ve never bought a single clock, Tom. And Christmas was nearly a week ago.”

His rosy cheeks swell with another smile. “Then Happy New Year, to my favorite friends.” Magnus solutes the old man and chases me up to the door. The bell jingles as I press the door open.

Just as I take a step to leave, a man blocks me in the door. I would feel threatened if it weren’t for his big round glasses and a satchel full of books and a head full of messy hair. I take a step back and shield Magnus behind me out of habit. “Sorry, I was just leaving,” I whisper with my eyes on the ground.

He raises his finger under my chin and lifts my head to meet his eyes. A charmingly awkward smile stretches across his face. “Just a moment, miss, don’t leave just yet.” He points above him. I look up.

Of course.

Mistletoe.

I chuckle and brush my hair behind my ears. I feel my cheeks get warm.

“Don’t leave me hanging, miss,” he pleads. He takes one of my hands and kisses it. He lifts my arm and gives me a twirl, all under the door frame.

A brisk winter wind brushes through the door and I shiver, unable to keep myself from smiling. “Might I know the name of the man who wishes to kiss me?”

His eyes twinkle. “Only if I can know the name of the beautiful woman standing before me. Do tell me, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” He pulls me closer, his gaze falling dangerously close to my lips.

“Come on, that’s all you’ve got?” I run my tongue down my lip. “Elaine,” I whisper. Soft enough he has to pull me closer to hear it.

“I’m Toby.”

I lift my eyebrow and hold my gaze. “Toby,” I repeat, letting each syllable roll off my tongue.

He beams. “The mistletoe can’t wait all year, you know.”

Another terrible joke. Of course, it will be a new year soon. I shake my head, close my eyes, and meet his lips.

He tastes of a breath mint, a sign of nervousness and preparation. How long has he been watching me from afar? We part and lock eyes once more before he steps away from the door frame with his arm extended, allowing me to continue on my way. “Happy New Year, Elaine.”

Our hands linger on one another before we part ways.

My heart skips a beat as another cold wind blows through the town. I wave down a horse-pulled carriage and wait for it to slow. I can’t seem to stifle my smile, and my skin tingles where his hand held mine. I turn back to see him again, and I catch him giving Tom a kiss on the cheek.

Could he be. . . oh, how could I have overlooked this? Toby must be Tom's son! My heart swells with a warm feeling again, seeing Tom smile and Toby. There's such a kind way about him. I feel myself smile again.

Toby.

What a nice name.