Where Do I Go? - Prologue and Chapter 1

Where Do I Go?
Thomas Nelson (December 9, 2008)

Prologue

June 1990, Montpellier, France

The two American co-eds stood at the apex of the tree-lined Esplanade, heads bent over their guidebook. Male passersby turned for a second glance, eyeing the youthful female bodies with lusty smiles. Tank tops, shorts, and Berkenstocks did little to cover the long shapely legs and tan skin. Some slowed, hoping for a glance at the faces hidden by the long cornsilk hair of one and the rippling chestnut curls of the other, both worn long and whipping about in the wind coming off the large open square sprawled before them.

“This is it—Place de la Comédie. See the Fountain up there?” The young woman with the red highlights sparking in the sun pointed to the far end of the square. “Let’s go up that way and find a café. It’s after one already.”

“But Gabby! The Polygone is right over there. It’s like an American mall.” The leggy blonde tugged her friend’s arm, pulling her to the left of the Esplanade and away from the square.

Gabby jerked her arm free. “Linda! You and your malls. I didn’t come all the way to France to shop. Come on. I’m hungry.” She ran forward a few steps, then turned around but kept walking backwards. “Come o-on! I’m going with or without you!” Then she ran on, laughing, backpack bumping on her back, threading through the other pedestrians filling the square.

Within moments she heard running footsteps and Linda’s whine. “Wait up, Gabby!”

Laughing, Gabby locked arms with her companion as they walked to the far end of Place de la Comédie and approached the Fountain of Three Graces. They stopped, staring. The three graceful female figures stood atop a rocky mound of moss and green plants with water spouts pouring water into first one shallow basin surrounding the fountain, and then another. Several families with children sat on the smooth paving stones around the fountain eating sandwiches, tossing crumbs to the pigeons that strutted about. A bald-headed guy seated on a canvas stool nearby played a guitar, his guitar case open for the occasional francs. But the majority of warm bodies milling about the square or sitting on the ground around the fountain were young—late teens, early twenties—and multi-national. University students.

“Mmm,” Linda said.

“I know. It’s beautiful.”

“I meant those two guys over there. Sitting by the fountain. Do you think they’re French?”

Gabby slapped her friend’s arm. “You are impossible!” She laughed. “Come on. There’s an empty table over there, see? At that café. We’ll have a great view of the Opera House and we can watch the fountain—oh! Oh wait! Look!” Gabby clapped her hands. “It’s a carousel!”

Linda rolled her eyes. “So?”

“I want to ride it! I’ve never ridden a carousel before!”

“Gabby! Don’t be silly! Those things go up and down and around. You get dizzy riding a stupid escalator . . . oh, brother.”

* * *

A pair of eyes shaded by sunglasses and a loose shock of dark hair followed the two young women as the curly-headed one ran up to the ticket booth, pointed at herself and her friend, paid their francs and climbed onto the prancing carousel horses. The young man poked his companion sitting on the ground near the Fountain of Three Graces, his nose in a book. “Hey, Cameron. Check out those girls.”

“Where? The carousel?” His light-haired companion shaded his eyes and watched as the carousel started up, the horses lifted up and down, and the girls’ laughter sailed over the square. “Silly Americans,” he snorted. “Present company excepted, of course, Philip.” Cameron went back to his book.

That got a laugh. “Stuffy Brit. Maybe we should go ride it, too. Be good for you, my man. Too much studying can ruin your youth!” But Philip’s eyes stayed on the young woman with the long curly hair as she came around, up and down, on her prancing mechanical horse, her head back, laughing . . . disappeared . . . and came around once more. But this time the American girl clung to the pole, eyes tightly shut.

The carousel finally stopped and the girl climbed off unsteadily and almost fell. Her friend grabbed her, and for a moment seemed to be holding her up. Philip started to his feet. Was she okay? But at that moment the young woman straightened and tossed her hair back, brushing off her friend’s attention with a laugh. The eyes behind the sunglasses followed as the girls headed for the outdoor seating of the café between the carousel and the Fountain of Three Graces.

“Hey, Cameron. Let’s get something to eat, okay?” Philip snatched the book out of the other’s hands. “Come on.”

His companion sighed, got to his feet, and grabbed for the book. By the time he got the book repacked in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, Philip had already picked out an outdoor table at the same café.

* * *

Gabby sucked on the straw in her lemonade, and then sighed happily. “I could sit here forever watching people in this square. It’s like . . . so international!”

Linda took a sip of her iced coffee and frowned at the menu. “Yeah, well, I wish you’d sat here fifteen minutes ago, rather than ride that silly carousel. I thought you were going to throw up back there . . . Hey! Where’d the sun go?” Linda squinted upward as a shadow moved across the open square. “Better not rain,” she grumbled. “We haven’t ordered yet.”

“So what? If it rains this afternoon, we can go to a movie at the theater over there.” Gabby pulled the straw out with her teeth and pointed the dripping end at the domed building that said, “Cinema Gaumont.”

“Gosh!” Linda rolled her eyes. “Do you always have to be so cheerful?!”

Gabby giggled. “Yes. And I’d be even happier if Damien, the jerk, could see me now—in France, having a ball, with only one year to go getting my BA. Without him actually being here, I mean.” She tossed her hair back and snorted. “That would be a bummer.”

Linda raised her frosty glass. “To Damien, king of the jerks—”

Gabby clinked her lemonade on Linda’s glass. “—may he get seasick on that fishing boat with the captain’s daughter, who no doubt smells a bit fishy by now.”

The two young women collapsed into laughter—which stopped abruptly when a male voice said, “Excusez-moi, ma’amselles?”

“Ohmigosh,” Linda said under her breath. “It’s them.”

Gabby looked up, startled. A tall young man with dark hair and sunglasses stood beside their table, accompanied by another young man with sandy hair. “Yes?” Oh, dear. I should’ve said “Oui?” or something. He sounds French.

“May I introduce myself? Je suis Philippe Fairbanks, and this is Cameron Brewer, my housemate. Graduate students at La Faculté des Lettres.” He pointed at himself. “Business.” Then at his companion. “History.” He flashed a smile revealing perfect white teeth. “And you are—?”

His French accent rolled off his tongue like melted chocolate. Gabby cleared her throat, hoping her mouth hadn’t been hanging open. “Oh! Uh, I’m Gabrielle Shepherd—most people call me Gabby—and this is Linda Banks. University of North Dakota.” She had never seen such a beautiful man. Tall, dark, and handsome. Literally! And French to boot!

“Pardonne. May we sit?”

“Uhh . . . of course! Please. Sit down. Right, Linda?”

Linda nodded, eyelashes fluttering, licking her lips.

“Have you ladies ordered yet?” The dark-haired one pulled over another chair. “The lamb kebobs here are superb.”

“Mm,” the other seconded, sounding decidedly British. “Absolutely scrummy.”

Linda snorted. “Humph. Gabby needs a salad or something light. She nearly lost it on the carousel back there—ow!” She glared at Gabby. “What did you kick me for?”

The two young men laughed. Gabby flushed. “I am fine. Just a momentary dizzy spell. The lamb kabobs sound great.”

“Excellent.” The dark eyes gave an approving wink. “Lunch is on us—right, Cameron?”

And so they talked and laughed over succulent lamb kebobs and freshly-baked bread. Gabby was aware that the dark eyes seemed to feast on her, and she flushed at the attention. His English was perfect—unlike her French—and his lovely French accent gave her goose bumps . . . until Cameron pulled the plug. “Aw, ladies, don’t be fooled by this bloke. His name is Philip, not ‘Philippe,’ and he hails from Virginia in the US of A. I, on the other hand, am London born and bred.”

Gabby’s mouth dropped, then she laughed, grabbed a cloth napkin and whipped Philip’s arm with it. “You imposter!”

He threw up his hands and grinned. “Ah, well. Fun while it lasted.”

But she was actually relieved at the joke. It would have been charming to be romanced by a Frenchman, but her small-town roots in Minot, North Dakota were so . . . so provincial. She’d married her teenage sweetheart right out of high school, but a divorce two years later made her determined to “get out of Minot” and do something with her life. But until this junket through Europe with Youth Hostels International, the furthest she’d been was the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks. Big deal.

However, an American in Paris—or, Montpellier, in this case—put this charming looker on more equal footing. She tossed her curls back confidently. “So, why did you decide to study in Montpellier, Philip?”

Philip’s grin was half grimace. “Oh, you know the story. Family business. Dad’s got my life planned, wants me to follow in his footsteps.” He shrugged. “It’s a good business, but I want to broaden my horizons, explore some new ideas to bring the business into the twenty-first century.”

Intrigued, Gabby leaned forward, chin resting on her hand as Philip talked. A slight shadow of a beard lined his strong jawline. His dark brown hair had a boyish way of falling over his forehead—though Damien had been drop-dead gorgeous, too, she reminded herself, and look where that got her. But . . . Philip was different. Damien was just a local pretty boy who’d swept her off her feet with empty promises. But this man . . . he had roots. A solid Southern family. (How romantic was that.) Heir to a family business. But he had new ideas. Vision. She liked that. He seemed so self-assured—the type of guy who would go places, do things—and that excited her.

“—been to Paris yet?” he was saying. “You must see the Eiffel Tower.”

Gabby let slip a wry grin and an exaggerated sigh. “Probably not. Uh, heights don’t agree with me . . . nor carousels, it seems.”

“Oh, nuts.” Linda jumped up, bumping the table and nearly spilling their drinks. “It’s starting to rain.” The leggy blonde joined the throng surging toward the inside tables of the café.

Gabby was feeling giddy and bold. “So what’s a little rain?” Instead of going inside, she ran into the square, laughing and twirling around slowly in the warm shower, arms outstretched, letting her damp hair twist up tighter like a crown of curly ribbons.

* * *

Standing under the awning of the café, Philip Fairbanks watched the sprite from North Dakota swirl, laughing, in the rain. “I’m going to marry that girl,” he murmured.

“Don’t be barmy, Philip.” Cameron hunched his shoulders against the damp breeze. “She’s just a ditzy yank from North Dakota. What would your mum do if you brought home a girl named Gabby?”

Philip laughed. “Probably have a hissy fit. I’ll tell her the girl’s name is Gabrielle—that sounds French, don’t you think? And I think she’s . . . charming. A free spirit. Different.”

Cameron snorted. “Different all right. Look at that hair. Little Orphan Annie grown up.”

Philip was looking at Gabrielle’s hair. The sun broke through the light rain, and raindrops sparkled on the mop of chestnut curls flying around and around. “Mm-hm,” he murmured to himself. “I’m going to marry you, Mop Top. You wait and see.”



Chapter 1


Looking thirty-two floors down was almost enough to bring up my lunch. Philip knew I had trouble with heights. So what kind of sadistic joke made him buy a penthouse, for heaven’s sake! Not to mention floor-to-ceiling windows that curved around the living room, like putting a glass nose on a Boeing 747.

I groaned. It’d take me a week to wash the inside of those windows. And who in the world washed the outside—?! My knees wobbled. Uh-uh. Couldn’t go there or I’d lose my lunch for real.

But the view . . . oh my.

I stood in the middle of our new living room and tried to take it all in. Trees dotted the park along Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive, wearing the fresh new wardrobe of spring. On the other side of the Drive, the western edge of Lake Michigan lapped at the miles of beaches separated by occasional rocky retaining walls and disappeared southward amid the misty skyscrapers of Chicago’s Loop. Tall, billowy thunderheads caught the late afternoon sun. Earlier that day, cars had hurried along the Drive, like toys zipping along a giant track some kid got for Christmas. But now, at the height of rush hour, the far lane was packed solid as commuters headed for the northern suburbs.

O-kay. Looking out at the view wasn’t so bad. I stepped closer to the window, keeping my chin up, refusing to look straight down. Near the beach, cyclists whizzed along a bicycle path, swerving around joggers. Dogs with their masters chased Frisbees or dashed into the water after a ball. No one was in the water—too early in the spring, I guessed. But the sand sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. What I wouldn’t give to—

“Is that all, Señora Fairbanks?”

I jumped. The sweet face of the maid, who’d been setting up the catered buffet in the dining room the past hour, looked at me expectantly. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Plain white blouse with a nametag that said “Camila.” Black skirt hugging her chunky legs. A wedding band on her left hand. Obviously hoping to go home and take care of her own family.

