Meet three sophisticated
women who aren't above a little mischief under the mistletoe
to relieve holiday stress.
CHRISTMAS PRESENCE ~ Donna
Birdsell Young widow Astrid Martin wants to boycott
Christmas—but her husband's ghost won't let her! Before long
she has a tree, even a gift-wrapping job at the mall, where
she meets the man who holds the key to her Christmas future.
SECRET SANTA ~ Lisa Childs
When Maggie O'Brien receives gifts from a secret Santa, she
suspects one of the three men in her life has finally wised
up to how special she is. Who's the mystery man—her ex, her
boss, or that good-looking car mechanic? Come Christmas
morning, will true love be waiting under Maggie's tree?
YOU'RE ALL I WANT FOR
CHRISTMAS ~ Susan Crosby Divorcée Lauren Wright opts for
a Bahamas Christmas getaway—only to be stranded at the
airport by weather. But a very personable fellow traveler
makes the time fly—and temperatures rise. Bahamas or no
Bahamas, things are about to get steamy….
Excerpt of “CHRISTMAS
PRESENCE” by Donna Birdsell
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday, December 4,
12:30 p.m.
All she needed was a pair of
pantyhose.
So now here she was, in the
middle of a crowded mall just twenty-one days before Christmas, wishing like
hell she just would have gone to her meeting with a run in her stocking.
Because until today, Astrid
Martin had almost—almost—managed to ignore the holidays.
Aside from a few anemic
decorations at the nursing home where she worked, and the occasional snippet of
a Christmas song as she flipped through the channels on the radio, her exposure
to all things merry had been non-existent.
But it was kind of hard to
ignore the holidays here. Fake icicles. Giant red and green Christmas balls
hanging from the ceiling. Enough garland to circumnavigate the globe.
She tucked her chin into the
scarf around her neck and averted her eyes, heading for department store at the
far end of the mall. Unfortunately, she didn’t see the temporary kiosks that had
sprung up in the middle of promenade, and walked forehead first into the banner
of one of them, which read:
“WRAPPING FOR R.U.F.F. We’ll
wrap anything for a buck!”
“So sorry,” she murmured to the
two women who manned the booth. They were dressed like elves, in hats with
jingle-bells and red shoes that curled up at the toes.
“No problem,” one of the elves
said. “Hey, you look like an animal lover. Here.”
The elf handed Astrid a flyer.
“Resources for Underprivileged
Furry Friends (R.U.F.F.) needs you! Join our team of volunteers, and give
underprivileged animals the gift of hope this Christmas.”
Astrid was, in fact, an animal
lover. And last year, she might have been tempted to join the R.U.F.F.
volunteers in helping their furry friends. But not this year.
This year, she was boycotting
Christmas.
She gave the elves a polite
smile, and ran away. Or rather, she tried to run away. Instead, she ran straight
into a sweater.
A sweater covered in cat hair.
A sweater that covered a very
broad chest, which was attached to a good-looking guy.
Easy smile. Hazelnut eyes.
Hot-chocolate brown hair, with just a touch of marshmallow at the temples.
He bent to pick up the flyer
she’d dropped when she bumped into him, and as he handed it to her he whispered,
“You’ve got a run in your stocking.”
His breath was warm in her ear,
like the steam from a mug of hot cider.
Astrid tugged at her scarf. Who
did this guy think he was?
Over his shoulder, she could
see the elves at the wrapping booth watching them with interest. She snatched
the flyer out of his hand and shoved it into her purse. “Thank you. I think.”
She skirted around him and
headed toward the department store, this time taking care to watch where she was
going.
“Merry Christmas!” he called
after her.
Right.
#
December 4, 3:07 p.m.
The soles of Astrid’s
sneakers—into which she’d changed after her big meeting (at which no one even so
much as glanced at her brand-new pantyhose)—squeaked on the freshly waxed tiles
of the third-floor hallway at Tall Pines Nursing Home.
Paper poinsettias pasted on the
doors of the rooms rustled as she walked past, announcing the residents’ names
with fading cheeriness.
AGNES R.! DOTTY M.! BERTIE K.!
Astrid stopped in front of one
that read VERA T.! She knocked and pushed open the door. A nurse towing a
rolling blood pressure machine was on her way out.
“Good luck,” the nurse said to
Astrid under her breath, “She’s in rare form today.”
The nurse disappeared and
Astrid entered the room, closing the door behind her.
