1225 Christmas Tree Lane

“Mom!”

The front door slammed and Beth Morehouse hurried out of the kitchen. Three days before Christmas, and her daughters were home from college—at last! Her foreman, Jeff, had been kind enough to pick them up at the airport while Beth dealt with last-minute chores. She’d been looking forward to seeing them for weeks. Throwing her arms wide, she ran toward Bailey and Sophie. “Merry Christmas, girls.”

Squealing with delight, they dropped their bags and rushed into her embrace.

“I can’t believe it’s snowing. It’s so beautiful,” Bailey said, holding Beth in a tight hug. At twenty-one, she was the oldest by fourteen months. She resembled her father in so many ways. She was tall like Kent and had his dark brown hair, which she’d tucked under a knitted cap. Her eyes shone with a quiet joy. She was the thoughtful one and that, too, reminded Beth of her ex-husband. Three years after the divorce, she still missed him, although pride would never allow her to admit that. Even her budding relationship with Ted Reynolds, the local veterinarian, paled when she thought about her life with Kent and their history together.

“My turn.” Displacing Bailey, Sophie snuggled into Beth’s embrace. “The house looks fabulous, Mom. Really Christmassy.” This child was more like Beth. A few inches shorter than her sister, Sophie had curly auburn hair and eyes so blue they seemed to reflect a summer sky. Releasing Beth, Sophie added, “And it smells wonderful.”

Beth had done her best to make the house as festive and bright as possible for her daughters. She’d spent long hours draping fresh evergreen boughs on the staircase leading to the second-floor bedrooms. Two of the three Christmas trees were loaded with ornaments. The main tree in the family room was still bare, awaiting their arrival so they could decorate it together, which was a family tradition.

A trio of four-foot-tall snowmen stood guard in the hallway near the family room where the Nativity scene was displayed on the fireplace mantel. Decorating had helped take Beth’s mind off the fact that her ex-husband would be joining them for Christmas. This would be the first time she’d seen him in three years. Oh, they’d spoken often enough, but every conversation had revolved around their daughters. Nothing else. No questions asked. No comments of a personal nature. Just the girls and only the girls. It’d been strictly business. Until now.

Until Christmas.

They both loved the holidays. It was Kent who’d first suggested they have several Christmas trees. Always fresh ones, which was one reason Beth had been attracted to the Christmas tree farm when she started her new life.

“I’ve got lunch ready,” Beth said, trying to turn her attention away from her ex-husband. He still lived in California, as did the girls. He’d stayed in their hometown of Sacramento, while Bailey and Sophie both attended university in San Diego. According to their daughters, Kent had asked to come for Christmas. She’d known for almost two weeks that he’d made reservations at the Thyme and Tide B and B in Cedar Cove. The news that he’d be in town had initially come as a shock to Beth. He hadn’t discussed it with her at all. Instead, he’d had their daughters do his talking for him. That made everything more awkward, because it wasn’t as if she could refuse, not with Bailey and Sophie so excited about spending Christmas together as a family. But Kent’s plans had left her with a host of unanswered questions. Was this his way of telling Beth he missed her? Was he looking for a reconciliation? Was she? The questions swarmed in her head, but the answers wouldn’t be clear until he arrived. At least she’d be better able to judge his reasons. His intentions. And her own…

“Just like it used to be,” Bailey finished. Beth had missed whatever she’d said before that, although it wasn’t hard to guess.

Just like it used to be. These were magic words, but Beth had recognized long ago that the clock only moved forward. Yet the girls’ eagerness, Kent’s apparent insistence and her nostalgia for what they’d once shared swept aside her customary reserve.

“Mom?” Bailey said when she didn’t respond. “We’re talking…. Where are you?”

Beth gave a quick shake of her head. “Woolgathering. Sorry. I haven’t had much sleep lately.” Exhausted as she was, managing the tree farm and getting ready for Christmas with her daughters—and Kent—she’d hardly slept. She couldn’t. Every time she closed her eyes, Kent was there. Kent with his boyish smile and his eyes twinkling with mischief and fun. They’d been happy once and somehow they’d lost that and so much more. Beth had never been able to put her finger on what exactly had gone wrong; she only knew that it had. In the end they’d lived separate lives, going their own ways. Their daughters had kept them together—and then they were off at college, and suddenly it was just Kent and Beth. That was when they discovered they no longer had anything in common.

“You’re not sleeping?” Bailey’s eyes widened with concern.

Sophie elbowed her sister. “Bailey, think about it. This is the busiest time of year for a Christmas tree farm. Then there’s all this decorating. And, if we’re really lucky—”

“Mom made date candy?” Bailey cut in.

“And caramel corn?” Sophie asked hopefully, hands folded in prayer.

“Yes to you both. It wouldn’t be Christmas without our special treats.”

“You’re the best mom in the world.”

Beth smiled. She’d had less than three hours’ sleep, thanks to all the Christmas preparations, her dogs and…her incessant memories of Kent. Traffic at the tree farm had thinned out now that Christmas was only three days away. But families were still stopping by and there was quite a bit to do, including cleanup. Her ten-man crew was down to four and they’d coped just fine without either her or Jeff this morning. While he drove out to the airport, she’d been getting ready for her daughters’ arrival. However, as soon as lunch was over, she needed to head back outside.

Beth and the girls had booked a skiing trip between Christmas and New Year’s, and after the hectic schedule of the past two months, she was counting on a few relaxing days with her daughters. Their reservations were made and she was eager to go. Ted Reynolds, good friend that he was, had offered to take care of her animals, which reminded her of the one hitch in her perfectly planned holiday escape.

“Before we sit down to eat, I need to tell you we have special guests this Christmas.”

“You mean Dad, right?” Bailey led the way into the other room, where there was more greenery and a beautifully arranged table with three place settings.

“Well, yes, your father. But he’s not the only one…

“Mom.” Bailey tensed as she spoke. “Don’t tell me you have a boyfriend. It’s that vet, isn’t it?”

“Ten guests, actually,” she said, ignoring the comment about Ted, “and they aren’t all boys.”

“Puppies?” Sophie guessed.

“Puppies,” Beth confirmed, not surprised that her daughter had figured it out. “Ten of them.”

“Ten?” Sophie cried, aghast.

Without asking, Bailey went straight to the laundry room off the kitchen. “Where did you get ten puppies?” The instant she opened the door, all ten black puppies scampered into the kitchen, scrambling about, skidding across the polished hardwood floor.

“They’re adorable.” Sharing Beth’s love for animals, both girls were immediately down on the floor, scooping the puppies into their arms. Before long, each held at least two of the Lab-mix puppies, the little creatures intent on licking their faces.

Unable to resist, Beth joined her daughters and gathered the remaining puppies onto her lap. One curled into a tight ball. Another climbed onto her shoulder and began licking her ear. The others squirmed until one wriggled free and chased his tail with determined vigor, completely preoccupied. They really were adorable, which was good because in every other way they were a nuisance.

Sophie held a puppy to her cheek. “Where’d you get them, Mom?”

“They were…a gift,” she explained, turning her face away to avoid more wet, slurpy kisses.

“A gift?”

“But why’d you take all ten?” Bailey asked, astonished.

“I didn’t have any choice. They showed up on my porch in a basket a week ago.” Beth didn’t say that discovering these puppies had been the proverbial last straw. They’d literally appeared on her doorstep the same day she’d learned Kent was coming here for Christmas. For an insane moment she’d considered running away, grabbing a plane to Fiji or Bora-Bora. Instead, she’d run over to the Hardings’ and ended up spilling her heart out to Grace. Under normal conditions, Beth wasn’t one to share her burdens with others. However, this was simply too much—an ex-husband’s unexpected visit and the arrival of ten abandoned puppies, all during the busiest season of the year. The Hardings had given her tea and sympathy; Ted had been wonderful, too. Beth was grateful for his willingness to watch her animals but she refused to leave him with these ten additional dogs. So she’d made it her goal to find homes for all of them before Christmas. Which didn’t give her a lot of time…

“How could someone just drop off ten puppies?” Bailey asked as she lifted one intrepid little guy off her shoulder and settled him in her lap.

“Who could do that and not be seen?” Sophie added. “I mean, you have people working all over this place.”

Beth had certainly asked around. “Jeff saw a woman with a huge basket at my door. He thought he recognized her from his church, but when he asked her, she denied it. Then later, Pete, one of the drivers, claimed he saw a man on my porch with a basket. I talked to five different people and got five different stories. All I know is that I’ve got to find homes for these puppies before we leave for Whistler.” And preferably before Kent arrived, although that was highly unlikely.

“Have you found any yet?” Bailey asked.

“No…but I’ve put out the word.”

“You’ll do it, Mom,” Sophie said confidently. “I know you will.”

“How old are they?” Bailey stroked a soft, floppy ear.

“Ted thinks about two months. Between six and eight weeks, anyway.”

“They’re irresistible. You won’t have trouble finding homes,” Sophie said.

Beth wished she had even a fraction of her daughter’s faith. In October, she’d found homes for four part-golden-retriever puppies. Coming up with those homes had been hard enough—and now ten more. She hoped the season would help.

She’d offer assistance with training if the new owners wanted it—and she’d push the all-important spay-and-neuter message. Ted had promised to give the owners a break on the price, too.

Working together, Beth and the girls corralled the puppies and got them back inside the laundry room. Then they washed up for lunch. Thankfully the girls’ favorites didn’t require much effort; the tomato basil soup and toasted cheese sandwiches were on the table within minutes.

“Now I truly feel like we’re home,” Bailey said, spooning up the thick soup.

Sophie sighed contentedly. “This place is starting to feel more like home all the time.”

Beth had moved to Washington State following her divorce. For fifteen years she’d taught business and management classes at an agricultural college outside Sacramento. After she and Kent had split up, Beth felt she needed a change. A big one. An escape. She’d read about this Christmas tree farm for sale while browsing on the internet and had become intrigued. As soon as she’d visited the property and toured the house, she was sold.

Her general knowledge of farm life and crop cultivation had come in handy. She knew just enough about trees not to be intimidated. Besides, Wes Klein, the previous owners’ son, had helped the first couple of years. She’d soon picked up everything else she needed to know. She hired the same crew each season and was pleasantly surprised by how smoothly things had gone this year, the first year she was on her own.

In addition to Christmas trees, she sold wreaths and garlands, which were created by three members of her staff who devoted all their time to this endeavor. The Kleins used to have only a handful of orders for holiday wreaths. Beth had turned that into a thriving aspect of the business. Plus, overseas sales of Christmas trees had doubled in the past three years. Beth had always enjoyed the season, but never more than now. She felt she was actively contributing to a lot of families’ happiness this Christmas.

The girls cleared the table and put their plates and bowls in the dishwasher.

“I’ve got to get back outside, but before I go, I need you to tell me what’s going on with your father.” From the girls’ startled expressions Beth realized she should have led into the conversation with a bit more finesse. But subtlety wasn’t exactly her strong suit and she was short on time.

“Dad wanted to come for Christmas,” Bailey answered, as if that was all the explanation required.

“Did he give you any particular reason?” she asked suspiciously.

Sophie shook her head. “None that he mentioned.”

That wasn’t too helpful; still, Beth persisted. “But why this year?”

Bailey shrugged. “Don’t know. All I can tell you is that he said he missed us and asked if he could join us for Christmas. We couldn’t say no. You wouldn’t want us to, would you, Mom?”

“Of course not.” Beth looked from one daughter to the other. “He didn’t say anything more than that? You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Both girls widened their eyes, expressions innocent as could be.

Convinced there was more to this sudden desire to be with them—and remembering Grace’s suggestion that the girls might be more involved than they were letting on—Beth hesitated. She wanted to probe deeper but really needed to get to work. As it was, she’d lingered with her daughters well into Jeff’s lunch hour.

“You’ll be okay without me?” Beth asked, abandoning all inquiries for the moment.

“Mom, it isn’t like we’re six years old!”

“I know, I know, it’s just that I hate leaving you so soon after you got here.”

“Go,” Bailey said, ushering her toward the door. “We’ll be fine. We’ll unpack our suitcases and put It’s a Wonderful Life in the DVD player.”

“I want to watch it, too,” Beth protested. It was their favorite Christmas movie.

“Okay, we’ll hold off until tonight. Now go.”

Walking out the door, Beth blew them a kiss, the same way she had every time she left for work when they were youngsters. Read more

Christmas Letters

It was him. Katherine O’Connor, better known as K.O., was almost positive. She squinted just to be sure. He looked identical to the man on the dust jacket of that ridiculous book, the one her sister treated like a child-rearing bible. Of course, people didn’t really look like their publicity photos. And she hadn’t realized the high and mighty Dr. Wynn Jeffries was from the Seattle area. Furthermore, she couldn’t imagine what he was doing on Blossom Street.

She’d never even met him, but she distrusted him profoundly and disliked him just as much. It was because of Dr. Jeffries that she’d been banned from a local bookstore. She’d had a small difference of opinion with the manager on the subject of Wynn’s book. Apparently the bookseller was a personal friend of his, because she’d leaped to Dr. Jeffries’ defense and had ordered K.O. out of the store. She’d even suggested K.O. take her future book-purchasing business elsewhere, which seemed unnecessarily extreme.

“K.O.,” Bill Mulcahy muttered, distracting her. They sat across from each other at the French Café, filled to capacity during the midmorning rush. People lined up for coffee, and another line formed at the bakery counter. “Did you get all that?” he asked.

“Sure,” K.O. said, returning her attention to him.

“Sorry—I thought I saw someone I knew.” Oh, the things she was willing to do for some extra holiday cash. One witty Christmas letter written on her sister’s behalf, and all of a sudden K.O. was the most sought-after woman at her brother-in-law’s office. They all wanted her to write their Christmas letters. She’d been shocked to discover how much they’d willingly plunk down for it, too. Bill Mulcahy was the third person she’d met with this week, and his letter was the most difficult so far. Leno or Letterman would’ve had a hard time finding anything amusing about this man’s life.

“I don’t know what you’re going to write,” Bill continued. “It’s been an exceptionally bad year. As I explained earlier, my son is in a detention home, my daughter’s living with her no-good boyfriend and over Thanksgiving she announced she’s pregnant. Naturally, marriage is out of the question.”

“That is a bit of a challenge,” K.O. agreed. She widened her eyes and stared again at the man who waited in the long line at the cash register. It was him; she was convinced of it now. The not-so-good doctor was—to put it in appropriately seasonal terms—a fruitcake. He was a child psychologist who’d written a book called The Free Child that was the current child-rearing rage.

To be fair, K.O. was single and not a mother. The only child-rearing experience she’d had was with her identical twin nieces, Zoe and Zara, whom she adored. Until recently, anyway. Overnight the five-year-olds had become miniature monsters and all because her sister had followed the “Free Child” rules as set out by Dr. Jeffries.

“My wife,” Bill said, “is on the verge of a breakdown.” K.O. pitied the poor woman—and her husband.

“We’ve written Christmas letters for years and while life wasn’t always as perfect as we—well, as we implied…” He let the rest fade away.

“You painted the picture of a model family.”

“Yes.” Bill cleared his throat and offered her a weak smile. “Patti, that’s my wife, chose to present a, shall we say, rosier depiction of reality.” He exhaled in a rush.

“We never included family pictures and if you met my son, you’d know why. Anyone looking at Mason would know in a minute that this kid isn’t a member of the National Honor Society.” He released his breath again and shook his head sadly. “Mason’s into body piercing,” Bill added. “He pierced his eyebrows, his nose, his lips, his tongue, his nipples—”

K.O. stopped him before he went any lower. “I get it.”

“You probably don’t, but that’s lucky for you. Oh, and he dyed his hair green.”

“Green?”

“He wears it spiked, too, and he…he does this thing with paint.” Bill dropped his voice.

K.O. was sure she’d misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mason doesn’t call it paint. It’s some form of cosmetic he smears across his face. I never imagined that my son would be rummaging through his mother’s makeup drawer one day.”

“I suppose that is a bit disconcerting,”K.O. murmured.

“I forget the actual significance of the black smudges under his eyes and across his cheeks,” Bill said. “To me it looks like he’s some teenage commando.”

Yes, this letter would indeed be a challenge. “Have you thought about skipping your Christmas letter this year?” K.O. asked hopefully.

“Yeah, I’d like to, but as I said, Patti’s emotional health is rather fragile. She claims people are already asking about our annual letter. She’s afraid that if we don’t send it the same as we do every year, everyone will figure out that we’re pitiful parents.” His shoulders drooped. “In other words, we’ve failed our children.”

“I don’t think you’ve necessarily failed,” K.O. assured him. “Most teenagers go through a rebellious stage.”

“Did you?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Did you pierce anything?”

“Well, I had my ears pierced….”

“That’s not the same thing.” He peered at her earrings, visible through her straight blond hair, which she wore loosely tied back. “And you only have one in each ear—not eight or ten like my son.” He seemed satisfied that he’d proved his point. “Then you’ll write our Christmas letter and smooth over the rough edges of our year?”

K.O. was less and less confident that she could pull this off. “I don’t know if I’m your person,” she said hesitantly. How could she possibly come up with a positive version of such a disastrous year? Besides, this side job was supposed to be fun, not real work. It’d begun as a favor to her sister and all of a sudden she was launching a career. At some stage she’d need to call a halt— maybe sooner than she’d expected.

Her client shifted in his seat. “I’ll pay you double what you normally charge.”

K.O. sat up straight. Double. He said he’d pay double? “Would four days be enough time?” she asked.

Okay, so she could be bought. She pulled out her DayTimer, checked her schedule and they set a date for their next meeting.

“I’ll give you half now and half when you’re finished.” That seemed fair.Not one to be overly prideful, she held out her hand as he peeled off three fifty-dollar bills. Her fingers closed around the cash.

“I’ll see you Friday then,” Bill said, and reaching for his briefcase, he left the French Café carrying his latte in its takeout cup.

Looking out the windows with their Christmas garland, she saw that it had begun to snow again. This was the coldest December on record. Seattle’s normally mild climate had dipped to below-freezing temperatures for ten days in a row. So much for global warming. There was precious little evidence of it in Seattle.

K.O. glanced at the coffee line. Wynn Jeffries had made his way to the front and picked up his hot drink. After adding cream and sugar—lots of both, she observed—he was getting ready to leave. K.O. didn’t want to be obvious about watching him, so she took a couple of extra minutes to collect her things, then followed him out the door.

Even if she introduced herself, she had no idea what to say. Mostly she wanted to tell him his so-called Free Child movement—no boundaries for kids—was outright lunacy. How could he, in good conscience, mislead parents in this ridiculous fashion? Not that she had strong feelings on the subject or anything. Okay, so maybe she’d gone a little overboard at the bookstore that day, but she couldn’t help it. The manager had been touting the benefits of Dr. Jeffries’ book to yet another unsuspecting mom. K.O. felt it was her duty to let the poor woman know what might happen if she actually followed Dr. Jeffries’ advice. The bookseller had strenuously disagreed and from then on, the situation had gotten out of hand.

Not wanting him to think she was stalking him, which she supposed she was, K.O. maintained a careful distance. If his office was in Seattle, it might even be in this neighborhood. After the renovations on Blossom Street a few years ago, a couple of buildings had been converted to office space. If she could discreetly discover where he practiced, she might go and talk to him sometime. She hadn’t read his book but had leafed through it, and she knew he was a practicing child psychologist. She wanted to argue about his beliefs and his precepts, tell him about the appalling difference in her nieces’ behavior since the day Zelda had adopted his advice.

She’d rather he didn’t see her, so she dashed inconspicuously across the street to A Good Yarn, and darted into the doorway, where she pretended to be interested in a large Christmas stocking that hung in the display window. From the reflection in the window, she saw Dr. Jeffries walking briskly down the opposite sidewalk. Read more

Buffalo Valley

So this was North Dakota. Gazing steadily ahead, Vaughn Kyle barreled down the freeway just outside Grand Forks. Within a few miles, the four lanes had narrowed to two. Dreary, dirt-smudged snow lay piled up along both sides of the highway. Fresh snow had begun to fall, pristine and bright, glinting in the late-afternoon sun.

His parents had retired earlier in the year, leaving Denver, where Vaughn had been born and raised, and returning to the state they’d left long ago. They’d moved north, away from the majestic peaks of the Rocky Mountains to the endlessly boring landscape of the Dakotas. This was supposed to be beautiful? Maybe in summer, he mused, when the fields of grain rippled with the wind, acre after acre. Now, though, in December, in the dead of winter, the beauty of this place escaped him. All that was visible was a winding stretch of black asphalt cutting through flat, monotonous terrain that stretched for miles in every direction.

After seven years as an Airborne Ranger in the U.S. Army’s Second Battalion based in Fort Lewis, Washington, Vaughn was poised to begin the second stage of his working life. He had his discharge papers and he’d recently been hired by Value-X, a mega-retailer with headquarters in Seattle. Value-X was one of America’s most notable success stories. New stores were opening every day all across the United States and Canada.

His course was set for the future, thanks largely to Natalie Nichols. They’d met two years earlier through mutual friends. Natalie was smart, savvy and ambitious; Value-X had recognized her skills and she’d advanced quickly, being promoted to a vice presidency before the age of thirty.