“Oh. Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s fine, Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . .?”

She reddened. “Just Camila, Señora. Gracias.”

“Well, then, call me Gabby.” I glanced at the Fairbanks’ heirloom grandfather clock patiently ticking away in the corner of the large room. Almost six o’clock. Philip had said to expect him between seven and eight. “What do I need to do when the guests arrive?”

The short, stocky woman smiled with relief. “No problem. Cold salads in the refrigerator. Beef tips and saffron rice in the warming oven set at one hundred fifty degrees. Will be safe. Just take them out.” Picking up her bag, she disappeared quickly into the entryway—called a “gallery” in the Richmond Towers brochure—and out the front door of the penthouse condo.

Still standing in the middle of the living room, I suddenly felt bereft. I was alone. Again. Philip had been gone since seven that morning. The boys were still in Virginia at boarding school. Philip wouldn’t hear of taking them out so close to the end of the school year. And so we’d moved, lock, stock, and oriental rugs to Illinois so Philip and his new partner could hurry up and dream big dreams in their luxurious office in downtown Chicago. And here I was, not only alone, but stuck up here in the sky like an eagle impaled on a flagpole.

I imagined Camila in the elevator, riding down, down, nodding at the doorman, going outside. Free.

Stepping close to the curved window, I steadied myself with my hand, daring myself to look down, hoping to see her emerge. The glass was thick and cool to the touch. Probably leaving a grubby handprint on the glass. Huh. I’d have to clean it before Philip’s guests arrived. Had to have a clean prison wall, right?

Stop it, Gabby.

A jogger caught my eye as she ran through the park below, ran past the trees, did a sharp turn, and then suddenly disappeared. Wait a minute. What just happened? I squinted . . . then a movement on the other side of Lake Shore Drive caught my eye. The same jogger was now running on the path by the beach!

There must be a pedestrian tunnel under Lake Shore Drive. My eyes widened. Why hadn’t I seen it before? We’d been here five days already, and all this time I thought the ubiquitous Drive cut us off from the sand and water unless we got in the car and drove somewhere.

I cast another furtive glance at the clock. Ten after. Philip wouldn’t be here for another fifty minutes at the earliest—maybe longer. I was already dressed in a white pantsuit and gold-strap sandals. The temperature was almost eighty—warm for April. What if—

On impulse I grabbed my keys from the wooden bowl on the table in the gallery and headed out the penthouse door. I felt slightly giddy as I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the ground floor, like the time I’d ditched classes in middle school back in Minot, North Dakota. When the elevator doors opened, I pushed open the security door into the lobby and breezed past the African-American doorman, not wanting to chat, and found myself on the narrow frontage street that gave limited access to several high-rise condos besides Richmond Towers.

But beyond the street, beyond the park, beyond the pedestrian tunnel was sand and water. Sand! Sand between my toes. Splashing in the miniwaves. The desire drove me on like an urgent hunger. How long, how long had it been since I’d even been barefoot?

I burst out of the pedestrian tunnel under Lake Shore Drive like a runner carrying the Olympic flame. Oh Gabby, you are so bad. I laughed out loud. Kicking off my sandals, I ran barefoot across the grass and stepped down a low concrete wall to the sand, sending a flock of seagulls hopping into the air and landing a short distance away. Delighting in the feel of the warm sand on my bare feet, I ran at the birds, sending them scolding and hopping again.

I giggled, turning around and around, arms outstretched to catch the wind off the lake, wishing I was wearing a princess skirt to whirl. Hardly anyone was on this strip of beach, so who cared if I looked stupid? No one knew me anyway.

On impulse, I rolled up my pant legs and waded into the water—and screeched. Ay ay ay. That was cold. Hurting cold! I splashed back on to the warm sand, but now wet sand clung like chiggers between my toes and up my legs. I sat down on the concrete bench to brush off the sand, when I felt the first drop. And the second. I looked up. The clouds now hung low and heavy and looked about ready to dump.

Grabbing my sandals, I climbed back up to the grass and started running toward the pedestrian tunnel, hoping the grass would clean off my feet. By the time I emerged on the other side, the rain had become a chilly shower. Forgetting the paved path, I made a beeline across the grass and between the bushes toward Richmond Towers—and the next moment pitched forward on my face.

“Hey!” A raspy voice shot out of the bushes two feet from my head. “Whatchu go kicking my cart for?” This pronouncement was followed by several hacking coughs.

I was more startled than hurt—except for my toe, which was sending stabs of pain up my leg. I rolled over and grabbed my foot, even as the rain soaked into my clothes and hair. Cart? What cart? I squinted in the fading light toward where I’d taken my fall, and vaguely made out something metal sticking out from under the bush. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Didn’t see it . . . where are you, anyway?”

The bushes parted, and a head poked out, half covered with what looked like a black plastic garbage bag. “Keepin’ dry is where I’m at, tha’s what.” More hacking. “Leastwise I was till Orphan Annie came along . . . uh-oh. That foot’s bleedin’, girlie. Here, lemme see it.”

To my astonishment, an old woman crawled out of the bushes, holding the thin protection of the garbage bag around her shoulders like a Superman cape, and grabbed up my bare foot in a thin, sinewy hand, even as the rain steadied into moderate shower. “Aiya. Gotta stop that bleedin’ . . . hang on a minnit.” The woman dropped my foot and pulled out a metal cart from under the bushes, set it upright, and began digging through whatever was stuffed inside, her cough grinding away like a waterlogged car motor.

I scrambled up, standing on one leg, holding up the offending foot. “Oh, don’t bother,” I protested. “I really have to get . . .” Home? I couldn’t yet say the word.

She hauled out a long rag. “Oh, don’t get your mop in a knot. Siddown.” The woman practically pushed me down, grabbed my bleeding foot, and began wrapping the rag around it. I shuddered. How long had that been in her cart, collecting germs and vermin and who knew what—

“It’s clean, if tha’s wha’s botherin’ ya.” Hack, hack. She dropped my foot. “Now git on with ya an’ leave me be.”

“Wait!” The absurdity of the situation suddenly loosened my tongue. Me go home to my sky-high penthouse while she crawled back under that bush? “This is ridiculous. It’s raining, and you’ve got a terrible cough. Come on with me. I can get you dry clothes and some cough syrup.” What she probably needed was a doctor.

The old lady snorted, sounding more like a bullfrog than a laugh. “Nah, I’m okay . . .”

But she hesitated just long enough to bolster my nerve. I took her arm. “Please, I mean it. Come on. Just until the rain stops, at least.”

Rheumy eyes gave me a long stare, then she turned, grabbed the handle of her cart, and started across the wet grass. I caught up, steering her toward Richmond Towers. “My name’s Gabby Fairbanks. Yours is . . .?”

She didn’t answer, just plowed on with me hobbling along on my rag-wrapped foot. We crossed the frontage street and somehow wrestled her cart through the revolving door of the high-rise. And stopped.

The doorman loomed in front of us. His normally pleasant expression had evaporated, replaced by an enormous scowl that would have done justice to a bouncer at a skin joint. “Hey! Get that rickety cart outta here. Lady, you can’t come in here. Residents only.”

I waved timidly from behind the old lady. “Uh, she’s with me, Mr. Bentley . . . Mrs. Fairbanks.”

“Fairbanks? Penthouse?” The man’s eyes darted between us. “Whatchu doin’ with this old bag lady?” He suddenly became solicitous, though I noticed he kept a wary eye on my companion. “Are you all right, ma’am? What happened to your foot?”

“It’s all right, Mr. Bentley. I, uh, we just need to get up to the, uh, apartment and get into some dry clothes.” I beamed a smile that I hoped conveyed more confidence than I felt, took the “bag lady’s” arm, ran my ID card that opened the security door, and headed for the elevator.

I let out a sigh of relief as the doors slid closed behind us, and the elevator quietly hummed its way upward. Closing my eyes, I started to shiver. I really needed to get out of these damp clothes, get cleaned up and changed before—

My eyes flew open. Philip! Philip and his guests were due at any time. Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I pled silently. Keep Philip out of here until at least eight o’clock. A new absurdity was standing right in front of me. For the first time I took a really good look at the woman from the bushes. Matted gray hair . . . wrinkled, mottled skin, hanging loosely like a beige mask over her facial bones. Several layers of clothes topped by a shapeless shirt or blouse, hard to tell, hanging out over faded navy blue pant legs, rolled up at different lengths. And here in the elevator, she smelled . . . stale.

Oh God. What in the world am I going to do with this, this—

“Lucy.” The old woman’s eyes were closed, and it didn’t seem as if she had spoken at all, except for the raspy voice.

“Lucy,” I repeated stupidly. “Oh! Your name. Thanks.”

The upward motion stopped. The heavy doors glided open to reveal the glistening ceramic tile of the top floor foyer. Our apartment door was the only one to be seen, flanked by two enormous pots of silk flowers. “Well, come on, Lucy. Let’s get you into some dry clothes and do something about that cough.” And get you out of here—quick, I thought desperately.

I pulled out my keys and shoved one into the lock. Good. Got the right one on the first try. The lock clicked, and I pressed the brass latch to open the door. It swung wide and I hobbled into the gallery, Lucy huffing right behind me . . . and stopped.

There, through the archway, in the middle of the enormous living room, stood my husband, tall, dark hair, easy good looks even at forty-one, a glass of wine in one hand, talking in a big voice to a strange man and woman, gesturing as though showing off the penthouse view.

In the same instant, they must have heard us, because all three turned, staring straight at me. Silence hung in the air for a split-second. Then Philip took several strides in our direction, his eyes wide. Horrified, actually. “Gabrielle!” he hissed between his teeth. “What’s the meaning of this?!”

Engaging Father Christmas - Chapter 1

Engaging Father Christmas
FaithWords (October 30, 2008)

Chapter 1

Around me swarms of Londoners rushed by, intent on their destinations and sure of their plans. My destination was the small town of Carlton Heath, and my plans revolved around a certain Scotsman who was now officially late.

I tried to call Ian again. His voice mail picked up for the third time. “It’s me again,” I said to the phone. “I’m here at Paddington station and —”

Before I finished the message, my phone beeped, and the screen showed me it was Ian.

“Hi! I was just leaving you another message.” I brushed back my shoulder-length brown hair and stood a little straighter, just as I would have if Ian were standing in front of me.

“You made it to the station, then?”

“Yes. Although I was about to put on a pair of red rain boots and a tag on my coat that read, ‘Please look after this bear.’ ” I was pretty sure Ian would catch my reference to the original Paddington Bear in the floppy hat since that was what he had given to my niece, Julia, for Christmas last year.

“Don’t go hangin’ any tags on your coat,” Ian said with an unmistakable grin in his voice. “I’m nearly there. The shops were crammed this morning, and traffic is awful. I should have taken the tube, but I’m in a taxi now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops. Maybe less if I get out and run the last few blocks.”

“Don’t run. I’ll wait. It’s only been, what? Seven weeks and three days since we were last together? What’s another fifteen minutes?”

“I’ll tell you what another fifteen minutes is. It’s just about the longest fifteen minutes of my life.”

“Mine too.” I felt my face warming.

“You’re at track five, then, as we planned?”

“Yes. Track five.”

“Good. No troubles coming in from the airport?”

“No. Everything went fine at Heathrow. The fog delayed my flight when we left San Francisco, but the pilot somehow managed to make up time in the air. We landed on schedule.”

“Let’s hope my cabbie can find the same tailwind your pilot did and deliver me to the station on schedule.”

I looked up at the large electronic schedule board overhead, just to make sure my watch was in sync with local time. “We have about twenty minutes before the 1:37 train leaves for Carlton Heath. I think we can still make it.”

“I have no doubt. Looks like we have a break in the traffic jam at the moment. Don’t go anywhere, Miranda. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’ll be here.”

I closed my phone and smiled. Whenever Ian said my name, with a rolling of the r, he promptly melted my heart. Every single time. His native Scottish accent had become distilled during the past decade as a result of his two years of grad school in Canada and working in an architect office with coworkers from around the world. But Ian knew how to put on the “heather in the highlands” lilt whenever he wanted. And I loved it, just as I loved everything about this indomitable man.

