Santa and the Lumberjacks -- a somewhat tall tale

 

 

Since the holiday season is coming, I thought it would be fun to revisit those long ago holidays when gifts and food and holiday decorations were hand made. I still try to create handmade gifts for my children and grandchildren – everything from games and storybooks to body pillows and quilts. At one time, I would write short stories and incorporate them into the Christmas cards I sent to family and friends. As my holiday gift to you, here is one of those stories. Enjoy and happy holidays.

SANTA AND THE LUMBERJACKS

A Somewhat Tall Tale 

            A very long, long time ago, before video games and 4-wheelers and even before television, families made each other gifts for Christmas out of what was available to them. Mothers would make patchwork quilts to keep the children warm at night, and fathers would carve animals and toy tops out of small chunks of wood. Children would take scraps of paper and make paper chains to hang around the house to give it a festive air. On Christmas morning, Santa would leave each child a peppermint stick and perhaps, if they were very good, an orange in their stocking.

            But then one year, word reached Santa that a late frost hit the orange orchards, destroying the blossoms and there would be no oranges. Santa didn’t know what he would do for the children he visited. As he walked home through the woods where he lived, he came across a group of lumberjacks, sitting by the side of the road in tears.

            Now Santa was a big, jolly man, but lumberjacks were an even heartier group, and Santa had often seen them felling trees with a single blow of an ax. The men were large enough that it only took one of them to hoist a tree onto a wagon, or toss it into the river to float downstream. So you can understand that seeing these huge men sniffling and wailing was a trifle upsetting for Santa.

            “What is wrong?” he asked the first man.

            “The forest has been sold; the mill shut down,” the man said. He jerked a hanky out of his pocket that was larger than a blanket and it landed on Santa, covering him from head to foot. As the lumberjack dabbed at his eyes with one corner, Santa struggled out from under the blue fleece.

            “What are we to do?” shouted another, stirring up such a wind it knocked Santa down and blew his hat right off his head where it landed in the snow.

            Santa was almost afraid to ask another question.

            “Are all of you lumberjacks? Can’t you find other work?”

            “I am the cook for the lumber company,” answered a man with a strange looking metal pot on his head where a cap would normally be. He held several spoons in one huge hand, and a mixing bowl in the other that was gigantic enough for Santa to use as a bathtub. Before Santa could say a word, yet another piped up.

            “And I am Patch, for I mend the clothes and tend the cuts for all the men who fell the trees.” Santa could certainly see how the man got his name, for his clothes were a patchwork of colors and patterns, and scraps of material stuck out of each and every one of his pockets.

            “Well, come along with me, and I will take you home where Mrs. Claus will feed you some supper.” Santa had a generous heart, and though he didn’t know how to find oranges for the children’s Christmas this year, he did know that Mrs. Claus would welcome these men into their home.

            Mrs. Claus had just baked bread and when she offered some to the hungry men, one lumberjack popped a whole loaf into his mouth as though it were a gumdrop. Her eyes widened and she hurriedly chopped another bushel of vegetables into the stew she was making. When it was ready, she scooped hearty portions into her biggest pots for the hungry lumberjacks, happy she had enough to feed them. But then they sat down on her chairs and the legs broke under each and every one of the huge men.

            Not wanting to be impolite, Mrs. Claus smiled and asked them very nicely, “Would you mind standing up to eat?”

            She then turned to Santa and whispered, “They can not stay here, for the beds are too small and by morning we would not have a lick of furniture left.”

            Santa said the lumberjacks could stay in the barn, but when they tried to go inside, only two of them would fit, and only after they had knocked out the stalls for the mules.

            “I will stay in the milk house,” Patch said, laying large boards on top of the milk cans to make a bed.

            “I will sleep in the tool shed,” said Cook, opening the door. Before Santa could say a word, he began throwing hoes and shovels, trowels and rakes out into the snow. Even empty, the shed was not large, and as Santa walked back to the house, he saw that Cook’s feet stuck out of the doorway. He would have to ask Mrs. Claus for an extra blanket.