Vaughn had been attracted by her dedication and purpose, and he’d admired her ambition. His own work ethic was strong; as he’d come to realize, that was increasingly rare in this age of quick fixes and no-fault living. Natalie was the one who’d convinced him to leave the army. He was ready. When he’d enlisted after finishing college, he’d done so intending to make the military his career. In the seven years since, he’d learned the advantages and drawbacks of soldiering.

He didn’t mind the regimented life, but the career possibilities weren’t all he’d hoped they would be. What he lacked, as Natalie had pointed out, was opportunity. He was limited in how far he could rise through the ranks or how quickly, while the private sector was wide-open and looking for promising employees like him. He’d been interviewed by three headhunters who recruited candidates for a variety of corporations and in just a few weeks had six job offers.

At first he’d felt there might be a conflict of interest, taking a position with the same company as Natalie. However, she didn’t view it that way; they would be a team, she’d told Vaughn, and with that remarkable persuasive skill of hers had convinced him to come on board. He wouldn’t officially start until after the first of the year, but he was already on assignment.

Value-X was buying property in Buffalo Valley, North Dakota. Since Vaughn was going to be in the vicinity, visiting his parents in nearby Grand Forks, Natalie had asked him to pay the town a visit. It wasn’t uncommon for a community to put up token resistance to the company’s arrival. In most cases, any negative publicity was successfully handled, using a proven strategy that included barraging the local media with stories showing the company’s “human face.” After a recent public-relations disaster in Montana, Natalie was eager to avoid a repeat. She’d asked Vaughn to do a “climate check” in Buffalo Valley, but it was important, she insisted, that he not let anyone know he was now a Value-X employee, not even his parents. Vaughn had reluctantly agreed.

He’d done this because he trusted Natalie’s judgment. And because he was in love with her. They’d talked about marriage, although she seemed hesitant. Her reasons for postponing it were logical, presented in her usual no-nonsense manner. She refused to be “subservient to emotion,” as she called it, and Vaughn was impressed by her clear-cut vision of what she wanted and how to achieve it. They’d get married when the time was right for both of them.

He was eager to have her meet his family. Natalie would be joining him on December twenty-seventh, but he wished she could’ve rearranged her schedule to travel with him.

On this cold Friday afternoon two weeks before Christmas, Vaughn had decided to drive into Buffalo Valley. Because of Hassie Knight, he didn’t need to invent an excuse for his parents. Hassie was the mother of his namesake. She’d lost her only son—his parents’ closest friend—in Vietnam three years before Vaughn was born. Every birthday, until he’d reached the age of twenty-one, Hassie had mailed him a letter with a twenty-five-dollar U.S. Savings Bond.

In all that time, he’d never met her. From first grade on, he’d dutifully sent her a thank-you note for every gift. That was the extent of their contact, but he still felt a genuine fondness for her—and gratitude. Hassie had been the one to start him on a savings program. As a young adult Vaughn had cashed in those savings bonds and begun acquiring a portfolio of stocks that over the years had become a hefty nest egg.

An hour after he left Grand Forks, Vaughn slowed his speed, certain that if he blinked he might miss Buffalo Valley entirely. Value-X could put this place on the map. That was one benefit the company offered small towns. He wasn’t sure what kind of business community existed in Buffalo Valley. He knew about Knight’s Pharmacy of course, because Hassie owned that. Apparently the town was large enough to have its own cemetery, too; Hassie had mailed him a picture of her son’s gravesite years earlier.

Buffalo Valley was directly off the road. You didn’t take an exit the way you would in most places. You just drove off the highway. He slowed, made a right turn where the road sign indicated. The car pitched as it left the pavement and hit ruts in the frozen dirt road. He’d gone at least a hundred feet before the paved road resumed.

He passed a few scattered houses, and as he turned the corner, he discovered, somewhat to his surprise, a main street with businesses lining both sides. There was even a hotel of sorts, called Buffalo Bob’s 3 of a Kind. The bank building, a sprawling brick structure, seemed new and quite extensive. This was amazing. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but nothing like this. Buffalo Valley was a real town, not a cluster of run-down houses and boarded-up stores, like some of the prairie towns his parents had told him about.

Hassie’s store caught his attention next. It was a quaint, old-fashioned pharmacy, with big picture windows and large white lettering. Christmas lights framed the window, flashing alternately red and green. In smaller letters below KNIGHT’S PHARMACY, a soda fountain was advertised. Vaughn hadn’t tasted a real soda made with hand-scooped ice cream and flavored syrup since his childhood.

He parked, climbed out of his rental car and stood on the sidewalk, glancing around. This was a decent-size town, decorated for the holidays with festive displays in nearly every window. A city park could be seen in the distance, and the Buffalo Valley Quilting Company appeared to take up a large portion of the block across the street. He remembered an article about it in the file Natalie had given him.

The cold stung his face and snow swirled around him. Rather than stand there risking frostbite, Vaughn walked into the pharmacy. The bell above the door jingled and he was instantly greeted by a blast of heat that chased the chill from his bones.

“Can I help you?” He couldn’t see who spoke, but the voice sounded young, so he assumed it wasn’t Hassie. The woman or girl, whoever she was, stood behind the raised counter at the back of the store.

“I’m looking for Hassie Knight,” Vaughn called, edging his way down the narrow aisle. This pharmacy apparently carried everything: cosmetics, greeting cards, over-the-counter medicine, gourmet chocolate, toothpaste and tissues—just about anything you might require.

“I’m sorry, Hassie’s out for the day. Can I be of help?”

He supposed he didn’t need to see Hassie, although it would have been nice.

“I’m Carrie Hendrickson.” A petite blonde in a white jacket materialized before him, hand extended. “I’m an intern working with Hassie.”

“Vaughn Kyle,” he said, stretching out his own hand. He liked the way her eyes squarely met his. Her expression held a hint of suspicion, but Vaughn was prepared for that. Natalie had mentioned the North Dakota attitude toward strangers—a wariness that ranged from mild doubt to outright hostility. It was one reason she worried about this proposed building site.

“Hassie and I have never officially met, but she does know me,” he added reassuringly. “I was named after her son.”

“You’re the Vaughn Kyle?” she asked, her voice revealing excitement now. “Did Hassie know you were coming and completely forget? I can’t imagine her doing that.”

“No, no, it was nothing like that. I just happened to be in the area and thought I’d stop by and introduce myself.”

Her suspicion evaporated and was replaced with a wide, welcoming smile. “I’m so pleased to meet you.

Hassie will be thrilled.” She gestured to the counter. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A soft drink?”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind an old-fashioned soda.”

“They’re Hassie’s specialty, but I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t worry about it.” On second thought, he decided something warm might be preferable. “I’ll have a coffee.”

She led him to the soda fountain and Vaughn sat on a padded stool while Carrie ducked beneath the counter and reappeared on the other side.

“Do you know when Hassie’s due back?” he asked.

“Around six,” Carrie told him, lifting the glass pot and filling his cup. “You need space for cream?” she asked.

He answered with a quick shake of his head. She didn’t cut off the steady stream of weak coffee until it’d reached the very brim of his cup.

The door opened, bells jingling, and a woman dressed in a black leather jacket walked into the store. She had three scarves wrapped around her neck, nearly obscuring her face.

“Hi, Merrily,” Carrie called, then scrambled under the fountain barrier. “I’ll have Bobby’s prescription ready in just a moment.” She hurried to the back of the store. “While you’re waiting, introduce yourself to Vaughn Kyle.”

Merrily glanced toward the counter and waved, and Vaughn raised his mug to her.

“That’s Hassie’s Vaughn Kyle,” Carrie said emphatically. “Vaughn was named after her son,” she added.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Merrily walked over to shake his hand. “What are you doing here?” she asked, unwinding the woolen scarves.

Now, that was an interesting question, Vaughn thought. He certainly hadn’t anticipated anyone knowing about him.

“He came to meet Hassie,” Carrie said as she returned with the prescription. She handed Merrily a small white sack. “How’s Bobby feeling?”

“Better, I think. Poor little guy seems prone to ear infections.” She turned to Vaughn with a smile. “Nice meeting you,” she said. She wrapped the mufflers around her face again before she headed out the door.

“You, too,” Vaughn murmured.

Carrie reached across the counter and grabbed a second mug for herself. “Hassie told you about the War Memorial, didn’t she? We’re all proud of that.” Not waiting for a response, she continued, “The town built the Memorial three years ago, and it honors everyone from Buffalo Valley who died in war. The only one most of us actually remember is Hassie’s son. But there were others. We lost Harvey Schmidt in the Korean War and five men in World War II, but none of their families live in the area anymore.”

“You knew Vaughn Knight?” The blonde seemed far too young to have known Hassie’s son.

“Not personally. But from the time I was small, Hassie told my brothers and me about Vaughn. It’s been her mission to make sure he isn’t forgotten.”

Vaughn had heard about Vaughn Knight from his own parents of course, since they’d both been close to Hassie’s son.

Carrie sipped her coffee. “Hassie told me it was one of the greatest honors of her life that your parents chose to remember her son through you.”

Vaughn nodded, disappointed that he’d missed meeting the older woman. “What time did you say Hassie would be back?”

“Around six, I guess.”

Vaughn checked his watch. He didn’t intend to make an entire day of this.

“If Hassie had known you were coming, I don’t think anything could’ve kept her away.”

“I should have phoned beforehand,” he muttered. “But…”

“I hope you’ll wait.”

Vaughn glanced at his watch again. Three hours was far longer than he wanted to stick around. “Tell her I’ll come by some other time.”

“Please stay. Hassie would feel terrible if she learned you’d left without meeting her.” She hesitated, obviously thinking. “Listen,” she said, “I’ll phone Leta Betts and ask if she can fill in for me for a couple of hours.”

Vaughn reconsidered. He might get all the information he needed from Carrie; then he could meet Hassie on strictly social terms. He’d been vaguely uncomfortable about questioning Hassie, anyway.

“Please,” she said, “it would mean the world to Hassie, and I’d be delighted to give you a tour of town.”

Perfect. He’d learn everything Natalie wanted to know and more. “That’s a generous offer. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I’d consider it a pleasure,” she said, and smiled.

With her looking up at him that way, smiling and appreciative, Vaughn couldn’t help noticing that Carrie Hendrickson was a very attractive woman. Not that Natalie had anything to worry about, he told himself staunchly. Read more

Can This Be Christmas?

On December 24, a crowded train is taking holiday travelers home for Christmas. But because of a snowstorm, this group of strangers ends up spending Christmas Eve together, stranded in a small New Hampshire station. Despite the cold and discomfort, Read more

Call Me Mrs. Miracle

Jake Finley waited impatiently to be ushered into his father’s executive office—the office that would one day be his. The thought of eventually stepping into J. R. Fin-ley’s shoes excited him. Even though he’d slowly been working his way through the ranks, he’d be the first to admit he still had a lot to learn. However, he was willing to do whatever it took to prove himself.

Finley’s was the last of the family-owned department stores in New York City. His great-grandfather had begun the small mercantile on East 34th Street more than seventy years earlier. In the decades since, succeeding Finleys had opened branches in the other boroughs and then in nearby towns. Eventually the chain had spread up and down the East Coast.

“Your father will see you now,” Mrs. Coffey said. Dora Coffey had served as J.R.’s executive assistant for at least twenty-five years and knew as much about the company as Jake did—maybe more. He hoped that when the time came she’d stay on, although she had to be close to retirement age.

“Thank you.” He walked into the large office with its panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. He’d lived in the city all his life, but this view never failed to stir him, never failed to lift his heart. No place on earth was more enchanting than New York in December. He could see a light snow drifting down, and the city appeared even more magical through that delicate veil.

Jacob R. Finley, however, wasn’t looking at the view. His gaze remained focused on the computer screen. And his frown told Jake everything he needed to know.

He cleared his throat, intending to catch J.R.’s attention, although he suspected that his father was well aware of his presence. “You asked to see me?” he said. Now that he was here, he had a fairly good idea what had initiated this summons. Jake had hoped it wouldn’t happen quite so soon, but he should’ve guessed Mike Scott would go running to his father at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, Jake hadn’t had enough time to prove that he was right—and Mike was wrong.

“How many of those SuperRobot toys did you order?” J.R. demanded, getting straight to the point. His father had never been one to lead gently into a subject. “Intellytron,” he added scornfully.

“Also known as Telly,” Jake said in a mild voice.

“How many?”

“Five hundred.” As if J.R. didn’t know.

“What?”

Jake struggled not to flinch at his father’s angry tone, which was something he rarely heard. They had a good relationship, but until now, Jake hadn’t defied one of his father’s experienced buyers.

“For how many stores?”

“Just here.”

J.R.’s brow relaxed, but only slightly. “Do you realize those things retail for two hundred and fifty dollars apiece?”

J.R. knew the answer to that as well as Jake did.

“Yes.”

His father stood and walked over to the window, pacing back and forth with long, vigorous strides. Although in his early sixties, J.R. was in excellent shape. Tall and lean, like Jake himself, he had dark hair streaked with gray and his features were well-defined. No one could doubt that they were father and son. J.R. whirled around, hands linked behind him. “Did you clear the order with…anyone?”

Jake was as straightforward as his father. “No.”

“Any particular reason you went over Scott’s head?”

Jake had a very good reason. “We discussed it. He didn’t agree, but I felt this was the right thing to do.” Mike Scott had wanted to bring a maximum of fifty robots into the Manhattan location. Jake had tried to persuade him, but Mike wasn’t interested in listening to speculation or taking what he saw as a risk—one that had the potential of leaving them with a huge overstock. He relied on cold, hard figures and years of purchasing experience. When their discussion was over, Mike still refused to go against what he considered his own better judgment. Jake continued to argue, presenting internet research and what his gut was telling him about this toy. When he’d finished, Mike Scott had countered with a list of reasons why fifty units per store would be adequate. More than adequate, in his opinion. While Jake couldn’t disagree with the other man’s logic, he had a strong hunch that the much larger order was worth the risk.

“You felt it was right?” his father repeated in a scathing voice. “Mike Scott told me we’d be fortunate to sell fifty in each store, yet you, with your vast experience of two months in the toy department, decided the Manhattan store needed ten times that number.”

Jake didn’t have anything to add.

“I don’t suppose you happened to notice that there’s been a downturn in the economy? Parents don’t have two hundred and fifty bucks for a toy. Not when a lot of families are pinching pennies.”

“You made me manager of the toy department.” Jake wasn’t stupid or reckless. “I’m convinced we’ll sell those robots before Christmas.” As manager, it was his responsibility—and his right—to order as he deemed fit. And if that meant overriding a buyer’s decision—well, he could live with that.

“You think you can sell all five hundred of those robots?” Skepticism weighted each word. “In two weeks?”

“Yes.” Jake had to work hard to maintain his air of confidence. Still he held firm.

His father took a moment to consider Jake’s answer, walking a full circle around his desk as he did. “As of this morning, how many units have you sold?”

That was an uncomfortable question and Jake glanced down at the floor. “Three.”

“Three.” J.R. shook his head and stalked to the far side of the room, then back again as if debating how to address the situation. “So what you’re saying is that our storeroom has four hundred and ninety-seven expensive SuperRobots clogging it up?”

“They’re going to sell, Dad.”

“It hasn’t happened yet, though, has it?”

“No, but I believe the robot’s going to be the hottest toy of the season. I’ve done the research—this is the toy kids are talking about.”

“Maybe, but let me remind you, kids aren’t our customers. Their parents are. Which is why no one else in the industry shares your opinion.”

“I know it’s a risk, Dad, but it’s a calculated one.

Have faith.”

His father snorted harshly at the word faith. “My faith died along with your mother and sister,” he snapped.

Involuntarily Jake’s eyes sought out the photograph of his mother and sister. Both had been killed in a freak car accident on Christmas Eve twenty-one years ago. Neither Jake nor his father had celebrated Christmas since that tragic night. Ironically, the holiday season was what kept Finley’s in the black financially. Without the three-month Christmas shopping craze, the department-store chain would be out of business.

Because of the accident, Jake and his father ignored anything to do with Christmas in their personal lives. Every December twenty-fourth, soon after the store closed, the two of them got on a plane and flew to Saint John in the Virgin Islands. From the time Jake was twelve, there hadn’t been a Christmas tree or presents or anything else that would remind him of the holiday. Except, of course, at the store.

“Trust me in this, Dad,” Jake pleaded. “Telly the Su-perRobot will be the biggest seller of the season, and pretty soon Finley’s will be the only store in Manhattan where people can find them.”

His father reached for a pen and rolled it between his fingers as he mulled over Jake’s words. “I put you in charge of the toy department because I thought it would be a valuable experience for you. One day you’ll sit in this chair. The fate of the company will rest in your hands.”

His father wasn’t telling him anything Jake didn’t already know.

“If the toy department doesn’t show a profit because you went over Mike Scott’s head, then you’ll have a lot to answer for.” He locked eyes with Jake. “Do I make myself clear?”

Jake nodded. If the toy department reported a loss as a result of his judgment, his father would question Jake’s readiness to take over the company.

“Got it,” Jake assured his father.

“Good. I want a report on the sale of that robot every week until Christmas.”

“You’ll have it,” Jake promised. He turned to leave.

“I hope you’re right about this toy, son,” J.R. said as Jake opened the office door. “You’ve taken a big risk. I hope it pays off.”

He wasn’t the only one. Still, Jake believed. He’d counted on having proof that the robots were selling by the time his father learned what he’d done. Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, which was generally the biggest shopping day of the year, had been a major disappointment. He’d fantasized watching the robots fly off the shelves.

It hadn’t happened.

Although they’d been prominently displayed, just one of the expensive toys had sold. He supposed his father had a point; in a faltering economy, people were evaluating their Christmas budgets, so toys, especially expensive ones, had taken a hit. Children might want the robots but it was their parents who did the buying.

Jake’s head throbbed as he made his way to the toy department. In his rush to get to the store that morning, he’d skipped his usual stop at a nearby Starbucks. He needed his caffeine fix.

“Welcome to Finley’s. May I be of assistance?” an older woman asked him. The store badge pinned prominently on her neat gray cardigan told him her name was Mrs. Emily Miracle. Her smile was cheerful and engaging. She must be the new sales assistant Human Resources had been promising him—but she simply wouldn’t do. Good grief, what were they thinking up in HR? Sales in the toy department could be brisk, demanding hours of standing, not to mention dealing with cranky kids and short-tempered parents. He needed someone young. Energetic.

“What can I show you?” the woman asked.

Jake blinked, taken aback by her question. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you shopping for one of your children?”

“Well, no. I—”

She didn’t allow him to finish and steered him toward the center aisle. “We have an excellent selection of toys for any age group. If you’re looking for suggestions, I’d be more than happy to help.”

She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was the department manager—and therefore her boss. “Excuse me, Mrs….” He glanced at her name tag a second time. “Mrs. Miracle.”

“Actually, it’s Merkle.”

“The badge says Miracle.”

“Right,” she said, looking a bit chagrined. “HR made a mistake, but I don’t mind. You can call me Mrs. Miracle.”

Speaking of miracles… If ever Jake needed one, it was now. Those robots had to sell. His entire future with the company could depend on this toy.

“I’d be more than happy to assist you,” Mrs. Miracle said again, breaking into his thoughts.

“I’m Jake Finley.”

“Pleased to meet you. Do you have a son or a daughter?” she asked.

“This is Finley’s Department Store,” he said pointedly.

Apparently this new employee had yet to make the connection, which left Jake wondering exactly where HR found their seasonal help. There had to be someone more capable than this woman.

“Finley,” Mrs. Miracle repeated slowly. “Jacob Robert is your father, then?”

“Yes,” he said, frowning. Only family and close friends knew his father’s middle name.

Her eyes brightened, and a smile slid into place. “Ahh,” she said knowingly.

“You’re acquainted with my father?” That could explain why she’d been hired. Maybe she had some connection to his family he knew nothing about.

“No, no, not directly, but I have heard a great deal about him.”

So had half the population on the East Coast. “I’m the manager here in the toy department,” he told her. He clipped on his badge as he spoke, realizing he’d stuck it in his pocket. The badge said simply “Manager,” without including his name, since his policy was to be as anonymous as possible, to be known by his role, not his relationship to the owner.

“The manager. Yes,” she said, nodding happily. “This works out beautifully.”

“What does?” Her comments struck him as odd.

“Oh, nothing,” she returned with the same smile.

She certainly looked pleased with herself, although Jake couldn’t imagine why. He doubted she’d last a week. He’d see about getting her transferred to a more suitable department for someone her age. Oh, he’d be subtle about it. He had no desire to risk a discrimination suit.

Jake examined the robot display, hoping that while he’d been gone another one might have sold. But if that was the case, he didn’t see any evidence of it.

“Have you had your morning coffee?” Mrs. Miracle asked.

“No,” he muttered. His head throbbed, reminding him of his craving for caffeine.

“It seems quiet here at the moment. Why don’t you take your break?” she suggested. “The other sales associate and I can handle anything that comes along.”

Jake hesitated.

“Go on,” she urged. “Everyone needs their morning coffee.”