I looked around the landing between the train tracks for an open seat on one of the benches. Since none were available, I moved closer to the nearest bench just in case someone decided to leave.

Balancing my large, wheeled suitcase against a pole so it wouldn’t tip over, I carefully leaned my second bag next to the beast. This was my third trip to England since my visit last Christmas and the first time I had come with two suitcases. This time I needed an extra bag for all the gifts I had with me, wrapped and ready to go under the Christmas tree at the Whitcombe manor.

Last Christmas and for many Christmases before that, the only gift I bought and gave was the one expected for the exchange at the accounting office where I worked in downtown San Francisco. Up until last Christmas I had no family to speak of — no parents, no siblings, no roommate. I didn’t even have a cat. My life had fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm of work and weekends alone, which is probably why I found the courage to make that first trip to Carlton Heath last December. In those brief, snow-kissed, extraordinary few days, I was gifted with blood relatives, new friends, and sweetest of all, Ian.

Christmas shopping this year had been a new experience. While my coworkers complained about the crowds and hassle, I quietly reveled in the thought that I actually had someone — many someones — in my life to go gift hunting for.

I had a feeling some last-minute shopping was the reason Ian was late. He told me yesterday he had a final gift to pick up this morning on his way to the station. He hadn’t explained what the gift was or whom it was for. His silence on the matter led me to wonder as I wandered along a familiar path in my imagination. That path led straight to my heart, and along that path I saw nothing but hope for our future together — hope and maybe a little something shiny that came in a small box and fit on a certain rather available finger on my left hand.

Before my mind could sufficiently detour to the happy land of “What’s next?”, I heard someone call my name. It was a familiar male voice, but not Ian’s.

I looked into the passing stream of travelers, and there he stood, only a few feet away. Josh. The last person I ever expected to see again. Especially in England.

“Miranda, I thought that was you! Hey, how are you?” With a large travel bag strapped over his shoulder, Josh gave me an awkward, clunking and bumping sort of hug. His glasses smashed against the side of my head. He quickly introduced me as his “old girlfriend” to the three guys with him.

“What are you doing here?” He unstrapped the bag and dropped it at his feet.

One of the guys tagged his shoulder and said, “We’ll be at the sandwich stand over there.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Josh turned back to me. “You look great. What’s been happening with you?”

“I’m good,” I said. “What about you? What are you doing here?” I was still too flustered at the unexpected encounter to jump right into a catch-up sort of conversation after the almost three-year gap.

“Just returned from a ski trip to Austria with a group from work. Incredible trip. I’m in a counseling practice now. Child psychologist. I don’t know if you knew that.”

“No. That’s great, Josh. I know that’s what you wanted to do.”

“Yes, it’s going well so far.” He seemed at ease. None of the stiltedness that had been there right after I broke up with him came across in his voice or demeanor.

“And what about you? What are you doing in England?”

Before I could put together an answer, Josh snapped his fingers. “Wait! Are you here because you’re looking for your birth father?”

“You remembered.” Once again he surprised me.

“Of course I remembered. You had that picture of some guy dressed as Father Christmas, and it had the name of the photography studio on the back. That was your only clue.”

I nodded.

“So? What happened?”

“I followed the clue last Christmas, and it led me here, to my birth father, just like you thought it would.”

“No way! Did it really?”

I nodded, knowing Josh would appreciate this next part of the story. “The man in the photo dressed like Father Christmas was my father. And the boy on his lap is my brother, or I guess I should say my half brother, Edward.”

“Incredible,” Josh said with a satisfied, Sherlock Holmes expression on his unshaven face. “What happened when you met him?”

I hesitated. Having not repeated this story to anyone since it all unfolded a year ago, I didn’t realize how much the answer to Josh’s question would catch in my spirit and feel sharply painful when it was spoken aloud.

“I didn’t meet him. He passed away a few years ago.”

“Oh.” Josh’s expression softened.

“You know, Josh, I always wanted to thank you for the way you urged me to follow that one small clue. I’ve wished more than once that I would have come to England when you first suggested it four years ago. He was still alive then. That’s what I should have done.”

“And I should have gone with you,” he said in a low voice.

“Why do you say that?”

Josh’s eyebrows furrowed, his counselor mode kicking in. “I felt you needed that piece in your life. By that I mean the paternal piece of your life puzzle. I didn’t like you being so alone in the world. I wish you could have met him.”

“I do, too, but I actually think things turned out better this way. It’s less complicated that I didn’t meet him while he was still alive.”

“Why do you say that?” Josh asked.

I hesitated before giving Josh the next piece of information. In an odd way, it felt as if he needed the final piece of the puzzle the same way I had.

“It’s less complicated this way because my father was . . .” I lowered my voice and looked at him so he could read the truth in my clear blue eyes. “My father was Sir James Whitcombe.”

Quills And Promises - Chapter 1

Quills And Promises
Barbour Publishing, Inc (May 28, 2008)

Book 2 of the Delaware Dawning series

Chapter One

Town of New Castle,
in present-day Delaware,
Christina and Brandywine River Valley, 1756

"Chelcy!" Fifteen-year-old Elanna Hanssen waved at her best friend and crossed the cobblestone street toward the town green, lifting her petticoats to avoid the mud from the recent rains.

"Oh, Elanna, I am so happy to see you!" Chelcy Greyson embraced Elanna in a warm hug, then stepped back. Her eyes gleamed, and she looked ready to burst with whatever news she had to share.

"Tell me the latest before your stays snap."

Chelcy covered her mouth with her gloved hand and giggled. "Is it that obvious?"

Elanna gave Chelcy's arm a tug and led her toward the stone bench at the edge of the green. "When I saw you, I thought you had somehow managed to capture the sunlight and shine it through your eyes."

"How romantic!" Chelcy pressed her hands to her heart. "Is that from one of your poems or journals?"

"No, it is original and new as of today." Perhaps someday all of her writing would amount to more than ink blots on parchment paper. For now, however, her friend took center stage. Elanna pointed a finger at Chelcy. "No more delays. Tell me your news."

Chelcy clasped Elanna's hands in her own and bounced on the stone bench. Elanna grinned at the enthusiastic display.

"I could hardly believe it when Mother and Father showed me the letter. It took so long to get here, and we only had three days to prepare for his arrival. We had not seen or heard from him in four years, and now he is here. It is so exciting. I do not know how I managed to remain calm this long. Mother had to remind me at least five times every day to relax and focus. Somehow, I completed my daily tasks and—"

"One moment," Elanna interrupted. "Slow down. You spoke so fast I only caught half of what you said. Now, what letter did you receive? And who sent it? Who is here?"

Chelcy touched two fingers to her lips and offered a sheepish grin. "Do forgive me. I told you how excited I was."

"Yes, that much I gathered. Will I ever get to hear who is visiting, or is that going to remain a surprise until I meet him?"

"My cousin," Chelcy announced in a rush. "His name is Madison Scott, and he is visiting from Massachusetts. There are reports that the war is spreading, and he wanted to spend some time with us before things get too bad."

A cousin? From the north? Elanna didn't know why that would be cause for such excitement, but Chelcy had enough exuberance for them both. This Madison must be held in high esteem with the Greysons since it appeared they had gone out of their way to prepare for his arrival. She had to know more.

"So, your cousin is visiting. Is he somehow connected to the Boston Assembly or to some influential person?"

"He is not a councilman, no, but he does wield a certain amount of influence among the soldiers in his regiment."

A soldier. That explained some, at least. "He managed to get enough time away from his regiment to travel this far south? He must be more than a common soldier."

Chelcy nodded. "He is the eldest son of my uncle. After spending several years serving in England in His Majesty's Royal Army and risking his life for his commanding officer during an attack by the French, he returned to Boston and has recently attained the appointment of major." She grinned. "You are going to love him."

"Are you singing my praises again, Chelcy? I must confess, the stories you tell make my accomplishments sound larger than life."

"Madison!"

Chelcy jumped up from the bench and threw her arms around a rather dashing gentleman. Elanna couldn't see quite enough of him to get a clear view of his face, but he did make a stylish figure in his uniform. He returned Chelcy's hug with equal fervor, then unwound her arms from his neck and stepped back to get a better look at her. When Chelcy turned again to face her, Elanna caught a full vision of her cousin. Dashing only dusted the surface of an accurate description.

"And who might this charming young lady be?"

Madison took a step toward her, removed his hat with a flourish, and bowed. Gallant and handsome. What a winning combination. A dangerous one, too. He was already leagues ahead of most gentlemen Elanna knew.

"Madison Scott, milady. Might I have the pleasure of an introduction?"

"Oh, Madison, cease with your frivolous social graces. This is Elanna Hanssen, my best friend."

The glint in his eyes accompanied a beguiling grin. "On the contrary, my dear cousin." His attention never wavered from Elanna's face. "One must always adhere to the social customs in order to guarantee a good first impression." He reached for one of Elanna's hands and raised it to his lips. "Would you not agree, Miss Hanssen?"

Elanna could barely remember her name, let alone come up with an appropriate response to his query. By the gleam in his eyes, he certainly knew the effect he had on her. That only made a reply much more difficult. But she'd never backed down from a challenge before, and she didn't intend to start now. With all the grace she could muster, she withdrew her hand from his grasp. Snapping her fan in front of her with several brisk strokes, she took the needed moment to compose herself.

"I would say, Major Scott, that your observation is correct. Regardless of the circumstances, when in mixed company, one must always adhere to the social rules that govern polite society."

Chelcy released a dramatic groan. "Oh, Elanna! Not you, too."

Madison regarded Elanna with undisguised admiration. It was evident that his boldness wasn't met with indifference often; rather, he no doubt enjoyed great success with the ladies. Just how many ladies graced the soldier's life? The fleeting thought came unbidden, and she quickly dismissed it.

"And I gather that your family has raised you according to those same customs."

"Indeed. After all, Papa is a member of the assembly, and Mama is quite influential with the wives of the assembly members."

Elanna could count at least four times in the past month when the assembly wives had been invited to their home for tea. Something big loomed just beyond the horizon. She could feel it.

"It appears New Castle benefits greatly from the contributions of your family. From what my dear cousin tells me, it will not be long before these counties break off to become a colony in their own right."

Chelcy swatted Madison with her fan. "So you did read my letters."

Madison feigned insult and slapped his hat to his chest. "But of course. Do you doubt my interest in local politics? You reside in a town that is situated close enough to Philadelphia to be a significant source of information."

Finally! A topic of interest to Elanna. Despite her mother's objections, Papa kept her informed about significant news from his meetings. Although not privy to everything, she learned enough to stay up to date. She tried hard to contain her excitement. "From what Papa has told us at home, many members of the assembly wish to separate these counties from Pennsylvania so we can fully govern ourselves without their interference."

"And where is home, Miss Hanssen?"

"My family owns a farm a few miles southwest of town along the Christina River."

"Perhaps I shall be able to call upon you there someday."

Elanna dipped her head and brought her fan once more to shield her face. "Perhaps, Major Scott." The sooner, the better, for she was developing a great desire to enjoy his captivating presence and quick wit for more than these few moments.

It had been several months since a gentleman had turned her head. Her twin brother, Edric, teased her often about spending all of her time with pen and paper. But that was how she best expressed herself. God had gifted her with the ability to communicate using the written word, and she refused to waste that talent by ignoring it. Wouldn't Edric be surprised that she had met someone despite that solitary activity?

"Very well," Chelcy announced and stepped between them, "if you two insist upon this formal address, I believe I will return home and leave you both here to determine who will win the social skirmish."

Her friend's declaration dissipated the cloud that had fogged Elanna's mind since Madison had joined their conversation. Had she just been openly coy? Mama would lapse into vapors if she had witnessed such brazen behavior. She'd do well to rein in her actions and her tongue or else risk consequences far worse than her private guilt.

Chelcy touched Elanna's elbow and drew her out of her musings. "Will you be attending the town meeting with your father next week?"

Oh, the meeting! She'd almost forgotten. "Yes, of course. With Edric learning what's necessary to take his position come his eighteenth birthday, I would sooner miss my own birthday celebration than the opening of the assembly."

Her dramatic expression elicited a giggle from Chelcy and a chuckle from Madison.

