Christmas Wishes...Special Delivery
Christmas Wishes Special Delivery
Mary Manners
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Christmas Wishes Special Delivery
COPYRIGHT 2013 by Mary Manners
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version
(R),
NIV
(R),
Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez
White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
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White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First White Rose Edition, 2013
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-347-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Bryson, Gage and Skylar...may your wishes always come special delivery.
Praise for Mary Manners
Wisdom Tree: Named Book of the Year by The Wordsmith Journal Magazine
Light the Fire: Winner of the 2012 Inspirational Reader's Choice Award
Mary Manners: Named Author of the Year by Book and Trailer Showcase.
Other Titles by Mary Manners
Mended Heart
Tender Mercies
Light the Fire
Buried Treasures
Wisdom Tree
Sweet Treats Bakery Series
Kate's Kisses
Grace's Gold
Tessa's Teacakes
Mattie's Meltaways
Lone Creek Ranch Series
Lost in Lone Creek
Lullaby in Lone Creek
Lesson in Lone Creek
Love in Lone Creek
Mills Landing Series
Miracles and Mischief
Stolen Miracles
Miracles and Dreams
Dollar Downloads
Brenna's Choice
Starfire
Wounded Faith
Angel Song
Willow Lake Series
Whispers at Willow Lake
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work; if one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up.
~ Ecclesiastes 4:9-10
1
Gravel chomped and spat beneath the wheels of Riley Harper’s Escalade as he swung into the long, winding drive off Cardwell Lane. Majestic white oaks, their leafless branches like gnarled fingers, formed a canopy, blocking a sky ripe with angry gray snow clouds. A gust of wind howled as it whipped dried leaves into a frenzied dance along a blanket of brown grass stunted with frost. Thankful he’d beaten the storm, Riley drew close to Gran’s stately white-frame house that sat like a sentinel on a gentle knoll at the top of the drive. Its massive porch invited guests to linger and, even now, a quartet of rocking chairs swayed in a slow, even cadence against the wind as if ghosts from the past communed together sharing a late-afternoon story while the storm prowled over the mountains.
Riley rounded a curve and pulled alongside the detached garage that had, back in the day, doubled as Gramps’s workshop. He killed the SUV’s engine and leaned back in the seat, and sighed. He’d made it…he was back in Maple Ridge for the first time in nearly a year. This time, he planned to stay for more than a few nights. How much longer, though, he wasn’t sure. He stretched his legs and the knots of tension from his spine, as the wind whispered and tree limbs sang a mournful melody, mirroring the state of his heart.
Gramps was gone for good. It was hard to believe, nearly impossible to grasp. Riley still pictured him, strong and tanned, with a subtle blend of gray through his jet-black hair, ambling toward the woods with a fishing pole in one hand and the lunch Gran had packed in his other. Where had the days, the months…the years gone?
Riley sighed once more, deep and full, and then grabbed his duffel bag and slipped from the car. The sweet scent of pine caressed as the first snowflake of what promised to be a monster of a storm splatted the bridge of his nose. He brushed it away and pulled the collar of his wool jacket tight against the bite of a frigid gust. He wound his way over frozen earth toward the wide front stairs, flanked on each side by pillars thick as century-old oaks, and paused at the welcome mat to brush dirt from his shoes. Music drifted through the door, mingling with laughter and a child’s high-pitched giggles. Gran must have the TV on; it was the only explanation for laughter so close on the heels of Gramps’s death. Gran, who’d filled her days with caring for Gramps during his extended and heart-wrenching battle with Alzheimer’s, must miss him terribly.
Riley sucked a single deep breath, tamping back a stab of regret that he’d missed the funeral nearly a month ago, and had only now been able to break away from his responsibilities as a prosecution attorney in Jacksonville to pay his condolences to Gran. He raised his fist to knock on the weathered wooden door, but stopped just short of contact. No need to ask for permission to enter. This was his home.
Home…the single word hit Riley like a sucker punch. Even now, nearly a decade after he’d left, he thought of this old place and the acres of sprawling meadow that surrounded it as home.
He grabbed the knob, gave it a quick turn before pushing the door open. A gust of wind followed him into the living room, rustling the pages of a newspaper splayed across the coffee table beside one of Gran’s dog-eared word search magazines. She devoured puzzles, so he sent her a subscription to the large-print edition every year for her birthday.
The scent of cinnamon drifted from the kitchen’s doorway, making his belly yowl in protest to the fact that he’d filled it with nothing but tepid gas-station coffee since the pre-dawn hours of that morning. He’d worked late the night before, tying up the loose ends of a case, and today’s drive had been brutal, with gusts of wind tossing even the powerful Escalade while he motored down the interstate as a cold-front swept in. He shrugged from his jacket, tossed it across the arm of the couch. The TV screen stood dark, the living room a sprawling menagerie of colorfully embroidered throw pillows, hand-sewn quilts draped along the back of the couch, and collages of black and white snapshots. Warmth embraced as flames flickered from a fireplace framed in a sweep of river rock while light spilled from a bay window that covered the wall overlooking a ridge of woods beyond the meadow. How many afternoons had he spent exploring the grounds beyond, playing straight through lunch and sometimes, much to the chagrin of his mother and grandparents, even dinner and on into the twilight? An array of framed photographs nestled together along the fireplace mantel stood as a testament to his childhood years here.
