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I'll Be Home for Christmas: A Novel Mass Market Paperback – September 26, 2006
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About the Author
The daughter of a town marshal, Linda Lael Miller is the author of more than a hundred historical and contemporary novels. Now living in Spokane, Washington, the “First Lady of the West” hit a career high when all three of her 2011 Creed Cowboy books debuted at #1 on the New York Times list. In 2007, the Romance Writers of America presented her their Lifetime Achievement Award. Visit her at LindaLaelMiller.com.
Catherine Mulvany is married, has three children and now lives in the Pacific Northwest.
With twenty novels under her belt, USA Today bestselling author Julie Leto has established a reputation for writing ultra-sexy, edgy stories. A Florida native, Julie lives in her hometown of Tampa with her husband, daughter, a very spoiled dachshund, and a large and beloved extended family. She's currently writing the next installment in her Marisela Morales series for Downtown Press, tentatively titled Dirty Little Lies. For more information about Julie's upcoming releases, visit her website at www.julieleto.com
Published since 2003, Roxanne St. Claire is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than forty romance and suspense novels. She has written several popular series, including Barefoot Bay, the Guardian Angelinos, and the Bullet Catchers. In addition to being an eight-time nominee and one-time winner of the prestigious RITA™ Award for the best in romance writing, Roxanne’s novels have won the National Reader’s Choice Award for best romantic suspense four times, as well as the Maggie, the Daphne du Maurier Award, the HOLT Medallion, Booksellers Best, Book Buyers Best, the Award of Excellence, and many others. She lives in Florida with her husband, and still attempts to run the lives of her teenage daughter and twenty-something son. She loves dogs, books, chocolate, and wine, but not always in that order. Find out more at RoxanneStClaire.com, at Twitter.com/RoxanneStClaire, and at Facebook.com/RoxanneStClaire.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
From Christmas of the Red Chiefs
The bus door opened with a pneumatic whoosh, alongside the Mega-Pumper gas station, and expelled my twelve-year-old stepdaughter Marlie and me on the exhale. Marlie juggled her backpack and fashionably tiny purse while I schlepped a weekender and my tote bag.
We were the last two passengers, arriving in a place where neither of us wanted to be -- my hometown of Bent Tree Creek, California -- and as we stood there on the asphalt, our ears stinging from a snow-laced breeze and our most recent scathing argument, my heart attempted a swan dive and belly flopped instead.
"It so seriously sucks that we don't even have a car," Marlie said. Toes curled over the edge of the precipice between childhood and raging adolescence, she'd recently morphed from a sweet and very girly girl into the reigning mistress of hormonal contempt.
I raised the collar of my too-thin coat against the bitter cold and stifled a sigh. These days Marlie did enough sighing for both of us, but it wasn't as if she didn't have reason. Her dad and my husband, Craig Wagner, had been killed in the crash of a small private plane eighteen months before. Since then, we'd lost a lot -- the beach bungalow in San Diego, the family printing business, two cars, and a lot of illusions.
At least I'd lost my illusions. Marlie was still clinging to hers, and who could blame her? She was so very young, and the world she'd known before Craig's death had collapsed around her.
Her Real Mother -- recently, Marlie had taken to capitalizing the words every time she uttered them, lest I think for one moment she was talking about me, mama non grata -- worked as a pole dancer in some second-rate club in Reno, when she wasn't in rehab for alcohol and/or drugs. Brenda, stage name: Bambi, was a subject we mostly avoided.
"Yes," I agreed, remembering my vintage MG roadster with a pang. "It sucks that we don't have a car." My eyes burned, but it wasn't an opportune time to cry. I had two rules about shedding tears: I had to be alone, and I had five minutes to feel sorry for myself, max. At first, when I'd found out Craig had let all but one of his life insurance policies lapse, lied to me about our financial situation in general, and left us with a pile of debt, I'd actually set one of those little electronic kitchen timers to make sure I didn't go over the time limit for helpless weeping.
Of course there had been good times with Craig -- he'd been handsome, funny, and full of life, but now those things seemed more like half-forgotten dreams than reality.
While the bus driver unloaded the rest of our earthly belongings -- stuffed into four large suitcases and two moving boxes sealed with copious amounts of duct tape -- Marlie took in her new surroundings.
It was 4:30 on a late-November afternoon, and Bent Tree Creek wasn't exactly the western version of a Norman Rockwell village, the way I remembered it. The town is rimmed by pine forests on three sides, but between the exhaust fumes from the bus and the gasoline odor from the Mega-Pumper, I couldn't catch even a whiff of evergreen.
"Is somebody coming to get us or are we just going to stand here all night?" Marlie pressed, peevish. I knew she was tired, hungry, and scared, and I wanted to reassure her, not let her see that I was pretty much in the same uncertain place at the moment.
I moved to touch her shoulder, but then thought better of the gesture. Seven years before, when Craig and I got married, following a too-short courtship, Marlie was only five, a gawky little thing with moppet eyes and a lisp. After an initial and entirely natural period of wariness, she'd accepted me as an understudy for the role of Mom, but now I wasn't even in the running for the part.
Don't call us, we'll call you.