"As always, delivered with flair and pomp." Chelcy smiled. "Is it any wonder why I find you a pure delight?"

Elanna placed a hand on her chest and raised her chin just a bit. "Just think how utterly dull your life would be without me in it."

"Perish the thought. I refuse to even think of such misery."

Madison raised one eyebrow. "And you accuse both Miss Hanssen and me of frivolous speech?"

A tinge of pink spotted Chelcy's cheeks. She snapped open her fan and hid behind the folds. "I do believe that is my cue to withdraw from this fine company." She motioned for Elanna to step aside with her. "Guard yourself, my friend," she cautioned, dipping her head close. "My dear cousin has a reputation with the ladies. I fear from your expression that you have already succumbed to his charm. Promise me you will keep your wits about you."

Elanna placed a hand on Chelcy's upper arm. "I assure you that my wits will remain firmly intact. Your cousin has done nothing more than behave as any gentleman would."

"I might consider him more of a rogue," Chelcy countered, a twinkle lighting her eyes.

"Be that as it may, you have no need to be bothered about me. I vow to remain in clear view of passersby. Edric and Papa and my three uncles would lock me in my room and teach your cousin a lesson with their fists should I do anything to cause tongues to wag."

A sigh escaped Chelcy's lips. Relief filled her expression. "Very well. I shall leave you alone together...as long as you promise to tell me all that transpired when you come to town again for the meeting next week."

Laughing, Elanna brushed cheeks with her friend. "I promise."

With that, Chelcy was gone. Flutters started in Elanna's stomach, and she placed a hand atop the affected area. Forcing herself to calm, she gave Madison her full attention, but he was the first to speak.

"Shall we?" He extended a hand toward the bench. She sat and tucked her skirts beneath her, laying her fan across her lap. A part of her knew she should probably start for home, but another part wanted to hear the news from this soldier. The latter part won.

* * * * *

Madison regarded Elanna before he spoke. Something about the fair maiden captivated him. Perhaps it was her guileless nature or her winsome smile. Or it could be her engaging personality. Whatever it was, he wanted to enjoy her company for a little while longer.

"So, tell me more—"

"What is it like, living—"

They both laughed as their words tumbled over each other's.

Madison gestured, palm up, encouraging her to continue. "Please."

Elanna dipped her head, then returned her gaze to his. "I would like to know more about your life as a soldier. I have overheard bits of conversation between Papa and several assembly members that have piqued my interest, but they tell me their affairs are not for a young lady's ears." A pout drew Madison's eyes to her lips. "I do not wish to pry, but I am fascinated by what little I do hear and long to know more."

He had best tread carefully, both in his errant thought and on this subject. Too much and he would face severe consequences when he returned to his regiment. Not enough and he would risk disappointing this very attractive young woman. Neither outcome held much appeal. Madison shifted his attention back to her eyes and away from the more-engaging area of her lips.

"Tell me, first, how much you already know about the recent events in the north."

Elanna chewed on her bottom lip and gazed past his left shoulder. He took advantage of that moment to observe her unnoticed. Waves of wheat-colored hair were gathered with combs and fastened under a lappet cap. Eyes the deep gray of the wet sand along the cape near Boston hinted at wisdom beyond her years, yet her manner bespoke a youthful innocence that increasingly intrigued him. Knowledgeable about the facts but ignorant to the ways of the world, she couldn't possess more than ten and five years. If more, then the men of this town should be brought to question for not seeing the beauty before them.

The object of his scrutiny shifted her focus and caught him staring. A becoming blush stained her cheeks, and she tucked her chin to avert her gaze. Innocent indeed. A characteristic he found both refreshing and appealing. Unable to resist, Madison gave a feather-light touch to her cheek. The embarrassment changed to something warmer, but the doe-like innocence remained.

"Do forgive me. I must apologize for causing you discomfort. Please share with me what you know, and I will endeavor to supply the necessary facts to satisfy your curiosity."

His young companion brightened, and her enthusiasm once again took hold. "Over the past two years, Papa has often shared details of reports made to the assembly of the developments in the Ohio Valley and as far north as the St. Lawrence Valley. I understand the dispute over who owns the land beyond the mountains that has led to the war with the French, but I am unclear about how all of these recent events interconnect."

A sweet face paired with an intelligent mind. Madison didn't often encounter Such a combination in the women he knew.

"Basically, both the French and the English claim all the lands from the Alleghenies west to the Mississippi River. While the area along the St. Lawrence River has also been under dispute, the Ohio Valley has recently become the main focus of this conflict."

"Papa says the Ohio Territory is beautiful. From his description, I can almost see it—majestic rolling hills and valleys with glimmering crystal streams, how the rising and setting sun casts color and shadow across the landscape, and all of it stretching as far as the eye can see."

Not only intelligent, but a poet as well. He must learn more about this charming lady.

"Such a vivid imagination you possess." He offered a quick smile then sobered. "The problem is that the French claim they discovered this land, while we English claim it is ours by charter and by our alliance with the Iroquois."

Elanna pursed her lips. "If this land is as valuable as it is beautiful, any man would be foolish not to want it for his own." She tracked the progress of a butterfly alighting on a bed of flowers nearby. "This land here, west of the Delaware River and east of the Chesapeake, has a beauty all its own. I would gladly fight for it if someone challenged me to its ownership."

Madison straightened, frowning, astonished that he had found such a kindred spirit. She had no idea how much he had longed to find someone in whom he could confide; someone who wasn't a part of the regiment in which he served. Because he only associated with fellow soldiers and pompous assembly-men who found dalliances more agreeable than politics, Madison hadn't encountered anyone else who could hold a passable conversation with him. Never in his wildest imagination would he have expected to find such compatibility here in New Castle with a young lady. Thankfully, Elanna's attention remained with the elusive butterfly.

"That is the exact source of the dispute," he murmured. "If the French have their way, we English will be confined to this narrow space between the Atlantic and the crest of the Alleghenies. On the other hand, if the English have theirs, the French will be hemmed within a small portion north of the St. Lawrence."

The sudden flight of two blue jays overhead caught their attention. When the birds flew into a nearby tree, a squirrel chittered in protest. The birds flapped their wings, chirped a few times, and remained where they landed. Accepting defeat, the squirrel scampered down the trunk. Bounding over to another tree, he raced up to resume his previous activities. Elanna shared a smile with Madison at the little animal's antics before bringing their conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Why cannot England and France simply come to an accord on this issue?"

Madison sighed and shook his head. "In my opinion, greed is the driving force that blinds them to any compromise."

Impulsively, Madison covered Elanna's hand with his, then quickly withdrew it, conscious of passersby. She didn't seem to notice, or at least showed no signs that she did. No need to cause her undue distress by making advances that would be misinterpreted by townsfolk who happened by the green. Better yet, they should move from this somewhat secluded spot.

"Will you walk with me?" He rose and extended his elbow in her direction.

She stood and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. The warmth of her touch sent his mind wandering in another direction, but he quickly reined in his thoughts. It was enough to know he would be escorting such a lovely young lady around town.

Once they had stepped off the green and crossed the street to the sidewalk in front of the shops, he continued. "Our current situation is tenuous at best," he said. "Hostilities have risen to an alarming level. The colonies are continuing to wage war against the French, but they are suffering more loss than gain."

Elanna turned her attention to the storefronts they passed, as if attempting to piece together everything she knew and had learned. "Other than knowing of the disputes, we had no inclination here of how critical the situation had become." She pointed out several new hats in the window of the haberdashery. "Not even our trade has been affected as of yet." She inclined her chin to look at him. "Colonel Washington's journal published in the Maryland Gazette, where he shared the details of his encounter with the French near the Great Meadows, was our first indication."

Madison nodded. "The French commander and nine of his men were killed, which led to the colonies rallying in fear of the French threat. Hopefully, we will receive support soon from England." He made a general sweep with his arm to encompass the town. "None of the bloodshed has trickled this far south, which is why I wanted to pay a visit to my family here while I still had the opportunity."

"How soon must you return?"

"I am not sure. I—"

"Special edition! Just arrived! Get the latest Pennsylvania Gazette."

The loud voice of a young lad hawking copies of the Gazette prevented Madison from answering Elanna's query. If a special edition had been printed, the news must be of great import. He signaled for the boy and offered a coin for the paper. As soon as the lad continued down the cobblestone street, Madison held the single page in front of him.

Large, black letters shouted, ENGLAND DECLARES WAR ON FRANCE! Dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

Elanna touched the edge of the paper. "They have made it official." Sorrow tinged her words.

He forced himself to look up from the fateful proclamation. Concern was etched in every facet of her delicate face. How could he tell her he had to leave? But he had no choice.

Without thinking, he pulled his arm away and released his hold on the paper. The page fluttered to the ground at their feet.

"Miss Hanssen, I must go."

"Go? But must it be so quickly?"

Biting her lip, she bent to stop the paper from blowing across the street in the breeze. He hastily dropped to one knee to help. As they reached for the page, they bumped heads.

Brilliant. He was as couth as a drunken sailor. He smiled, hoping it would soften the abruptness of his announcement, then got to his feet, rubbing his head ruefully. He bent to take her hand, and she rose to stand before him, regarding him gravely.

"Forgive me, Miss Hanssen. Now that England has formally declared war on France, I must return to my post in Boston."

She clutched the paper she had gathered to her bosom. "What will happen?"

Madison wished he knew. "Only time will tell." She started to respond, but he stayed her words with his hand. "I have enjoyed every moment of our conversation, and I do not wish for things to end here." He took a breath and prayed for courage. "May I write to you?"

"Yes, of course," she answered without hesitation.

In spite of the gravity of the military and political situation they faced, a thrill lifted his spirits. He reached into his pouch for paper, but before he could find it, she retrieved a small leather-bound booklet tied with twine, along with a pencil. He raised one eyebrow in question.

She colored prettily. "I keep one of my journals with me at all times."

Yet another facet of this intriguing young lady. Madison knew the significance of what she was about to do, but at the thought of the long, solitary journey back to Boston he had before him, he already felt the absence of her company. To do this properly, he should seek out her father and obtain permission to correspond with Elanna. There just wasn't time. She quickly scrawled an address onto one of the blank pages, and he prayed his letters would reach her.

With great care, Elanna tore the page from the journal and handed it to him, their hands barely brushing. She clutched the journal to her chest. "I pray you write at the earliest opportunity."

Madison lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "And I shall eagerly await the return of your letter in response."

He forced himself to turn and stride in the direction of his cousin's home. Unable to avoid a final look, he glanced back over his shoulder to find Elanna watching him. Sadness softened her features. He gave a cheerful wave and tore his gaze from her as he put more distance between them. Although hesitant to admit it, he left part of his heart behind.

One Perfect Day - Chapter 1

One Perfect Day
FaithWords (October 22, 2008)


Chapter 1

Nora

Gordon, where are you?

Betsy, a middle-aged yellow Lab, looked up as if she had heard Nora speaking. The two — owner and pet — had been best friends for so long that the twins frequently teased their mother about mental telepathy — with a dog. Betsy thumped her tail and gazed up from her self- assigned spot at Nora’s feet.

Leaving the bay- window seat, where she’d been staring out at the moon lighting fire to the frost-encrusted winter lawn, which sloped down to the lakeshore, Nora crossed the kitchen to set the teakettle to boiling. Tea always helped in times of distress. She brought out the rose-sprinkled china teapot and filled it with hot water. Tonight was not a mug night but a “stoke up the reserves” night. If there had been snow on the ground, this was the kind of night, with the moon so bright every blade of grass glinted, when she would have hit the ski trails. An hour of cross-country skiing and she’d have been relaxed enough to fall asleep whether Gordon called or not. So, instead, she drank tea. As if copious cups would make her sleep deeply rather than toss and turn. Perhaps she would work on the business plan if she got enough caffeine into her system.

Betsy’s ears perked up and she went and stood in front of the door to the garage.

Nora’s heart leaped. Gordon must be home after all. But why hadn’t he called to say he was at the airport? His business trip to Stuttgart, Germany, had already been prolonged and here they were trying to get ready — with just four days until Christmas. The last one for which she could guarantee the twins would still be home. Her last chance for perfection. When he’d told her a week ago he had to fl y to Stuttgart again, the word “again” had echoed in her head. Betsy’s tail increased the wag speed and she backed up as the door opened.

