Excerpt 1:
"Mommy?"
Christine's young voice broke in on her thoughts.
Dara put down the romance
she'd been re-reading, the favorite she'd had since she was sixteen. She'd sold
all her others at a yard sale the previous week. "What is it,
sweetie?"
"Why don't we has a real
tree for Chribmas?"
"Why don't we
'have'," she corrected. "Come sit by me." Dara patted the couch
and tucked her chenille robe closer around her.
One arm around Matilda, her
cloth doll, Christine climbed up beside her mother and cuddled.
Matilda's going to need
stuffing before long. Her head flopped forward, face against her flat
chest. When did the lace on her dress get so ragged? Dara smoothed the
doll's dress. "Remember when Daddy went home to heaven before Christmas
last year?"
Christine knuckled her eyes
and yawned. "I 'member."
"And then Mommy got hurt
in the car accident and couldn't go to work?"
"Uh huh."
Dara took a deep breath.
"Well, it meant there was no money for a real tree this year. But I'm sure Santa
will still bring you presents." Gifts Dara bought by selling her entire
collection of romance novels at a yard sale at her friend Sherilyn's house.
"And we drew a tree, right?" She pointed at the crayon-bright drawing
taped to the wall. Construction paper ornaments decorated each branch.
"But it doesn't smell like a
Chribmas tree."
Dara hugged her. "I know, baby. I
know."
"How will Santa leave his
presents?" Christine pulled away and got on her knees. "He can't put
them under the tree, Mommy."
"Oh, honey!" She ruffled her
daughter's hair, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Santa will find a
way." She leaned forward and kissed her little girl. "We should get
you in bed so he can come. He can't leave presents while you're awake."
She followed her daughter into her room,
got her tucked into bed and sat beside her, stroking her golden hair. Christine
gazed up at her from under thick dark lashes. Her deep-blue eyes never failed
to remind Dara of her late husband.
Jack had been Dara's high school
sweetheart. Tonight marked a year and nine days since the accident that had
claimed his death. Neither she nor Jack had family other than each other. His
coworkers knew, and they'd helped that first year, bless them. His senseless
death happened right before Christmas. What if something happened to her too?
As an orphan herself, Dara experienced fear and anxiety for her daughter. Tears
of loneliness, terror of the future, of raising her daughter without Jack at
her side. Anger at everything and everyone. At his company for sending him on
the trip. At Jack for going. Guilt for feeling angry ate at her.
The night Jack had left, they'd argued
over it and he'd slammed the door when he left. But then he'd stopped the car
halfway down the drive, gotten out, and had come back inside to kiss her and
tell her he regretted having to go, but that he had to. He promised he'd be
back before Christmas. They'd shared a long, cherishing kiss and she'd waved
until he was out of sight.
Six hours later, his plane went down over
the Gulf of Mexico in a freak storm. All on board were lost.
More guilt and doubt set in with the New
Year. Things she should have said. Should have done. Why had she let him go?
Why had God allowed her child to grow up without a father?
Her friend Sherilyn had walked through it
all at her side, helping her get a job, watching Christine, being there when
all Dara needed was to cry. This year, the company had forgotten Jack and the
family he left behind. So much for "The Company with Families at
Heart." Jack's insurance had paid off the house, and there was enough
money to survive for a few months. While looking for a job, she'd sold
furniture, her good silver, and pawned all her jewelry, except her wedding
ring.
Dara rubbed her face with both hands,
willing herself to hold on for her daughter's sake. To be strong. To be both
mother and father. Women had done it for centuries. They'd survived. So would
she.
"Mommy?" Christine rubbed
Dara's arm. "Read me the story about the mouse that's quiet."
"That's a great story. My mother
used to read it to me when I was little." Dara snuggled beside her, and
opened her daughter's favorite Christmas book. At least she'd been able to give
her the gift of reading. When Jack had been alive, he'd always made sure there
was money for books. She would miss her own collection, but at least Christine
would have something from Santa. "'T'was the night before
Christmas..."