A woman for whom the adjective
“birdlike” seemed to have been invented, perched on the edge of an oversized
armchair near the window. A lime-green-and-orange striped dress covered her
slight form from neck to ankle. It looked as if it had seen better days.
The same could be said for Vera
T. herself.
“Vera, how are you?” Astrid
said brightly.
“How do you think I am? I can’t
breathe without this damned tube up my nose, I have no teeth, and I’m wearing a
diaper,” Vera said. “Plus we had butterscotch pudding for dessert again.
Butterscotch pudding sucks.”
“I know it does. But look on
the bright side. At least you don’t have to chew it.”
After a moment of shocked
silence, Vera began to squeak and wheeze. It took Astrid a second to realize she
was laughing.
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Vera pressed a
trembling, bony finger to the corner of her eye. “I haven’t laughed like that in
ages.”
Neither, thought Astrid, had
she.
Not counting the automatic
responses to sitcom gags, or the fake noises of amusement she’d perfected for
her boss’s corny jokes, it had been almost a year since she’d laughed. Three
hundred and forty eight days, to be exact.
“Mind if I sit down?” Astrid
moved the portable oxygen tank around to the other side of Vera’s recliner.
The older woman turned to face
Astrid and gestured to the vinyl-padded rocking chair beside her.
“I hear you’ve been giving the
staff a hard time,” Astrid said. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.” Vera frowned, and stared
out the window.
Astrid waited her out. Besides
the fact that the view from Vera’s window wasn’t great, if there was one thing
she’d learned as an advocate for the elderly, it was that many of them were
desperate to talk.
Or rather, they were desperate
to be heard.
They had problems no one had
the time, inclination or patience to deal with, and that’s why Astrid was there.
She listened, and tried to figure out how to make sure everyone got what they
needed.
“I hate Christmas,” Vera
finally said. “No one gives a fart about me since Milton died.”
Astrid sighed. “I know the
feeling. I lost my husband, too.”
Vera’s sour expression
mellowed. “How long has it been?”
“Eleven months, eight days, six
hours and…” Astrid checked her watch. “Seven minutes. But who’s counting?”
Actually, it seemed as if she’d
been doing nothing but counting since David had died in a car accident last
year. The day after Christmas.
She’d eaten breakfast alone
three hundred forty-eight times. Done the New York Times crossword puzzle
forty-two times. Watched twenty-one episodes of “Antiques Roadshow,” gone to the
movies twelve times, and to the ballet twice. Alone.
This might have been her first
Christmas alone, if not for the fact that she’d decided she wasn’t going to have
Christmas this year. Or maybe ever.
Excerpt of “SECRET SANTA”
By Lisa Childs
Chapter One
Maggie O’Brien’s breath escaped
her aching lungs in little puffs of white mist. Her fingers numb, she struggled
to turn the key in the ignition. A nail chipped against the metal, the snap of
the cuticle the only sound in the interior of her minivan. Not a gear ground or
a crank spun, the engine refused to start, the battery completely dead.
Maggie slumped forward and
rested her forehead against the steering wheel, the plastic cold and hard
against her skin. “Damn, damn, damn...”
If only she hadn’t turned off
the van...
But after the grocery store,
she’d stopped back at the office to drop off the coffee and filters she’d
bought, just in case someone beat her to work in the morning and wanted to brew
a pot. But in the seven years she’d been employed at the insurance agency no one
had ever beaten her to work and no one made coffee but her.
A sigh slipped through her
lips, forming another wispy white cloud that floated toward the frosted
windshield. She uncurled one cold hand from the wheel and reached to the
passenger’s seat, fumbling in her open purse for her cell phone. At least she
only had to maneuver her stiff fingers to push one button to speed dial the
garage that regularly serviced her lemon. While the phone rang, she glanced at
her watch; the illuminated dial read seven. Fortunately the garage had
twenty-four-hour tow service. She waited for the click of the call-forward, but
someone answered, “Mallehan.”
Her heart kicked against her
ribs at the low rasp of the male voice. “Hi...you’re still there?”
“Maggie?”
Her heart rate quickened,
spreading warmth through her despite the bite of the December night. “I call so
often you recognize my voice?” She’d like to think that was why she recognized
his, but he usually didn’t answer his phone. He had a secretary.
Patrick Mallehan chuckled. “If
you ever replace that heap, I’m going to start missing mortgage payments,
Maggie.”