“Mom, I’m home.” Charlie, the older twin by two minutes, and named after his father, Charles Gordon Peterson, came through the door in his usual rush. “Oh, there you are.” Grinning up at his mother, he paused to pet the waiting dog. “Good girl, Bets, did you take good care of Mom?” Betsy wagged her tail and caught the tip of his nose with her black- spotted tongue. “Smells good in here.” He glanced around the kitchen, zeroing in on the plate of powdered-sugar–dusted brownies. “Heard from Dad?”

“No.” Nora cupped her elbows with her hands and leaned against the counter. At five-seven, she found that the raised counter fit right into the small of her back. When they’d built the house, she and Gordon had chosen cabinets two inches higher than normal, since they were both tall. Made for easier work surfaces. “Go ahead, quit drooling and eat. There’s a plate in the fridge for you to pop in the microwave.” “Where’s Christi?” Charlie asked around a mouthful of walnut- laced brownie.

“Upstairs. I think she’s finishing a Christmas present.”

“Are we going to decorate the tree tonight?”

“We were waiting on you.” And your father, but somehow he always manages to not be here at tree- decorating time.
While Gordon was not a “bah, humbug” kind of guy, his idea of a perfect Christmas was skiing in Colorado. They’d done his last year, with his promise to help make hers perfect this year. Right. Big help from across the Atlantic. While Nora knew he’d not deliberately chosen to be gone this week before Christmas, it still rankled, irritating under her skin like a fine cactus spine, hard to see and harder to dig out. Charlie retrieved his plate from the fridge and slid it into the microwave, all the while filling his mother in on the antics of the children standing in line to visit Santa. Charlie excelled as one of Santa’s elves, a big elf at six feet, with dark curly hair and hazel eyes, which sparkled with delight. Charlie loved little kids; so when this perfect job came up, he took it and entertained them all in his green- and- red elf suit. He could turn the saddest tears into laughter. Santa told him not to grow up, he’d need elves forever.

“One little girl had the bluest round eyes you ever saw.” Charlie took his warmed plate out and pulled a stool up to the counter so he could eat. “She had this one great big tear trickling down her cheek, but I hid behind my hands” — he demonstrated peekaboo with his fingers — “and she sniffed, ducked into Santa, caught herself and peeked back at me. When he did his ‘ho ho ho,’ she looked up at him with the cutest grin.” He deepened his voice. “ ‘And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?’ ” Charlie shifted into shy little girl: “ ‘ I — I want a kitty. My mommy’s kitty died and she needs a new one.’ ” He paused. “ ‘And make sure it has a good motor. My mommy likes to hold one that purrs.’ ” Charlie came back to himself. “Can you believe that, Mom? That’s all she wanted. She reached up and kissed his cheek, slid off his lap and waved good- bye.” “What a little sweetheart.”

“I checked with Annie, who was taking the pictures, and got their address. You think we could find a kitten that has a good motor at the Humane Society?”

“Ask Christi, she’d know.” Christi volunteered one afternoon a week at the Riverbend Humane Society and would bring home every condemned animal if they let her. She’d fostered more dogs and cats in the last year than most people did in a lifetime. She’d found homes for them too, except for Bushy, an older white fluffy cat, with one black ear and one black paw. His green eyes captivated her, or at least that was the excuse for his taking up permanent residence. “I will. Be nice if there was a half- grown one with a loud motor.”

“Loud motor for what?” Christi, Bushy draped across her arm, wandered into the kitchen, a smear of Sap Green oil paint on her right cheek, matching the blob on the back of her right forefinger. Tall at five-nine, with an oval face and haunting grayish blue eyes, she looked every bit the traditional blond Norwegian. As much as Charlie entertained the world, she observed and translated what she saw onto canvases that burst with color and yet drew the eye into the shadows, where peace and serenity lurked. Christi would rather paint than eat or even breathe at times.

“A little girl asked Santa for a kitty for her mother” — he shifted into mimic — “ ‘ ’Cause Mommy’s kitty died and she is sad.’ ” “That’s all she wanted?”

“Gee, that’s what I thought too.” Nora motioned toward the teapot and Christi nodded. While her mother poured the tea, Christi absently rubbed the paint spot on her cheek. “There are three cats for adoption right now. I like the gold one, she loves to be held. The other two would rather roughhouse.”

“You think it would still be there until after school?” “I’ll call Shawna and tell her to hold it for you. Are you sure you want to do this? What happens if she doesn’t really want it?”

“Can anyone turn down one of Santa’s elves?”

“You’d go in costume?”

“Why not?”

“I could paint you a card.”

“Would you?”

“Sure, have one started. All I need to do is change the color of the cat. Luckily, I made it white, like Bushy here.” She rubbed her cheek on the cat’s fluffy head. “How long until we decorate the tree?”

“Give me five minutes.”

“Okay, you two start on the lights and I’ll finish the card. You want me to sign it for you?” Christi had taken classes in calligraphy and had taught her mother how to sign all the Christmas cards in perfect script.

“You know, you’re all right for a girl.” Charlie bounded up the stairs to his room, where all his herpetological friends lived. Arnold, a three- foot rosy boa that should have been named Houdini, was his favorite.

Nora handed Christi her mug of tea. “Take a brownie with you.”

“Thanks, Mom. You heard from Dad yet?”

“No.” Nora knew her answer was a bit clipped. “Something must be wrong.” Christi’s eyes darkened in concern. “Did you call him?”

“I tried, cell went right to voice mail.”

“So, he was on it?”

“Or he let the battery run out.” As efficient as Gordon was, you’d think he could remember to plug his phone into the charger. The two women of the family shared an eye rolling.

“He’ll call.”

“Unless he’s broken down someplace.”

“You always tell me not to worry.”

“Well, advising and doing are two different things.” Nora set her cup and saucer in the dishwasher. “Want to help me unroll the lights?”

“I was going up to finish that card.”

Nora checked her watch. “Ten minutes?” “Done.” Christi scooped Bushy up off the counter, where he’d flopped, and headed up the stairs, not leaping like her brother, but lithe and regal, the residuals of her years of ballet and modern dance.

Nora and Betsy headed for the living room, but when the phone rang, she did an about- face and a near dive for the wall phone in the desk alcove. “Hello.”

“Nora, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“There, you did it again.” She tried to sound harsh, but relief turned her to quivering Jell- O.

“What?”

“Apologize. Now I can’t be mad at you.” His chuckle reminded her of how much she missed him when he was gone.

“Where are you?”

“Still in Stuttgart. Art and I got to talking and I didn’t realize the time passing. I had to get some sleep.” “You’re up awfully early.”

“I know. Trying to finish up. Is the tree up yet?”

“What, are you trying to outwait me?” “What ever gave you that idea?” He coughed to clear his throat.

“You okay?”

“Just a tickle. Look, I should be on my way home this afternoon. I’ve got to wrap this thing up, but I told them the deadline is noon and I’m heading for the airport at three, come he- heaven or high water.”

“Well, don’t worry about the tree.” She slipped into suffering servant to make him laugh again. “The kids and I’ll get that done tonight.” It worked. His chuckle always made her smile back, even when he couldn’t see her. “They have school tomorrow, right?”

“Right. Last day, so there’ll be parties. I have goodie trays all ready to take.”

“You made Julekaka for the teachers again?” Nora chuckled. “Gotta keep my place as favorite mother of high- school students.”

“Is that Dad?” Charlie called from the stairs. “Tell him to hurry home. I have to . . .” The rest of his words were lost in his rush.

“Charlie says to hurry home.”

“I heard him. Give them both hugs from me.” “Do you need a ride from the airport?” She glanced at the clock. Nine p.m. here meant four a.m. in Germany. Good thing Gordon was a morning person.

“No, I’ll take a cab. I love you.”

“You better.” She hung up on both their chuckles. How come just hearing his voice upped the wattage on the lights? And after twenty- two years of marriage. As people so often told them, they were indeed the lucky ones. “Please, Lord, take good care of him,” she whispered as she blew him a silent kiss. She joined Charlie in the living room, where a blue spruce graced the bay window overlooking the front yard, where she and Gordon had festooned tiny white lights on the naked branches of the maple, which burst into fiery color in the fall, and the privet hedge, which bordered the drive. Lights in icicle mode graced the front eaves, while two tall white candles guarded the front steps. She’d filled pots with holly up the flagstone stairs and hung a swag of pine boughs, red balls and a huge gold mesh bow on the door. “Here.” Charlie handed her the reel of tiny white lights and pulled on the end to plug it in.

“I already checked them all this afternoon. Just start at the top of the tree.”

They had a third of the lights on the eight- foot tree when Christi joined them, setting the finished card on the mantel to dry.

“I didn’t put it in the envelope yet, so don’t forget this in the morning, or are you coming home before going over there? Shawna said she’ll put your name on the golden cat. She’s already been fixed, so she is ready for her new home.” Christi picked up another reel of light strings. “You need to put them closer together.”

“Yeah, right, Miss Queen Bee has spoken,” Charlie mumbled from behind the tree.

“You don’t have to get huffy.”

“You don’t have to be bossy.”

“All right, let’s just get the lights on.” All they had to do was get through this drudgery part and then all would be well. Gordon always tried to skimp on the lights too. Like father, like son. Silence reigned as they wound the lights around the tree branches, punctuated only by a “hand me another reel, please” and “ouch” when a spruce needle dug into the tender spot under the nail. Nora sucked on her finger for a moment to ease the stinging. Inhaling the intoxicating spruce scent brought back memories of the last years and made her grateful again for all the joys they’d had. One more thing to miss tonight, the rehash she and Gordon always did post–tree trimming, when the children had gone to bed, like Monday morning quarterbacking, only with more smiles and laughter. Much of the laughter came because of Charlie’s clowning around.

“What if she doesn’t like the cat?” Charlie asked.

“Then we’ll take it back,” Christi said matter-of-factly.

“By ‘back,’ I’m sure you mean to the Humane Society. Bushy would not like another cat around here.” Nora’s hands stilled. This she needed to clarify.

“Of course, Mom.”

Nora looked up in time to catch a head shake from her daughter and one of the “I’m trying to be patient” looks Christi was so good at. Why was it so quiet? “Oh, I forgot to put the music on. Messiah all right?”

When both twins shrugged, she knew they’d rather have something else, but were giving her the choice. She crossed to the sound system, hit the number three button and waited a moment for Mariah Carey’s voice to flow out. She’d play the Messiah after they went to bed. They’d all attended the “ Sing-Along Messiah” concert the second weekend in December.

At least Gordon had been home for that tradition. A bit later they all three stepped back with matching sighs. “All right, throw the switch.” She looked at Charlie, who had taken over that job years earlier. This certainly was a night for memories.

When the tree sprang to life, they swapped grins and nods. The ornaments were the easy part. By unspoken agreement, they decided to hang the ornaments, which they’d bought one per year on their annual family shopping trip and dinner- out tradition, higher in the tree to keep away from batting cat’s paws and a dog’s wagging tail. While the twins snorted at her sentimentality, she hung the ornaments they’d made through the years, some like the Santa face with a cotton ball beard, beginning to look more than a bit scruffy, but dear nevertheless. The ornaments that their Tante Karen had given them through the years on their Christmas presents brought up memories and set the two to recalling each year and what their interest had been then. Nora knew that her sister watched both the twins and the shops carefully through the year to find just the perfect ornament. When the twins had trees of their own, they would already have seventeen ornaments each to take with them. The thought made Nora pause. The home tree would look mighty bare. She hung the crocheted and stiffened snowflakes she had made one year and had given for gifts. Then three little folded- paper- and- waxed stars she’d made in Girl Scouts took their own places.

When they’d hung the final ornament, they stared at the box with the glorious angel that always smiled benignly from the top of the tree.

“Let’s leave that for Dad.” Christi turned toward her mother. “I agree.” Setting the angel just right with a light inside her to make her shimmer was always Gordon’s job — for years because he was the only one tall enough and now because they wanted him to have a part, no matter how many miles separated them.

Charlie shrugged. “I am tall enough, you know.” “I know.” Nora gathered her two chicks to her sides and they admired the tree together. “Thank you. I know it is late, with school tomorrow, but I really appreciate your helping the tradition continue.” She tried not to sniff, but her body went on automatic pilot.