“You go,” he said. He was, after all, the department manager, so he should be the last to leave.

“Oh, heavens, no. I just finished a cup.” Looking around, she gestured toward the empty aisles. “It’s slow right now but it’s sure to pick up later, don’t you think?”

She was right. In another half hour or so, he might not get a chance. His gaze rested on the robots and he pointed in their direction. “Do what you can to interest shoppers in those.”

“Telly the SuperRobot?” she said. Not waiting for his reply, she added, “You won’t have any worries there. They’re going to be the hottest item this Christmas.”

Jake felt a surge of excitement. “You heard that?”

“No.” she answered thoughtfully.

“Then you must’ve seen a news report.” Jake had been waiting for exactly this kind of confirmation. He’d played a hunch, taken a chance, and in his heart of hearts felt it had been a good decision. But he had four hundred and ninety-seven of these robots on his hands. If his projections didn’t pan out, it would take a long time—like maybe forever—to live it down.

“Coffee,” Mrs. Miracle said, without explaining why she was so sure of the robot’s success.

Jake checked his watch, then nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Take whatever time you need.”

Jake thanked her and hurriedly left, stopping by HR on his way out. The head of the department, Gloria Palmer, glanced up when Jake entered the office. “I’ve got a new woman on the floor this morning. Emily Miracle,” he said.

Gloria frowned. “Miracle?” She tapped some keys on her computer and looked back at Jake. “I don’t show anyone with that name working in your department.”

Jake remembered that Emily Miracle had said there’d been an error on her name tag. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, momentarily closing his eyes as he tried to remember the name she’d mentioned. “It starts with an M—McKinsey, Merk, something like that.” Read more

The Trouble with Angels

Karen Woods woke with a scream. Bolting upright in bed, she pressed her hand over her chest as she breathed deep and hard. Her pajamas were drenched with sweat, and her heart was pounding so fast that it felt as if it were about to race straight through her.

“Karen, Karen, what is it?” Grandma Shields flipped on the light and hurried into the guest bedroom.

The twelve year old sobbed once and held out her arms, needing comfort.

It was a dream she’d had before. Lots of times.

Her grandmother sat on the edge of the mattress, gathered Karen in her arms, and held her close. Karen knew she was too old to be cuddled this way, but just then she needed someone’s arms around her.

“What is it, child?” Beverly Shields asked her softly, smoothing the damp hair away from Karen’s brow. You’re trembling something terrible.”

“I had a bad dream,” Karen managed to say.

“The same bad dream you had the last time you stayed overnight?”

Karen nodded.

“Do you want to tell your grandma about this dream that frightens you so much?”

Karen shook her head. The nightmare was bad enough without having to tell anyone else about it. Some parts of it she didn’t even remember, and one main part she did and wished she didn’t. Every time she thought about the dream, she wanted to crawl under the blankets and not come out for a long time.

Dreams can be real scary sometimes,” her grandmother said gently, continuing to stroke Karen’s brow.

“Don’t leave, okay?” Karen asked. She felt like a wimp, needing her grandmother in bed with her, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to be alone. In a few minutes she’d he okay, but not just yet.

Since her mom and dad’s divorce, Karen had spent a lot of time by herself, She didn’t mind that as much as she had when her parents used to fight. Before her father moved out of the house they’d done that almost all the time.

“Do you miss your mother?” Beverly asked. “Is that the trouble?”

Karen shrugged. Her mother’s job as an auditor for one of the big Los Angeles banks often took her out of town. Karen didn’t mind staying with her grandparents on the nights her mother was away. It was kinda fun.

“When I was a girl I sometimes had nightmares,” Beverly told her.

Karen twisted around so she could see her grandmother’s kind face. Even when she was only a little kid. she had liked her grandma Shields better than anyone.

“I dreamed a man with an ax was running after me, and no matter how fast I ran, he ran faster,” Beverly Shields said, -and when he finally caught up with me, the ax would be rubber, and the murderer was my older brother. Then he’d laugh and laugh and laugh because it had been so easy to frighten me. That’s when I’d wake up, shaking and afraid, and really mad.”

“Did … did you go back to sleep?”

“Sometimes. I learned that if I closed my eyes and talked to God, I felt a whole lot better. I found talking to God works in a lot of situations.”

“Do you do it often?” Karen asked.

“Oh, sure, all the time. Any time of the day or night I feel like it.”

Karen studied her mother’s mother once more. “No one suggested you see a counselor or anything like that?”

Her grandmother laughed outright. ‘Why would they suggest that?”

“Grandma, think about it. People don’t exactly go around conversing with God, you know.”

“Sure they do, but generally it’s called prayer.”

“Oh.” Karen had pictured her grandmother carrying on a one-sided conversation with people listening in and thinking weird things about her. It was bad enough that Beverly put that fake hairpiece in her hair sometimes and stuck it there with bobby pins.

“I was thinking we might say a prayer together now, just the two of us,” Beverly said softly.

“Mom and me used to go to church,” Karen said, her voice dropping a bit, “but that was before the divorce and for a little while afterward. Then one Sunday Mom said she didn’t want to go anymore.”

Yes, I know, but don’t fret about that you don’t need to be a regular church attendee to pray.”

Karen felt a little better knowing that. “Will you say the words, Grandma?”

“Some of them,” Beverly Shields agreed. “But then you should say some of your own, too.

“Do we have to speak them out loud?”

“No, you can whisper them in your heart, too.”

Karen closed her eyes and bowed her head. Then, remembering the pictures she’d seen in religious books, she gravely folded her hands. She wasn’t entirely sure why people laced their fingers together when they prayed, probably so they wouldn’t get distracted and wind their hair around their fingers or that kind of thing.

Her grandmother whispered a prayer, but Karen couldn’t understand all the words. She did hear the part about asking God to “comfort Karen” and “calm Karen’s fears.” Grandma Shields went on for what seemed like a long time. After a while, Karen opened one eye and peeked and noticed her grandmother’s lips were still moving.

Karen closed her eye again and waited. When the time seemed right she decided to pray, but she didn’t trust God to hear her if she said the words inside her be-heart.

“Dear God,” she prayed, whispering like her grandma had done, only louder. It’s me, Karen Woods. How are you? I’m fine. Well, sort of. I have bad dreams. Actually I don’t mind the dreams so much… Read more

Angels at the Table

Chapter One

“This is really Earth?” Will, the apprentice angel, asked, lying on his stomach on a low-­flying cloud with his three mentors. His eyes widened as he gazed down on the crazed activity below.

“This is Earth,” Mercy informed their young charge with a tinge of pride. For all its problems, Earth was a fascinating place to visit with the tall buildings that butted up against the sky and people milling about with such purpose, most of them unaware of the spiritual world that surrounded them. More times than she could remember Mercy had lost patience with humans. Those who were considered the apex of God’s creations appeared to be slow-­witted and spiritually dull. Yet she loved them and treasured her Earthly assignments.

“It’s New York,” Shirley added, resting her chin in her hands as she gazed longingly below. “Oh, I do so love this city.”

“Manhattan, to be more precise,” Goodness clarified and ended with a little sigh, indicating that she, too, had missed visiting Earth.

The four hovered near Times Square, watching the clamoring crowds jockeying for space on New Year’s Eve.

Will’s eyes widened as he intently studied the scene taking place in the streets below. “Is it always like this—­so busy and crowded, I mean?”

“No, no, this is a special night. The people are gathering together to usher in the New Year.” Time was a concept reserved for Earth. In heaven it was much different. Consequently, the time restriction placed on the three Prayer Ambassadors when given Earthly assignments had caused more than one problem.

“Did Gabriel want us—­”

“Gabriel,” Shirley gasped, and quickly cut him off. “He doesn’t exactly know that we’ve brought you here. It would probably be best if you didn’t mention this short visit to him, okay?”

“Yes, please, it would be best not to let anyone know we’ve shown you Earth.” It went without saying they’d be in all kinds of trouble if Gabriel learned what they’d been up to.

“Gabriel means well but he tends to get a little prickly about these things,” Goodness explained to their young charge.

“Why is that?” Will stared at all three of them.

“Well, you see, we . . . the three of us . . . thought we should give you a bird’s-­eye view of Earth and these people God loves so much—­strictly for training purposes.” Mercy looked to her friends to expound upon their intentions, which were honorable if not a tad bit sneaky.

This Earthly visitation had been a spur-­of-­the-­moment decision. Mercy had been the one to suggest it. Naturally, Goodness was quick to agree, and after some discussion Shirley had seen the light as well.

Will, an apprentice angel, had been placed under their charge, and given this honor, it was only right that he get a glimpse of the trials and tribulations that awaited him once he started working as a Prayer Ambassador. The job could be a bit tricky, and the more Will understood the idiosyncrasies of humans, the better he would do once given an assignment from Gabriel.

Mercy was certain that under their tutorship, Will would make a fine Prayer Ambassador one day. He was young and enthusiastic, eager to learn about Earth and the role he would play.

As Mercy, who had falsely been labeled a troublemaker, had pointed out, theirs was a duty that required serious dedication. She wasn’t alone in believing this. Goodness—­oh, poor Goodness—­had gotten something of a reputation, too, and Mercy felt partially to blame, but that was another story entirely. Shirley tended to be a bit more on the straight-­and-­narrow path and had worked hard to reform her friends. In fact, Shirley, a former Guardian Angel, had done such a marvelous job, Gabriel had offered to let them train the promising young angel who was with them now.

Naturally, it was understood that if the three of them accepted this assignment training Will, then of course there would be no hanky-­panky, no tricks, no nothing. All three had agreed. This was a high honor indeed and their intentions were good.

Now here they were, New Year’s Eve in Times Square, in one of the most amazing cities on Earth. Mercy breathed in deeply, savoring the moment. Bringing Will had been a good excuse, but the fact of the matter was that she had missed visiting Earth. It’d been a good long while since their last assignment, and she missed the razzle-­dazzle of the big city.

“Isn’t Earth just marvelous?” Goodness said, her huge wings fluttering with delight. “Just look at all those neon lights. I’ve always been especially fond of light.”

“As we all are,” Shirley reminded them.

“Can we go down there with the people?” Will asked.

“Absolutely not.” Shirley’s loud protest was instantaneous.

“I don’t think it would hurt anything,” Goodness countered, her gaze still fixed on the bright lights of the city below.

Will glanced from one to the other.

“How will he ever learn about humans if he doesn’t have the opportunity to mingle with them?” Mercy asked, siding with her dearest friend. Shirley could be such a stickler for rules. Okay, so they’d originally promised not to get anywhere close to humans, but this would be a good teaching moment for Will.

“How will he ever learn how to work as a Prayer Ambassador if he doesn’t become familiar with humans?” Goodness protested.

Shirley wavered. While she might be opinionated on a number of topics, she could be easily swayed, which was the best part of working with her, Mercy felt.

“Well . . .”

“Do we hear the humans’ prayers?” Will asked.

“Oh, no,” Shirley explained. “Only God hears their prayers, and then He talks matters over with Gabriel and then . . .”

“Then Gabriel passes along those requests to us.”

“And we assist in answering them.”

“One of our roles is to help humans realize how much they can do for themselves with God’s help,” Goodness clarified.

“We try as best we can without interfering in their lives,” Shirley added quickly, glaring at Goodness and Mercy.

This was a warning and Mercy recognized it the instant her friend spoke.

“But first, and this is the most important part,” Goodness emphasized, “it’s our duty to teach these humans a lesson. Then and only then are we able to help them with their troubles.

“The real difficulty comes when they don’t want to learn.” Goodness shook her head because this aspect of the job was often a challenge. “Some people seem to want God to step in and do as they ask without making a single contribution to the effort.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Mercy said, although she’d done a fair bit of finagling to help these poor witless souls. In theory, answering prayers didn’t sound the least bit difficult. Unfortunately, humans were sometimes completely dense.

“They can be so stubborn,” Goodness said, shaking her head again.

“Strong willed,” Shirley agreed.

“Oh, yes, and once—­” Mercy snapped her mouth closed. It was best not to reveal their past antics for fear it would mislead their young charge into thinking that perhaps he should follow in their footsteps. Gabriel would take exception to that.

“Once?” Will pressed. “What happened?”

“Never mind,” Shirley said, reading the situation perfectly. “Some things are best laid to rest and not discussed.”

“Can I go down and be with the crowd?” Will asked again. “I won’t say anything to Gabriel.”

“He isn’t the only one,” Shirley blurted out. “I mean, we shouldn’t mutter a word of this to anyone in heaven.” Read more

A Season of Angels

The manger was empty. Leah Lundberg walked past the nativity scene Providence Hospital put out every year, stopped, and stared. The north wind cut through her like a boning knife as Leah studied the ramshackle stable, her heart heavy, her life more so.

The blue of Mary’s gown had long since faded, she noted. Joseph, leaning heavily against his staff, was slightly off-balance, and looked as if he’d topple in a stiff wind. There seemed to be one less lamb this year and one of the donkeys ears was missing. It was a small wonder the structure remained upright with the weight of the angel, yellow now instead of golden, nailed to the top. Triumphantly, she blew her chipped hom proclaiming the glorious news of the Savior’s birth.

The hospital had reconstructed the Christmas scene every Advent for the last fifty years, long before Leah was born, long before she realized an entire lifetime of tears could be stored within a single tattered soul.

It was ironic that a woman who toiled as a nurse day after day on a maternity ward would be childless herself. Her work with laboring mothers was her gift, they said, her special talent. Women specifically requested that she be with them for the birthing of their children.

For whatever reason, Leah had been granted the touch, a gentle hand, and a sympathetic heart. Birthing mothers claimed she was inspiring, encouraging, and supportive. Labor didn’t seem nearly as difficult when Leah was with a patient. She’d heard it all before, countless times, the praise, the gratitude. What most of Leah’s patients didn’t know was that she, who was an expert at labor and delivery, had never given birthherself.

Her patients left the hospital with their arms and their lives full. Each afternoon, Leah walked out of Providence alone. And empty.

Tears crowded her eyes and spilled unheeded down her cheeks. She bowed her head and closed her eyes in prayer. “Dear God,” she whispered, choking down the emotion, “please give me a child.” It was a plea she’d whispered innumerable times over the last ten years. So often that she was convinced God had long since given up hearing. Or caring.

Wiping the moisture from her face, she gathered her coat more closely around her thin shoulders and headed for the staff parking lot. She forced herself to smile. it upset Andrew that she continued to dwell on their inability to have children, and she didn’t want him to know she’d been crying.

Her husband had accepted the news with little more than a shrug. He felt bad, knowing how desperately she longed for a baby, but it wasn’t nearly as earth-shattering to him. If God saw fit to send children into their -lives, then fine, if not, that was fine too.

It wasn’t all right with Leah and she doubted that it ever would be.

Leah’s prayer whistled in the breeze, up through the bare spindly arms of a lanky birch tree, winging its way higher and higher until it had ascended the clouds and drifted into the warm winds of heaven. It arrived fresh with the salt of her tears at the desk of the Archangel Gabriel. The very angel who’d announced the news of the virgin birth to Mary nearly two thousand years earlier. His responsibilities had been wide and varied through time, but he felt a certain tenderness for humans and their multiple problems. He found earth’s population to be a curious lot. They were stubborn, rebellious, and arrogant. Their antics were a constant source of amusement to those behind the pearly gates. Who could help laughing at a group of people who heatedly declared that God was dead and clung to the belief that Elvis was alive?

“Leah Lundberg,- Gabriel repeated softly, frowning. The name was vaguely familiar. He flipped the pages of a cumbersome book until he’d found what he was seeking. Sighing, he relaxed against the back of his chair and slowly shook his head. Leah was one of his most persistent cases. He’d heard her prayer often, had ushered it himself to the very feet of God.

Gabriel had sent countless couriers to intercede on Leah’s behalf, but their efforts had been met with repeated failure. Time after time, their reports came back virtually the same. It was a familiar problem that blocked the answer to Leah’s prayer. Herself.

It would have been much easier if Gabriel could sit down with Leah and talk out this matter face to face. Circumstances arose now and again when doing exactly what was required, but generally not when it came to answering prayer. Humans tended to believe all that was required of them was a few mumbled words, then they were utterly content to leave the matter in the hands of God.

Through the ages humans had yet to discover what should have been obvious. The answers to prayer required participation. The people of earth expected God to do it all. Only a shocking few realized they had their own role to perform.

A good example was a request that had come in earlier from Monica Fischer, a preacher’s daughter. Monica had asked for a husband. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem; she was twenty-five and strikingly attractive, or would be if she didn’t choose to disguise her natural beauty. The whole process of attracting a young man was complicated by her self-righteous attitude. Few men, even devout servants of God, were willing to marry sanctimonious prudes.

Gabriel hadn’t decided how he would handle Monica’s request or the prayer that had come in the unusual form of a letter from Timmy Potter. Gabriel had a soft spot when it came to children’s prayers. Timmy was nine, and had requested a father… Read more

The Christmas Spirit

Two lifelong friends, a bartender and a pastor, decide to trade places the week before Christmas and end up finding love along the way in this delightful novel from the queen of holiday stories, #1 New York Times bestselling author Read more

The Perfect Christmas

Who mails out Christmas cards before Thanksgiving?” Cassie Beaumont lamented to her best friend.

Angie Barber looked up from her microscope and seemed to take an extra moment to consider what Cassie had just said. “You got a Christmas card? Already?”

Cassie wheeled her chair back to her station. “Can you believe it?”

“Who from?”

“An old college friend. You wouldn’t know her.” Cassie shrugged. “Jill married Tom two weeks after we graduated.”

“They have children?”

Cassie caught the wisp of longing in Angie’s voice and answered with a nod. “Two, a boy and a girl, and of course they’re adorable.”

“Of course,” Angie echoed.

The Christmas card photo showed the four of them in matching outfits of green and red. The mother and daughter wore full-length green dresses with red-and-green plaid skirts. Father and son had on three-piece suits with vests in the same fabric as the dress skirts. It was too adorable for words.

“There was a letter, as well.”

“Everything in their lives is perfect, right?” Angie asked.

“Perfect in every way,” Cassie grumbled. The unfairness of it all was too much. Jill, who worked as a financial planner, held down a forty-hour-a-week job, kept a meticulous house and still managed to be a terrific wife and mother. Despite all the demands on her time, she’d mailed out her Christmas cards a full month in advance.

“Is there a reason the perfect Jill sent her Christmas cards so soon?” Angie asked.

“Jill and Tom just moved into a new home and wanted to update family and friends with their address change. Oh, and there was a photo of the house and it was—”

“Perfect,” Angie finished for her.

“Perfect doesn’t begin to describe it.”

Angie watched her closely. “Do I detect a slight note of envy?” she asked.

“Slight envy? Me?” Cassie asked, exaggerating the words. “Heavens, no. What you’re hearing is a full-blown case of jealousy. The green-eyed monster is alive and well.” Cassie rolled her chair to the end of a counter filled with an assortment of microscopes, test tubes, slides and other equipment, then stood, hands propped on her hips. “Do you realize how long it’s been since I’ve been on a real date?”

“You went out with Greg last week,” Angie reminded her.

“Greg isn’t a man,” Cassie blurted out. “I mean, he is, but not in the sense of someone I’m interested in,” she said. “Greg’s…completely unsuitable as marriage material.” She didn’t need to explain that, at thirty-four, the ticking of her biological clock got louder by the year.

Angie sighed. “I agree.”

He was eligible in practically every way but he happened to be divorced and in love with his ex-wife. Unfortunately, he hadn’t figured that out yet. The entire date, if it could even be called a date, was spent rehashing the tragedy of his divorce. He went on and on about how much he missed his three kids—and his ex-wife, if the number of times he mentioned her name was any indication. The night had been sheer drudgery for Cassie. It was her first and last date with Greg.

“The problem is, we don’t meet many guys here at work,” Angie said. Cassie was well aware of that. Since they were holed up in a lab eight to ten hours a day, working as biochemists for a plastics company, the opportunities to socialize outside the job were limited.

“What really hit home,” Cassie said, “after receiving that Christmas card, is how badly I want a family of my own.”

“I know.” The longing was back in Angie’s voice, too.

“I don’t understand why it’s so hard to meet men. I’m reasonably attractive, right?”

Angie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes.”

“Thirty-four isn’t so old, is it?”

“Not really.”

Cassie shook her head and wondered why she was still single. She wanted to be married, and she liked to think she had the full package—five-five, dark hair, dark eyes. She was attractive, as Angie had confirmed, and she was smart, with a successful career, an engaging personality (if she did say so herself) and plenty of friends. “I blame my mother for this.”

“Your mother?”

“I blame my father, too, even if he didn’t stick around all that long.”

“Or maybe because he didn’t stick around.”

“Yeah, I guess. After the divorce, my mother was so down on marriage, the whole idea terrified me.”

“But it doesn’t anymore, does it?”

“No. I want a husband and I’d really like children.” She grinned. “The ironic thing is, my mother’s remarried.”

“Marriage seems to terrify your brother, too. Shawn should be married by now, don’t you think? He’s older than you are.”

“I’m not so sure about Shawn.” Cassie sometimes wondered if Angie might be interested in her brother. There was actually nothing to indicate that, but every once in a while Cassie had this feeling.… “He travels so much that maintaining a long-term relationship would be difficult for him.”