“Glad I’m putting a roof over
your head.” Since her divorce six years ago, she’d struggled to keep a roof over
her own and her kids’ heads. Now with one in college, one playing high-school
hockey and another with a video game addiction, the providing-shelter thing had
gotten even trickier and was why she hadn’t replaced the lemon with a new car.
He chuckled again, then asked,
“Where are you?”
“At the office.” Where she
spent entirely too much of her time.
“That’s good -- ”
“Breaking down is never good --
”
“But at least you’re warm,” he
said, his deep voice so full of warmth her ear tingled.
But maybe the tingling had
nothing to do with his voice and everything to do with frostbite.
“It’s freezing out there
tonight,” he said.
“Yes, it is.” She should have
gone back in the office to call; that would have made sense. “The van’s
completely dead. How soon can a truck get here?”
She glanced again at her watch.
While she was grocery shopping, the kids had called to let her know they were
heading to the mall to catch a movie. She doubted they’d be home yet, so she
would need a ride. “Do you think the driver can drop me home?” He had before.
“Sure, Maggie. It’ll be just a
few minutes,” he assured her. “Sit tight.”
He broke the connection,
leaving Maggie feeling bereft. Without the warmth of Patrick Mallehan’s voice,
she shivered with cold, her teeth clicking together. She peered through the
frosted window toward the office, which occupied a corner of a small strip mall.
They shared the space with a dog groomer, a beauty parlor and a tobacco store.
Because her boss was cheap, they turned down the heat after hours. With lots of
windows and thin walls, the office wouldn’t be much warmer than the van.
He had said just a few minutes,
and Patrick Mallehan was always true to his word. That was why his service
stations -- he had four locations -- were so successful. He was that rare
mechanic that a customer could trust. Before she could have unlocked the office
door, had she decided to wait inside, a Mallehan tow truck, black with a light
bar on the roof, pulled into the parking lot.
She breathed a sigh of relief,
filling the van with white mist. As she opened her door and stepped out, the
driver hopped down from the tow truck, landing on the pavement right in front of
her: six feet plus of Patrick Mallehan, proprietor of Mallehan Service Stations.
“It’s...you,” she murmured,
surprised that he’d personally make a service call.
He chuckled. “Hey, I may be a
little out of practice, but I remember how to hook up a tow.”
Maggie was a little out of
practice, too, with how to react to a man like him. She resisted the urge to
check her hair and make-up in the side mirror. Was her red hair a mess, standing
on end? Had her eyeliner run so that it rimmed her green eyes? Maybe it was
better that she didn’t know.
She tipped back her head, so
she could meet his gaze, his blue eyes gleaming in the glow of the parking-lot
lights. Damn, he was tall and broad, his shoulders testing the seams of his
black leather jacket. A navy-blue sweater stretched across his chest and dark
jeans hugged his lean hips and long legs.
“Damn, it’s cold,” Mallehan
said, his big hands closing over hers. “Where are your gloves?”
“My daughter borrowed them.”
Because Kirsten couldn’t remember where she’d left hers-at home or in the
college dorm room.
He wore no gloves, but his skin
was warm, chasing the chill from her fingers, which tingled now as feeling,
probably too much feeling, rushed back. As Kirsten would have said, the man was
hot. Embarrassment heated her face. Kirsten could call guys hot; she was twenty.
Maggie was not.
Excerpt from “YOU’RE ALL I WANT
FOR CHRISTMAS”
By Susan Crosby
Sun, sand and margaritas...that
was Lauren Wright’s plan, her Christmas gift to herself. Instead, three days
before Christmas, she’d gotten this—Chicago O’Hare airport during the worst
weather delays of the year.
Lauren glanced around the gate
area, her home away from home the past two hours. Her gaze settled briefly on a
man, one worthy of the second, third and tenth looks she’d given him.
Mid-forties, she guessed, like her. Rugged, in a lumberjack sort of way. He
wore jeans, a forest-green shirt and an aged brown leather jacket. Add to that
his wavy chestnut hair, olive skin, and eyes so blue she could see the brilliant
color from twenty feet away, and he was one tempting package.
But what also caught her
attention was his patience—and the way he’d smiled at a couple of kids playing
tag and teasing each other. Plus, in these days of laptop computers and cell
phones seemingly permanently attached to bodies, he stood out for not being
obsessively connected, just making an occasional cell phone call, probably
checking in with someone.
“May I have your attention in
the boarding area, please?” came a voice over the public address system.
“Flight 1529 to Phoenix is now ready for boarding.”