Charlie’s arm around her back squeezed and Christi leaned her head against her mother’s. Together they turned and surveyed all the decorations; the mantel was the only thing that Nora changed year after year, and all was done but hanging the Christmas stockings. The hooks waited. Charlie picked up the fl at box that held the cross- stitched or quilted stockings and they each hung up their own. Nora hung hers and Gordon’s, while the kids hung the ones for Bushy and Betsy. “Now Santa can come.” Christi smoothed the satin surfaces of her crazy- quilt stocking, with every satin or velvet piece decorated with intricate embroidery stitches, cross- stitch, daisy chain and feather. “When I get married, will you make my husband a sock to match?”

“I will.” Just please don’t be in too big a hurry. Not that Christi was dating anyone. She often said she left all the flirting up to her brother, since all the girls were after him all the time. But Nora often wondered if Christi was a bit jealous, not that she would ask. Her daughter talked more with her father than she did with her mother. Unless, of course, it was a real female thing.

“Anyone for cocoa? The real kind? I can make it while you get ready for bed. I’ll bring the tray up.” “And brownies?” Charlie asked.

“Fattigman?” Christi loved the traditional Norwegian goodies Nora made only at Christmastime. “Of course, and since you’ll be getting home early tomorrow, you can help me with the sandbakles.” Charlie groaned. Pressing the buttery dough into the small fluted tins was not his idea of fun.

“ ‘He who eats must press.’ ” Christi sang out the line her mother had often repeated since the time they were little. Nora watched her two swap shoulder punches as they climbed the stairs. No matter how much they teased each other or argued, the bond between them ran deeper than most siblings. Gordon called it spooky; she figured it was a gift from God.
Time to make cocoa, as her family had called it. In her mind, hot chocolate came in a packet or tin. Good thing she’d picked up the miniature marshmallows. Betsy padding beside her, she returned to the kitchen to fix the tray. If only Gordon were here. Carrying the tray up the stairs was his job.

Copyright © 2008 by Lauraine Snelling

Beloved Captive - Chapter 1

Beloved Captive
Barbour Publishing, Inc (November 1, 2008)

Chapter 1

May 2, 1836

New Orleans

It was a terrible thing to wish.

With every roll of the carriage wheels, Emilie Gayarre fought the urge to pray that her arrival would come too late. The request she'd traveled so far to make stood a greater chance of being granted were she begging the funds from her father's estate rather than making the request to him personally.

Yet if she were made to return to Fairweather Key without fund to build a school for the children, Judge Campbell would see to it that the children were sent off to neighboring keys where the price for their education had already been paid. "If only the old grouch would pry open the coffers and do what's right."

"My friend is not an unreasonable man, you know." The Reverend Hezekiah Carter, her elderly traveling companion, reached over to pat her sleeve. "Perhaps you will change your mind and visit upon the morrow rather than rush to his side."

She'd been thinking of Judge Campbell when she spoke her musings aloud, but the words certainly had a bearing on her situation with her father. Emilie stayed her fidgeting fingers and swung her gaze toward her father's oldest and dearest friend.

How easy it would be to agree, to avail herself of a warm bath and a good night's sleep before attempting the visit she dreaded. But the letter had been marked urgent, the word sure in their insistence that the daughters of Jean Gayarre see to their father's last wish: an audience with him at the family home should he survive, and a reading of the will should he perish before their arrival.

"No, Reverend Carter," she said, even as she hated it. "Time appears to be of the essence. I'll not disappoint my father by delaying in meeting his last request."

Though I've sorely disappointed him in other matters.

The old preacher merely nodded.

As the carriage rocked over uneven streets, the earthly smells of the city pushed away the stench of the docks. To their right, a fruit vendor juggled samples of his freshest produce, while across the way a woman sold pastries right from the folds of her apron.

"Are you fearing your father tonight, lass?"

Emilie swung her attention to Hezekiah Carter. "Fearing?" She gave the question but a moments thought. "I don't suppose I ever feared my father, though I surely disliked him on occasion."

Leaning heavily on the silver-topped cane, the reverend shook his head. "A clever response, Emilie, but not a direct one." His piercing gaze challenged her. "Shall I rephrase the question, or will you rephrase your answer?"

She sighed. This man knew the Gayarres far too well. Any hope of deflecting the true meaning is his query disappeared under his persistent stare. "Indeed," she began, "I do wonder what awaits me, though I'd not call my feelings fear." Emilie paused. "I believe I am yet in awe of the man as much as I am reluctant to return to his home."

Reverend Carter reached across the space between then to grasp her hands. "Then it is well you chose not to face this alone."

"I chose?" A grin threatened. "Would that I'd known there was a choice."

He affected a surprised expression. "Dare I believe a woman of your quality would travel unaccompanied? One must be concerned with the dangers of ruffians who ply the shipping trade nowadays."

His grin joined hers at the reference. Some two years past, the reverend's own son was on if the ruffians. Now Josiah Carter's sole enterprise was to love his wife and his God, dote on his newly born son, and make his living saving others from the ravages of the Florida seas as a wrecker. Emilie smiled at the reminder of the man's transformation from infidel to husband. Her smile broadened when she thought of his wife, her half-sister Isabelle.

"A penny for your thoughts, my dear," the old preacher said.

"I was thinking about Isabelle and Josiah," she said, "and what an interesting life one lives when following God is one's priority."

"Indeed you speak the truth," he said.

Too soon the carriage rolled to a halt, and the coachman called out. A moment later the iron gates gave entrance to the courtyard, where the news of their arrival had brought a collection of servants running.

Her smile faded. In this home, she had first learned of Isabelle. An errant slip of the tongue by a gossiping housemaid had sent Emilie on a quest to find the young quadroon woman who shared her father. Here the plans were made for freeing this slave who was her half-sister.

Here, too, I will likely have to atone for the success of those plans.

Emilie tugged at her gloves to disguise the shaking of her hands. When the carriage door opened, she straightened her back and closed her eyes to offer an entreaty to the Lord that she might not be thrown in the Cabildo as befitting her crimes.

"welcome home mademoiselle."

Emilie opened her eyes to see Nate, the husband of Cook. "Thank you, Nate," she said with a genuine smile. "It's wonderful to see you again."

He tipped his hat, then lifted her down onto the cobblestones. "It's right nice to have you back here again."

One step into the courtyard, and Emilie's concern returned. The home seemed less of a home and more of a haven for the dying. Lamps that never went unlit were dark, and curtains in rooms that once invited guests to enter now stood closed.

"My father?" she asked of Nate.

"Up there waiting for you last I heard," he said as he gestured toward the second floor.

Reverend Carter glanced up at the darkened windows, then shook his head. "On the morrow, perhaps?"

"No." Emilie squared her shoulders, and head held high, she walked toward the front door. "I shall not wait until then," she whispered. Trembling fingers formed a fist, then with care rose to come near to knocking on a door that swung open on silent hinges.

Cook took two steps backward and clutched at the scarf at her neck, "Miss Emilie, Lawdy mercy and bless my soul. My prayers done been answered. You've come home!"

The housemaid's cry brought a half dozen familiar faces running. Each exclaimed as if a lost treasure has been suddenly found.

Emilie nudged past and walked into her father's home as if she were certain he would receive her. In truth, she had no idea whether Jean Gayarres would welcome her or whether he'd merely sent for his daughters to exact some measure of revenge. Or did he seek only Isabelle's counsel and not wish to see me at all save to banish me?

The question had lain dormant as Emilie boarded the vessel in Fairweather Keys, and until she saw the gates swing open and heard her footsteps echo in the long hallway that led to her father's room, she felt no need to disturb it.

Too soon, however, the lamplight chased her to her father's door. Just once could she remember breaching the sanctum that was Jean Gayarre's chambers. As a small child, she'd had the great misfortune to lose a button off her favorite doll's dress beneath the heavy cypress door.

A moment's worth of demanding ended when a hapless servant girl, no more than a child herself, had agreed to go in and fetch it. Even now the sound of the girl's soft knock echoed in Emilie's mind, followed by the creak of the door. Emilie remembered peering inside at the heavily curtained bed positioned before windows that were swagged and festooned with matching tassels and loops.

The servant girl had crept toward the button on hands and knees, and Emilie shadowed her despite warnings to the contrary. What great fun it seemed to a child of no more than six or seven.

And then a sound from the bed. Her father, his voice thick and nearly unrecognizable, called an unfamiliar name and then repeated it. "Sylvie, ma chere, c'est vous?"

Much as in the present, fear had held Emilie's lips shut tight and kept her feet glued to the floor.

"No, sir," the servant had said. "I'm D-d-daisy, sir. I k-k-keep the girl when my mama's busy."

A rustle of bed coverings sounded, and then a man rose. Bold as you please, he stumbled toward them without bothering to don a dressing gown or cover the stench of his breath.

"Sylvie," he repeated, ignoring Emilie completely, then swept the poor servant girl into his arms and deposited her behind the bed curtains. Only when the servant girl's bloodcurdling scream chased her from the room did Emilie flee.

After that, Emilie had never gone near the door again.

"Would you like me to go in with you?"

Emilie started at the sound of Reverend Carter's voice. "No," she said. "Thank you," was added as an after thought.

His nod was hasty, as was his retreat, despite the impediment of the cane. "I shall have Cook prepare a light supper for you," he called. "Perhaps some of her biscuits and red eye gravy."

In truth, the thought of food did not hold any appeal. Neither did opening the door, yet she must.

One hand on the knob and the other pressing against her furiously beating heart, Emilie somehow manages to find herself inside. She blinked hard to get her bearings. The same heavy velvet curtains were now drawn against the afternoon sun, casting a pall across the mountain of quilts piled on the grand bed. In the middle of it all, the skeletal form of Jean Gayarre lay propped on more pillows than could surely be comfortable.

"Miss Emilie, that you?" This from the girl who'd fetched clean water for her bath more times than Emilie could count. Yet she knew not the girl's name.

"It is," she said, tossing aside the reminder of her formerly self-centered life. Before she left, she would know this girl's names, but now was not the time to ask. Not with Papa watching.

And watch he did, his eyes clear and bright even as his face wore no expression. A week's worth of travel had not been in vain, for Jean Gayarre had not yet gone to his reward. His mouth opened and closed, putting Emilie in mind of a fish in want of water.

Was he working to find the breath that would order her from the room or welcome her home? A sound escaped from the old man's mouth, something akin to a baby's soft whimper. She held her finger to her lips, halting. "Don't try to speak, Papa."

"Ma belle fille," emerged from cracked lips in a breathless gasp.

She grasped his hand and held it, painfully aware of the lack of strength in his icy grip even as her heart softened at his tender greeting. "Oui, Papa, c'est moi. C'est Emilie."

The old man looked past her. "But where is…?"

"Isabelle?" she offered. "She was unable to make the journey."

To say more seemed unwise, so Emilie kept her silence and turned her attention to the bedchamber's condition. The windows were shut tight against the danger of draft, and a great fire had been laid in the massive fireplace, wrapping the room in oppressive heat.

With her free hand, Emilie shrugged out of her wrap and passed it off to the nearest housemaid. "Thank you," she said to the young woman's retreating back before returning her attention to her father.

"Never…thank…a servant," he said. "Makes them…"

The rest of his admonition was lost in a fit of coughing that left Papa struggling for each breath. Finally, the old man's eyes closed, and he rested. For a moment, she thought he might have breathed his last. Then he stirred. A look came over his face that could only be describes as disappointment.

"I summoned two, yet only one of my daughters has arrived." He paused and seemed to collect either his breath or his thoughts.

"Isabelle is abed with child, Father, and unable to travel," Emilie said.

"And you. You're Sylvie's girl," he whispered.

Sylvie. Emilie's gaze darted from the bed curtains as her heart lurched. Did her father remember that long ago day? What significance did this name hold over a man who would repeat it after all these years?

"No, Papa," she said as she forced her attention back on the old man's nearly lifeless form. "My mother was Elizabeth, your wife." She added what she hoped would be a smile in order to placate him. "I'm told I resemble her."

