No Place Like Home (Holiday Classics) (12 page)

F
ERN
M
ICHAELS RECENTLY TOOK TIME FROM WORKING ON HER NEW BOOK TO TALK TO US
. H
ERE ARE EXCERPTS FROM THAT CONVERSATION
.

Q: After forty-four best-selling novels, what inspired you to write
No Place Like Home,
your first holiday novel?

For starters, I’m the oldest kid I know when it comes to Christmas. I start planning in July. Christmas is a time when people are kind, mellow and a sense of family is on everyone’s mind. I’m as big on family as I am on Christmas. I also had a grandmother whom I loved dearly. Like Loretta Cisco, the grandmother in
No Place Like Home,
she lived in a little cottage, too. I guess I was trying to relive that time in my life in some way because it was so wonderful.

Q: Are the Michaels family holiday festivities anything like the Cisco family’s festivities?

Absolutely. We do it all. We start around four o’clock on Christmas Eve and go to whenever.

Q: Do you have a favorite holiday tradition you perform every year?

Yes. I have five children, three grandchildren and five dogs. I wrap up thirteen silly presents and hide them outside. I pray there’s no snow so tracks don’t show. It’s kind of like an Easter Egg Hunt at Christmas. For some reason, the kids consider those presents the most important ones. The dogs get in the act, too, because I wrap up beef hides and they can smell them.

Q: The taffy-pulling scene in the novel seems wonderfully authentic. Did you rely on firsthand experience when you wrote it?

Yes, but that’s what we used to do for Halloween when the kids were little.

Q: Is there a special holiday recipe you make every year?

My daughters always come over early and we start cooking. We make everyone’s favorite food. Being Polish, my family’s favorite is pierogi.

Q: What is your favorite Christmas carol? How about your favorite holiday song?

My favorite carol is “Silent Night.” My favorite song is “I’ll Be Home For Christmas,” sung by Bing Crosby. And “Jingle Bells.” We really sing that one with a lot of gusto.

Q: Why do you frequently feature dogs as significant characters in your novels?

As a child I wasn’t allowed to have a dog. As soon as I was on my own, I got one. When I got married, I got more. They’re smart, they’re loyal, and they love unconditionally. I’m an Animal Rights Activist and do what I can for all kinds of animals. Dogs, though, are my dearest love.

Q: Going back to the subject of the holidays, let’s get down to brass tacks. Do you and your family open your presents on Christmas Day or Christmas Eve?

That is a biggie. When the kids were little, we did it on Christmas morning. When Santa got stuck in the chimney for the last time, we switched up to Christmas Eve. That was about thirty years ago. We pile all the presents in the middle of the living room early on Christmas Eve morning. The kids deliver all theirs and the mountain grows. After a big dinner, we start opening them, but the stockings and all their treasures have to wait until Christmas morning. It usually takes us four hours to open them all. It’s a ritual that everyone has to hold the present up, say who it’s from so everyone can oooh and aaah and then they go home and leave me with the mess. They pick up their presents Christmas Day when they come for brunch. That’s when it all gets cleaned up. We get two bites at the apple that way by looking at all the presents again.

Q:
No Place Like Home
is set primarily in Pennsylvania. Your next novel,
Late Bloomer,
is also set there. Is that a favorite spot?

You bet. I was born and raised in Pennsylvania. Right at the base of the Allegheny Mountains.

Q: Your next novel is about…

A young woman who is searching for the answer to a tragic childhood accident that left her near death. In her search for the answers, she rekindles old childhood friendships. The only problem is…the childhood friends are all grown up now and those childhood friends have a secret. A secret they’re afraid to share with her. With the help of a fearless canine, a well-meaning geriatric trio (her grandmother being the ringleader), and the local police chief, our Late Bloomer plunges head on into ferreting out her friends’ deadly secret.

Q: What was the biggest challenge in writing
Late Bloomer?