“The flight gods are with you,”
Lauren said to the woman seated next to her, who stood to gather her belongings.
“I may kiss the tarmac.” The
woman hefted her carryon bag. “Good luck on yours.”
“Thanks. I think maybe it’s
going to be a long day.”
No sooner had the woman left
than someone took her seat. A man. The man.
“I have a proposition for you,”
he said.
His eyes sparkled. His teeth
flashed white. He smelled good. Really good. Like pine trees after a
rainstorm.
Then his words registered. “A
proposition?”
“I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,
if you’ll save me this seat.”
She felt her face heat up a
little, her imagination having spun other much more interesting propositions.
“I’d be happy to.”
“Great, thanks. I’m Joe, by
the way.”
“Lauren.”
“What would you like?”
You. Whoa. Where had that
come from?
“What’s your pleasure?” he
asked as she remained silent.
“Pleasure?”
“Plain coffee? Designer?”
“Um. A decaf mocha would be
good. No whipped cream.”
“You got it.”
He dropped his bag onto the
chair and walked away, giving her the opportunity to really look at him—tall,
sturdy, outdoorsy. Great butt.
Great everything.
And no wedding ring.
She pulled out a compact to
check her hair and makeup, tucked her newly highlighted, shoulder-length hair
behind her ears then added a fresh coat of Pomegranate Passion lipstick.
As good as it gets, she
decided, returning her compact to her purse and eying his carryon, a sturdy,
brown canvas bag, stuffed to the gills. Probably hadn’t checked a suitcase,
traveling light enough for just the one bag. Men could manage that better than
women, especially women headed on vacation, who would need clothing and shoe
options to survive the week.
“May I have your attention in
the boarding area, please? Flight 265 to Salt Lake City has been delayed until
1:45.”
Out of the corner of her eye,
she tracked Joe’s return. She wished she’d kept her book out so that she could
look occupied, but she’d given up on it an hour ago, since there was plenty to
hold her attention in the overcrowded terminal, especially the man walking
toward her, a mini-fantasy come to life.
He passed her the coffee then
took a seat.
“Thanks,” she said, lifting it
in a quick toast.
“My pleasure.” He took out his
cell phone and pushed one button, someone on his speed dial. “Hey. How’s it
going?... Nope. It’s been delayed again. One-forty-five, they’re saying
now....I know, honey. Me, too.”
Honey. So. Not wearing a
wedding ring, but taken. The nice ones usually were.
“Call me whenever you want....I
wish I was there, too. Love you.” He put away his phone then leaned back and
took a sip.
“You must be headed to Salt
Lake City,” Lauren said. “I just heard the announcement.”
“Yeah. Denver’s weather sure
screwed up the whole country, didn’t it?” He nodded toward a kid who’d tossed
his gear on the floor and crashed, falling asleep instantly and soundly. “So,
what do you think his story is?”
“His story?”
“Where’s he headed, do you
suppose? Home from college for Christmas? Some happy mom waiting at the
airport for him.”
She considered the young man,
envying his ability to tune out the world and sleep in public. “A freshman.”
She cocked her head, considering. “Maybe not seeing his mom, yet. Maybe he’s
joining his father first to go skiing over Christmas, so now he’s headed to
Aspen to hook up with Dad and his new wife. Then he’ll go home to spend the
rest of his break with his mother—as much as a kid that age stays home,” she
added, smiling, remembering her first Christmas home as a freshman. She felt
Joe’s steady and sympathetic gaze on her, as if he knew it wasn’t a story she
was making up. “Just a guess,” she added.
“First Christmas without your
son?” Joe asked.
She nodded then sipped her
mocha rather than add anything that might show how hurt she’d been by her son’s
choice. Jeremy could’ve gone skiing at New Year’s instead, but he hadn’t.
Instead he’d chosen to leave her alone on Christmas—the worst day of the year.
Which was why she’d planned a
getaway herself.
“Pretty ticked off at your ex
for stealing him away?” Joe asked.
Had he been there and done
that? “How’d you guess?”
He touched her hand for a
second, the one holding—squeezing—the coffee cup. “I’m surprised you didn’t pop
the lid off.”
Lauren went utterly still at
the electrifying contact. The simple touch had zapped her clear down to her
toes. Her eyes met his. She’d thought he’d sat beside her only so that he
wouldn’t lose a seat permanently, but maybe he’d been checking her out, too?
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Christmas
Presence