* * *

            Santa woke up in the morning to an incredible amount of racket. It was usually very quiet in the woods where he and Mrs. Claus lived, and he couldn’t figure out what would make so much pounding, sawing, hammering and whirring noise.

            When he went outside to see, he found the lumberjacks all at work. They had cut down trees (only the dead ones as they were environmentally friendly), shaved off the bark and were whittling dolls and hobbyhorses, toy trains and soldiers. Patch was sewing little clothes for the dolls, and Cook had taken apart a mop and was using the string to make manes for the hobbyhorses.

            One of the lumberjacks, the tallest and widest of them all, blushed as he explained the noise to Santa. “You were so kind to give us food and a place to sleep. We heard you tell Mrs. Claus there would be no oranges for the children this year, so we decided to make them toys instead.”

            “Why that is very nice of you,” Santa replied, “but you have made so many.” He looked around the barn, where dolls and toy soldiers sat in neat rows all along the hayloft. The hobbyhorses were lined up along one wall, their faces comical as one lumberjack painted on eyes and smiles. Though the lumberjacks were very large and two of them barely fit in the barn, they had made all the toys just the right size for children.

            “Ouch,” Patch cried when he forgot and stood up straight, his head poking a hole right through the roof.

            “I think we are going to have to build a bigger workshop,” Santa stated. “One where you will not have to walk on your knees or sleep with your feet sticking out the door.”

            Not only did the lumberjacks make toys and trains and hobby horses, they quickly built Santa a huge building tall enough so all four could work inside and no one banged their head on the roof. And thus began Santa’s Workshop.

* * *

            Christmas Eve came with a new layer of snow all over everything to make the landscape white and glittering.

            “I’ve made you a new coat to keep you warm,” Mrs. Claus said, holding it up for Santa. “But Patch used all my material, and even cut up the blanket for the toy soldiers’ coats, and so I had only this red fur to use.”

            Of course, Santa wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Claus that he didn’t look good in red, so he allowed her to help him into the coat, buckling a wide black belt around his middle to keep it closed.

            The lumberjacks put all the toys into gigantic bags and loaded them onto Santa’s wagon. Then they hitched the mules to the harness. They stood beside Mrs. Claus and waved, their huge hands causing the new snow to flurry about so much they couldn’t see Santa as he drove out of sight.

Mrs. Clause only hoped he would not drive the mules right off the road, for not only was there no light to brighten the way, but Bessie, one of the mules, was blind in one eye and really shouldn’t be out late at night. Thankfully, Santa only went to the neighboring villages and farms, always getting home before dawn.

* * *

            Sleepy and tired from his night on the road, Santa unhitched the mules and put them to bed in the barn. He dragged his bag of leftover toys behind him as he walked to the house, hoping Mrs. Claus would have a hot breakfast waiting for him.

            When he opened the door, it was to find Mrs. Claus crying, her apron full of tears and the floor awash with puddles.

            “What has happened?” he asked, dropping his bag into the corner.

            “They reopened the mill so the lumberjacks have left!” she wailed.

“But you didn’t care for the fact they broke your chairs and cut up your blankets and that Patch put a hole in the roof of the barn with his head.”

            “I know, and they ruined the tools when they tossed them out into the snow,” she added to the list of grievances against the lumberjacks.

            “Then why are you crying now that they have gone?” Santa shook his head.

            “How will we make toys for the children next year?”

            “Well, perhaps I will have to get apples if the orange trees fail again,” Santa said with a sigh.

            “We can help.”

Santa thought Mrs. Claus had spoken, though the words were much higher than her sweet voice. “I know you will, dear,” he replied, patting her on the shoulder.

            “I didn’t say anything. I thought you had spoken,” she told him.

            “Let us out. We want to help.” A thumping sound came from the corner, and when Santa turned, he saw his bag wiggling and bumping all over the floor.

            “What on earth?” Mrs. Claus asked.

            “The lumberjacks made so many dolls and soldiers, I had some left over,” Santa replied as he carefully approached the squirming, jumping bag. He pulled the tie that kept it closed. Out tumbled the dolls in their patchwork dresses and the soldiers in their blanket uniforms, all talking at once.