Sometimes a character takes on a life of his or her own. I couldn’t decide which of the good guys should end up with my girl. One of them wasn’t supposed to be as good as the other but in the writing, he turned out really nice. I didn’t have the heart to turn him into something else. I always fall in love with the main guys.

Q: Finally, is there one special wish you would like to have come true this Christmas?

Yes. It’s the same wish every year. It’s what all my kids wish for, too. We wish and hope that no more animals have to be put to sleep for lack of funding, and that they’re all safe and sound because they are God’s creatures, too. If I was allowed a frivolous wish, I’d wish for naturally curly hair.

Brentwood, California

Twenty Years Later

Cady Jordan felt sick to her stomach and wasn’t sure why. She looked down at the pizza she was eating as if it were the culprit. She’d already consumed four slices. Two would have been enough. She couldn’t ever remember eating four slices, much less five. She dropped the wedge in her hand into the box. It wasn’t just a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach she was experiencing. She was jittery, too, her right eye twitching, something that only happened when she was under a great deal of stress. She sighed as she swigged from a can of Coca-Cola. Just what she needed, caffeine for her already jangled nerves.

Cady tucked her yellow tee shirt into her worn, faded jeans. Her favorite jeans. They had to be ten years old at least. Holes in both knees, the back pockets long since gone. She would never give them up because they were like an old friend. Like Pete, Andy, and Amy. She decided to make a fashion statement and tied a yellow ribbon she plucked from the doorknob around her ponytail. Now, she was ready.

The sounds of the movers seemed exceptionally loud to her ears. Maybe that’s why she was jittery. No one liked to pack up and move. She thought of all the hours she’d spent packing her belongings, being extra careful to wrap the dishes and glassware securely. Her books, mostly hard-cover novels and reference books, had taken up an unbelievable twenty-five boxes. Brentwood, California, was a long way from Indigo Valley, Pennsylvania, where her grandmother had grown up and returned to live after being away for so long.

The grunts and groans of the movers in the living room reminded her that she still had some miscellaneous packing to do before the movers left. She got up and took the last of the small appliances out of the pantry.

Her grandmother needed her, at least that’s what her mother had implied. Not that she really paid much attention to what her mother said these days. Then she thought about her grandmother’s age, and the fact that she’d been in the hospital. That alone couldn’t be good. It was time to pay her grandmother back a little for all the wonderful things she had done for her. Her grandmother had always been there for her, even putting her own life on hold to take care of her after her accident. Now it was her turn to put her life, such as it was, on hold. How could she not head back to Pennsylvania to help in whatever way she could?

If it wasn’t that her grandmother needed her, she probably would have stayed right where she was for the rest of her life. New places, meeting new people intimidated her. When she bought the house in Brentwood five years ago, she’d thought she was putting down roots. What she was really doing was picking a nice safe haven where she could work at her own pace and not have to get involved too much with people. Writing technical manuals for Integrated Circuits, Inc. part-time allowed her the freedom to choose her own hours as well as her own workplace, thus enabling her to work on her dissertation and still remain independent of her parents and grandmother. She might have thought she was putting down roots, but what could she possibly know about that process? She had never been rooted anywhere when she was growing up because her mother and father had always lived like gypsies, moving from town to town, preaching the gospel according to Asa Jordan.

On her eighteenth birthday, when her parents had announced they would be moving again, right after her high school graduation, Cady had made the decision to stay where she was, get a job, and work her way through college. She had graduated from UCLA with a master’s in English and was just months away from getting her doctorate. Now she would have to put that goal on hold.

At least she wouldn’t have to give up her job. Although writing technical manuals for a Los Angeles-based electronics firm wasn’t the writing career she had dreamed of, it paid the bills.

One of the movers popped his head into the kitchen. “That’s the last of what’s in the front, miss. Do you have any last-minute items you want to go into the truck?”

“Just this stool and a few boxes there by the pantry. I guess I’ll see you in Indigo Valley in seven days. You have my grandmother’s phone number, right? And the name and address of the storage company where you’ll be delivering my things?” The man nodded and she handed over a check and waited while the driver scribbled his name and logged in the check number and recorded the amount. He ripped off a yellow copy that said Recipient on it and handed it to her. She shoved it into her purse.

