Make-Believe Mistletoe

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Lucy Guerin had never quite understood the appeal of a white Christmas. After all, the holidays were traditionally a time for travel, and snowy weather had a way of seriously impeding travel plans. When Bing Crosby crooned about glistening treetops, he had probably not had anything like this in mind, Lucy thought glumly, staring out the rapidly icing windshield of her small car.

She had asked Santa for a man for Christmas, but she hadn't meant Jack Frost.

Ice storms happened fast and sometimes without much warning in the Ozarks. The weather guy Lucy had listened to had said that, depending on the temperature, there would be rain or snow or maybe ice. His own guess had been rain changing to light snow with little accumulation.

He had been wrong.

The ice on twisting, rural Highway 65 through north central Arkansas was growing thicker by the moment, causing Lucy's car to slide perilously. It was rapidly getting dark at 5:00 p.m. on this December 23. Between the heavy clouds and early sundown of winter, little natural light remained to guide her way. The beams of her headlights splintered off the falling ice. She was still several miles from the nearest town, and the only sign she saw warned that the next five miles of road were winding and steep. Great.

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