            “We should make more trains and bicycles to ride on.”

“And doll houses to live in.”

“And games to play like checkers and dominoes.”

Santa and Mrs. Claus were so surprised, they fell into the only two chairs not broken by the lumberjacks. The small dolls and soldiers, so very different from the huge lumbering men who had been there just the night before, laughed and chattered happily.

“Well, we won’t have to worry about anyone putting a hole in the roof with their head, now will we?” Mrs. Claus asked.

“And even though there are many more of them, I don’t suppose they will eat as much as the lumberjacks, will they?” Santa said as he watched the dolls and soldiers merrily dance around the room, still talking excitedly about all the toys they wanted to make.

“If you make so many trains and bikes and games and doll houses, how will I ever get them all delivered?” Santa asked. “I went as far and wide as I could with my wagon and mules, and still, I had all of you left over.”

The dolls looked at the soldiers, and they all giggled.

“I think we had better go outside for this,” said one soldier with red painted cheeks and a button nose.

The soldiers dragged Santa’s bag out into the yard. The dolls grabbed Santa and Mrs. Claus by the hands and pulled and pushed them out onto the porch. It was just before dawn and the glint of new fallen snow made everything glitter and twinkle like a fairyland.

“Hurry, before it’s too late,” one of the dolls said. “The magic is almost over.”

As Santa watched, two soldiers held the bag open and another went inside. He could hear whispers and neighs and all kinds of noise as the bag jumped around and looked like it was alive.

“Here they come!” a muffled voice hollered from deep inside the bag.

The head of one hobbyhorse poked out of the bag, followed by another and another. Where once they had only a stick for a body, now they had four legs. As they emerged and stood wobbling in the snow, they grew and grew and sprouted beautiful antlers on their heads.

“Why, you’re reindeer!” Santa exclaimed.

One of the reindeer, whose nose was painted bright red, nodded, the bells on his antlers jingling merrily.

“We can fly, too,” said one. “We’ll make sure you’re on time to each and every child’s house on Christmas Eve, delivering all the toys made by your…” The reindeer looked curiously at the toys.

“We’re dolls.”

“We’re soldiers.”

“Hmm, we can’t keep calling you that,” Santa said. “Let’s see. There are eleven of you.”

“Elvens,” repeated one of the baby dolls who was just learning to talk.

“That’s it!” Santa exclaimed, his belly shaking with his laughter. “We’ll call you elves!”

So the story is told that thanks to the huge and hearty lumberjacks, Santa now has a workshop and a merry group of elves to help him make toys every year. And with the speed of the magical reindeer, Santa has time to deliver all those toys to good girls and boys all over the world.

If you love holiday stories, I invite you to visit my page at Books We Love at https://bwlpublishing.ca/baldwin-barbara/ where I have three of them waiting for your reading pleasure. “If Wishes Were Magic”, “Always Believe” and “Snowflakes and Kisses” are all available in both ebook and print.

Barbara Baldwin

www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

www.amazon.com/author/barbarabaldwin

A Window to my World

R

Here is the cover of my new book which will pre-release in October. Isn’t it great? I love the idea of the window because my main character, Bonnie, is in the process of lifechanging events and the window is so symbolic of looking outward, or looking beyond the walls that have held her back.

Windows are often overlooked (no pun intended). They are just “there”. We look out a window, we look in through the window. We window-shop, yet sometimes we need to just see the window. I like the way Sydney J. Harris makes a comparison between us and windows:

“People are like stained - glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.”

Perhaps a more well known “windows” expression is “The eyes are the window to the soul” or as another author said, “They say dreams are the windows of the soul--take a peek and you can see the inner workings, the nuts and bolts.” Either way, there is much more to each of us than window dressing, and sometimes we have to look deep to find it. At the same time, we need to be careful, or as Benjamin Franklin said:

“Don't throw stones at your neighbors if your own windows are glass.”