She could feel tears burn her eyes when the door closed behind the mover. How empty everything looked. She knew if she shouted, the words would echo around the entire house. Moving was such a sad business. She swiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt before dumping the empty soda can into the pizza box that she would deposit into the trash when she closed the door behind her for the last time.

The house, a 1930s California bungalow, was ready for its new owner, a young professor and his wife. She’d lucked out when she posted a notice on the university bulletin board and was able to sell the house without going through a Realtor. She’d also made a handsome profit in the bargain.

Now it was time to go. Time to get into the car and drive cross-country. She wished she had a dog. She’d always promised herself that she would get a dog when the time was right. A lot of things could happen to a young woman traveling alone across the country. A shudder rippled up and down her body. Fear was a terrible thing. She should know, she’d lived with it almost her entire life.

The fear hadn’t entered her life gradually. It had grabbed hold of her when she’d woken up in the hospital to the agonizing pain, with no memory of what had happened to her. The fear had stayed with her for the next three years as she’d fought and struggled to learn how to walk all over again. She might have had a chance of conquering the fear had she been allowed to stay with her beloved grandmother but that hadn’t happened. The day the doctors told her she could leave, her parents had whisked her away.

And now she was returning to the town where she’d had the accident she couldn’t remember. Just the thought made her jittery and nervous. Or was it her fear returning all over again?

Cady stood in the open doorway staring at the empty rooms. She hadn’t entertained much while she’d lived there. That was her own fault since she didn’t have any real, true friends. She had a friend she jogged with. A friend she played tennis with and a friend she went out to dinner with on occasion. The plain and simple truth was, she preferred her own company to making small talk and pretending to be interested in people’s lives that were just as boring as her own. As for men friends, there had been a few. None of them made her want to walk down the aisle.

Was it because she really wasn’t interested in pursuing relationships or was it because she was afraid? She’d had friendships with guys when she was younger, and look what it had gotten her. When she got this far along in her thoughts, she backtracked, and convinced herself she was content being by herself. Why did she need to fight off guys on the prowl and listen to her female friends plot and seek ways to snatch a guy from some unsuspecting friend only to lose both in the end? She liked her life just the way it was, thank you very much.

She looked down at her watch. If she wanted to, she could go to the SPCA and rescue a dog. She tried to talk herself out of doing it, unsure if her timing was right or wrong. What if the dog got sick in the car? What if the motels she stopped in wouldn’t allow a dog? What if…a lot of things. An animal lover friend of hers had once lectured about how many dogs and cats were destroyed every year because their owners had either lost them or just didn’t want them anymore.

She had never been one to spout ideals or get involved with causes. She had more or less skated through life after the accident, keeping to herself and doing her own thing. But the idea of
saving
a dog was suddenly very appealing.

Cadwell Sophia Jordan, named after her maternal and fraternal grandmothers, never made a decision until she talked it to death, made a blueprint, then ran it up an invisible flagpole to see if it was a decision worth saluting. It was always better to err on the side of caution. Predictability was her philosophy. It all came down to that one word again,
fear
.

Cadwell Sophia Jordan, a.k.a. Cady Jordan, ignored her own credo for the first time in her life and climbed into her four-by-four. Her destination, the SPCA.

Thirty-five minutes later she was staring into the dark eyes of a mangy, filthy, scrawny German shepherd named Atlas. “I’ll take him.”

“Good choice. He’s about three years old. He was picked up on the street. He was wearing a collar that was little more than a string, and his name tag was matted into his coat. That’s how we know his name is Atlas. He’s a good dog,” the young boy said. “Once he’s cleaned up and a vet checks him over, I’d say you got yourself a great dog. Give him a good life, and he’ll love you forever. That’s fifteen dollars for the leash and five dollars for the dog.”

