John seemed to know Leo pretty well, or at least what Leo would do. The tall, tubby man showed up at Cuttings the next day with a short, younger guy in tow.
I’d just gotten a couple of curious little boys corralled after they decided to help by adding mistletoe berries to all the potted ivy. Somewhere in one of the nursery’s mistletoe displays was a plant or two missing a lot of berries. I hoped the boys hadn’t eaten any.
“The song says holly and ivy,” one of them whined while I wrestled the white berries out of their fists.
“These are mistletoe berries, not holly. Holly berries are red, not white.” The boys were pouting and really angry as I stood in front of them, peeling back their fingers. “These berries are poisonous. Did you eat any of them?”
With wide eyes, they shook their head