As writers, it is our job, and responsibility, to show our readers what is beyond those windows; to open the world for them and take them places they can’t go on their own, and to describe it in such rich detail they feel as if they are indeed in the middle of a flower garden.

“Short stories are tiny windows into other worlds and other minds and dreams. They are journeys you can make to the far side of the universe and still be back in time for dinner.” Neil Gaiman

I love to write, sharing stories with my readers that will make their days a little brighter, like light through a window. My love for the written word “unlocks doors and opens windows that weren't even there before.” (Mignon McLaughlin)

Erma Bombeck, one of my favorite columnists, once said, “Never have more kids than you do car windows.” This does not apply to books, because the more books you have, the more windows to open; the more worlds to explore.

So open this browser window and explore worlds I have imagined just for you. https://bwlpublishing.ca/baldwin-barbara/

I hope your day is as bright as a freshly washed window!

Barbara Baldwin

www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

www.amazon.com/author/barbarabaldwin

 

 

 

Summer Festivals

Find in print and ebook at 

https://books2read.com/Prelude-and-Promises

Summer often brings festivals to town, over and above County and State Fairs. Sometimes a state will host a festival year after year, becoming renowned for a particular event. For example, if you’re participating in RAGBRAI[1], you’ll be in Iowa, USA, in July. We also know the Calgary Stampede[2] is quite a bit further north and is not to be confused with the Country Stampede[3]. Other festivals, like the “Apple Cider Fest”, “The Great Chili Cookoff” or the “Annual Arts and Craft Fair” might occur in every other town across the state, or in several states congruently.

It's fun to visit festivals, especially if you’re not from that area because you get a taste of the town’s specialties, whether it be deep-fried pickles, motor boat races on the river, or hot air balloon competitions. As a writer, I love to incorporate celebrations and festivals into my stories. Depending on where the story is based, these festivals can be real or fictitious, but always fun to experience.

When writing “Prelude and Promises”, I knew the island community of Lockabee needed a festival; a cause for celebration. It would add action to the story, and give Jake a reason to take Cheyenne “out on the town” and share the reasons he preferred living there instead of Chicago. What could be better for a small island with a seafaring foundation than a Mermaid Festival?

_________________

¹ Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa (Register is a major newspaper)

² a variety of shows, including a well-known annual rodeo held in Calgary, Alberta, Canada

³ Kansas’ largest country music festival

_________________

Here’s an excerpt from Jake’s story, “Prelude and Promises” which is available in both ebook and print. Enjoy:

Jake shook his head. “This weekend is the Mermaid Festival, and I agreed to be on the committee. I can’t run out on that.”

“They celebrate mermaids?”

“From what I’ve heard, one of the first families on the island was Abel Lockburn and his brothers. They were shrimpers from the mainland, and the legend goes that once they were caught in a fierce storm. Their mast was broken and they were floundering at sea, far from the mainland. All was lost until a mermaid rose from the rolling waves and commanded the seas to calm, then she led them to this island, where they decided to settle.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugged. “Who am I to dispute legend? Besides, anything that helps the economy of small islands like Lockabee is cause for celebration. From what I understand, there will be several thousand people here over the two days.”

***

The heat assaulted her; the sun already bounced off the light colored walls of the buildings. She did have her sunglasses, which she hastily donned, but she could have used a hat.

Jake stood at the bottom of the steps. He wore ragged cutoffs, a tee with the sleeves torn off and tennis shoes with a hole in one toe. His ball cap was turned backwards, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting the bright light.

“You’ve only been here two months,” she said as she joined him and they started down the boardwalk. “How is it your clothes look like they survived every natural disaster known to man?”

He laughed and she was glad to see he harbored no ill feelings for her having run out on him last night. “You can actually buy clothes this way.”

“The question is, why would you want to?”

“You need a hat,” he said instead. He grabbed her hand and led her into a souvenir shop.

She took a step toward the wide brimmed sun hats but he pulled her the opposite way.

“You’ll need something that stays on your head.” He grabbed one from the shelf. It had a fish coming out of water with a huge hook in its mouth. Embroidered in hot pink on the black material was “hook’er”.

