Mistleton and Other Men

Mistleton rejoined the group just as they were settling around the table. “Hunter dropped those off while you were getting changed,” Woody remarked, nodding toward the blue asters he’d placed in a vase on the sideboard.

“Oh, right,” Mistleton replied, glancing at the arrangement already on the table. “They’re just… for the table.” Woody raised an eyebrow but decided not to point out the obvious.

Woody and Mistleton took their seats at opposite ends, with Woody on the side closest to the pantry. To his left sat Vex and then Holly, with Sharon and Noah to his right.

For the meal, Woody started everyone off with a creamy butternut squash soup lightly seasoned with nutmeg. The rest of the meal, served family style, featured all the classic comforts of a farmhouse Thanksgiving: a spatchcocked turkey, herb-roasted with sage, thyme, and rosemary; a bread-based stuffing with onions, celery, and herbs, cooked beneath the turkey to soak up its flavorful juices; buttery mashed potatoes with roasted garlic; a medley of roasted root vegetables—baby carrots, parsnips, sweet potatoes, and Brussels sprouts—tossed with olive oil and rosemary; a simple salad of fresh greens, cranberries, pecans, and a light vinaigrette to balance the richness of the other dishes; a refreshingly tart cranberry relish with oranges; and either his creamy, spiced pumpkin pie or Holly’s apple pie for dessert.

For wine, Woody stayed local, serving a crisp Riesling with the soup, followed by a light red blend of Chambourcin, Chancellor, Léon Millot, Noiret, and Merlot grapes. He finished with a slightly fizzy white Moscato alongside dessert.

The dinner conversation flowed easily, with Mistleton mostly listening, getting up occasionally to refill everyone’s wine glass. The legend of Stella Styles’s death by fatal thorn had taken on a life of its own, leaving little more to say—or laugh about—than how it seemed to grant people in town the license to believe all sorts of outlandish things. Conspiracy theories abounded about a township ‘deep state’ operating against the will of the local electorate, deliberately messing up road signage to keep residents off balance, or purposely clogging toilets at park facilities just to justify property tax hikes for dubious repairs. As the feast-induced coma settled over the table, Holly—always one for traditional roles during the holidays, regardless of sexual orientation, gender identity, or women’s equality—enlisted Sharon to help her clear the dishes. The men retreated to the den, where Woody prepared the fire while Mistleton replenished the Armagnac decanter and poured four generous snifters.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to veer in an unexpected direction. Vex, who had been surreptitiously topping off his coupe with Armagnac all evening, launched into a lecture about how the Vine should use Mistleton’s Prohibition story, including how it catered to men seeking underground sex. “I have it all laid out. It’ll be adult-only,” he said, reminding everyone of his years of experience writing and teaching erotic fiction.

Mistleton glanced at Woody, who, avoiding his gaze, gave himself away. Woody’s eyes drifted to the blue asters, as if the flowers might somehow undo the tension between them. They were, in Mistleton’s words, “just… for the table,” yet they seemed to introduce a tension all their own. Holly’s remark about someone being in love flickered back to him. Who, exactly, were these flowers for?

“We can use that photo of those two guys selling mistletoe as the main romantic leads,” Vex continued, a proud grin spreading across his face. “And add something about the farmhand getting caught fucking the boss’s son in a speakeasy bathroom and then waiting out the Depression, planting seed both in the ground and in the boys in the barracks!”

This time, Woody glanced at Mistleton. Sure, even though he shouldn’t have, he’d shared the general outline of Mistleton’s family story with Vex. It was too juicy to keep bottled up and Vex had promised not to mention it to anyone. But here Vex was, well into his cups, not only outing Woody—not just once for the story, but twice for the photo—but also injecting details that he certainly, and Mistleton supposedly, knew nothing about. Maybe he’s just making the rest up, Woody thought to himself.

Mistleton, clearly disturbed but also confused and a little inebriated, interjected. “Don’t go there, Julian. I don’t know where you got that information, but I’m not investing in the Vine to perpetuate family scandal—real or imagined.”

“You’re a chemist, right, Mistleton?” Vex asked, his gaze sharp and probing. “Why don’t you whip up a magic herbal ‘love potion’ to sell at the tavern or in your store? People around here seem desperate enough—it’d probably fly off the shelves.”