Cady handed over a twenty-dollar bill. The dog cowered when she reached out to him. She dropped to her knees and whispered softly. “I know how you feel. If you trust me, we’ll be okay. I’m just going to put this leash on you, and we’re going to a vet I know. It’s okay, Atlas. I’ll never hurt you.”

“He has some scars on his back, miss. My thinking would be, somebody mistreated him along the way. Good food, some vitamins, and a lot of love will make him right as rain.”

“Okay.” Physical abuse, mental abuse, what was the difference? she thought. Abuse was abuse.

“I’m sorry he doesn’t have any gear. I can’t even give you any food. We’re short on rations here. I guess you know we depend on donations.” His voice sounded as hopeful as he looked.

“I see. I guess I’m not thinking clearly. I’d like to make a donation. How does two hundred dollars sound?”

“Two hundred dollars sounds great. We can buy a lot of dog food and a lot of Clorox with that much money.”

Cady wrote out the check and handed it over. She felt better than she’d felt in a long time. “Okay, Atlas, it’s time to start your new life. Maybe we can do it together. We’re going to Indigo Valley by way of Burger King, the vet, and a pet store.”

Atlas settled his bony frame in the passenger side of Cady’s Mercury Mountaineer. He looked tired and wary as he dropped his head onto his paws. He didn’t perk up until she swerved the four-by-four into the drive-through lane at Burger King. The smell of grilling hamburgers permeated the air. She ordered five double cheeseburgers, a large Coke, a bottle of water, and an empty cup.

“Okay, I’m going to pull into one of these parking spaces, and we’ll eat here.” For some reason she expected the dog to wolf down the food, but he didn’t. He ate slowly and methodically. He drank almost the entire bottle of water, then he whimpered. “I get it. I get it. You gotta go. Listen, Atlas, I’ve never had a dog before, so you’re going to have to help me here. You know, bark, whine, whatever. I know you’re going to have accidents, but we’ll work on that. Careful, careful, it’s a drop to the ground. Do your thing,” she said, letting go of the retractable leash to give him room to roam, which he did. When he was finished he walked to the door of the truck and waited until Cady opened it. He hopped in, settled down, and went to sleep.

Two hours later a disgruntled Atlas climbed back into the truck. This time he was exhausted from being bathed and groomed and his trip to the pet store, where Cady bought everything the salesgirl said she would need. She even bought a seat belt harness that Atlas did not like at all. He settled down when she scratched his belly and spoke soothingly to him. At one point, he licked her hand in appreciation. Tears blurred her vision as she slipped the Mountaineer into gear.

Getting Atlas was the first unorthodox, serendipitous thing she’d done since she was a little kid back in Indigo Valley. She decided she liked what she was feeling. Maybe it was time for her to do more unorthodox, serendipitous things.

“I think we can drive for about five hours, then we’ll stop. I’ll turn on the radio for company since you’re going to sleep.” The dog opened one sleepy eye, then closed it, knowing he was in safe hands.

Six days later, Cady stopped the car along the side of the road and pulled out her map. She should know the area. After all, she had lived there for
ten
years when she was growing up, but it all looked so different, with little clusters of housing developments, fast-food outlets, and new roads. She’d looked for familiar landmarks on the drive in, but the only thing she’d recognized was the town square and St. Paul’s Church. She looked up from the map to see Atlas slapping at the car window with his paws. “Twenty years ago this was my hometown. I don’t know if I love this place or hate it. I should be feeling something, but I’m not,” she muttered to herself.

Where was her grandmother’s house? Her mother had told her it was the only house on a street called Indigo Place. A street that her grandmother had named when she had had her house built. She wondered how that could be. She saw it then, a curlicue of a street that appeared to be tucked behind what looked like some high-end real estate. The sign said it was a gated community. She slipped the Mountaineer into gear and drove slowly, paying careful attention to the street signs.

Cady sucked in her breath. It wasn’t a house. It was probably called an estate. Or, maybe, a creation would be a better word. Whatever it was, it was certainly befitting of Lola Jor Dan.