“Seriously?” she choked out but had to laugh when he turned back around and she saw the front of his hat. “Chick bait” was scrawled next to a can of worms.

“Is there anything that doesn’t have to do with fish and sex?” she asked.

He looked at her with mock surprise. “This entire island is supported by fishing.”

“And the sex?” she questioned without thinking.

He wiggled his brows as he plucked another hat from a lower shelf. “How do you think they make the next generation of fishermen?” He started to put the white hat on her head, then reached behind her and pulled her pony tail out through the hole in the back.

“What does this one say?” She tried to pull it off but he caught her hand and held it tight. She noticed he had replaced his bandage with a brace that wrapped around his wrist and palm, leaving his fingers free. She momentarily forgot about the hat as she studied his hand, assuring herself the swelling had gone down.

He kept hold of her as he gave the cashier some money.

“Fitting.” The man nodded toward her hat as he handed Jake his change. “And not just because of the festival.”

Cheyenne pulled her hand free and sought a mirror. She wasn’t leaving this store with a derogatory saying on her hat. It took her a minute to read the word backward, then she smiled as Jake came up behind her. “Mermaid” was stenciled in emerald green, arching around a picture of the aforesaid, her long blonde hair barely covering lush breasts.

***

Before she could protest, Jake grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the street. Music still wafted across the breeze, and lights along Main Street were bright enough for one to think it was midday instead of midnight.

“Do you feel like walking down to the pier to see the flotilla?” Jake had moved his arm to her shoulders, holding her close.

Cheyenne’s feet hurt, her back ached, and she was sure she smelled like fryer grease. “Why not? I had nothing else planned for the middle of the night.”

He gave her shoulders a squeeze as he laughed. They stopped at one of the vendors along the way and he purchased a couple of bottles of water before leading her down the pier to where McNally’s boat had been earlier. The pier security lights didn’t reach quite this far, and the soft night closed around them.

“He’s no doubt trolling the flotilla,” Jake said as he pulled her down so their feet dangled off the end of the pier.

“Keeping everyone in line?” she asked.

“No. Probably partying along with the rest of them.” He laughed.

Cheyenne looked out over the glassy water and sucked in a breath. Hundreds, probably thousands of lights flickered across the harbor. Though most were white, every so often a boat was silhouetted in blue and red, green or purple. She glanced to the right where the lights appeared to stretch into infinity. When she turned her head to the left, she encountered Jake’s lips, close but not quite touching.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, afraid to break the spell.

“You’re beautiful,” he corrected, and then there was only the sound of lapping water.

***

For a complete copy of “Prelude and Promises”, click the link below the picture or visit my website at http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin  or my Amazon author site at https://www.amazon.com/author/barbarabaldwin. You will find not only this book, but others including historical and time travel romance.

            If you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy writing them for you, I would love for you to leave a review on Amazon.

Have a fun, festival-filled summer,

Barbara Baldwin

 

---

 

 

 

March Madness

 

Available in print and ebook at 

https://books2read.com/Game-of-Love

            March has come in warm but windy, yet so much better than our February. And for those in the US, it brings with it March Madness, the annual NCAA men’s basketball scuffle to determine the national champion. Even those who never played the game usually have a favorite team and fill out brackets with friends; brackets that often run amuck after the first round as top seeded teams get upset before they really get started.

            When I started writing “A Game of Love” and realized it started in March, I couldn’t help but add a little bit of basketball madness, even though my main character, Megan, has no interest in the sport. She’s much more interested in her best friend’s older brother, and is soon entangled in romance, until a murder rather disrupts things. If that isn’t bad enough, she has to contend with a ghost who has chosen her to haunt.

            Enjoy the opening chapter of “A Game of Love”, a contemporary romance revolving around the history of Boston, a cyber treasure hunt and a two hundred year ghost longing to find her lover.

***

Megan tilted her head back as far as she could, and still the chimneys of the three story mansion were hidden from view. It stood separate and majestic among the brick row houses in the heart of Beacon Hill. More than two hundred years ago, it had been the only house at the very edge of Boston by the Charles River; home to a tea merchant during the Revolutionary War.