“True,” Angie said.

Shawn was a well-known artist who painted murals all over the country. Brother and sister were close and kept in touch, calling each other two and three times a week. Currently Shawn was in Boca Raton, Florida, painting the side of a building that stood next to the freeway. He’d sent her photos of the mural from his cell phone—an ocean scene, which Cassie knew was his favorite. Whales rising up out of the crashing waves. Dolphins and sea turtles and all kinds offish frolicked in the sparkling blue water. His murals made headlines wherever he went and huge crowds showed up to watch him paint.

“Shawn’s a different case,” Cassie said. In her opinion, that summed up the situation pretty accurately.

“But if you were married, I bet he’d show some interest in finding a wife,” Angie commented.

Cassie had never thought of their family dynamic in those terms. Perhaps, in some obscure way, Shawn was waiting for her to make the leap first. Angie might be right. It wasn’t that Shawn followed her lead—far from it. They’d both been traumatized by the divorce and by their mother’s reaction. Their father, who wanted his kids to call him Pete, had been in and out of their lives. Mostly out and yet…yet he’d had a powerful influence on his children, whom he rarely recognized as such.

“Shawn won’t feel marriage is safe until he sees you happily married,” Angie went on to say.

Cassie scowled at her friend. “What makes you so smart?”

“Just an observation,” Angie said. “I may not be correct, but it seems to me that you and Shawn are afraid of love.”

“Me afraid of love? Hardly.” Not if the longing in her heart was anything to go by. Like her friend Jill, she wanted it all.

“Whenever you meet a man—no matter how perfect he is—you find fault with him,” Angie said.

Now, that was categorically untrue. “Not so,” Cassie argued.

“Oh, it’s all wine and roses in the beginning, but then it’s over before you even have a chance to really know the guy.”

“How can you say that?”

“Well, mostly,” Angie told her softly, “I can say it because I’ve seen you do it again and again.”

“You’re not talking about me and Jess, are you? The man had no class. He scratched his private parts in public!”

“Not Jess.”

“Who do you mean, then?”

“Rod.”

Cassie cocked her head. “Rod? Rod who?”

“I don’t remember his last name. You went out with him a year ago.”

“Not Rod Showers? Good grief, he was so cheap I had to pay for my half of the meal and tip the valet because he refused to do it.”

“What about Charles…

Cassie got the point quickly enough. “Okay, okay, so I have standards.”

“High standards.”

“Okay, fine. High standards.” Cassie had made the effort, though. “I’ve tried to meet men.”

“We both have.”

“I had hopes for that online dating service.” The advertisements had looked so promising. Cassie and Angie had signed up together and then waited expectantly to meet their perfect matches.

It didn’t happen.

“I had real hopes for that, too,” Angie returned sadly. “I thought for sure we’d meet really wonderful husbands.”

Cassie sighed. That had been an expensive venture. Her expectations had been great and her disappointment greater. Angie’s too. In fact, Angie was the one who’d suggested trying the Internet.

“The church singles group was a good idea,” she said now.

“A great idea,” Cassie concurred, “if there’d been any men involved.” They’d gone there to discover the group consisted of thirty women and two men—both close to retirement age.

Angie nodded. “The pickings were few and far between.”

“We’ve read all the right books,” Cassie said. “Dating for Dummies. How to Find a Man in Five Easy Lessons. My personal favorite was Lasso Yourself a Husband and Other Ways to Make a Man Notice You.”

“The only thing we managed to lasso was a hundred-dollar credit-card bill for all those books.”

“Divided two ways,” Cassie reminded her.

“They did make for interesting reading.”

“They would’ve been a lot more interesting if we’d been able to make any of them work,” Cassie said in acerbic tones.

“Yeah…”

“We’ve tried everything.”

“I’m not giving up,” Angie insisted. “And I won’t let you give up, either.”

Cassie sighed.

She was close to it. The Christmas card from Jill and Tom was the final straw. For too long she’d been convinced that one day soon, she’d be mailing glossy Christmas cards to all her friends and relatives. She, too, would have a photograph that showed the perfect husband, the perfect children, a boy and a girl, all looking forward to the perfect Christmas. But year after year it was the same. No husband. No children. And each Christmas with her embittered mother more depressing than the one before.

The time had come to step forward and find a man, she decided with new resolve. Maybe she did need to lower her standards. She couldn’t allow another Christmas to pass without—

“There’s something, or rather someone, you haven’t tried,” Angie said, cutting into Cassie’s thoughts. Read more

Christmas Comes to Cedar Cove

Even though she was listening to Christmas carols on her iPod, Mary Jo Wyse could hear her brothers arguing. How could she not? Individually, the three of them had voices that were usually described as booming; together they sounded like an entire football stadium full of fans. All three worked as mechanics in the family-owned car repair business and stood well over six feet. Their size alone was intimidating. Add to that their voices, and they’d put the fear of God into the most hardened criminal.

“It’s nearly Christmas,” Linc was saying. He was the oldest and, if possible, loudest of the bunch.

“Mary Jo said he’d call her before now,” Mel said.

Ned, her youngest brother, remained suspiciously quiet. He was the sensitive one. Translated, that meant he’d apologize after he broke David Rhodes’s fingers for getting his little sister pregnant and then abandoning her.

“We’ve got to do something,” Linc insisted.

The determination in his voice gave her pause. Mary Jo’s situation was complicated enough without the involvement of her loving but meddlesome older brothers. However, it wasn’t their fault that she was about to have a baby and the father was nowhere in sight.

“I say we find David Rhodes and string him up until he agrees to marry our sister.”

Mary Jo gasped. She couldn’t help it. Knowing Linc, he’d have no qualms about doing exactly that.

“I think we should, too—if only we knew where he was,” she heard Mel say.

Unable to sit still any longer, Mary Jo tore off her earphones and burst out of her bedroom. She marched into the living room, where her brothers stood around the Christmas tree, beers in hand, as its lights blinked cheerfully. Eversince their parents had been killed in a car accident five years earlier, her older brothers had considered themselves her guardians. Which was ridiculous, since she was over twenty-one. Twenty-three, to be precise. She hadn’t been legally of age at the time of their deaths, but her brothers seemed to forget she was now an adult.

All four of them still lived in the family home. Linc and Ned were currently seeing women, but neither relationship seemed very serious. Mel had recently broken up with someone. Mary Jo was the only one eager to leave, chafing as she did at her brothers’ attempts to decree how she should live her life.

Admittedly she’d made a mess of things; she couldn’t deny it. But she was trying to deal with the consequences, to act like the adult she was. Yes, she’d made a massive error in judgment, falling for an attractive older man and doing what came all too naturally. And no, she didn’t need her brothers’ assistance.

“Would you guys mind your own business,” she demanded, hands on her hips. At five-three she stared up at her brothers, who towered above her.

She probably looked a sight, although at the moment

her appearance was the least of her problems. She was dressed in her old flannel nightgown, the one with the Christmas angels on it, her belly stretched out so far it looked like she’d swallowed a giant snow globe. Her long dark hair fell in tangles, and her feet were bare.

Linc frowned back at her. “You’re our sister and that makes you our business.”

“We’re worried about you,” Ned said, speaking for the first time. “You’re gonna have that baby any day.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about birthing no babies,” Mel added in a falsetto voice.

If he was trying to add humor to the situation, Mary Jo wasn’t amused. She glared at him angrily. “You don’t have to worry about delivering my baby. This child is my concern and mine alone.”

“No, he isn’t.”

From the very minute she’d tearfully announced her pregnancy four months ago, her brothers had decided the baby was a boy. For some reason, the alternative never seemed to occur to them, no matter how often she suggested it.

“You’re depriving this baby of his father,” Linc said

stubbornly. It was a lament he’d voiced a hundred times over the past months. “A baby needs a father.”

“I agree,” Mary Jo told him. “However, I haven’t seen David in weeks.”

Mel stepped forward, his disapproval obvious. “What about Christmas? Didn’t he tell you he’d be in touch before Christmas?”

“He did.” But then David Rhodes had made a lot of promises, none of which he’d kept. “He said he’d be visiting his family in the area.”

“Where?” Ned asked.

“Cedar Cove,” she supplied and wondered if she should’ve told her three hotheaded brothers that much.

“Let’s go there and find him,” Linc said.

Mary Jo held up both hands. “Don’t be crazy!”

“Crazy,” Linc echoed with a snort of indignation. “I refuse to let you have this baby alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Mary Jo said. She gestured toward them. “I have the three of you, don’t I?”

Her brothers went pale before her eyes. “You… you want us in the delivery room?” Mel asked in weak tones. He swallowed visibly. “You’re joking, right?”

Mary Jo had delayed registering for the birthing classes because David had promised to attend them with her. Only he hadn’t managed to show up for the first session or the one after that or the following one, either. Giving up on him, Mary Jo had begun a session that week—a lot later in the pregnancy than she should have. She’d gone by herself and left the class in tears. Although she’d considered asking Ned if he’d be her birthing partner, she hadn’t found the courage to do it yet. And she wasn’t sure he’d be the best choice, anyway. Her other options were her girlfriends Casey and Chloe; however, Casey was terrified by the idea and Chloe, married last year, was expecting her own baby.

“Right.” She struggled to maintain her composure. “That was a joke.”

They released a collective sigh.

“You’re distracting us from what’s important here.” Obviously, Linc wasn’t going to be put off. “I want to talk to David Rhodes, just him and me, man to man.” He clenched his hands at his sides.

“And when Linc’s finished, I want a turn,” Mel said, plowing his fist into his open palm.

Mary Jo rolled her eyes. She’d defended David to her brothers countless times. She’d defended him to Casey and Chloe—the only other people who knew David was her baby’s father. Casey worked with her at the insurance company in Seattle, so she’d met David, since he’d come to their office for meetings every few weeks, representing corporate headquarters in California. David had charmed just about everybody—with the possible exception of Casey.

He’d always had such good excuses for missing the birthing classes, and she’d believed him. It was easy to do because she so badly wanted to trust him. He claimed to love her and while the pregnancy certainly hadn’t been planned, he’d seemed genuinely pleased when she’d told him.There were a few legal and financial matters that needed to be cleared up, he’d explained, but as soon as they were dealt with, he’d marry her.

For a number of months Mary Jo had convinced her brothers that David’s intentions were honorable. Now, though, she had to resign herself to the fact that David wasn’t willing or able to marry her. She realized she didn’t know as much about him as she should. Granted, he was older by at least twenty years, but her infatuation had led her to dismiss the significance of that. Now Mary Jo had to doubt his sincerity. She hadn’t heard from him in more than two weeks and he wasn’t answering his cell phone, and even during their last conversation, he’d been preoccupied and abrupt. He’d mentioned that he’d be in Cedar Cove for Christmas with his father and stepmother and would call her then.

“Do you want to marry David?” Ned asked. He was the only brother to take her feelings into consideration.

“Of course she wants to marry him,” Linc answered, scowling at him. “She’s about to have his baby, isn’t she?”

“I believe I can answer for myself.” Mary Jo calmly turned toward her oldest brother. “Actually—”

“You’re getting married,” Linc broke in.

“I won’t have you holding a gun on David!”

Linc shook his head, expression puzzled. “I don’t own a gun.”

She sighed; her brothers could be so literal sometimes. “I was speaking figuratively,” she said loftily.

“Oh.” Linc frowned. “Well, I’m not talking figures, I’m talking facts.” He raised one finger. “You’re having a baby.” He raised a second. “The father of that baby needs to accept his responsibilities.”

“He will,” Mary Jo murmured, although any hope that David would take care of her and the baby had long since been dashed.

“Yes, he will,” Mel said firmly, “because we’re going to make sure he does.”

“And that includes putting a wedding band on your finger,” Linc informed her, giving her a look that said he wouldn’t tolerate any argument.

The baby kicked as if in protest and Mary Jo echoed the child’s feelings. She no longer knew what she wanted. In the beginning she’d been head-over-heels in love with David. He was the most exciting man she’d ever met, and without even trying, he’d swept her off her feet. Mary Jo had been thrilled when he paid attention to her, a lowly accounting clerk. Compared to the boyfriends she’d had—as naive and inexperienced as she’d been herself—David was a romantic hero. An older man, confident, witty, indulgent.

“Mary Josephine,” Mel said loudly. “Are you listening?”

Blinking to clear her thoughts, Mary Jo focused on her middle brother. “I guess not, sorry.”

“Sorry?” Mel stormed. “We’re talking about your future here and the future of your son.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Mary Jo yawned. She couldn’t help it. She covered her mouth with one hand and placed the other on her protruding belly. “I’m going to bed,” she declared.

“Mary Jo!” Linc shouted after her as if she were a marine recruit and he was her drill instructor. “We need to decide what to do here and now.”

“Can’t we talk about it in the morning?” She was too exhausted to continue this argument with her brothers at—she glanced toward the antique clock—almost midnight.

“No.”

“Linc, be reasonable.”

“We have to get this settled.” Mel joined forces with his older brother.

Again Ned didn’t speak. He cast her a look of quiet sympathy but he wasn’t taking sides. Mary Jo could see that he felt Linc and Mel were right—not about becoming Mrs. Rhodes but about the need for her to make some kind of decision. Read more

A Christmas Message

Jake Finley waited impatiently to be ushered into his father’s executive office—the office that would one day be his. The thought of eventually stepping into J. R. Fin-ley’s shoes excited him. Even though he’d slowly been working his way through the ranks, he’d be the first to admit he still had a lot to learn. However, he was willing to do whatever it took to prove himself.

Finley’s was the last of the family-owned department stores in New York City. His great-grandfather had begun the small mercantile on East 34th Street more than seventy years earlier. In the decades since, succeeding Finleys had opened branches in the other boroughs and then in nearby towns. Eventually the chain had spread up and down the East Coast.

“Your father will see you now,” Mrs. Coffey said. Dora Coffey had served as J.R.’s executive assistant for at least twenty-five years and knew as much about the company as Jake did—maybe more. He hoped that when the time came she’d stay on, although she had to be close to retirement age.

“Thank you.” He walked into the large office with its panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. He’d lived in the city all his life, but this view never failed to stir him, never failed to lift his heart. No place on earth was more enchanting than New York in December. He could see a light snow drifting down, and the city appeared even more magical through that delicate veil.

Jacob R. Finley, however, wasn’t looking at the view. His gaze remained focused on the computer screen. And his frown told Jake everything he needed to know.

He cleared his throat, intending to catch J.R.’s attention, although he suspected that his father was well aware of his presence. “You asked to see me?” he said. Now that he was here, he had a fairly good idea what had initiated this summons. Jake had hoped it wouldn’t happen quite so soon, but he should’ve guessed Mike Scott would go running to his father at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, Jake hadn’t had enough time to prove that he was right—and Mike was wrong.

“How many of those SuperRobot toys did you order?” J.R. demanded, getting straight to the point. His father had never been one to lead gently into a subject. “Intellytron,” he added scornfully.

“Also known as Telly,” Jake said in a mild voice.

“How many?”

“Five hundred.” As if J.R. didn’t know.

“What?”

Jake struggled not to flinch at his father’s angry tone, which was something he rarely heard. They had a good relationship, but until now, Jake hadn’t defied one of his father’s experienced buyers.

“For how many stores?”

“Just here.”

J.R.’s brow relaxed, but only slightly. “Do you realize those things retail for two hundred and fifty dollars apiece?”

J.R. knew the answer to that as well as Jake did.

“Yes.”

His father stood and walked over to the window, pacing back and forth with long, vigorous strides. Although in his early sixties, J.R. was in excellent shape. Tall and lean, like Jake himself, he had dark hair streaked with gray and his features were well-defined. No one could doubt that they were father and son. J.R. whirled around, hands linked behind him. “Did you clear the order with…anyone?”

Jake was as straightforward as his father. “No.”

“Any particular reason you went over Scott’s head?”

Jake had a very good reason. “We discussed it. He didn’t agree, but I felt this was the right thing to do.” Mike Scott had wanted to bring a maximum of fifty robots into the Manhattan location. Jake had tried to persuade him, but Mike wasn’t interested in listening to speculation or taking what he saw as a risk—one that had the potential of leaving them with a huge overstock. He relied on cold, hard figures and years of purchasing experience. When their discussion was over, Mike still refused to go against what he considered his own better judgment. Jake continued to argue, presenting internet research and what his gut was telling him about this toy. When he’d finished, Mike Scott had countered with a list of reasons why fifty units per store would be adequate. More than adequate, in his opinion. While Jake couldn’t disagree with the other man’s logic, he had a strong hunch that the much larger order was worth the risk.

“You felt it was right?” his father repeated in a scathing voice. “Mike Scott told me we’d be fortunate to sell fifty in each store, yet you, with your vast experience of two months in the toy department, decided the Manhattan store needed ten times that number.”

Jake didn’t have anything to add.

“I don’t suppose you happened to notice that there’s been a downturn in the economy? Parents don’t have two hundred and fifty bucks for a toy. Not when a lot of families are pinching pennies.”

“You made me manager of the toy department.” Jake wasn’t stupid or reckless. “I’m convinced we’ll sell those robots before Christmas.” As manager, it was his responsibility—and his right—to order as he deemed fit. And if that meant overriding a buyer’s decision—well, he could live with that.

“You think you can sell all five hundred of those robots?” Skepticism weighted each word. “In two weeks?”

“Yes.” Jake had to work hard to maintain his air of confidence. Still he held firm.

His father took a moment to consider Jake’s answer, walking a full circle around his desk as he did. “As of this morning, how many units have you sold?”

That was an uncomfortable question and Jake glanced down at the floor. “Three.”

“Three.” J.R. shook his head and stalked to the far side of the room, then back again as if debating how to address the situation. “So what you’re saying is that our storeroom has four hundred and ninety-seven expensive SuperRobots clogging it up?”

“They’re going to sell, Dad.”

“It hasn’t happened yet, though, has it?”

“No, but I believe the robot’s going to be the hottest toy of the season. I’ve done the research—this is the toy kids are talking about.”

“Maybe, but let me remind you, kids aren’t our customers. Their parents are. Which is why no one else in the industry shares your opinion.”

“I know it’s a risk, Dad, but it’s a calculated one.

Have faith.”

His father snorted harshly at the word faith. “My faith died along with your mother and sister,” he snapped.

Involuntarily Jake’s eyes sought out the photograph of his mother and sister. Both had been killed in a freak car accident on Christmas Eve twenty-one years ago. Neither Jake nor his father had celebrated Christmas since that tragic night. Ironically, the holiday season was what kept Finley’s in the black financially. Without the three-month Christmas shopping craze, the department-store chain would be out of business.

Because of the accident, Jake and his father ignored anything to do with Christmas in their personal lives. Every December twenty-fourth, soon after the store closed, the two of them got on a plane and flew to Saint John in the Virgin Islands. From the time Jake was twelve, there hadn’t been a Christmas tree or presents or anything else that would remind him of the holiday. Except, of course, at the store.

“Trust me in this, Dad,” Jake pleaded. “Telly the Su-perRobot will be the biggest seller of the season, and pretty soon Finley’s will be the only store in Manhattan where people can find them.”

His father reached for a pen and rolled it between his fingers as he mulled over Jake’s words. “I put you in charge of the toy department because I thought it would be a valuable experience for you. One day you’ll sit in this chair. The fate of the company will rest in your hands.”

His father wasn’t telling him anything Jake didn’t already know.

“If the toy department doesn’t show a profit because you went over Mike Scott’s head, then you’ll have a lot to answer for.” He locked eyes with Jake. “Do I make myself clear?”

Jake nodded. If the toy department reported a loss as a result of his judgment, his father would question Jake’s readiness to take over the company.

“Got it,” Jake assured his father.

“Good. I want a report on the sale of that robot every week until Christmas.”

“You’ll have it,” Jake promised. He turned to leave.

“I hope you’re right about this toy, son,” J.R. said as Jake opened the office door. “You’ve taken a big risk. I hope it pays off.”

He wasn’t the only one. Still, Jake believed. He’d counted on having proof that the robots were selling by the time his father learned what he’d done. Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, which was generally the biggest shopping day of the year, had been a major disappointment. He’d fantasized watching the robots fly off the shelves.

It hadn’t happened.

Although they’d been prominently displayed, just one of the expensive toys had sold. He supposed his father had a point; in a faltering economy, people were evaluating their Christmas budgets, so toys, especially expensive ones, had taken a hit. Children might want the robots but it was their parents who did the buying.

Jake’s head throbbed as he made his way to the toy department. In his rush to get to the store that morning, he’d skipped his usual stop at a nearby Starbucks. He needed his caffeine fix.

“Welcome to Finley’s. May I be of assistance?” an older woman asked him. The store badge pinned prominently on her neat gray cardigan told him her name was Mrs. Emily Miracle. Her smile was cheerful and engaging. She must be the new sales assistant Human Resources had been promising him—but she simply wouldn’t do. Good grief, what were they thinking up in HR? Sales in the toy department could be brisk, demanding hours of standing, not to mention dealing with cranky kids and short-tempered parents. He needed someone young. Energetic.

“What can I show you?” the woman asked.