"Ha!" The force of his statement startled Emilie, as did the flash of anger on his face and his sudden move to rise up on one elbow. The motion sent pillows flying and caused a tray of what looked to be sweets to fall to the floor. As the servants surged forward to clean the mess, her father banished them all from the room.

The moment the door closed behind the last of the startled household help, Jean Gayarre fell back onto the remaining pillows. Emilie hastened to arrange them, then stopped when Papa motioned for her to move away.

Before she could step away from his grasp, Emilie felt her father's hand encircle her wrist to hold her captive. Despite his pallor and the exhaustion written in dark circles beneath his eyes, jean Gayarre still held some measure of his former strength.

"Indeed you resemble your mother."Brown eyes slid shut, and his grip loosened. "Tres jolie, my Sylvie was," the old man muttered as he pointed to the bedside table, then allowed his hand to fall to the coverlet as if the effort caused him the last of his strength.

"But, Papa, my mother was…" the breath died in her throat as she spied the lone portrait at his bedside. The woman smiling back at her from the bonds of the silver frame could have passed for Emilie's twin.

The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips - Chapt.1

The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips
FaithWords (November 5, 2008)

Chapter 1

ANDY MYERS DIDN’T want children. That was one of his conditions when he married my mom. No kids. Period. Case closed. You would think someone so adamant about not reproducing would have gone out and had a vasectomy, but Andy didn’t think that way. He didn’t want kids; keeping that from happening was my mother’s responsibility. When she failed, he immediately made an appointment for her at an abortion clinic in Indianapolis. He didn’t ask. He just assumed she would terminate my life before my feet ever hit the ground. She refused. He walked out. And I didn’t hear from him until I was thirteen. I think he sent money to my mother every month, at least while he was able. I’m pretty sure he did. The courts probably made him, and a cop like my dad wouldn’t risk going to jail, at least not over something as insignificant as money.

I guess that explains why I always hated my old man. Despising him was imprinted on my DNA just as surely as my dark brown hair and blue eyes. The girls always loved my blue eyes. More than one lost her moral resolve when I put those baby blues to work. I got my eyes from Andy. I think they may have been part of the hook he used on my mom. I’m not sure. My mom never talked about him that way. For that matter, she hardly talked about anything that happened before she and I moved to St. Louis from her hometown in Indiana when I was really little. I didn’t even know I had my dad’s eyes until I looked into them for the first time ten years ago. There was no mistaking the eyes, even with that thick sheet of glass between us.

I think of that hatred in a different way, now that I am on the other side of the equation, with a son of my own. And I think about Andy Myers a little different as well. You know, life is funny. If my life had gone the way it was supposed to, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now. I would be somewhere, assuming I survived as long as I have, but I wouldn’t be sitting on the beach of Lake Michigan, watching my wife and son play in the water and talking to you. When I stand back and look at my family in this place, we look like the happy ending of one of those Hallmark Hall of Fame movies my wife loves to cry through. My life shouldn’t have turned out this way, not that I’m complaining. But it strikes me as sort of hilarious to think that if my father hadn’t walked out on me, none of this would have happened. I hated him for what he did. Who would have ever thought it would have led to this?

It all goes back to when I was about the same age as my little boy. Back then my dad worked as a cop in Trask, Indiana. Believe it or not, my wife and I live there now. We moved there a few years ago, but that’s another story in itself. As for my dad, everyone in town knew him when he lived there.

That doesn’t mean they liked him, but they knew him. He grew up just outside of town, and made a name for himself as the star athlete in the local high school. In a school as small as Trask High, it doesn’t take a lot of talent to stand out from the pack. After high school, my old man got it in his head that a career in sports was in his future. He tried walking onto the Ball State football team, but didn’t make it past the first few days of practice. After Ball State, he tried a few of the local small colleges, without success. Eventually he quit college altogether and joined the navy before the army could draft him. Vietnam was still going on, so my old man figured spending a couple of years on a boat beat getting shot at in a jungle. My dad wasn’t a violent man, but he never lost that star athlete swagger he carried around the high school campus.

I’m not sure why he moved back to his hometown after the navy. I guess there are worse places to live. He met my mother soon after, but that didn’t turn out so well. Around the time the two of them got married, he joined the local police force. No one ever told me why my dad became a cop. I don’t know if a career in law enforcement was his lifelong goal, or if he just sort of fell into it. At this point, I guess it doesn’t matter. All these years later I occasionally hear stories about him, but I think that has more to do with the way his career ended than anything else. No one ever signed off from police work quite like my old man.

I came along less than two years after my parents got married. By then my mother was a single mom. My dad walked out on her when he found out she was pregnant. Now I could understand him leaving if she’d been out whoring around, but my mother wasn’t like that. No, my dad walked out because my mother made the mistake of giving birth to his child. Like I said, Andy Myers didn’t want children, and my arrival did nothing to change his mind. He was gone by the time I was born, and my mom moved the two of us to St. Louis not long after.

Like I said, when I was about the same age as my son, Andy Myers (and if it is all the same to you, I would prefer calling him by his given name. I’ve already called him “dad” more in the last few minutes than I have in my entire life) worked as a cop in our beloved metropolis of Trask. I don’t know if living alone was making him have second thoughts, but he started seeing another woman. He’d been with other women before Loraine Phillips, if you know what I mean, but those relationships were all very short- lived. Loraine was different. His time with her could actually be measured in months, not hours. The way he tells it, they weren’t so much dating as using one another to cure one another’s loneliness. That sounds like a load of bull to me, but, hey, it’s his life. He can tell himself whatever lies he wants. The two of them met in a bar, and they ended up in bed back at his apartment the same night. Again, that wasn’t exactly a remarkable event for Andy Myers. He thought of himself as six feet one inch, 205 pounds of sex appeal. And he had those killer blue eyes. Throw the whole package together, and look out. At least that’s what he says. He seems to think he was really something back in the day. But I don’t think getting Loraine into bed had as much to do with my old man’s charms as it did with her sexual appetite.

After that first encounter, he tried to play the gentleman and begin a real dating relationship with her. But the first time he went by her place to pick her up, she met him at the door wearing nothing but a twelve-pack of Bud and a seethrough gown from Frederick’s of Hollywood and started clawing at his clothes. I’m thirty-two, and it still creeps me out to think my own father told me this stuff, but he did. I guess he needed to. My story doesn’t really make sense without it.

That night pretty much set the tone for the rest of their relationship. They never went out on actual dates. For that matter, they never really had an in-depth conversation, either live or over the phone. They would go as long as two or three weeks without talking, but then she would call and ask my dad if he had time to drop by. He knew what that meant. And he never said no. At times he felt a little guilty about the whole thing, but the sex was good and Loraine never seemed to want much more than a purely physical relationship. Besides, with a body like hers, few men would have complained. Andy’s friends thought he’d fallen into every man’s fantasy: a hot woman, wild sex, and no strings attached. What could be better? He knew the answer even then, although he couldn’t admit it to himself.

Andy didn’t know Loraine had a kid until he’d been with her for several months. The boy was never around when Loraine called, and she kept any signs of him out of view when Andy came by. Her system worked pretty well until the kid walked into the kitchen one Saturday morning. Andy was sitting there, eating a bowl of cereal in his underwear, when the boy came up, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Phillips. What’s your name?” Finding a strange man sitting in his underwear in my kitchen when

I was Gabe’s age would have sent me running down the hall screaming for my mother, but the sight of Andy didn’t seem to faze Gabe. He sounded like he was running for mayor at eight years of age. I bet my old man nearly crapped his pants at the sight of him. Then the kid said, “You like Cap’n Crunch, too? It’s my favorite, but my mom hardly ever buys it. Says too much sugar is bad for me. But it sure does taste good.” Andy fumbled over his words and said, “Yeah, they’re real good,” or something like that. He always was a great conversationalist.

I don’t know which is weirder: the fact that Gabe wasn’t scared by a strange man in his kitchen, or that Andy wasn’t scared off by discovering the woman he was seeing had a kid. Neither one makes much sense to me. I guess I should be jealous of Gabriel Phillips since he was the only exception to the “no kids allowed” rule my dad ever made. I should, but I’m not. Not anymore. Andy told me there was a quirky, awkward charm about Gabe that drew people to him. He was a little guy, really small for his age, which he came by naturally—the kid’s dad wasn’t exactly Shaquille O’Neal. Once you got to know Gabe he didn’t seem so small; he almost seemed like an adult. Keep in mind, I got all of my information secondhand several years later, and time has a way of glossing over any faults and amplifying people’s good qualities. Be that as it may, Gabriel Phillips, I am told, genuinely cared about people, especially people others overlooked. People were just drawn to him. Maybe it was something supernatural. I’m not sure. But it sure cast a spell over my old man. Meeting Gabe didn’t make Andy run away. If anything, it made him more of a “boyfriend” than he’d ever been before. He started going by Loraine’s house on a more regular basis.

And not just for sex. He tried taking both mother and son out on something like dates. When Loraine feigned headaches, Andy still took Gabe. They went to ball games, or to the local hamburger stand, or wherever. Andy often said, “I’d never met another child quite like him.” And the first time he said it to me, I walked out on him. The last time they were together, Andy drove Gabe down to Cincinnati for a Reds game. Loraine was supposed to go, too, but she didn’t. I doubt if she ever said why. Maybe she didn’t want to be stuck in a car with the two of them for two hours each way. Or maybe, like me, she thought it a little strange that my dad took such an interest in the kid. Andy wasn’t trying to replace the boy’s father. Gabe already had one of those. I like to think maybe Andy saw in Gabe a little of what he could have had with me, but that’s more wishful thinking than anything else. And wishful thinking only makes things worse, not better.

About a week after the Reds game, Andy was fighting to stay awake while working the graveyard shift. The Trask police force was always woefully understaffed, then and now, which meant Andy had to pull all-nighters at least one week out of the month. On this particular night he couldn’t shake the cobwebs out of his head. It wasn’t just because of the late hour. He’d been over at Loraine’s house right before reporting for duty, and was still in the fog that sleep usually takes care of after such activity. He was so out of it that the police dispatcher didn’t get a response from him until she radioed a second time. “Trask 52-2,” the dispatcher said, “we have a 10-16 at 873 East Madison, apartment 323. That’s a report of a domestic disturbance at eight-seven-three East Madison, number three-two-three.” He switched on the car dome light and fumbled for a pen and paper to write down the apartment number. They didn’t have fancy in- car computers back then.

Andy suppressed a yawn, picked up his mic, and radioed back, “ 10-4, dispatch. Trask 52-2 is 10-8.” 10-8 means “in service.”

“10-4, 52-2 at two-oh-six. By the way, Andy, we’ve had three calls from the same location. You want me to get the sheriff’s department headed that way to back you up?” “Naaaahhhh,” Andy yawned and said. “Let me check it out first. Probably nothing. No sense dragging anyone else out at this godforsaken hour if we don’t have to.” The mic hung in his hand as he stared at the apartment address he’d written down. He cursed under his breath, then said to no one, “Good old Madison Park Apartments. What would an overnight shift be without at least one call from there?” He let out another yawn, arched his back in an attempt to stretch the fatigue out of his body, then started his patrol car. Andy and every other Trask police officer could make the drive to the Madison Park Apartments from anywhere in town in their sleep. Late- night calls came from there at least once or twice a week. The walls were so thin that when someone coughed in one apartment, the people next door shouted, “Shut the hell up.” Most of the emergencies turned out to be nothing more than blaring televisions or couples arguing a little louder than they should. Andy figured this call would be more of the same.