Stacy, her best friend since grade school, actually lived here now. When they were young they had called it the Castle and had often pretended a prince would ride up on his white horse and carry them away. Even now when she had outgrown childhood fantasies, Megan felt the house held secrets lost to time.

            The wrap-around porch and tall front columns were painted a dark cinnamon red to blend with the brick. Comfortable wicker chairs graced both sides of the door, their cushions covered in bright flowered fabric that coordinated nicely with the rest of the furniture. Stacy, or more likely her mom, had redecorated since her last visit. All along the front were the rose bushes for which the Castle, actually named the Blue Rose Bed & Breakfast, was famous.

The wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face and sending a shiver down her spine. March in Boston was not yet time for roses. Though there was no snow on the ground, it still felt like winter. She hurried up the steps to get out of the wind just as the door opened.

“Megan!” Stacy’s exuberant hug nearly knocked her over, which was hard to do given Megan stood six foot tall in her stocking feet. “Come in; come in!” She grabbed Megan by the coat and practically dragged her into the house.

“My suitcase.” Megan turned back but Stacy snagged it and rolled it inside, closing the door with a slam.

Stacy, only five foot two, with blonde hair and blue eyes, had always reminded Megan of Tinker Bell. Even more so now as she fluttered around. “I am so excited you’re here.”

“I can tell.” Megan shrugged out of her coat and automatically turned to hang it on the coat rack to the left of the door.

“There’s just so much going on,” Stacy continued. “After a rather slow winter, the Castle is starting to fill up on weekends, and the summer months are practically all booked. But all that can wait. Come on back to the kitchen so we can talk while I make a few appetizers for happy hour.”

Stacy turned and Megan followed, the Bed & Breakfast as familiar as her own home. A wide staircase ran along the right side of the hall up to the second then third floors. When they were little, Stacy’s bedroom had been upstairs along with her parents’, and her two brothers had shared the huge loft on the third floor. After everyone had grown and left, her parents had converted their home to a Bed & Breakfast, adding bathrooms and dividing the loft into two airy suites. When her parents retired and moved to Arizona, Stacy had used their room as another suite and had moved to the basement, which was just as roomy and well-appointed as the rest of the house.

Immediately to the left of the entryway was a small library with a desk and computer, complete with Wi-Fi connections. It allowed guests a little privacy and quiet. Next was a sitting room, open to the guests and housing a big screen TV and several sitting areas. Megan remembered the winter Stacy’s parents had taken out the wall between that and the dining room, opening the space to accommodate more guests when needed.

Now they cut through the dining room and around the table, easily able to seat twenty. The table held a pretty arrangement of foliage, complementing the dark wood of the buffet and sideboard. Their childhood nickname of the Castle was totally appropriate given the size of the house itself, full of antique furniture and gilt trimmed pictures. The spacious gardens to the back, complete with gazebo, added to its appeal. And everything was spotless.

She followed Stacy through the half door into the kitchen. This was the one room of the house that had been completely modernized. State of the art appliances included a sub-zero refrigerator, six burner range and two ovens. Here, too, everything gleamed and the scent of rich coffee filled the air.

“How do you keep up with all this?” Megan asked.

“Sheesh, it’s not like I do it,” Stacy saucily replied as she reached above the counter and grabbed two coffee mugs. “You know how much I like housework.” She handed Megan a cup and spoon then turned and grabbed a bottle of creamer from the fridge.

Megan laughed as she poured a goodly amount of creamer into her coffee and stirred. “If I remember right, your mom always made you keep your door closed, even if there wasn’t any company. And she didn’t even venture to the loft where Cal and Jeff slept.”

Stacy’s voice was muffled, head buried in the refrigerator. “I hate to say it, but we never changed. At least Cal and Jeff moved out after college.” She pulled out a tray of cheese and salami, and another of pickles, tiny carrots and olives, setting them on the counter in front of Megan.

She automatically reached for a black olive, munching slowly; hoping having her mouth full would keep her from asking about Cal, Stacy’s oldest brother and Megan’s teenage crush.