Jake blinked, taken aback by her question. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you shopping for one of your children?”

“Well, no. I—”

She didn’t allow him to finish and steered him toward the center aisle. “We have an excellent selection of toys for any age group. If you’re looking for suggestions, I’d be more than happy to help.”

She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was the department manager—and therefore her boss. “Excuse me, Mrs….” He glanced at her name tag a second time. “Mrs. Miracle.”

“Actually, it’s Merkle.”

“The badge says Miracle.”

“Right,” she said, looking a bit chagrined. “HR made a mistake, but I don’t mind. You can call me Mrs. Miracle.”

Speaking of miracles… If ever Jake needed one, it was now. Those robots had to sell. His entire future with the company could depend on this toy.

“I’d be more than happy to assist you,” Mrs. Miracle said again, breaking into his thoughts.

“I’m Jake Finley.”

“Pleased to meet you. Do you have a son or a daughter?” she asked.

“This is Finley’s Department Store,” he said pointedly.

Apparently this new employee had yet to make the connection, which left Jake wondering exactly where HR found their seasonal help. There had to be someone more capable than this woman.

“Finley,” Mrs. Miracle repeated slowly. “Jacob Robert is your father, then?”

“Yes,” he said, frowning. Only family and close friends knew his father’s middle name.

Her eyes brightened, and a smile slid into place. “Ahh,” she said knowingly.

“You’re acquainted with my father?” That could explain why she’d been hired. Maybe she had some connection to his family he knew nothing about.

“No, no, not directly, but I have heard a great deal about him.”

So had half the population on the East Coast. “I’m the manager here in the toy department,” he told her. He clipped on his badge as he spoke, realizing he’d stuck it in his pocket. The badge said simply “Manager,” without including his name, since his policy was to be as anonymous as possible, to be known by his role, not his relationship to the owner.

“The manager. Yes,” she said, nodding happily. “This works out beautifully.”

“What does?” Her comments struck him as odd.

“Oh, nothing,” she returned with the same smile.

She certainly looked pleased with herself, although Jake couldn’t imagine why. He doubted she’d last a week. He’d see about getting her transferred to a more suitable department for someone her age. Oh, he’d be subtle about it. He had no desire to risk a discrimination suit.

Jake examined the robot display, hoping that while he’d been gone another one might have sold. But if that was the case, he didn’t see any evidence of it.

“Have you had your morning coffee?” Mrs. Miracle asked.

“No,” he muttered. His head throbbed, reminding him of his craving for caffeine.

“It seems quiet here at the moment. Why don’t you take your break?” she suggested. “The other sales associate and I can handle anything that comes along.”

Jake hesitated.

“Go on,” she urged. “Everyone needs their morning coffee.”

“You go,” he said. He was, after all, the department manager, so he should be the last to leave.

“Oh, heavens, no. I just finished a cup.” Looking around, she gestured toward the empty aisles. “It’s slow right now but it’s sure to pick up later, don’t you think?”

She was right. In another half hour or so, he might not get a chance. His gaze rested on the robots and he pointed in their direction. “Do what you can to interest shoppers in those.”

“Telly the SuperRobot?” she said. Not waiting for his reply, she added, “You won’t have any worries there. They’re going to be the hottest item this Christmas.”

Jake felt a surge of excitement. “You heard that?”

“No.” she answered thoughtfully.

“Then you must’ve seen a news report.” Jake had been waiting for exactly this kind of confirmation. He’d played a hunch, taken a chance, and in his heart of hearts felt it had been a good decision. But he had four hundred and ninety-seven of these robots on his hands. If his projections didn’t pan out, it would take a long time—like maybe forever—to live it down.

“Coffee,” Mrs. Miracle said, without explaining why she was so sure of the robot’s success.

Jake checked his watch, then nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Take whatever time you need.”

Jake thanked her and hurriedly left, stopping by HR on his way out. The head of the department, Gloria Palmer, glanced up when Jake entered the office. “I’ve got a new woman on the floor this morning. Emily Miracle,” he said.

Gloria frowned. “Miracle?” She tapped some keys on her computer and looked back at Jake. “I don’t show anyone with that name working in your department.”

Jake remembered that Emily Miracle had said there’d been an error on her name tag. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, momentarily closing his eyes as he tried to remember the name she’d mentioned. “It starts with an M—McKinsey, Merk, something like that.” Read more

Choir of Angels

Alone at Christmas. Greg Bennett feels his life has been a waste. Sixty years old and he has no one to spend Christmas with, no one who cares. Greg knows he’s made mistakes, hurt people, failed in all the ways Read more

Dear Santa

A special holiday wish list brings about hope, love, and second chances in this nostalgic novel from the queen of Christmas stories, #1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber. Lindy Carmichael isn’t feeling particularly joyful when she returns home Read more

The Christmas Basket

It would be the wedding of the year. No—the wedding of the century.

Sarah McDowell intended to create the most exquisite event possible, a wedding worthy of Vogue Magazine (or at least a two-page spread in the Rose, Oregon, Gazette). The entire town would talk about her daughter’s wedding.

The foundation for Sarah’s plans rested squarely on booking the Women’s Century Club for the reception. It was why she’d maintained her association with the club after that woman had been granted membership. She was outraged that such a fine institution would lower itself to welcome the likes of Mary Sutton.

Sarah refused to dwell on the sordid details. She couldn’t allow herself to get upset over something that had happened almost twenty years ago. Although it didn’t hurt any to imagine Mary hearing—second- or third-hand, of course— about Kristen’s wedding. As Sarah understood it, Mary’s daughter had eloped. Eloped, mind you, with some riffraff hazelnut farmer. Sarah didn’t know that for sure because it was her Christian duty not to gossip or think ill of others. However, sometimes information just happened to come one’s way….

Pulling into the parking lot of the Women’s Century Club, Sarah surveyed the grounds. Even this late in the year, the rose garden was breathtaking. Many of the carefully tended bushes still wore their blooms, and next June, when the wedding was scheduled, the garden would be stunning. The antique roses with their intoxicating scents and the more recent hybrids with their gorgeous shapes and colors would make a fitting backdrop for the beautiful bride and her handsome groom. It would be perfect, she thought with satisfaction. Absolutely perfect.

Sarah had stopped attending the Women’s Century Club meetings three years ago. Well, there wasn’t any need to obsess over the membership committee’s sorry lapse in judgment. For many years Sarah had chaired that committee herself. The instant she stepped down, Mary Sutton had applied for membership to the prestigious club—and received it. Now the only social event Sarah participated in was the annual Christmas Dance. Mary Sutton had robbed her of so much already, but Sarah wasn’t letting her ruin that, too.

Sarah did continue to meet with other friends from the club and managed to keep up with the news. She understood that Mary had become quite active in the association. Fine. Good for her. It gave the woman something to write about in her column for the weekly Rose Gazette. Not that Sarah read “About Town.” Someone had told her it was fairly popular, though. Which didn’t bother her in the least. Mary was a good writer; Sarah would acknowledge that much. But then, what one lacked in certain areas was often compensated in others. And Mary was definitely lacking in the areas of generosity, fairness, ethics…. She could go on.

With a click of her key chain, Sarah locked her car and headed toward the large, two-story stone structure. There was a cold wind blowing in from the ocean, and she hurried up the steps of the large veranda that surrounded the house. A blast of warm air greeted her as she walked inside. Immediately in front of her was the curved stairway leading to the ballroom on the second floor. She could already picture Kristen moving elegantly down those stairs, her dress sweeping grandly behind her. Today, evergreen garlands were hung along the mahogany railing, with huge red velvet bows tied at regular intervals. Gigantic potted poinsettias lined both sides of the stairway. The effect was both festive and tasteful.

“Oh, how lovely,” she said to Melody Darrington, the club’s longtime secretary.

“Yes, we’re very pleased with this year’s Christmas decorations.” Melody glanced up from her desk behind the half wall that overlooked the entry. The door to the office was open and Sarah heard the fax machine humming behind her. “Are you here to pick up your tickets for the Christmas dance?”

“I am,” Sarah confirmed. “And I’d like to book the club for June seventh for a reception.” She paused dramatically. “Kristen’s getting married.”

“Sarah, that’s just wonderful!”

“Yes, Jake and I are pleased.” This seriously understated her emotions. Kristen was the first of her three daughters to marry, and Sarah felt as if the wedding was the culmination of all her years as a caring, involved mother. She highly approved of Kristen’s fiancé. Jonathan Clark was not only a charming and considerate young man, he held a promising position at an investment firm and had a degree in business. His parents were college professors who lived in Eugene; he was their only son. Whenever she’d spoken with Jonathan’s mother, Louise Clark had sounded equally delighted.

Melody flipped the pages of the appointment book to June. “It’s a good idea to book the club early.”

Holding her breath, Sarah leaned over the half wall and stared down at the schedule. She relaxed the instant she saw that particular Saturday was free. The wedding date could remain unchanged.

“It looks like June seventh is open,” Melody said.

“Fabulous.” Sarah’s cell phone rang, and she reached inside her purse to retrieve it. She sold real estate, but since entering her fifties, she’d scaled back her hours on the job. Jake, who was head of the X-ray department at Rose Hospital, enjoyed traveling. Sarah no longer had the energy to accompany Jake and also maintain her status as a top-selling agent. The number displayed on her phone was that of her husband’s office. She’d call him back shortly. He was probably asking about the time of their eldest daughter’s flight. Jake and Sarah were going to meet Noelle at the small commuter airport later in the day. What a joy it would be to have all three of their girls home for Christmas, not to mention Noelle’s birthday, which was December twenty-fifth. This would be the first time in ten years that Noelle had returned to celebrate anything with her family. Sarah blamed Mary Sutton and her son for that, too.

“Should I give you a deposit now?” she asked, removing her checkbook.

“Since you’re a member of the club, that won’t be necessary.”

“Great. Then that’s settled and I can get busy with my day. I’ve got a couple of houses to show. Plus Jake and I are driving to the airport this afternoon to pick up Noelle. You remember our daughter Noelle, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“She’s living in Dallas these days, and has a high-powered job with one of the big computer companies.” What Sarah didn’t add was the Noelle had become a workaholic. Getting her twenty-eight-year-old daughter to take time off work was nearly impossible. Sarah and Jake made a point of visiting her once a year and sometimes twice, but this couldn’t go on. Noelle had to get over her phobia about returning to Rose—and the risk of seeing Thom Sutton. Oh, yes, those Suttons had done a lot of damage to the McDowells.

With Kristen announcing her engagement and inviting the Clarks to share their Christmas festivities, Sarah had strongly urged Noelle to come home for the celebration. This was an important year for their family, and it was absolutely necessary that Noelle be there with them. After some back-and-forth discussion, she’d finally capitulated.

“Before you leave, there’s something you should know,” Melody said hesitantly. “There’s been a rule change about members using the building.”

“Yes?” Sarah tensed, anticipating a roadblock.

“The new rule states that only members who have completed a minimum of ten hours’ community service approved by the club will be permitted to lease our facilities.”

“But I’m an active part of our community already,” Sarah complained. She provided plenty of services to others.

“I realize that. Unfortunately, the service project in question must be determined by the club and it must be completed by the end of December to qualify for the following year.”

Sarah gaped at her. “Do you mean to say that in addition to everything else I’m doing in the next two weeks, I have to complete some club project?”

“You haven’t been reading the newsletters, have you?” Melody asked, frowning.

Obviously not. Sarah refused to read about Mary Sutton, whose name seemed to appear in every issue these days.

“If you attended the meetings, you’d know it, too.” Mel-

ody added insult to injury by pointing out Sarah’s intentional absence.

Despite her irritation, Sarah managed a weak smile. “All right,” she muttered. “What can I do?”

“Actually, you’ve come at an opportune moment. We need someone who’s willing to pitch in on the Christmas baskets.”

Sarah was trying to figure out how she could squeeze in one more task before the holidays. “Exactly what would that entail?”

“Oh, it’ll be great fun. The ladies pooled the money they raised from the cookbook sale to buy gifts for these baskets. They’ve made up lists, and what you’d need to do is get everything on your list, arrange all the stuff inside the baskets and then deliver them to the Salvation Army by December twenty-third.”

That didn’t sound unreasonable. “I think I can do that.”

“Wonderful.” A smile lit up Melody’s face. “The woman who’s heading up the project will be grateful for some help.”

“The woman?” That sounded better already. At least she wouldn’t be stuck doing this alone.

“Mary Sutton.”

Sarah felt as though Melody had punched her. “Excuse me. For a moment I thought you said Mary Sutton.”

“I did.”

“I don’t mean to be catty here, but Mary and I have… a history.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to work something out. You’re both adults.”

Sarah was stunned by the woman’s lack of sensitivity. She wanted to argue, to explain that this was unacceptable, but she couldn’t think of exactly what to say.

“You did want the club for June seventh, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, of course, but—”

“Then be here tomorrow morning at ten to meet with Mary.”

Numb and speechless, Sarah slowly turned and trudged toward the door.

“Sarah,” Melody called. “Don’t forget the dance tickets.”

Dance. How could she think about the dance when she was being forced to confront a woman who detested her? The feeling might be mutual but that didn’t make it any less awkward.

One across. A four-letter word for fragrant flower. Rose, naturally. Noelle McDowell penciled in the answer and moved to the next clue. A prickly feeling crawled up her spine and she raised her head. She disliked the short commuter flights. This one, out of Portland, carried twenty-four passengers. It saved having to rent a vehicle or asking her parents to make the long drive into the big city to pick her up.

The feeling persisted and she glanced over her shoulder. She instantly jerked back and slid down in her seat as far as the constraints of the seat belt allowed. It couldn’t be. No, please, she muttered, closing her eyes. Not Thom. Not after all these years. Not now. But it was, it had to be. No one else would look at her with such complete, unadulterated antagonism. He had some nerve after what he’d done to her.

Long before she was ready, the pilot announced that the plane was preparing to land in Rose. On these flights, no carry-on bags were permitted, and Noelle hadn’t taken anything more than her purse on board. Her magazines would normally go in her briefcase, but that didn’t fit in the compact space beneath her seat, so the flight attendant had stowed it. She had a Weight Watchers magazine and a crossword puzzle book marked EASY in large letters across the top. She wasn’t going to let Thom see her with either and stuffed them in the outside pocket of her purse, folding one magazine over the other.

Her pulse thundered like crazy. The man who’d broken her heart sat only two rows behind her, looking as sophisticated as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ. He’d always been tall, dark and handsome—like a twenty-first century Cary Grant. Classic features that were just rugged enough to be interesting and very, very masculine. Dark eyes, glossy dark hair. An impeccable sense of style. Surely he was married. But finding out would mean asking her sister or one of her friends who still lived in Rose. Coward that she was, Noelle didn’t want to know. Okay, she did, but not if it meant having to ask.

The plane touched down and Noelle braced herself against the jolt of the wheels bouncing on tarmac. As soon as they’d coasted to a stop, the Unfasten Seat Belt sign went off, and the people around her instantly leaped to their feet. Noelle took her time. Her hair was a fright. Up at three that morning to catch the 6:00 a.m. out of Dallas/Ft. Worth, she’d run a brush through the dark tangles, forgoing the usual routine of fussing with mousse. As a result, large ringlets fell like bedsprings about her face. Normally, her hair was shaped and controlled and coerced into gentle waves. But today she had the misfortune of looking like Shirley Temple in one of her 1930s movies—and in front of Thom Sutton, no less.

When it was her turn to leave her seat, she stood, looking staunchly ahead. If luck was with her, she could slip away unnoticed and pretend she hadn’t seen him. Luck, however, was on vacation and the instant she stepped into the aisle, the handle of her purse caught on the seat arm. Both magazines popped out of the outside pocket and flew into the air, only to be caught by none other than Thom Sutton. The crossword puzzle magazine tumbled to the floor and he was left holding the Weight Watchers’ December issue. As his gaze slid over her, she immediately sucked in her stomach.

“I read it for the fiction,” she announced, then added, “Don’t I know you?” She tried to sound indifferent—and to look thin. “It’s Tim, isn’t it?” she asked, frowning as though she couldn’t quite place him.

“Thom,” he corrected. “Good to see you again, Nadine.”

“Noelle,” she said bitterly.

He glared at her until someone from the back of the line called, “Would you two mind having your reunion when you get off the plane?”

“Sorry,” Thom said over his shoulder.

“I barely know this man.” Noelle wanted her fellow passengers to hear the truth. “I once thought I did, but I was wrong,” she explained, walking backward toward the exit.

“Whatever,” the guy behind them said loudly.

“You’re a fine one to talk,” Thom said. His eyes were as dark and cold as those of the snowman they’d built in Lions’ Park their senior year of high school—like glittering chips of coal.

“You have your nerve,” she muttered, whirling around just in time to avoid crashing into the open cockpit. She smiled sweetly at the pilot. “Thank you for a most pleasant flight.”

He returned the smile. “I hope you’ll fly with us again.”

“I will.”

“Good to see you, Thom,” the pilot said next.

Placing her hand on the railing of the steep stairs that led to the ground, Noelle did her best to keep her head high, her shoulders square—and her eyes front. The last thing she wanted to do was trip and make an even worse fool of herself by falling flat on her face. Read more

Glad Tidings

Chapter One

On that cold day I was born, in February 1955, my great-aunt gave me a classic fruitcake for the celebration of the occasion of my birth. Every year during the holidays I pull it out of the attic and take a look at it and it still looks great, and every year I try to get up the nerve to take a slice and try it.

–Dean Fearing,
Chef of The Mansion on Turtle Creek

This job was going to kill her yet.

Emma Collins stared at the daredevil pilot who was urging her toward his plane. She’d come to Thun Field to drum up advertising dollars for her employer, The Puyallup Examiner, and wasn’t interested in taking a spin around southeast Puget Sound.

“Thank you, but no,” she insisted for the third time. Oliver Hamilton seemed to have a hearing problem. However, Emma was doing her best to maintain a professional facade, despite her pounding heart. No way would she go for a ride with Flyboy.

The truth was, Emma was terrified of flying. Okay, she white-knuckled it in a Boeing 747, but nothing on God’s green earth would get her inside a small plane with this man — and his dog. Oliver Hamilton had a devil-may-care glint in his dark blue eyes and wore a distressed brown leather jacket that resembled something a World War Two bomber pilot might wear. All he needed was the white scarf. She suspected that if he ever got her in the air, he’d start making loops and circles with the express purpose of frightening her to death. He looked just the type.

Placing the advertising-rate sheet on his desk, she turned resolutely away from the window and the sight of Hamilton’s little bitty plane — a Cessna Caravan 675, he’d called it. “As I was explaining earlier, The Examiner has a circulation of over forty-five thousand. As you’ll see–” she gestured at the sheet “–we have special introductory rates in December. We serve four communities and, dollar for advertising dollar, you can’t do better than what we’re offering.”

“Yes, yes, I understand all that,” Oliver Hamilton said, stepping around his desk. “Now, what I can offer you is the experience of a lifetime . . .”

Instinctively Emma backed away. She had an aversion to attractive men whose promises slid so easily off their tongues. Her father had been one of them. He’d flitted in and out of her life during her childhood and teen years. Every so often, he’d arrived bearing gifts and making promises, none of which he’d kept. Still, her mother had loved Bret Collins until the end. Pamela had died after a brief illness when Emma was a sophomore at the University of Oregon. To his credit, her father had paid her college expenses, but Emma refused to have anything to do with him. She was on her own in the world and determined to make a success of her career as a journalist. When she’d hired on at The Examiner earlier that year, she hadn’t objected to starting at the bottom. She’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was spending half her time trying to sell advertising.

The Examiner was a family-owned business, one of a vanishing breed. The newspaper had been in the Berwald family for three generations. Walt Berwald II had held on through the corporate buyouts and survived the competition from the big-city newspapers coming out of Tacoma and Seattle. It hadn’t been easy. Now his thirty-year-old son had taken over after his father’s recent heart attack. Walt the third, the new editor-in-chief, was doing everything he could to keep the newspaper financially solvent, which Emma knew was a challenge.

“Hey, Oscar,” Oliver said, bending to pet his dog. “I think the lady’s afraid of flying.”

Emma bristled, irritated that he’d pegged her so quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He ignored her and continued to pet the dog. She couldn’t readily identify his breed, possibly some kind of terrier. The dog was mostly white with one large black spot surrounding his left eye. Right out of that 1930s show Spanky and Our Gang. Wasn’t that the name? She shook off her momentary distraction.

“I’m here to sell you advertising in The Examiner,” she explained again. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”

Oliver straightened, crossing his arms, and leaned against his desk. “As I said, I’m just getting my business started. At this point I don’t have a lot of discretionary funds for advertising. So for now I’ll stick with the word-of-mouth method. That seems to be working.”

It couldn’t be working that well, since he appeared to have a lot of time on his hands. “Exactly what is it you do?” she asked.

“I give flying lessons and I’ve recently begun an airfreight business.”

“Oh.”

“Oscar and I haven’t crashed even once.”

He was obviously making fun of her, and she didn’t appreciate it. Nor did she take his alleged safety record as an incentive to leap into the passenger seat.

“But then,” he added, “there’s always a first time.”