Riley dropped his duffel bag and stepped over to the hearth to toss a log on the fire and stoke the flames. The tinderbox was full, and he wondered how Gran managed to stock it on her own, with her ever-increasing flare-ups of arthritis. Guilt tugged again that he’d stayed so absent, for so long, as he wound his way toward the kitchen, where laughter mingled with Christmas music and that little girl’s chatter once again. His curiosity piqued, he wondered who Gran had for company. Most likely someone from church. As he neared the doorway, Moose sauntered out, blocking his path. The mild-tempered golden Saint Bernard had always been a better lug nut than a guard dog…so much for home security.
“Hey, buddy.” Riley dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around the loveable mutt. His muzzle was sprinkled with a touch of salt-white, marking his advancing age, and he moved just a bit slower than Riley remembered. “How’ve you been?”
Moose nestled against him as if it had been decades instead of months—now closing in on a year—since the last time they’d seen each other, pushing his meaty jowls into Riley’s chest. The burly mutt wore a generous red velvet ribbon, tied into a large bow at the top, around his neck. It was adorned with an oversized jingle bell that chimed as Riley gave him a good rub.
“Yeah, it’s great to see you, too. Have you been taking good care of Gran?” Riley smoothed a hand down Moose’s massive back, burying his fingers in the bristly fur. “You look ready for Christmas. It
smells
like Christmas around here, too. What’s Gran got baking in the kitchen?”
Moose turned back toward the doorway, his tail thumping against the floor as his head cocked to the side as if to say, “Follow me.”
“I’m on it.” Riley stood to flank him as the dog lumbered forward. “Smells like something good to eat. Maybe Gran made enough for all of us. Let’s go see what’s up.”
****
“Can I help you put them into the boxes, Mom?” Rosie asked as she scrambled onto her knees in the chair at Kaylee McKenna’s side. She propped her elbows on the wooden table. “I’ll be careful.”
“That sounds like a good plan.” Kaylee thought about correcting the child, reminding her that she should be addressed as Aunt Kaylee, not Mom, as Rosie had taken to calling her lately. But, what would it hurt for Rosie to use that particular term of endearment? After all, she had been under Kaylee’s care for nearly a year now. “Here you go.”
Kaylee handed Rosie a stack of small boxes from the Chinese take-out place. The owner had been gracious enough to donate a hundred—more than enough for the animal shelter project—and Rosie had spent several afternoons during the course of the past week decorating them with colorful drawings of candy canes, bells and ornaments. Kaylee smiled. Rosie had done a pretty good job for just turning six, and the pictures were colored with a fairly steady hand. Sometimes she thought of Rosie as a little professor—serious and wise beyond her years. She guessed it was to be expected with all the heartache and upheaval the child had been through at such a tender age.
“Here’s another batch.” Ruth Harper turned from the oven, holding a baking pan filled with canine cinnamon bun bites. Her salted hair was brushed back into a bun and wisps curled around a heat-reddened face. “Oh, they smell heavenly!”
“Let me take those.” Kaylee grabbed a pot holder and took the pan from her, setting it onto a trivet on the counter. “You’ve done way too much already.”
“Nonsense.” Ruth removed an oven mitt and wiped her hands on her flowered apron. “I’m only getting started. We’re sure to have a huge crowd tomorrow. ”
“I pray it’s so. But no one will make it out if this storm lingers like the meteorologists are predicting. No one will be able to get out of their driveway.”
“Don’t fret, Kaylee,” Ruth soothed. “The road crews will plow. It will be fine.”
“Will Santa still be able to fly his sleigh through the air, Mom?”
That word again. The single syllable tugged at Kaylee’s heart. “Christmas is still two weeks away.” She tweaked Rose’s nose, leaving behind a smudge of flour. “So, no worries in that department, honey.”
“But what about all the puppies, and old Sammy and Digger and Scout?” Rosie peered up, her blue eyes huge and rounded. The fact that she’d named the mutts at the no-kill shelter was a telling sign. How long would Kaylee garner the strength to resist her niece’s pleas for a puppy of her own? “Does Santa visit them, too? Will he give them a new home for Christmas?”
Questions…Kaylee remained continually amazed by the relentless stream of queries Rosie posed and her own, nearly constant inability to answer them. “It’s hard for Santa to be everywhere, honey, so he’s asked Miss Ruth and us to stand in for him.” She glanced at Ruth, breathed a sigh of relief when the dear woman nodded slightly, signaling her agreement with Kaylee’s line of thinking. “Hopefully, some of the people who come to the party tomorrow will want to take a puppy—or, better yet, one of the older dogs or maybe even a kitten or two—home with them.”