Stacy dumped a tube of fancy crackers into a pottery bowl that was lined with a pretty embroidered napkin. “Help yourself.” She shoved everything closer. “I know they don’t feed you on airplanes anymore and,” she paused, glancing at the clock, “what time did you leave California?”

Megan groaned. “Seven this morning. Even with the plane changes in Denver and Chicago, there wasn’t enough time to grab anything.” Stacking salami and cheese on a cracker, she munched happily as Stacy continued her preparations.

“You haven’t started serving all meals, have you?” she asked.

Stacy shook her head. “Just breakfast, but not long ago I started having happy hour. Most of our guests come back from their meanderings around four or five to change before they go out for the evening. Well, at least in the summer that seems to be the pattern. Right now, the three registered couples told me they had late lunches while they were out sightseeing. So now, they’re probably in for the night. They seem to enjoy having a little snack and a glass of wine.”

She cocked her head to the side, and when Megan listened, she heard the television and a lot of yelling. Stacy smiled. “I dare say the ladies weren’t as ready to return as the guys.”

Megan sent her a questioning look.

Stacy sighed. “Honestly, Meggie. March Madness; college basketball?”

Megan shrugged.

“I can’t believe you have lived this long; especially hanging around here with Cal and Jeff, and have no head for sports.”

“I did watch the Super Bowl this year,” Megan replied defensively.

“Only because you were on a date, as I recall from our texting.” She raised a brow as only she could. “How is Brad, by the way?”

Megan snagged another piece of salami. “I wouldn’t know. The Super Bowl marked not only the beginning and end of my foray into sports, but the end of our relationship, if you could even call it that.” She had dated Brad for six months and finally asked herself why? She decided that was enough.

“And you never called?” Stacy grabbed two of the plates and swept around the counter. “Hold that thought; I’ll be right back.” Megan thought to help, so picked up the cracker bowl and followed Stacy into the dining room.

“Hi, everyone. This is my good friend, Megan.” Stacy waved in her direction and Megan nodded in recognition of the “hellos” from the couples sitting in the adjacent room. “Here’s the wine. Please help yourself, but no throwing things at the TV. It’s only a game.”

“Only a game?” One of the guys echoed. “First time in years Iowa made it to the sweet sixteen.”

“But you’re from Chicago,” Stacy replied.

“I know, but I thought about going to school in Iowa.” He grinned as he stacked some of the snacks onto a plate and grabbed a napkin. A yell from his friends had him hurrying back to the TV.

“They’re good for now. Come on,” Stacy said as she went back into the kitchen, closing the top of the half door so they could talk in peace.

“You still like doing this, don’t you?” Megan could tell her friend enjoyed her role as hostess, as she had when her folks first opened their home to strangers.

“I love it, but don’t think you can change the subject so easily. What happened with Brad?”

Megan sipped her coffee before answering. “There was just no spark.”

“But he was a doctor,” Stacy exclaimed. “We were always going to marry doctors or lawyers, or international celebrities, remember?”

“Yes and here we are. You as the very congenial hostess of a very successful B&B, and me…” Her voice trailed off.

Her friend reached across the counter, her small hand covering Megan’s. “What is it, Meggie? You said when you left Boston after college that you’d never come back. Yet here you are.”

Megan scrunched up her face. Her parents had died when she was a teen. There had just been nothing here for her. But now, when push came to shove, the Castle was the only place she had to go.

“I quit my job,” she said. “Or rather, my job quit me.”

Stacy squeezed her hand, then spun around. “This calls for more than coffee.” She grabbed a bottle from the cupboard and two shot glasses from another. Quickly she poured two shots, held one up and nodded to Megan to get the other.

Only Stacy, Megan thought, picking up the shot glass, tapping it against Stacy’s and downing the clear liquid.

“God!” She gasped as liquid fire raced down her throat, hitting her near empty stomach with a splash. She nearly dropped the glass onto the counter.

“It gets better,” Stacy said as she poured them each another shot. “Bottoms up.” When Megan didn’t immediately pick up her glass, Stacy added the inevitable, “Dare you.”