“Exactly what I was going to say,” Emma muttered. “Well, I’ll leave the information with you,” she said more pleasantly. “I hope you’ll think about our proposal when it’s financially feasible.”

Retrieving her briefcase and purse, she headed toward the door — which Oliver suddenly blocked with his arm. His smile was as lazy as it was sexy. Hmm, funny how often lazy and sexy went together. Considering all that boyish charm, plenty of other women had probably melted at his feet. She wouldn’t.

She met his gaze without flinching.

“Are you sure I can’t take you up for a spin?” he asked.

“Absolutely, positively sure.”

“There’s nothing to fear except fear itself.”

“Uh-uh. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other calls to make.”

He moved aside. “It’s a shame. You’re kinda cute in an uptight sort of way.”

Unable to resist, she rolled her eyes.

Oliver chuckled and walked her out to her car, his dog trotting behind him. Normally Emma would’ve taken time to pet the terrier, but Oliver Hamilton would inevitably read that as a sign she was interested in him. She was fond of animals, especially dogs, and hoped to get one herself. Unfortunately, her apartment complex didn’t allow pets; not only that, the landlord was a real piece of work. As soon as she had the chance, Emma planned to find somewhere else to live.

Using her remote, she unlocked her car door, which Oliver promptly opened for her. She smiled her thanks, eager to leave, and climbed into the driver’s side.

“So I can’t change your mind?”

She shook her head. The one thing a ladies’ man could never resist, Emma had learned from her father, was a woman who said no. Somehow, she’d have to get Oliver to accept her at her word.

She reached for the door and closed it. Hard.

Oliver stepped back.

After she’d started the ignition and pulled away, he smiled at her — a mysterious smile — as if he knew something she didn’t.

As far as Emma was concerned, she’d made a lucky escape.

Her irritation had just begun to fade when she returned to the office and walked down to her cubicle in the basement, shared with half a dozen other staff. The area was affectionately — and sometimes not so affectionately — termed The Dungeon. Phoebe Wilkinson, who sat opposite her, glanced up when Emma tossed her purse onto her desk.

“That bad?” Phoebe asked, rolling her chair across the narrow aisle. She was one of the other reporters, a few years older than Emma. She was short where Emma was tall, with dark hair worn in a pixie cut while Emma’s was long and blond. Most of the time, anyway. Occasionally Emma was a redhead or a brunette.

“You wouldn’t believe my afternoon.”

“Did you sell any ads?” Phoebe asked. It’d been her turn the day before and she’d come back with three brand-new accounts.

Emma nodded. She’d managed to get the local pizza parlor to place an ad in the Wednesday edition with a dollar-off coupon for any large pizza. That way, the restaurant could figure out how well the advertising had worked. Emma just hoped everyone in town would go racing into the parlor with that coupon. Badda Bing, Badda Boom Pizza had been her only sale.

“That’s great,” Phoebe said with real enthusiasm.

“Yes, at least our payroll checks won’t bounce.” She couldn’t restrain her sarcasm.

Phoebe frowned, shaking her head. “Walt would never let that happen.”

Her friend and co-worker had a crush on the owner. Phoebe was the strongest personality she knew, yet when it came to Walt, she seemed downright timid — far from her usual assertive self.

Emma sighed. Her own feelings about men had grown cynical. Her father was mostly responsible for that. Her one serious college romance hadn’t helped, either; it ended when her mother became ill. Emma hadn’t been around to help Neal with his assignments, so he’d dropped her for another journalism student. Pulling out her chair, Emma sat down. She hadn’t worked so hard to get her college degree for this. Her feet hurt, she had a run in her panty hose and no one was going to give her a Pulitzer prize when she spent half her time pounding the pavement and the other half writing obituaries.

Yes, obituaries. Walt’s big coup had been getting a contract to write obituaries for the large Tacoma newspaper, and that had been her job and Phoebe’s for the past eight months. Emma had gotten quite good at summarizing someone else’s life — but that hardly made a smudge on the page of her own.

She hadn’t obtained a journalism degree in order to persuade the local department store to place mattress sale ads in the Sunday paper, either. She was a reporter! A darn good one . . . if only someone would give her a chance to prove herself. Emma longed to write a piece worthy of her education and her skills, and frankly, preparing obituaries wasn’t it.

“I don’t think I can do this much longer,” she confessed sadly. “Either Walt lets me write a real story or . . .” She didn’t know what.

Phoebe gasped. “You aren’t thinking of quitting, are you?”

Emma looked at her friend. She’d been hired the same week as Phoebe. The difference was, Phoebe seemed content to do whatever was asked of her. She loved writing obituaries and set the perfect tone with each one. Not Emma. She hated it, struggling with them all. The result was always adequate or better because Emma took pride in her work, but it just wasn’t what she wanted to be doing. She had ambition and dreamed that one day she’d write feature articles. Eventually, she hoped to have her own column.

“I don’t want to quit. I’ve been waiting six months for Walt to offer me something more than funeral home notices.”

“Sleep on it,” Phoebe advised. “You’ve had a rough day. Everything will seem better in the morning.”

“You’re right,” she murmured. An ultimatum shouldn’t be made on the spur of the moment. Besides, it wasn’t the obituaries or even drumming up advertising dollars that depressed her the most.

It was Christmas. Read more

On a Snowy Night

It would be the wedding of the year. No—the wedding of the century.

Sarah McDowell intended to create the most exquisite event possible, a wedding worthy of Vogue Magazine (or at least a two-page spread in the Rose, Oregon, Gazette). The entire town would talk about her daughter’s wedding.

The foundation for Sarah’s plans rested squarely on booking the Women’s Century Club for the reception. It was why she’d maintained her association with the club after that woman had been granted membership. She was outraged that such a fine institution would lower itself to welcome the likes of Mary Sutton.

Sarah refused to dwell on the sordid details. She couldn’t allow herself to get upset over something that had happened almost twenty years ago. Although it didn’t hurt any to imagine Mary hearing—second- or third-hand, of course— about Kristen’s wedding. As Sarah understood it, Mary’s daughter had eloped. Eloped, mind you, with some riffraff hazelnut farmer. Sarah didn’t know that for sure because it was her Christian duty not to gossip or think ill of others. However, sometimes information just happened to come one’s way….

Pulling into the parking lot of the Women’s Century Club, Sarah surveyed the grounds. Even this late in the year, the rose garden was breathtaking. Many of the carefully tended bushes still wore their blooms, and next June, when the wedding was scheduled, the garden would be stunning. The antique roses with their intoxicating scents and the more recent hybrids with their gorgeous shapes and colors would make a fitting backdrop for the beautiful bride and her handsome groom. It would be perfect, she thought with satisfaction. Absolutely perfect.

Sarah had stopped attending the Women’s Century Club meetings three years ago. Well, there wasn’t any need to obsess over the membership committee’s sorry lapse in judgment. For many years Sarah had chaired that committee herself. The instant she stepped down, Mary Sutton had applied for membership to the prestigious club—and received it. Now the only social event Sarah participated in was the annual Christmas Dance. Mary Sutton had robbed her of so much already, but Sarah wasn’t letting her ruin that, too.

Sarah did continue to meet with other friends from the club and managed to keep up with the news. She understood that Mary had become quite active in the association. Fine. Good for her. It gave the woman something to write about in her column for the weekly Rose Gazette. Not that Sarah read “About Town.” Someone had told her it was fairly popular, though. Which didn’t bother her in the least. Mary was a good writer; Sarah would acknowledge that much. But then, what one lacked in certain areas was often compensated in others. And Mary was definitely lacking in the areas of generosity, fairness, ethics…. She could go on.

With a click of her key chain, Sarah locked her car and headed toward the large, two-story stone structure. There was a cold wind blowing in from the ocean, and she hurried up the steps of the large veranda that surrounded the house. A blast of warm air greeted her as she walked inside. Immediately in front of her was the curved stairway leading to the ballroom on the second floor. She could already picture Kristen moving elegantly down those stairs, her dress sweeping grandly behind her. Today, evergreen garlands were hung along the mahogany railing, with huge red velvet bows tied at regular intervals. Gigantic potted poinsettias lined both sides of the stairway. The effect was both festive and tasteful.

“Oh, how lovely,” she said to Melody Darrington, the club’s longtime secretary.

“Yes, we’re very pleased with this year’s Christmas decorations.” Melody glanced up from her desk behind the half wall that overlooked the entry. The door to the office was open and Sarah heard the fax machine humming behind her. “Are you here to pick up your tickets for the Christmas dance?”

“I am,” Sarah confirmed. “And I’d like to book the club for June seventh for a reception.” She paused dramatically. “Kristen’s getting married.”

“Sarah, that’s just wonderful!”

“Yes, Jake and I are pleased.” This seriously understated her emotions. Kristen was the first of her three daughters to marry, and Sarah felt as if the wedding was the culmination of all her years as a caring, involved mother. She highly approved of Kristen’s fiancé. Jonathan Clark was not only a charming and considerate young man, he held a promising position at an investment firm and had a degree in business. His parents were college professors who lived in Eugene; he was their only son. Whenever she’d spoken with Jonathan’s mother, Louise Clark had sounded equally delighted.

Melody flipped the pages of the appointment book to June. “It’s a good idea to book the club early.”

Holding her breath, Sarah leaned over the half wall and stared down at the schedule. She relaxed the instant she saw that particular Saturday was free. The wedding date could remain unchanged.

“It looks like June seventh is open,” Melody said.

“Fabulous.” Sarah’s cell phone rang, and she reached inside her purse to retrieve it. She sold real estate, but since entering her fifties, she’d scaled back her hours on the job. Jake, who was head of the X-ray department at Rose Hospital, enjoyed traveling. Sarah no longer had the energy to accompany Jake and also maintain her status as a top-selling agent. The number displayed on her phone was that of her husband’s office. She’d call him back shortly. He was probably asking about the time of their eldest daughter’s flight. Jake and Sarah were going to meet Noelle at the small commuter airport later in the day. What a joy it would be to have all three of their girls home for Christmas, not to mention Noelle’s birthday, which was December twenty-fifth. This would be the first time in ten years that Noelle had returned to celebrate anything with her family. Sarah blamed Mary Sutton and her son for that, too.

“Should I give you a deposit now?” she asked, removing her checkbook.

“Since you’re a member of the club, that won’t be necessary.”

“Great. Then that’s settled and I can get busy with my day. I’ve got a couple of houses to show. Plus Jake and I are driving to the airport this afternoon to pick up Noelle. You remember our daughter Noelle, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“She’s living in Dallas these days, and has a high-powered job with one of the big computer companies.” What Sarah didn’t add was the Noelle had become a workaholic. Getting her twenty-eight-year-old daughter to take time off work was nearly impossible. Sarah and Jake made a point of visiting her once a year and sometimes twice, but this couldn’t go on. Noelle had to get over her phobia about returning to Rose—and the risk of seeing Thom Sutton. Oh, yes, those Suttons had done a lot of damage to the McDowells.

With Kristen announcing her engagement and inviting the Clarks to share their Christmas festivities, Sarah had strongly urged Noelle to come home for the celebration. This was an important year for their family, and it was absolutely necessary that Noelle be there with them. After some back-and-forth discussion, she’d finally capitulated.

“Before you leave, there’s something you should know,” Melody said hesitantly. “There’s been a rule change about members using the building.”

“Yes?” Sarah tensed, anticipating a roadblock.

“The new rule states that only members who have completed a minimum of ten hours’ community service approved by the club will be permitted to lease our facilities.”

“But I’m an active part of our community already,” Sarah complained. She provided plenty of services to others.

“I realize that. Unfortunately, the service project in question must be determined by the club and it must be completed by the end of December to qualify for the following year.”

Sarah gaped at her. “Do you mean to say that in addition to everything else I’m doing in the next two weeks, I have to complete some club project?”

“You haven’t been reading the newsletters, have you?” Melody asked, frowning.

Obviously not. Sarah refused to read about Mary Sutton, whose name seemed to appear in every issue these days.

“If you attended the meetings, you’d know it, too.” Mel-

ody added insult to injury by pointing out Sarah’s intentional absence.

Despite her irritation, Sarah managed a weak smile. “All right,” she muttered. “What can I do?”

“Actually, you’ve come at an opportune moment. We need someone who’s willing to pitch in on the Christmas baskets.”

Sarah was trying to figure out how she could squeeze in one more task before the holidays. “Exactly what would that entail?”

“Oh, it’ll be great fun. The ladies pooled the money they raised from the cookbook sale to buy gifts for these baskets. They’ve made up lists, and what you’d need to do is get everything on your list, arrange all the stuff inside the baskets and then deliver them to the Salvation Army by December twenty-third.”

That didn’t sound unreasonable. “I think I can do that.”

“Wonderful.” A smile lit up Melody’s face. “The woman who’s heading up the project will be grateful for some help.”

“The woman?” That sounded better already. At least she wouldn’t be stuck doing this alone.

“Mary Sutton.”

Sarah felt as though Melody had punched her. “Excuse me. For a moment I thought you said Mary Sutton.”

“I did.”

“I don’t mean to be catty here, but Mary and I have… a history.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to work something out. You’re both adults.”

Sarah was stunned by the woman’s lack of sensitivity. She wanted to argue, to explain that this was unacceptable, but she couldn’t think of exactly what to say.

“You did want the club for June seventh, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, of course, but—”

“Then be here tomorrow morning at ten to meet with Mary.”

Numb and speechless, Sarah slowly turned and trudged toward the door.

“Sarah,” Melody called. “Don’t forget the dance tickets.”

Dance. How could she think about the dance when she was being forced to confront a woman who detested her? The feeling might be mutual but that didn’t make it any less awkward.

One across. A four-letter word for fragrant flower. Rose, naturally. Noelle McDowell penciled in the answer and moved to the next clue. A prickly feeling crawled up her spine and she raised her head. She disliked the short commuter flights. This one, out of Portland, carried twenty-four passengers. It saved having to rent a vehicle or asking her parents to make the long drive into the big city to pick her up.

The feeling persisted and she glanced over her shoulder. She instantly jerked back and slid down in her seat as far as the constraints of the seat belt allowed. It couldn’t be. No, please, she muttered, closing her eyes. Not Thom. Not after all these years. Not now. But it was, it had to be. No one else would look at her with such complete, unadulterated antagonism. He had some nerve after what he’d done to her.

Long before she was ready, the pilot announced that the plane was preparing to land in Rose. On these flights, no carry-on bags were permitted, and Noelle hadn’t taken anything more than her purse on board. Her magazines would normally go in her briefcase, but that didn’t fit in the compact space beneath her seat, so the flight attendant had stowed it. She had a Weight Watchers magazine and a crossword puzzle book marked EASY in large letters across the top. She wasn’t going to let Thom see her with either and stuffed them in the outside pocket of her purse, folding one magazine over the other.

Her pulse thundered like crazy. The man who’d broken her heart sat only two rows behind her, looking as sophisticated as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ. He’d always been tall, dark and handsome—like a twenty-first century Cary Grant. Classic features that were just rugged enough to be interesting and very, very masculine. Dark eyes, glossy dark hair. An impeccable sense of style. Surely he was married. But finding out would mean asking her sister or one of her friends who still lived in Rose. Coward that she was, Noelle didn’t want to know. Okay, she did, but not if it meant having to ask.

The plane touched down and Noelle braced herself against the jolt of the wheels bouncing on tarmac. As soon as they’d coasted to a stop, the Unfasten Seat Belt sign went off, and the people around her instantly leaped to their feet. Noelle took her time. Her hair was a fright. Up at three that morning to catch the 6:00 a.m. out of Dallas/Ft. Worth, she’d run a brush through the dark tangles, forgoing the usual routine of fussing with mousse. As a result, large ringlets fell like bedsprings about her face. Normally, her hair was shaped and controlled and coerced into gentle waves. But today she had the misfortune of looking like Shirley Temple in one of her 1930s movies—and in front of Thom Sutton, no less.

When it was her turn to leave her seat, she stood, looking staunchly ahead. If luck was with her, she could slip away unnoticed and pretend she hadn’t seen him. Luck, however, was on vacation and the instant she stepped into the aisle, the handle of her purse caught on the seat arm. Both magazines popped out of the outside pocket and flew into the air, only to be caught by none other than Thom Sutton. The crossword puzzle magazine tumbled to the floor and he was left holding the Weight Watchers’ December issue. As his gaze slid over her, she immediately sucked in her stomach.

“I read it for the fiction,” she announced, then added, “Don’t I know you?” She tried to sound indifferent—and to look thin. “It’s Tim, isn’t it?” she asked, frowning as though she couldn’t quite place him.

“Thom,” he corrected. “Good to see you again, Nadine.”

“Noelle,” she said bitterly.

He glared at her until someone from the back of the line called, “Would you two mind having your reunion when you get off the plane?”

“Sorry,” Thom said over his shoulder.

“I barely know this man.” Noelle wanted her fellow passengers to hear the truth. “I once thought I did, but I was wrong,” she explained, walking backward toward the exit.

“Whatever,” the guy behind them said loudly.

“You’re a fine one to talk,” Thom said. His eyes were as dark and cold as those of the snowman they’d built in Lions’ Park their senior year of high school—like glittering chips of coal.

“You have your nerve,” she muttered, whirling around just in time to avoid crashing into the open cockpit. She smiled sweetly at the pilot. “Thank you for a most pleasant flight.”

He returned the smile. “I hope you’ll fly with us again.”

“I will.”

“Good to see you, Thom,” the pilot said next.

Placing her hand on the railing of the steep stairs that led to the ground, Noelle did her best to keep her head high, her shoulders square—and her eyes front. The last thing she wanted to do was trip and make an even worse fool of herself by falling flat on her face. Read more

Home for the Holidays

“What do you mean you won’t be home for Christmas?” Emily Springer was sure she couldn’t have heard correctly. She pressed the telephone receiver harder against her ear, as though that would clarify her daughter’s words.
“Mom, I know you’re disappointed….”

That didn’t even begin to cover it. Emily had scraped and sacrificed in order to save airfare home for her only daughter, a student at Harvard. They always spent the holidays together, and now Heather was telling her she wouldn’t be back for Christmas.

“What could possibly be more important than Christmas with your family?” Emily asked, struggling to hide her distress.

Her daughter hesitated. “It’s just that I’ve got so much going on during those two weeks. I’d love to be home with you, I really would, but … I can’t.”

Emily swallowed past the lump in her throat. Heather was twenty-one; Emily realized her daughter was becoming an independent adult, but for the last eleven years it had been just the two of them. The thought of being separated from her only child over Christmas brought tears to her eyes.

“You’ve got all the neighbor kids to spoil,” Heather continued.

Yes, the six Kennedy children would be more than happy to gobble up Emily’s homemade cookies, candies and other traditional holiday treats. But it wouldn’t be the same.

“I was home a few months ago,” Heather reminded her next.

Emily opened her mouth to argue. True, her daughter had spent the summer in Leavenworth, but she’d been busy working and saving money for school. If she wasn’t at her library job, she was with her friends. Emily knew that Heather had her own life now, her own friends, her own priorities and plans. That was to be expected and natural, and Emily told herself she should be proud. But spending Christmas on opposite sides of the country was simply too hard – especially for the two of them, who’d once been so close.

“What about the money I saved for your airfare?” Emily asked lamely, as if that would change anything.

“I’ll fly out for Easter, Mom. I’ll use it then.”

Easter was months away, and Emily didn’t know if she could last that long. This was dreadful. Three weeks before Christmas, and she’d lost every shred of holiday spirit.

“I have to hang up now, Mom.”

“I know, but … can’t we talk about this? I mean, there’s got to be a way for us to be together.”

Heather hesitated once more. “You’ll be fine without me.”

“Of course I will,” Emily said, dredging up the remnants of her pride. The last thing she wanted was to look pathetic to her daughter – or to heap on the guilt – so she spoke with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. Disappointment pounded through her with every beat of her heart. She had to remember she wasn’t the only one who’d be alone, though. Heather would be missing out, too. “What about you?” Emily asked. Caught up in her own distress, she hadn’t been thinking about her daughter’s feelings. “Will you be all alone?”

“For Christmas, you mean?” Heather said. Her voice fell slightly, and it sounded as if she too was putting on a brave front. “I have friends here, and I’ll probably get together with them – but it won’t be the same.”

That had been Emily’s reaction: It won’t be the same. This Christmas marked the beginning of a new stage in their relationship. It was inevitable – but Christmas was still Christmas, and she vowed that wherever Heather was in future years, they’d spend the holiday together. Emily squared her shoulders. “We’ll make it through this,” she said stoutly.

“Of course we will.”

“I’ll be in touch soon,” Emily promised.

“I knew you’d be a trouper about this, Mom.”

Heather actually seemed proud of her, but Emily was no heroine. After a brief farewell, she placed the portable phone back in the charger and slumped into the closest chair.

Moping around, Emily tried to fight off a sense of depression that had begun to descend. She couldn’t concentrate on anything, too restless to read or watch TV. The house felt … bleak. Uncharacteristically so. Maybe because she hadn’t put up the Christmas decorations, knowing how much Heather loved helping her.