After Christine drifted off to sleep,
Dara pushed off the bed. She was gaining strength daily, and would finish
therapy the first week of January and return to work. Disability paid for the
basics - lights, phone, water, trash collection, and she'd never bought anything
on credit, refusing to dig herself into a hole she'd never escape once it got
started.
It'll be great to have a full income
again! I wish it could have come in time for Christmas.
She went to the closet and pulled down a
box with a ball, crayons, paper, and three books. Sherilyn had brought over a
few things as well. This wasn't the grand Christmas that Dara had wanted for
Christine, but Dara had already sold her other valuables. There was nothing
left but her wedding ring.
She didn't wear it. Removing it had been
part of saying good-bye to Jack.
Sherilyn had said it would help, and it
had. Sort of. But not much.
Dara sank into one of the kitchen chairs
and put her face in her hands.
Sometime later, when the doorbell rang,
she grabbed a paper towel and dried her eyes. The clock over the stove said
nine o'clock. Who would be calling at this hour on Christmas Eve? She stuffed
the wet towel in her robe pocket on the way to the door.
* * * *
Excerpt 2:
In his old room, Scott stripped out of
his uniform and put on sweatpants and slippers. On his bed was the loose
T-shirt with a blond-haired elf on the front that his mother had given him the
year before. The elf was shirtless, wearing red boxer shorts with holly on
them, and he was licking a candy cane while dangling a round ornament on one
finger of his other hand.
Upon seeing the shirt when Scott
unwrapped it, a cousin had started singing, "Don we now our gay
apparel..." and had broken into riotous laughter. That didn't stop the
family from insisting he wear it. He was sure he'd asked Mary to give it to
Goodwill, so how it had shown up again this year he couldn't explain. Yet,
there it was. It could only have come from one person.
"The things we do for our
mothers." Scott slipped it on over his head and headed for the kitchen.
He leaned against the door jamb, enjoying
the sight. His mother was chopping things for the stuffing and adding them to
her biggest bowl. His dad sat at the end of the counter, reading a Popular
Science magazine. Neither seemed to pay attention to the other, but while
his mother was cooking, Dad always kept her company. She'd crochet in a wooden
rocker in the garage while he worked on the boat he was building. As if they
couldn't bear to be parted from one another, even though they didn't talk much.
Maybe they didn't need words.
Scott had thought he and his wife would
be the same, but he and Mary had shared a different lifestyle. Both were often
busy, and sometimes saw each other only in passing. He'd worked nights, and
she'd worked days. She'd had a downtown office, working as an architect for
government housing. Time spent outdoors had given her a great tan, but exposed
her to hazardous toxins no one had known were in the old buildings being
demolished. When she fainted at work, the company sent her in for a check up.
After the diagnosis, the project had been shut down immediately, but cancer
took a quick toll. Mary was gone in six months. A government investigation into
the cause was still ongoing.
Scott now had sole custody of a four-year
old daughter and a job that took him into danger every day. He'd shifted to the
downtown beat and day shift because it seemed safer, and he could still do what
he loved doing: Helping people.
"Well," his dad said, not
looking up from his magazine, "Are you going to help your mother or stand
there in that dumb elf shirt?"
His mother braced both hands on the
counter. "That shirt cost more money than any three pairs of your
pants."
"Did not. I paid a pretty penny for
these pants."
"Pants were cheaper back in
1982."
He snorted, and went back to his reading.
His mother gave a satisfied nod.
"That shirt was custom-made. I wanted it to look like Scott and they did a
wonderful job."
Scott drew the shirt away from his body. This
is supposed to be me? He met his dad's bemused gaze and they both gave that
short, man-to-man shrug that meant "women."
His dad went back to reading. His mother
continued chopping.
"Mom, I'm ready to work. Tell me
what to do."
She dried her hands on her apron and
patted his cheek. "Such a good boy you turned out to be."
"Man," his dad interrupted, not
looking up.
"Whatever. Scott knows what I mean.
His help is a blessing, and it's-- my heavens, look at the time. Did you have
to work late?"
He pulled up a stool and told them how
he'd met Dara, reminded them about Christine being in Susan's class, and what
the guys at the station had helped him do. He left out a few parts, but
explained he'd invited Dara and her daughter to dinner.