A handful of people milled around under the only working streetlight in the complex parking lot when Andy pulled in. A woman wearing an oversized T- shirt came running over as soon as he stepped out of his car. Immediately she started chewing on his ear. “What took you so long?! I called half an hour ago.” Andy recognized the woman everyone in town called “Crazy Cathy,” although she didn’t recognize him. At least not right off. About a month earlier he’d arrested her for public intoxication. One day around noon she’d gone for a walk down Main Street, bombed out of her mind, screaming obscenities at the lunchtime crowd going into the diner. She was notorious for that kind of stunt, which is why everyone called her Crazy Cathy, although Cathy wasn’t her real name. Even when she wasn’t drunk, she would walk around town, acting all nuts. All the kids in town thought she was hilarious, especially when she’d been drinking. They would yell things at her to try to get her riled up. She died a few years before I moved to town. The way I hear it, she wandered out into the street while drunk and was hit by a truck. That’s not much of a way to die, even for Crazy Cathy. But she was cold sober the night she got my old man out in the middle of the night. At least she appeared to be. She kept yelling at Andy, “I know no one gives a damn about what happens out here. You think we’re all just a pain in the ass.” Her call to the police couldn’t have been much more than ten minutes earlier, but time slows to a crawl when you are waiting for a cop to show up. Andy didn’t try to defend himself. He just kept walking across the parking lot, growing more coherent with each step. There’s something about the gravelly sound of a chain- smoking woman’s voice that yanks you back to reality. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s been one of those nights” was all he could say. “Like hell it has,” she yelled back. “You think your night’s been bad? You should have to listen to that kid carry on. He was screaming so loud it sounded like he was right there in my apartment with me. Sounded like something out of that damned Exorcist movie. Kid couldn’t have screamed any louder even if his head had been spinning around. Made my skin crawl. And it wasn’t the first time I heard that damn kid yelling. It gets worse every time he’s here. I called you people about him before. Called last week. But nobody did nothing.”

She didn’t stop yelling until Andy got to the stairway leading up the outside of building three. He did his best to ignore her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re going to have to stay down here,” he said to her as he reached the stairs. “Don’t get too far away because I will need a full statement from you as soon as I check everything out.”

Andy went about the business at hand. He went up the stairs of building three in search of apartment 323. Another neighbor waited for him at the top of the stairs. “Oh, Officer, I’m glad you’re here,” the woman said. To Andy, she looked like she may have been maybe twenty. As it turns out, she was a twenty- four- year- old single mother. Seems like half the population at Madison Park has always been made up of single moms. “My son came running into my room scared and crying, which is why I called,” she continued. “I started to go over and knock on the door myself, but I was a little nervous about doing it. I’ve met the guy a few times. Our boys play together when his son stays with him, but I don’t know him well enough to knock on his door in the middle of the night, especially after what my son heard.” “That’s probably wise, ma’am,” Andy said. He felt a little funny about calling someone “ma’am” who looked like she had just graduated from high school. “You said your son heard something that shook him up?”

“Yes, sir. My son, he’s eight. He came running into my room. He was shaking, he was so scared.” “I’ll check it out. You should go back to your apartment, miss. I’m sure everything is fine. There’s probably nothing here for your son to be afraid of, but if there is, I will take care of it. Which apartment are you in, just in case I need to get a statement from you?”

“I’m right next door in 325.”

With that, the woman went back into her apartment. Andy heard the dead bolt turn and the slide of the chain into the extra lock. “These people sure are jittery,” Andy said with a sigh. He’d never seen so many people get so shook up over a blaring television. Calls like this at this hour always turned out to be someone asleep in front of a blaring television stuck on the late, late show. Even before twenty-four hour cable networks, local stations broadcast late into the night, usually filling the dead air with old movies. Andy walked over to apartment 323 and listened at the door. He didn’t hear anything. No yelling. No banging. Nothing. He looked at his watch: 2:17 a.m. All the local stations would have switched from movies to test patterns by now. No wonder it was quiet. “Police department,” he called out as he knocked on the door. No response. He could see a light shining through the peephole. He knocked again, with more authority this time, and called out even louder to wake up the sleeper in front of the television, “Police. I need you to open the door, please.” As he waited for a response, he heard the muffled sound of a man’s voice on the other side.

Andy reached up to bang on the door again, when it opened. A man in his mid-thirties motioned him inside as he continued talking on the phone. “Yes. Yes,” the man said, “thank you, Father.” The man turned his back and continued talking on the phone as though no one else was in the room. Andy took a quick glance around. A brown couch with oversized cushions, along with a ratty recliner, were the only furniture in the room. Andy also noticed the living room didn’t have a television. He looked closely at the man on the phone. He was wearing a faded polo-type shirt and a pair of Levi 501’s, but no shoes or socks. He was walking around barefoot on the linoleum tile of his apartment. “Sir,” Andy said, “I need you to get off the phone.” “Amen. Thanks, Eli. Hey, I gotta go. The police are here now. Thanks for praying. Keep it up.” The man spun around to untangle himself from the extra long cord, then hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, Officer. I was just about to call. You were next on my list. He’s back here.” The man turned down the narrow hall toward the smaller of the two bedrooms. “It happened so fast,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone, “there just wasn’t any time. I ran in there as fast as I could, but by the time I got to him, it was already too late. I just had time to tell him good- bye and then he was gone.”

Andy felt like he’d walked into the middle of a conversation. The guy’s words didn’t make any sense and his demeanor just didn’t seem right. At least that’s how Andy remembered it when he told me about that night. He had trouble reading the guy, which set Andy’s nerves on edge. As a policeman, he prided himself on his ability to figure people out in an instant. I never thought he was as good at it as he did. “He’s in here,” the man said as he motioned into a small bedroom. Andy thought it odd that the man wouldn’t move past the doorway.

When Andy looked into the room, the entire floor appeared to be painted red. The room was pretty small, maybe seven feet by nine feet, and most of that was filled with furniture and toys, which made the scene look bloodier than it really was. The remains of a shattered goldfish bowl lay near the dresser, the bottom drawer of which stood open. A small boy, maybe eight years of age, was on the bottom bunk. His skin had a bluish gray tint to it. Even before he got to him, Andy knew the boy was dead. Blood soaked the pillow under the child’s head, with a smear running along the side of the mattress up from the floor. Andy’s feet slipped as he hurried across the room, his adrenaline kicking into high gear. Instinctively, he knelt down beside the child and felt for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. Then he laid his head on the boy’s chest and listened for sounds of breath, but didn’t hear a thing. “How long has he been out?” Andy shouted toward the boy’s father.

“Ten...maybe fifteen minutes. I...I’m not sure,” the man replied. “I don’t know how to do mouth-to-mouth, but I didn’t think it would do any good. I knew he was gone right after I got to him.” The man’s voice cracked just a little as he spoke. He swallowed hard and said, “I just knew he had already gone home.”

Andy shook his head and muttered something under his breath that questioned the man’s emotional stability. He reached under the boy’s body to lift him off the bed and start CPR. As he raised him up, the boy’s limbs hung limp and lifeless. Most of the bleeding had stopped, although a few drips fell from the back of the boy’s head. The pillow was soaked crimson and the boy’s hair and shirt were wet.

“My God,” Andy said as he looked for a place to lay the boy

on the floor. About the only time my old man ever mentioned God or Jesus was when he was really upset. Even then, they were nothing but words, not divine beings. “Holy, holy Christ,” he said as he laid the boy on the floor and squared himself around to try to revive him. He reached under the boy’s neck to raise his head up for the three quick breaths he had only performed on Resusci Anne, the CPR dummy, up until that day.

Only then did Andy take a close look at the boy. He looked him right in the face and it hit him. “Wait a minute. No...Gabe?” he said. Suddenly adrenaline gave way to nausea. A lump of bile hit him in the back of the throat as Andy fought to keep his composure. “Gabe?” he repeated. “You knew my son?” Gabe’s father asked. “How?” Andy kept staring into the boy’s face. “I’m a friend of his mother,” he replied but didn’t elaborate. “How did...” Andy cleared his throat and tried to speak again. I guess in all the excitement he forgot about trying CPR, not that it would have done any good. The kid’s lips had already turned blue and his body was slightly cool to the touch. “How did this happen?”

“I—I...I’m not exactly sure,” the boy’s father replied. “It all happened so fast. My boy had night terrors, and he would wake up screaming all the time. I guess you sort of get used to things like that after a while. They got even worse after his mother and I split up a while ago. I heard him screaming, but I thought I was the one having the bad dream. I woke up just in time to hear him fall. I ran in here, but I couldn’t do anything. I tried. Really, I tried, but I could feel his life slipping out of him, felt his spirit leaving. All I could do was kiss him good- bye and promise I would see him soon. Then he went home.” The boy’s father paused, then said, “Do you know what my son’s name means, Officer?” That last question really got to my pop. He didn’t know what the meaning of a kid’s name had to do with anything, especially with the man’s kid lying dead on a cold, bloody linoleum floor. My old man also found the dad’s lack of emotion rather odd. This was far from the first time Andy had dealt with a family member after a death, but this was the first time he’d seen a parent show so few signs of grief. A couple of years earlier he’d had to break the news to a couple closing in on retirement age that their thirty-seven-year-old son had died in a car crash. A doctor had to come to the house to sedate them both. But this guy was calmer than a televangelist during a tax audit. Maybe he was in shock. Everyone responds to death in different ways, that’s what I think. My old man, he wasn’t so sure.

“God is my strength,” the father went on. “Gabriel means ‘God is my strength.’ His mother wanted to name him Keith, after Keith Moon, the drummer from the Who. She’s a big fan of the Who. The name just didn’t seem to fit. I took one look at him and knew I had to name him Gabriel. It took me a few years, but I finally figured out why. God had talked to me through my son, Officer. Didn’t know it at the time. God was telling me to make Him my strength. Right now I don’t know what I would do if I hadn’t listened.” Andy made a mental note of how the father seemed to keep his distance from the boy. He never moved from the doorway as he spoke, while Andy stayed on his knees next to the body, his pants legs soaking up the liquid on the floor.

As Andy looked down, Gabe seemed much younger to him than eight— younger and smaller. The boy’s mother had once said something about how the other kids picked on him because of his size. Now he seemed smaller still. Andy knew the boy was dead, but he felt a strong urge to reach out and protect him. He grabbed his radio with his left hand, the hand that was covered with blood from the back of the boy’s neck. “Trask dispatch, 52-2. I have a 10-100. Request you get the coroner and Harris County started out here right away.” 10-100 means a “dead body.”

“ 10-4, 52-2,” the radio crackled back. “Are you sure you want to make the call on the body, Andy? I can have a paramedic and ambulance to you in no time.”

Andy paused for a moment. I don’t know what he hoped to accomplish, but he told the dispatcher, “Okay. Do that. I guess it couldn’t hurt.” Maybe he wanted the kid to still have a chance. More than likely, he just didn’t want to be haunted by the “ what-if” questions that follow emergency responders even when they do everything they possibly can. “What-ifs” are about as useful as wishful thinking, but they can sure be hard to shake in the middle of the night. Andy reached over and lightly stroked the boy’s head with his right hand, then stood to his feet. I think it was his way of telling Gabe goodbye. Once the paramedics and sheriff’s deputies showed up, he wouldn’t have another moment alone with the boy. Well, almost alone. The dad was still standing in the bedroom doorway.

“Did you know my son long, Officer?” the father asked.

“No, not too long,” Andy replied as he let out a long sigh. Turning from the boy, he scanned the bedroom. Toys were scattered across the floor, along with a variety of clothes.

Typical kid’s room. The sheets and blankets of both bunk beds were strewn about, which seemed odd if Gabe slept in the room by himself. “Did you stay in this room with your son, sir?”

“No, he’s a big boy. He’s able to sleep in his room all by himself,” the dad smiled and said.

If my old man wasn’t already about to pop, that smile put him over the edge. He couldn’t figure out how any father worth a dime could carry on a normal conversation right after his son died in his arms. “Which bed was your son sleeping in?” Andy asked. He also wondered why such a small room had bunk beds if Gabe was the only child in the house.

“I tucked him into the bottom bunk, but I guess he climbed up on top sometime during the night. You know how kids are.” That’s just it. Andy didn’t know how kids were, but he nodded his head as if he did and kept studying the father. About that time he heard the dispatcher notifying the local ambulance service, which back then was run by the volunteer fire department.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name,” Andy said.

“John, John Phillips. And you?” he replied with a smile as he stuck out his hand. Andy refused it, using the blood on his hand as a convenient excuse. Funny. I’ve never known anyone who shakes with his left hand. “

“Officer Andrew Myers,” he replied.

“Are you the same Andy Myers who took my boy to a ball game a few weeks ago?” Andy nodded. “Oh, I have to tell you, my son never stopped talking about that game. He had the time of his life. Thank you for taking him.”

Andy didn’t reply. The ball game felt like a lifetime ago. I guess in a way it was, because nothing was ever the same after my dad walked into that apartment. Nothing.