They had their own traditions. Heather always decorated the fireplace mantel, starting with her favorite piece, a small almost-antique angel that had belonged to Emily’s mother. While she did that, Emily worked on the windowsills around the dining room, arranging garlands, candles and poinsettias. Then together, using the ornaments Emily had collected over the years, they’d decorate the Christmas tree. Not an artificial one, either, despite warnings that they were safer than fresh trees.

It sometimes took them half a day to choose their Christmas tree. Leavenworth was a small Washington town tucked in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, and it offered a stunning array of firs and pines.

This year, without Heather, there would be no tree. Emily wouldn’t bother. Really, why go to that much effort when she’d be the only one there to enjoy it. Why decorate the house at all? Read more

Where Angels Go

Shirley, Goodness and Mercy are back! These three irresistible angels love their assignments on Earth. They especially love helping people who send prayer requests to Heaven (even though the Archangel Gabriel, their boss, knows they’re going to break his rules)! Read more

Angels at Christmas

Anne Fletcher pulled the last box of Christmas decorations from the closet in the spare bedroom. She loved Christmas—always had and always would, regardless of her circumstances. It was a bit early yet, a few days before Thanksgiving, but some Christmas cheer was exactly what she needed to get her mind off her problems. The grief that had been hounding her since the divorce five years ago… The financial uncertainty she now faced… The betrayal she still felt…

“No,” she said aloud, refusing to allow herself to step closer to that swamp of regrets. It often happened like this. She’d start thinking about everything she’d lost, and before she knew it, she’d collapse emotionally, drowning in pain.

Carrying the plastic container down the hallway, she glanced inside her art room and let her gaze drift over to her easel and her latest project. The bold colors of the setting sun against the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean pleased her. Yes, she was divorced, but there’d been compensations, too. Her art had fulfilled her in ways she hadn’t even realized were possible.

How different her life was at fifty-nine than she would’ve imagined even five years ago—before the divorce. What Burton had done was unforgivable. He’d hurt her, and he’d cheated her out of funds that were rightfully hers.

Once again she stopped herself, not wanting to indulge those bitter memories and regrets. She’d done plenty of that in the beginning, when she’d first learned he’d found someone else and wanted out of their thirty-year marriage. It was a fling, or so she’d managed to convince herself. A midlife crisis. Lots of men had them. Any day Burton would come to his senses and see what he was doing to her and to Roy, their son.

Only he hadn’t, and Anne walked out of divorce court numb with shock and disbelief. Not until the judge’s gavel echoed through the room had she fully believed her husband was capable of such treachery. She should’ve known, should’ve been prepared. Burton was a top-notch divorce attorney, a persuasive man who knew all the ploys. But despite everything, she’d trusted him.…

Her friends had been stunned, too—less by Burton’s deception than by Anne’s apparent acceptance of what he’d done to her. It wasn’t in her to fight, to drag her marriage and her life through the courts. Burton had recommended an attorney, whom she’d obediently retained, never suspecting that the man who’d represented her in court would apply to Burton’s law firm as soon as the divorce was final. Of course, he’d been hired.…

Burton had promised to treat her fairly. Because she was convinced that he’d soon recognize what a terrible mistake he was making, she’d blindly followed his lead. Without a quibble and on her attorney’s advice, she’d accepted the settlement offer—one that had turned out to be grossly unfair. Although she hadn’t been aware of it at the time, Anne was cheated out of at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of assets.

Burton’s ploy in this particular case had been simple: he’d strung her along. Twice he’d come to her in tears, begging her forgiveness, talking about reconciliation, and all the while he’d been shifting their assets to offshore accounts. All the while, he’d been lying, stealing and cheating. She’d loved him and she’d believed him, and so had taken her husband at his word. Never had she dreamed he could betray her like this. After thirty years, she’d walked away with only a pittance. And, needless to say, no alimony.

Yes, Anne could fight him, could take him back to court and expose him for the thief he was, but to what end? It was best, she’d decided long ago, to preserve her dignity. She’d always felt that life had a symmetry to it, a way of righting wrongs, and that somehow, eventually, God would restore to her the things she’d lost. It was this belief that had gotten her past the bitterness and indignation.

Admittedly she couldn’t help lapsing sometimes, but Anne tried not to feel bitter. At this point, she couldn’t see how anger, even righteous anger, could possibly benefit her. She’d adjusted. Taking the little she’d managed to salvage from her marriage, she’d purchased a small cottage on St. Gabriel, a tiny San Juan island in Puget Sound. In college all those years ago, when she’d met Burton, she’d been an art student. She had a flair for art and enjoyed it. Given the demands of being married to a prominent divorce lawyer, she’d put aside her own pursuits to assist Burton. Her husband’s ambitions had become her own, and Anne was the perfect wife and hostess.

It’d been a disappointment to her to have only one child, a son they’d named after Anne’s father. Young Roy was the light of her life, her ray of sunshine through the years. When she wasn’t hostessing social events on her husband’s behalf, Anne spent her time with Roy, raising him with limitless love and motherly devotion.

If she felt any bitterness about the way Burton had treated her, it was because of what he’d done to Roy. Unfortunately, Roy was the one who’d introduced Burton to Aimee. He’d never forgiven himself for that, despite Anne’s reassurances. Still, Roy assumed responsibility for what had happened. He couldn’t seem to forgive himself for his role in the divorce, no matter how innocent that role had been.

To complicate the situation even more, he refused to forgive his father, not only for betraying Anne but for stealing Aimee, the woman he himself had loved and planned to marry. Roy’s anger was constantly with him. The anger had become part of him, tainting his life, as though he wore smudged, dark glasses that revealed a bleak, drab world. All Roy cared about now was his business, his drive for more and more, and while he’d achieved greater success than most men twice his age, Roy wasn’t happy.

Her son’s cynicism troubled Anne deeply—even more than the divorce itself. She’d put that behind her, as much as she was able, and built a comfortable life for herself, doing what she loved best—painting. Mainly through word of mouth, her work had begun to sell at the local farmers’ market and then at a couple of galleries in the area; it now provided her with a small income.

Anne would’ve given anything to help her son. Regardless of how much money he made or how many accolades he received, he remained lonely and embittered. She desperately wanted him to find happiness.

In the five years since the divorce, Roy had not spoken to his father once, despite Burton’s repeated efforts. Yet Roy was so like Burton. He shared his father’s talents, his ambition. They shared another trait, too, the one that concerned Anne the most. He possessed his father’s ability to be ruthless about marriage and relationships. He was thirty-three, and in Anne’s view, he should get married. However, her son resolutely refused to discuss it. His attitude toward love and commitment had been completely warped. He no longer dated, no longer sought out relationships.

The only thing that mattered to Roy was the bottom line. He’d grown cold and uncaring; little outside of Fletcher Industries seemed to affect him. Anne realized her son was in trouble. He was hurting badly, although he seemed incapable of recognizing his own pain. Roy needed someone to teach him the power of forgiveness and love. She’d wanted to be that person, to show him that forgiveness was possible, but in his zeal to succeed, Roy had started to block her out of his life. It was unintentional, she knew, but nonetheless, it hurt.

Roy had established Fletcher Industries, his own computer security company, in Seattle, shortly after he graduated from college. His innovative, cutting-edge software led the competition in the field. Recent contracts with the government and several banks had given Fletcher Industries a solid position as one of the top companies of its type.

Those first years after he’d formed his business, Roy spent far too many hours at work. It wasn’t uncommon for him to stay in the office for two or three days at a time, living on fast food and catnaps. That all changed after he met Aimee. Her son had fallen in love and he’d fallen hard. Anne had been thrilled and Burton was, too. Then Roy had brought Aimee to his parents’ home in Southern California to introduce her… and all their lives had exploded.

Following his parents’ divorce, Roy had quickly reverted to his old habit of working long hours. Only now a callousness had entered into his business dealings. Anne was aware of this, but she was helpless to change her son, and her heart ached with her inability to reach him. Time and again, she’d tried to tell him what he was doing to himself—that he was damaging his life and his future—but he couldn’t or wouldn’t hear.

The kettle whistled, and leaving the Christmas box in the hall, Anne moved into the kitchen. She took the blue ceramic teapot from the cupboard and filled it with boiling water, then added a tea bag—Earl Grey, her favorite—and left it to steep. After a moment, she poured herself a cup and took a first sip of the aromatic tea. She frowned, berating herself for allowing her thoughts to follow the path they’d taken. Just when she assumed she was free of Burton, she’d wallow in the pain all over again and realize how far she had yet to go. There was only one cure for this bout of self-pity and for the worry that consumed her. Setting down the china cup, Anne bowed her head and prayed. Sometimes it was difficult to find the words to express what was in her heart, but not today. The prayer flew from her lips.

“Dear Lord, send my son a woman to love. One who’ll help him heal, who’ll teach him about forgiveness. A woman who’ll open his heart and wake him up to the kind of man he’s becoming.”

Slowly, as if weighed down by her doubts, Anne’s prayer circled the room. Gradually it ascended, rising with the steam from the teapot, spiraling upward out of the simple cottage and toward the leaden sky. It rose higher and higher until it reached the clouds and then sped toward the heavens. There, it landed on the desk of the Archangel Gabriel, the same Archangel who’d delivered the good news of God’s love to a humble Jewish maiden more than two thousand years ago.

Gabriel, however, was away from his desk.

Shirley, Goodness and Mercy, three Prayer Ambassadors who had a reputation for employing unorthodox means to achieve their ends, stood just inside the Archangel’s quarters. Together the three of them watched as the prayer made its way onto his desk. Only the most difficult prayer requests went to the mighty Gabriel—the prayers that came from those who were most in need, from the desperate and discouraged.

“Don’t read it,” Shirley cried when Goodness, unable to resist, bent to pick up the wispy sheet.

“Why not?” Goodness had always had more curiosity than was good for her. She knew that peeking at a prayer request before Gabriel had a chance to view it was asking for trouble, but that didn’t stop her. Mercy was the one most easily swayed by things on Earth, and Shirley, well, Shirley was nearly perfect. At one time she’d been a Guardian Angel but had transferred to the ranks of the Prayer Ambassadors. That had happened under suspicious circumstances, so Shirley’s perfection was a little compromised. Shirley never mentioned the incident, though, and Goodness dared not inquire. She knew that some things were better left unknown—despite her desire to hear all the sordid details.

“Goodness,” Shirley warned again.

“I’m just going to glance at the name,” Goodness muttered, carefully lifting the edge of the folded sheet.

“Is it anyone we know?” Mercy demanded, drawing closer.

Goodness eyed Shirley, who was trying not to reveal her own interest. “Well, is it?” Shirley finally asked.

“No,” Goodness said. “I’ve never heard of Anne Fletcher, have you?”

“Anne Fletcher?” Shirley echoed, and then as if her knees had gone out from under her, she sank into the chair reserved for Gabriel. “Anne Fletcher from California,” the former Guardian Angel repeated slowly.

Goodness looked again, lifting the edge of the sheet just a bit higher this time. “Formerly of California,” she said.

“Oh, no!” Shirley cried. “She moved. I wonder why. Tell me where she’s gone.”

“The San Juan Islands,” Mercy said, leaning over Goodness to take a look for herself.

“She’s in the Caribbean?” Shirley said, sounding distraught.

“No, in Puget Sound—Washington State,” Goodness told her.

“I remember it well,” Mercy said with a dreamy smile. “Don’t you remember the Bremerton Shipyard? We had so much fun there.”

“What I remember,” Goodness informed her fellow angel, “was all the trouble we got in when you started shifting aircraft carriers and destroyers around.”

“I don’t know how many times you want me to apologize for that,” Mercy muttered, crossing her arms defiantly. “It was a fluke. Nothing like that’s happened since, and frankly I think you’re…”

Her words faded as she saw Goodness studying Shirley. “How do you know Anne Fletcher?” Goodness asked softly.

“Poor, poor Anne,” Shirley murmured, seemingly lost in thought. “I knew her mother—I was her Guardian Angel. I was with her mother, Beth, when she gave birth to Anne.”

So Shirley had a connection to Anne Fletcher. “I didn’t read the request,” Goodness said, more eager than ever to throw caution to the winds and take a second, longer look.

“Maybe there’s something we can do,” Mercy said. It sounded as if she was encouraging Goodness to flout protocol, and Goodness was happy to go along with the implied suggestion. She quickly scooped up the prayer request, then almost dropped it when a voice boomed behind them.

“Do for whom?” it asked.

Gabriel. The Archangel Gabriel.

Goodness spun around and backed against the side of the huge desk, crushing her wings in her attempt to hide. Oh, this wasn’t good. Gabriel was their friend, but he wouldn’t tolerate their snooping around his desk.

“Nothing.” Mercy moved closer to Goodness until they stood shoulder to shoulder, wing to wing.

Shirley was lost in her own thoughts, sitting in Gabriel’s chair, apparently oblivious to their dire circumstances.

“Do?” Goodness choked out. “Are we supposed to be doing something for someone?”

“It’s Anne Fletcher,” Shirley whispered, peering up at Gabriel, apparently still in a stupor. “We’ve got to help her.”

“Anne Fletcher?” Gabriel’s brow furrowed with concern.

“She’s said a prayer for Roy,” Goodness explained, and boldly handed Gabriel the request, as much as admitting it had been read. “She wants to believe. But she’s worried about her son and has given up hope that anyone can reach him. We can’t let her lose faith—we just can’t!” She gazed up at Gabriel with large, pleading eyes. Her wings were folded back and she hung her head as though she felt the same sense of despair Anne Fletcher did.

Goodness had never seen Shirley so upset. Clearly this Anne person was someone she cared about. Read more

A Gift to Last

On December 24, a crowded train is taking holiday travelers home for Christmas. But because of a snowstorm, this group of strangers ends up spending Christmas Eve together, stranded in a small New Hampshire station. Despite the cold and discomfort, Read more

Trading Christmas

“What do you mean you won’t be home for Christmas?” Emily Springer was sure she couldn’t have heard correctly. She pressed the telephone receiver harder against her ear, as though that would clarify her daughter’s words.
“Mom, I know you’re disappointed….”

That didn’t even begin to cover it. Emily had scraped and sacrificed in order to save airfare home for her only daughter, a student at Harvard. They always spent the holidays together, and now Heather was telling her she wouldn’t be back for Christmas.

“What could possibly be more important than Christmas with your family?” Emily asked, struggling to hide her distress.

Her daughter hesitated. “It’s just that I’ve got so much going on during those two weeks. I’d love to be home with you, I really would, but … I can’t.”

Emily swallowed past the lump in her throat. Heather was twenty-one; Emily realized her daughter was becoming an independent adult, but for the last eleven years it had been just the two of them. The thought of being separated from her only child over Christmas brought tears to her eyes.

“You’ve got all the neighbor kids to spoil,” Heather continued.

Yes, the six Kennedy children would be more than happy to gobble up Emily’s homemade cookies, candies and other traditional holiday treats. But it wouldn’t be the same.

“I was home a few months ago,” Heather reminded her next.

Emily opened her mouth to argue. True, her daughter had spent the summer in Leavenworth, but she’d been busy working and saving money for school. If she wasn’t at her library job, she was with her friends. Emily knew that Heather had her own life now, her own friends, her own priorities and plans. That was to be expected and natural, and Emily told herself she should be proud. But spending Christmas on opposite sides of the country was simply too hard – especially for the two of them, who’d once been so close.

“What about the money I saved for your airfare?” Emily asked lamely, as if that would change anything.

“I’ll fly out for Easter, Mom. I’ll use it then.”

Easter was months away, and Emily didn’t know if she could last that long. This was dreadful. Three weeks before Christmas, and she’d lost every shred of holiday spirit.

“I have to hang up now, Mom.”

“I know, but … can’t we talk about this? I mean, there’s got to be a way for us to be together.”

Heather hesitated once more. “You’ll be fine without me.”

“Of course I will,” Emily said, dredging up the remnants of her pride. The last thing she wanted was to look pathetic to her daughter – or to heap on the guilt – so she spoke with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. Disappointment pounded through her with every beat of her heart. She had to remember she wasn’t the only one who’d be alone, though. Heather would be missing out, too. “What about you?” Emily asked. Caught up in her own distress, she hadn’t been thinking about her daughter’s feelings. “Will you be all alone?”

“For Christmas, you mean?” Heather said. Her voice fell slightly, and it sounded as if she too was putting on a brave front. “I have friends here, and I’ll probably get together with them – but it won’t be the same.”

That had been Emily’s reaction: It won’t be the same. This Christmas marked the beginning of a new stage in their relationship. It was inevitable – but Christmas was still Christmas, and she vowed that wherever Heather was in future years, they’d spend the holiday together. Emily squared her shoulders. “We’ll make it through this,” she said stoutly.

“Of course we will.”

“I’ll be in touch soon,” Emily promised.

“I knew you’d be a trouper about this, Mom.”

Heather actually seemed proud of her, but Emily was no heroine. After a brief farewell, she placed the portable phone back in the charger and slumped into the closest chair.

Moping around, Emily tried to fight off a sense of depression that had begun to descend. She couldn’t concentrate on anything, too restless to read or watch TV. The house felt … bleak. Uncharacteristically so. Maybe because she hadn’t put up the Christmas decorations, knowing how much Heather loved helping her.

They had their own traditions. Heather always decorated the fireplace mantel, starting with her favorite piece, a small almost-antique angel that had belonged to Emily’s mother. While she did that, Emily worked on the windowsills around the dining room, arranging garlands, candles and poinsettias. Then together, using the ornaments Emily had collected over the years, they’d decorate the Christmas tree. Not an artificial one, either, despite warnings that they were safer than fresh trees.

It sometimes took them half a day to choose their Christmas tree. Leavenworth was a small Washington town tucked in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, and it offered a stunning array of firs and pines.

This year, without Heather, there would be no tree. Emily wouldn’t bother. Really, why go to that much effort when she’d be the only one there to enjoy it. Why decorate the house at all? Read more

Christmas Wishes

It was him. Katherine O’Connor, better known as K.O., was almost positive. She squinted just to be sure. He looked identical to the man on the dust jacket of that ridiculous book, the one her sister treated like a child-rearing bible. Of course, people didn’t really look like their publicity photos. And she hadn’t realized the high and mighty Dr. Wynn Jeffries was from the Seattle area. Furthermore, she couldn’t imagine what he was doing on Blossom Street.

She’d never even met him, but she distrusted him profoundly and disliked him just as much. It was because of Dr. Jeffries that she’d been banned from a local bookstore. She’d had a small difference of opinion with the manager on the subject of Wynn’s book. Apparently the bookseller was a personal friend of his, because she’d leaped to Dr. Jeffries’ defense and had ordered K.O. out of the store. She’d even suggested K.O. take her future book-purchasing business elsewhere, which seemed unnecessarily extreme.

“K.O.,” Bill Mulcahy muttered, distracting her. They sat across from each other at the French Café, filled to capacity during the midmorning rush. People lined up for coffee, and another line formed at the bakery counter. “Did you get all that?” he asked.

“Sure,” K.O. said, returning her attention to him.

“Sorry—I thought I saw someone I knew.” Oh, the things she was willing to do for some extra holiday cash. One witty Christmas letter written on her sister’s behalf, and all of a sudden K.O. was the most sought-after woman at her brother-in-law’s office. They all wanted her to write their Christmas letters. She’d been shocked to discover how much they’d willingly plunk down for it, too. Bill Mulcahy was the third person she’d met with this week, and his letter was the most difficult so far. Leno or Letterman would’ve had a hard time finding anything amusing about this man’s life.

“I don’t know what you’re going to write,” Bill continued. “It’s been an exceptionally bad year. As I explained earlier, my son is in a detention home, my daughter’s living with her no-good boyfriend and over Thanksgiving she announced she’s pregnant. Naturally, marriage is out of the question.”

“That is a bit of a challenge,” K.O. agreed. She widened her eyes and stared again at the man who waited in the long line at the cash register. It was him; she was convinced of it now. The not-so-good doctor was—to put it in appropriately seasonal terms—a fruitcake. He was a child psychologist who’d written a book called The Free Child that was the current child-rearing rage.

To be fair, K.O. was single and not a mother. The only child-rearing experience she’d had was with her identical twin nieces, Zoe and Zara, whom she adored. Until recently, anyway. Overnight the five-year-olds had become miniature monsters and all because her sister had followed the “Free Child” rules as set out by Dr. Jeffries.

“My wife,” Bill said, “is on the verge of a breakdown.” K.O. pitied the poor woman—and her husband.

“We’ve written Christmas letters for years and while life wasn’t always as perfect as we—well, as we implied…” He let the rest fade away.

“You painted the picture of a model family.”

“Yes.” Bill cleared his throat and offered her a weak smile. “Patti, that’s my wife, chose to present a, shall we say, rosier depiction of reality.” He exhaled in a rush.

“We never included family pictures and if you met my son, you’d know why. Anyone looking at Mason would know in a minute that this kid isn’t a member of the National Honor Society.” He released his breath again and shook his head sadly. “Mason’s into body piercing,” Bill added. “He pierced his eyebrows, his nose, his lips, his tongue, his nipples—”

K.O. stopped him before he went any lower. “I get it.”