“Enough, Julian,” Mistleton shot back, his patience clearly fraying. He leveled a hard look at Vex, making it clear he’d had enough of the taunts.

Sensing the growing tension and wanting to steer the conversation elsewhere, Noah asked Mistleton about his plans for the building next door to the tavern.

“Oh, so the word is out about that, too,” Mistleton replied, calmly, though slightly annoyed by how quickly things were being spread around—and by the assumption that Noah was in the loop at all. Woody fixed his eyes on Mistleton, grateful and somewhat relieved that Noah had asked the question weighing on his mind.

“I want to reopen the family apothecary,” Mistleton revealed flatly. “Not as an actual apothecary, but more of a gourmet market. I think the time is right.”

At that moment, Holly and Sharon, having finished in the kitchen, rejoined the group. Mistleton stood up, offering both women a snifter of Armagnac. Holly readily accepted, but Sharon politely declined, requesting something lighter instead. With a nod, Mistleton poured her a tulip glass of Pineau des Charentes and sat back down.

Sharon asked Mistleton innocuous questions about what the market would sell and how he envisioned the layout. Emboldened by the warmth of the spirits from her glass, Holly interrupted with, “Yeah, and he’s going to expect me to run it, just you wait and see!” Her playfully sarcastic remarks drew laughter, bringing levity back into the room. From that point on, the conversation lightened and flowed comfortably onto other topics, capturing some of the intimacy Woody had hoped to achieve and giving Mistleton a natural moment to excuse himself temporarily.

Expecting a busy holiday weekend at the tavern, Noah flashed Sharon the signal that he was ready to leave. Holly had the same idea, and soon everyone stood, thanking Woody for a lovely meal and evening before heading to the hall for their coats. Mistleton rejoined them, carrying three small, gift-wrapped boxes tied with pale blue ribbons, each marked with an embossed gold seal that read ‘Mistleton Apothecary.’ “Here’s a little taste of what’s to come,” he said, handing out the boxes as they all made their way to the door.

Once outside, Holly remembered her pie plate and the care packages of leftovers Woody had insisted they take with them. She and Sharon went back into the house, leaving Noah and Vex alone on the porch.

“That was a nice evening, don’t you think?” Noah asked Vex.

“Sure, if you remove Mistleton,” Vex replied dryly. “What an asshole.”

In the awkward silence that followed Vex’s insult, Noah focused on the box in his hands. Curious about the contents—and looking for a distraction—he began to undo the wrapping paper on one end.

“Uh-oh. Here, Julian, you can take this,” Noah said, handing Vex the box. “They’re pralines, and Sharon’s allergic.”

In the house, Woody took a final tour around the first floor, putting out candles and turning off lights that didn’t need to be on for a final Armagnac in the den. Mistleton met him in the hall.

“Woody, about that photo…” he said, the flat tone of his voice revealing neither anger nor curiosity.

Unsure where Mistleton was heading, Woody interrupted. “Bush, uh, I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s alright, Woody.” Mistleton countered. “Where did you find it?”

“In the piano bench,” Woody answered, unwilling to do anything at this point other than respond directly to Mistleton’s question.

Mistleton turned and headed into the living room, making his way over to the piano in the corner, with Woody following a good ten feet behind him. Mistleton lifted the bench lid and picked up the photo carefully in his hands.

“Thank you for dinner, Woody,” Mistleton offered softly, without any prompting.

“The man on the right in the photo… he looks just like you, Bush,” Woody countered, sensing a growing closeness between them.

“Not exactly, though I can see the resemblance. It’s my great uncle, after all,” Mistleton replied, his gaze lingering on the photo, a tenderness softening his features.

“And the man on the left… could that be his lover?” Woody asked gently, attuned to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I suppose it is,” Mistleton said, his voice carrying a faint hint of something unspoken.

“Would you like to have one final Armagnac in front of the fire before heading up, Bush?” Woody asked, his tone warm and inviting, hoping to extend the intimacy of the evening into the night and, he hoped, Mistleton’s bed.

“The day really wore me out, Woody. I’m going to head straight to bed.”

Woody followed Mistleton out into the hall and then stopped, standing motionless, as he watched him climb the stairs, photo in hand. The sound of Mistleton’s door clicking shut echoed through the empty house, leaving Woody alone with the shadows and the lingering scent of candles and Armagnac. He poured himself one last drink, feeling the weight of the quiet settling around him.