His dad put down the magazine and
listened, a glimmer of tears in his eyes. "Your mother's right. You are a
good man."
"Thanks, Dad."
"I'm glad you invited them."
His mom got out more vegetables to dice and chop. "I'll look her up in the
phone book and call her in the morning. I want her to know she's welcome."
"Phone book?" His dad snapped
open his magazine. "Do they still have such things? I thought these days
you had to look people up in Tweeter or Facepad."
"Uh, Dad." Scott pulled out his
phone. "It's Twitter and Facebook, and I already have her phone number.
Here, Mom. Write this down." He handed it to her. "And yes, there are
still phone books for people who want them."
His mother recorded it. "I'll call
her about ten or so. In case she sleeps in."
"I think that'd be okay, although
her daughter's Susan's age. I doubt she does any more sleeping than I do.
Especially Christmas morning."
"Here, son." His mother gave
back the phone. "Does she have any family?"
"From what we could tell at the
precinct, no living relatives. Husband didn't either. Her Christmas tree was
green paper, taped to the wall. Made me not take things for granted, you
know?" Their tree, a seven foot fir loaded with lights and ornaments,
filled one corner of the front room. "You want me to add an extra leaf to
the table?"
"Yes, please, and get out two more
of the good plates, and silverware to go with them. Oh, and the platter on top
of the hutch. I can't reach it. You know, the one with holly on it."
"If you need help finding it"--
His dad added -- "it looks like the green plant on those boxers your elf
is wearing."
Scott sent him a droll stare. "Ha
ha."
"Now, Charles." His mother set
both hands on her hips. "Stop teasing him. That T-shirt could be a
collector's item. There's not another one like it in the world." She
resumed her work.
Scott and his dad shared that bemused
look again, and Scott set off to do her bidding.
If your book had a candle, what scent would it be?
Something Christmasy like cinnamon, or gingerbread. Or maybe
even fresh pine, like a Christmas tree. I think candles are great to put in
drawers also. You open a drawer and that wonderful smell is released into the
room. The right smell transports you straight into a memory. To this day, the
scent of an oven warming up reminds me of my mother baking. Even non-Christmas
things can do that. Whenever I got a new book as a kid, I'd always smell it.
There's something about that smell that soothes and comforts. Today's books are
printed in a different way and don't have the same smell. Have you noticed?
What inspired you to write this book?
I had a tradition for many years of writing a short story as
a gift for friends at Christmas. One year, I wrote A Romance for Christmas for
my critique group. They loved it and told me I should publish it. I put it
aside for many years, but finally decided I'd give it a shot. I was shocked to
see it hit the charts on Amazon, and stayed in the top 100 in its category for
almost 3 months. When you create something out of love, I think it has a much
stronger impact.
Where did you come up with the names in the story?
The names of the characters are almost all famous writers.
When you read the book, I bet you recognize them. The exception is the parents.
I named them after my own, and I dedicated the book to one of my sisters and
her late husband. Their love match was sweet to watch. When he passed away, I
wanted a way to honor that memory.
What is your favorite part of this book and why?
The hero comes into the kitchen at his parents' house and
finds his folks doing their usual thing. She's cooking and he's reading a
magazine, keeping her company. The parents banter back and forth, teasing each
other in sweet ways. The hero loves seeing their steadfast relationship. He'd
always hoped to have the same thing with his wife. When she passed away a year
ago, leaving him with a four-year-old daughter to raise alone. His folks help
as much as they can, but he misses having that other person to love. The
widowed mother of his daughter's friend is going through the same thing, and
he's invited her to come for Christmas dinner, which is one reason he's in the
kitchen that night. He didn't need permission to invite her -- his friends have
always been welcome in his parents' home. It's also tradition for everyone to
help make dinner, so when he shows up, his mother puts him right to work. This
family, despite its tragedies, is moving forward the best way they know how, by
loving one another and showing compassion to others. That 's what the Christmas
spirit is all about.
Thank you for sharing my Christmas story!
ReplyDeleteI like the cover
ReplyDeleteThank you, Gwendolyn. I think this is the only book where I personally made the cover. :)
Delete