“You probably don’t, but that’s lucky for you. Oh, and he dyed his hair green.”

“Green?”

“He wears it spiked, too, and he…he does this thing with paint.” Bill dropped his voice.

K.O. was sure she’d misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mason doesn’t call it paint. It’s some form of cosmetic he smears across his face. I never imagined that my son would be rummaging through his mother’s makeup drawer one day.”

“I suppose that is a bit disconcerting,”K.O. murmured.

“I forget the actual significance of the black smudges under his eyes and across his cheeks,” Bill said. “To me it looks like he’s some teenage commando.”

Yes, this letter would indeed be a challenge. “Have you thought about skipping your Christmas letter this year?” K.O. asked hopefully.

“Yeah, I’d like to, but as I said, Patti’s emotional health is rather fragile. She claims people are already asking about our annual letter. She’s afraid that if we don’t send it the same as we do every year, everyone will figure out that we’re pitiful parents.” His shoulders drooped. “In other words, we’ve failed our children.”

“I don’t think you’ve necessarily failed,” K.O. assured him. “Most teenagers go through a rebellious stage.”

“Did you?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Did you pierce anything?”

“Well, I had my ears pierced….”

“That’s not the same thing.” He peered at her earrings, visible through her straight blond hair, which she wore loosely tied back. “And you only have one in each ear—not eight or ten like my son.” He seemed satisfied that he’d proved his point. “Then you’ll write our Christmas letter and smooth over the rough edges of our year?”

K.O. was less and less confident that she could pull this off. “I don’t know if I’m your person,” she said hesitantly. How could she possibly come up with a positive version of such a disastrous year? Besides, this side job was supposed to be fun, not real work. It’d begun as a favor to her sister and all of a sudden she was launching a career. At some stage she’d need to call a halt— maybe sooner than she’d expected.

Her client shifted in his seat. “I’ll pay you double what you normally charge.”

K.O. sat up straight. Double. He said he’d pay double? “Would four days be enough time?” she asked.

Okay, so she could be bought. She pulled out her DayTimer, checked her schedule and they set a date for their next meeting.

“I’ll give you half now and half when you’re finished.” That seemed fair.Not one to be overly prideful, she held out her hand as he peeled off three fifty-dollar bills. Her fingers closed around the cash.

“I’ll see you Friday then,” Bill said, and reaching for his briefcase, he left the French Café carrying his latte in its takeout cup.

Looking out the windows with their Christmas garland, she saw that it had begun to snow again. This was the coldest December on record. Seattle’s normally mild climate had dipped to below-freezing temperatures for ten days in a row. So much for global warming. There was precious little evidence of it in Seattle.

K.O. glanced at the coffee line. Wynn Jeffries had made his way to the front and picked up his hot drink. After adding cream and sugar—lots of both, she observed—he was getting ready to leave. K.O. didn’t want to be obvious about watching him, so she took a couple of extra minutes to collect her things, then followed him out the door.

Even if she introduced herself, she had no idea what to say. Mostly she wanted to tell him his so-called Free Child movement—no boundaries for kids—was outright lunacy. How could he, in good conscience, mislead parents in this ridiculous fashion? Not that she had strong feelings on the subject or anything. Okay, so maybe she’d gone a little overboard at the bookstore that day, but she couldn’t help it. The manager had been touting the benefits of Dr. Jeffries’ book to yet another unsuspecting mom. K.O. felt it was her duty to let the poor woman know what might happen if she actually followed Dr. Jeffries’ advice. The bookseller had strenuously disagreed and from then on, the situation had gotten out of hand.

Not wanting him to think she was stalking him, which she supposed she was, K.O. maintained a careful distance. If his office was in Seattle, it might even be in this neighborhood. After the renovations on Blossom Street a few years ago, a couple of buildings had been converted to office space. If she could discreetly discover where he practiced, she might go and talk to him sometime. She hadn’t read his book but had leafed through it, and she knew he was a practicing child psychologist. She wanted to argue about his beliefs and his precepts, tell him about the appalling difference in her nieces’ behavior since the day Zelda had adopted his advice.

She’d rather he didn’t see her, so she dashed inconspicuously across the street to A Good Yarn, and darted into the doorway, where she pretended to be interested in a large Christmas stocking that hung in the display window. From the reflection in the window, she saw Dr. Jeffries walking briskly down the opposite sidewalk. Read more

Because It’s Christmas

It would be the wedding of the year. No—the wedding of the century.

Sarah McDowell intended to create the most exquisite event possible, a wedding worthy of Vogue Magazine (or at least a two-page spread in the Rose, Oregon, Gazette). The entire town would talk about her daughter’s wedding.

The foundation for Sarah’s plans rested squarely on booking the Women’s Century Club for the reception. It was why she’d maintained her association with the club after that woman had been granted membership. She was outraged that such a fine institution would lower itself to welcome the likes of Mary Sutton.

Sarah refused to dwell on the sordid details. She couldn’t allow herself to get upset over something that had happened almost twenty years ago. Although it didn’t hurt any to imagine Mary hearing—second- or third-hand, of course— about Kristen’s wedding. As Sarah understood it, Mary’s daughter had eloped. Eloped, mind you, with some riffraff hazelnut farmer. Sarah didn’t know that for sure because it was her Christian duty not to gossip or think ill of others. However, sometimes information just happened to come one’s way….

Pulling into the parking lot of the Women’s Century Club, Sarah surveyed the grounds. Even this late in the year, the rose garden was breathtaking. Many of the carefully tended bushes still wore their blooms, and next June, when the wedding was scheduled, the garden would be stunning. The antique roses with their intoxicating scents and the more recent hybrids with their gorgeous shapes and colors would make a fitting backdrop for the beautiful bride and her handsome groom. It would be perfect, she thought with satisfaction. Absolutely perfect.

Sarah had stopped attending the Women’s Century Club meetings three years ago. Well, there wasn’t any need to obsess over the membership committee’s sorry lapse in judgment. For many years Sarah had chaired that committee herself. The instant she stepped down, Mary Sutton had applied for membership to the prestigious club—and received it. Now the only social event Sarah participated in was the annual Christmas Dance. Mary Sutton had robbed her of so much already, but Sarah wasn’t letting her ruin that, too.

Sarah did continue to meet with other friends from the club and managed to keep up with the news. She understood that Mary had become quite active in the association. Fine. Good for her. It gave the woman something to write about in her column for the weekly Rose Gazette. Not that Sarah read “About Town.” Someone had told her it was fairly popular, though. Which didn’t bother her in the least. Mary was a good writer; Sarah would acknowledge that much. But then, what one lacked in certain areas was often compensated in others. And Mary was definitely lacking in the areas of generosity, fairness, ethics…. She could go on.

With a click of her key chain, Sarah locked her car and headed toward the large, two-story stone structure. There was a cold wind blowing in from the ocean, and she hurried up the steps of the large veranda that surrounded the house. A blast of warm air greeted her as she walked inside. Immediately in front of her was the curved stairway leading to the ballroom on the second floor. She could already picture Kristen moving elegantly down those stairs, her dress sweeping grandly behind her. Today, evergreen garlands were hung along the mahogany railing, with huge red velvet bows tied at regular intervals. Gigantic potted poinsettias lined both sides of the stairway. The effect was both festive and tasteful.

“Oh, how lovely,” she said to Melody Darrington, the club’s longtime secretary.

“Yes, we’re very pleased with this year’s Christmas decorations.” Melody glanced up from her desk behind the half wall that overlooked the entry. The door to the office was open and Sarah heard the fax machine humming behind her. “Are you here to pick up your tickets for the Christmas dance?”

“I am,” Sarah confirmed. “And I’d like to book the club for June seventh for a reception.” She paused dramatically. “Kristen’s getting married.”

“Sarah, that’s just wonderful!”

“Yes, Jake and I are pleased.” This seriously understated her emotions. Kristen was the first of her three daughters to marry, and Sarah felt as if the wedding was the culmination of all her years as a caring, involved mother. She highly approved of Kristen’s fiancé. Jonathan Clark was not only a charming and considerate young man, he held a promising position at an investment firm and had a degree in business. His parents were college professors who lived in Eugene; he was their only son. Whenever she’d spoken with Jonathan’s mother, Louise Clark had sounded equally delighted.

Melody flipped the pages of the appointment book to June. “It’s a good idea to book the club early.”

Holding her breath, Sarah leaned over the half wall and stared down at the schedule. She relaxed the instant she saw that particular Saturday was free. The wedding date could remain unchanged.

“It looks like June seventh is open,” Melody said.

“Fabulous.” Sarah’s cell phone rang, and she reached inside her purse to retrieve it. She sold real estate, but since entering her fifties, she’d scaled back her hours on the job. Jake, who was head of the X-ray department at Rose Hospital, enjoyed traveling. Sarah no longer had the energy to accompany Jake and also maintain her status as a top-selling agent. The number displayed on her phone was that of her husband’s office. She’d call him back shortly. He was probably asking about the time of their eldest daughter’s flight. Jake and Sarah were going to meet Noelle at the small commuter airport later in the day. What a joy it would be to have all three of their girls home for Christmas, not to mention Noelle’s birthday, which was December twenty-fifth. This would be the first time in ten years that Noelle had returned to celebrate anything with her family. Sarah blamed Mary Sutton and her son for that, too.

“Should I give you a deposit now?” she asked, removing her checkbook.

“Since you’re a member of the club, that won’t be necessary.”

“Great. Then that’s settled and I can get busy with my day. I’ve got a couple of houses to show. Plus Jake and I are driving to the airport this afternoon to pick up Noelle. You remember our daughter Noelle, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“She’s living in Dallas these days, and has a high-powered job with one of the big computer companies.” What Sarah didn’t add was the Noelle had become a workaholic. Getting her twenty-eight-year-old daughter to take time off work was nearly impossible. Sarah and Jake made a point of visiting her once a year and sometimes twice, but this couldn’t go on. Noelle had to get over her phobia about returning to Rose—and the risk of seeing Thom Sutton. Oh, yes, those Suttons had done a lot of damage to the McDowells.

With Kristen announcing her engagement and inviting the Clarks to share their Christmas festivities, Sarah had strongly urged Noelle to come home for the celebration. This was an important year for their family, and it was absolutely necessary that Noelle be there with them. After some back-and-forth discussion, she’d finally capitulated.

“Before you leave, there’s something you should know,” Melody said hesitantly. “There’s been a rule change about members using the building.”

“Yes?” Sarah tensed, anticipating a roadblock.

“The new rule states that only members who have completed a minimum of ten hours’ community service approved by the club will be permitted to lease our facilities.”

“But I’m an active part of our community already,” Sarah complained. She provided plenty of services to others.

“I realize that. Unfortunately, the service project in question must be determined by the club and it must be completed by the end of December to qualify for the following year.”

Sarah gaped at her. “Do you mean to say that in addition to everything else I’m doing in the next two weeks, I have to complete some club project?”

“You haven’t been reading the newsletters, have you?” Melody asked, frowning.

Obviously not. Sarah refused to read about Mary Sutton, whose name seemed to appear in every issue these days.

“If you attended the meetings, you’d know it, too.” Mel-

ody added insult to injury by pointing out Sarah’s intentional absence.

Despite her irritation, Sarah managed a weak smile. “All right,” she muttered. “What can I do?”

“Actually, you’ve come at an opportune moment. We need someone who’s willing to pitch in on the Christmas baskets.”

Sarah was trying to figure out how she could squeeze in one more task before the holidays. “Exactly what would that entail?”

“Oh, it’ll be great fun. The ladies pooled the money they raised from the cookbook sale to buy gifts for these baskets. They’ve made up lists, and what you’d need to do is get everything on your list, arrange all the stuff inside the baskets and then deliver them to the Salvation Army by December twenty-third.”

That didn’t sound unreasonable. “I think I can do that.”

“Wonderful.” A smile lit up Melody’s face. “The woman who’s heading up the project will be grateful for some help.”

“The woman?” That sounded better already. At least she wouldn’t be stuck doing this alone.

“Mary Sutton.”

Sarah felt as though Melody had punched her. “Excuse me. For a moment I thought you said Mary Sutton.”

“I did.”

“I don’t mean to be catty here, but Mary and I have… a history.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to work something out. You’re both adults.”

Sarah was stunned by the woman’s lack of sensitivity. She wanted to argue, to explain that this was unacceptable, but she couldn’t think of exactly what to say.

“You did want the club for June seventh, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, of course, but—”

“Then be here tomorrow morning at ten to meet with Mary.”

Numb and speechless, Sarah slowly turned and trudged toward the door.

“Sarah,” Melody called. “Don’t forget the dance tickets.”

Dance. How could she think about the dance when she was being forced to confront a woman who detested her? The feeling might be mutual but that didn’t make it any less awkward.

One across. A four-letter word for fragrant flower. Rose, naturally. Noelle McDowell penciled in the answer and moved to the next clue. A prickly feeling crawled up her spine and she raised her head. She disliked the short commuter flights. This one, out of Portland, carried twenty-four passengers. It saved having to rent a vehicle or asking her parents to make the long drive into the big city to pick her up.

The feeling persisted and she glanced over her shoulder. She instantly jerked back and slid down in her seat as far as the constraints of the seat belt allowed. It couldn’t be. No, please, she muttered, closing her eyes. Not Thom. Not after all these years. Not now. But it was, it had to be. No one else would look at her with such complete, unadulterated antagonism. He had some nerve after what he’d done to her.

Long before she was ready, the pilot announced that the plane was preparing to land in Rose. On these flights, no carry-on bags were permitted, and Noelle hadn’t taken anything more than her purse on board. Her magazines would normally go in her briefcase, but that didn’t fit in the compact space beneath her seat, so the flight attendant had stowed it. She had a Weight Watchers magazine and a crossword puzzle book marked EASY in large letters across the top. She wasn’t going to let Thom see her with either and stuffed them in the outside pocket of her purse, folding one magazine over the other.

Her pulse thundered like crazy. The man who’d broken her heart sat only two rows behind her, looking as sophisticated as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ. He’d always been tall, dark and handsome—like a twenty-first century Cary Grant. Classic features that were just rugged enough to be interesting and very, very masculine. Dark eyes, glossy dark hair. An impeccable sense of style. Surely he was married. But finding out would mean asking her sister or one of her friends who still lived in Rose. Coward that she was, Noelle didn’t want to know. Okay, she did, but not if it meant having to ask.

The plane touched down and Noelle braced herself against the jolt of the wheels bouncing on tarmac. As soon as they’d coasted to a stop, the Unfasten Seat Belt sign went off, and the people around her instantly leaped to their feet. Noelle took her time. Her hair was a fright. Up at three that morning to catch the 6:00 a.m. out of Dallas/Ft. Worth, she’d run a brush through the dark tangles, forgoing the usual routine of fussing with mousse. As a result, large ringlets fell like bedsprings about her face. Normally, her hair was shaped and controlled and coerced into gentle waves. But today she had the misfortune of looking like Shirley Temple in one of her 1930s movies—and in front of Thom Sutton, no less.

When it was her turn to leave her seat, she stood, looking staunchly ahead. If luck was with her, she could slip away unnoticed and pretend she hadn’t seen him. Luck, however, was on vacation and the instant she stepped into the aisle, the handle of her purse caught on the seat arm. Both magazines popped out of the outside pocket and flew into the air, only to be caught by none other than Thom Sutton. The crossword puzzle magazine tumbled to the floor and he was left holding the Weight Watchers’ December issue. As his gaze slid over her, she immediately sucked in her stomach.

“I read it for the fiction,” she announced, then added, “Don’t I know you?” She tried to sound indifferent—and to look thin. “It’s Tim, isn’t it?” she asked, frowning as though she couldn’t quite place him.

“Thom,” he corrected. “Good to see you again, Nadine.”

“Noelle,” she said bitterly.

He glared at her until someone from the back of the line called, “Would you two mind having your reunion when you get off the plane?”

“Sorry,” Thom said over his shoulder.

“I barely know this man.” Noelle wanted her fellow passengers to hear the truth. “I once thought I did, but I was wrong,” she explained, walking backward toward the exit.

“Whatever,” the guy behind them said loudly.

“You’re a fine one to talk,” Thom said. His eyes were as dark and cold as those of the snowman they’d built in Lions’ Park their senior year of high school—like glittering chips of coal.

“You have your nerve,” she muttered, whirling around just in time to avoid crashing into the open cockpit. She smiled sweetly at the pilot. “Thank you for a most pleasant flight.”

He returned the smile. “I hope you’ll fly with us again.”

“I will.”

“Good to see you, Thom,” the pilot said next.

Placing her hand on the railing of the steep stairs that led to the ground, Noelle did her best to keep her head high, her shoulders square—and her eyes front. The last thing she wanted to do was trip and make an even worse fool of herself by falling flat on her face. Read more

Christmas Angels

The manger was empty. Leah Lundberg walked past the nativity scene Providence Hospital put out every year, stopped, and stared. The north wind cut through her like a boning knife as Leah studied the ramshackle stable, her heart heavy, her life more so.

The blue of Mary’s gown had long since faded, she noted. Joseph, leaning heavily against his staff, was slightly off-balance, and looked as if he’d topple in a stiff wind. There seemed to be one less lamb this year and one of the donkeys ears was missing. It was a small wonder the structure remained upright with the weight of the angel, yellow now instead of golden, nailed to the top. Triumphantly, she blew her chipped hom proclaiming the glorious news of the Savior’s birth.

The hospital had reconstructed the Christmas scene every Advent for the last fifty years, long before Leah was born, long before she realized an entire lifetime of tears could be stored within a single tattered soul.

It was ironic that a woman who toiled as a nurse day after day on a maternity ward would be childless herself. Her work with laboring mothers was her gift, they said, her special talent. Women specifically requested that she be with them for the birthing of their children.

For whatever reason, Leah had been granted the touch, a gentle hand, and a sympathetic heart. Birthing mothers claimed she was inspiring, encouraging, and supportive. Labor didn’t seem nearly as difficult when Leah was with a patient. She’d heard it all before, countless times, the praise, the gratitude. What most of Leah’s patients didn’t know was that she, who was an expert at labor and delivery, had never given birthherself.

Her patients left the hospital with their arms and their lives full. Each afternoon, Leah walked out of Providence alone. And empty.

Tears crowded her eyes and spilled unheeded down her cheeks. She bowed her head and closed her eyes in prayer. “Dear God,” she whispered, choking down the emotion, “please give me a child.” It was a plea she’d whispered innumerable times over the last ten years. So often that she was convinced God had long since given up hearing. Or caring.

Wiping the moisture from her face, she gathered her coat more closely around her thin shoulders and headed for the staff parking lot. She forced herself to smile. it upset Andrew that she continued to dwell on their inability to have children, and she didn’t want him to know she’d been crying.

Her husband had accepted the news with little more than a shrug. He felt bad, knowing how desperately she longed for a baby, but it wasn’t nearly as earth-shattering to him. If God saw fit to send children into their -lives, then fine, if not, that was fine too.

It wasn’t all right with Leah and she doubted that it ever would be.

Leah’s prayer whistled in the breeze, up through the bare spindly arms of a lanky birch tree, winging its way higher and higher until it had ascended the clouds and drifted into the warm winds of heaven. It arrived fresh with the salt of her tears at the desk of the Archangel Gabriel. The very angel who’d announced the news of the virgin birth to Mary nearly two thousand years earlier. His responsibilities had been wide and varied through time, but he felt a certain tenderness for humans and their multiple problems. He found earth’s population to be a curious lot. They were stubborn, rebellious, and arrogant. Their antics were a constant source of amusement to those behind the pearly gates. Who could help laughing at a group of people who heatedly declared that God was dead and clung to the belief that Elvis was alive?

“Leah Lundberg,- Gabriel repeated softly, frowning. The name was vaguely familiar. He flipped the pages of a cumbersome book until he’d found what he was seeking. Sighing, he relaxed against the back of his chair and slowly shook his head. Leah was one of his most persistent cases. He’d heard her prayer often, had ushered it himself to the very feet of God.

Gabriel had sent countless couriers to intercede on Leah’s behalf, but their efforts had been met with repeated failure. Time after time, their reports came back virtually the same. It was a familiar problem that blocked the answer to Leah’s prayer. Herself.

It would have been much easier if Gabriel could sit down with Leah and talk out this matter face to face. Circumstances arose now and again when doing exactly what was required, but generally not when it came to answering prayer. Humans tended to believe all that was required of them was a few mumbled words, then they were utterly content to leave the matter in the hands of God.

Through the ages humans had yet to discover what should have been obvious. The answers to prayer required participation. The people of earth expected God to do it all. Only a shocking few realized they had their own role to perform.

A good example was a request that had come in earlier from Monica Fischer, a preacher’s daughter. Monica had asked for a husband. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem; she was twenty-five and strikingly attractive, or would be if she didn’t choose to disguise her natural beauty. The whole process of attracting a young man was complicated by her self-righteous attitude. Few men, even devout servants of God, were willing to marry sanctimonious prudes.

Gabriel hadn’t decided how he would handle Monica’s request or the prayer that had come in the unusual form of a letter from Timmy Potter. Gabriel had a soft spot when it came to children’s prayers. Timmy was nine, and had requested a father… Read more