Lately, it seemed she blamed me for everything, from the federal deficit to our present situation. Oh, yes. If it hadn't been for me, Marlie Rose Wagner would be living the perfect life.
"I want to go to Reno and move in with Mom," Marlie said.
I bit my lower lip and refrained from pointing out the obvious flaws in that fantasy. Brenda/Bambi had abandoned Marlie when she was two -- Craig had come home to find his daughter wailing in a playpen in their apartment, wearing a soggy diaper and waving a long-empty bottle. Brenda hadn't been back since, and except for the odd email, phone call, birthday card, or box of Christmas candy, she never initiated any sort of contact.
Emotionally, I was on the ragged edge. Once I'd been so sure of myself -- singing all the time and indulging in one of my favorite hobbies, trying new recipes. Converting standard comfort foods to low-fat, low-calorie versions, much to the delight of my friends, who were all busy career women on diets.
Where had those friends gone?
Where had the joy gone?
When had I stopped singing?
"You know you can't go to Reno," I said, bringing myself firmly back into the present moment, difficult as it was, and with hard-won moderation. It would have been easier to point out that Bambi wasn't exactly in the running for Mother of the Year, or offer the kid a ticket and wish her a good trip, but in the first place, I loved Marlie, even if she wasn't particularly fond of me, and in the second, we both knew it was a spindly threat. Brenda was too busy being Bambi to bother with a twelve-year-old.
The bus pulled out, flinging back a biting spray of slush.
Cars came and went from the Mega-Pumper.
Families strolled in and out of Roy's Café, across the street. Old-fashioned bulb lights edged the windows at Roy's, and maybe it's an indication of my state of mind that I noticed several of them were burned out.
I began to wonder if Delores had forgotten we were coming.
Delores Sullivan was my dad's only sister, and my sole living blood relative, but she and I weren't exactly close. When she'd called in a panic just a week before and asked if I'd come back to Bent Tree Creek and help her run Barrels of Carols, I'd reluctantly agreed. My latest dead-end job had just fizzled and I didn't have another one on the line -- plus, all my friends had either left Southern California or dived into new relationships, leaving me with just acquaintances, so I was at loose ends in more ways than one. Marlie and I had been camping out in a neighbor's guest house while the family was in Europe, but now the Brittons were back, with a couple of exchange students in tow, and they needed the space.
Meanwhile, back here in the Present Moment, it was getting colder, and darker.
I got out my paid-in-advance cellphone, the last vestige of my old life, and struggled to remember Delores's number. Like I said, we weren't close.
The little panel read No service.
I hoped that wasn't a metaphor -- an omen for the way things would go between Delores and me.
"We ought to at least move our stuff," Marlie said, as the snow began to come down in earnest.
"Good idea," I answered, injecting a lot of false cheer into my voice, and moved to pick up one of the big suitcases. I tend to think in allegories, and just then, those Vuitton knockoffs seemed like more than containers for my clothes. They were symbols of my personal baggage. I'd gone to college. I'd fallen in love with a man and built a life, made friends. Refined my cooking skills and sung in a community choir.
How could it all have come down to this?
The largest of the bags didn't have wheels and lifting it was out of the question. I was just starting to drag the thing toward the door of the Mega-Pumper when a blue van whipped into the lot and came to a stop about three feet in front of Marlie and me.
The window on the driver's side whirred down.
A square-jawed man with ebony eyes and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail looked me over pensively. I felt a visceral zap when our gazes connected and immediately took an inner leap back. Once I'd trusted my instincts, but no more. Craig had cured me of that.
I motioned for Marlie to stay behind me.
"Are you Sarah?" asked the van man. There was something tender and knowing in his eyes, but I saw caution there, too.
I nodded. "Yes."
Nothing could have prepared me for the sudden flash of his grin. Like a supernova, it transformed his whole face and set something quivering deep inside me. He shoved open the van door and bounded out, one hand extended. Lean and muscular, with an air of controlled power, he wore jeans, a polo shirt, and a battered leather jacket.
"Joe Courtland," he said. "Delores sent me to pick you up."
I hesitated, then shook his hand.
He looked past me, grinned at Marlie.
Inside the van, a dog barked, and the faces of two small boys appeared in the window, curious and somehow hopeful.
"Are you a serial killer?" Marlie asked.
"No," Joe Courtland answered, suppressing another nuclear-powered grin. "I'm a music teacher."
Serial killers and music teachers weren't necessarily exclusive, I reasoned, and he was, after all, driving a van. Plus, there was the electricity, a sort of invisible charge in the air that made me want to chase after the departing bus, get back on, and keep going.
"Where's Delores?" I asked. There might have been some suspicion in my voice. Like I said, my aunt and I hadn't exactly bonded. I barely knew her, and when I needed her most, she'd shuffled me out of her life so fast it took my breath away.
Joe looked me over thoughtfully, as though taking my measure and finding me a few light-years short of whatever standard he'd had in mind, then rounded the van and pulled open the rear doors. "She broke her ankle yesterday," he said, tight-jawed, returning and gripping the handles of the two large suitcases. "Then there was a crisis with one of the carolers."
Delores provided singers for malls, hospitals, office parties, and the like. It was a thriving operation, as I understood it, and with Thanksgiving only a ... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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