She had no choice, and licked her lips after downing the shot, the peachy flavor lingering. When Stacy started to pour a third round, Megan put her hand over the glass. “No more; not until I get something more than crackers in my stomach. Besides, aren’t you on duty?”

Stacy shrugged. “Not really. I serve an evening snack as a little plus, so it’s not like they expect any special service. Actually we could go downstairs, but let me fix you some dinner first.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. Just no more shots.” Megan turned the bottle around. “Cruzan peach rum?”

“Who’s drinking that sissy stuff?” A deep voice came from the back porch just as the door opened. A tingle of awareness raced up Megan’s spine. She didn’t have to see his face to know it was Cal. A tall frame filled the doorway as he shrugged off his jacket.

 His voice had always drawn her; deep and gravelly and totally seductive. She hadn’t seen Stacy’s brother since high school, and his gangly but athletic high school physique had certainly filled out in the years since. As her heart thudded erratically, she thought some things never changed. The crush she had all those years ago still morphed her back into a tongue-tied teenager.

“Well, well. If it isn’t little Megan Sue, the fourth but unacknowledged Garrett kid. Hey, sis.”  He actually ruffled his sister’s hair as he headed for the sink, his back now to Megan.

Which was just as well because she knew she was staring. Cal had been good looking in high school, but now he was devastatingly handsome. Completely opposite of Stacy’s fair complexion and blonde features, Cal’s hair was darkest brown, wavy and just to the shaggy side of too long. Broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist. Tight jeans covered a butt that was…oh, so fine. The glimpse she had gotten of his face was all she had needed to fully recall his dark eyes, high cheek bones and strong chin, covered with dark stubble that was so sexy nowadays.

“Megan?” Stacy’s voice broke through her reverie. Megan swallowed and forced her gaze from Cal’s back. It was the one secret she had from Stacy, because how could she ever tell her best friend that she had the hots for her brother for the past fifteen years?

“What made you bring out the hard stuff, Stac?” Having dried his hands and tossed the towel aside, Cal turned around to lean against the counter, long legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his chest. He was casually dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, and while his pose might appear just as relaxed, Megan knew he was always watchful.

“Megan quit her job,” Stacy began, and Megan couldn’t see correcting her.

With a harrumph, Cal reached over Stacy’s head to the liquor cabinet and pulled down a different bottle. “Then you should be drinking this.” He quickly poured shots, raised his in salute and downed it. Megan lifted hers to delicately sniff.

“No way.” She set it back down. When Stacy shot her a questioning look, she added, “Do you remember the last time we drank tequila?”

Cal laughed when Stacy smacked him in the chest with her hand. “She just got here, Cal, don’t be chasing her away so fast. Besides, what are you even doing here? Aren’t you on duty?”

“It was quitting time so I just thought I’d stop by and see you.” He gave her a grin that would stop the heartbeat of most women, but his sister was immune.

“In other words, you didn’t bother going to the grocery story this week.” She just shook her head and rummaged in the refrigerator, coming up with a package of pork chops. “I was planning on Jeff, but he at least called to say he had other plans, so there should be enough for your hollow leg.” She began grabbing spices from the side cupboard and rubbing some into the meat. “But you have to start the grill and cook,” she added.

Cal gave Megan a casual wink before stepping through the door onto the back deck. Megan wished it had been Jeff coming over. Although the brothers looked extremely alike, Jeff was just three years older than she, whereas Cal was five. Megan didn’t know if it was the age difference or what, but Jeff had simply been her friend, whereas Cal had been her fantasy. Now, she had reservations as to whether moving back to Boston had been such a great idea.

***

For a complete copy of “A Game of Love, click the link below the picture or visit my website at http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin  or my Amazon author site at https://www.amazon.com/author/barbarabaldwin. You will find not only this book, but others including historical and time travel romance.

            If you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy writing them for you, I would love for you to leave a review on Amazon.

 

If Wishes Were Magic -- Holiday Romance Especially for You

 

My Christmas books are 50% off at Amazon.com!

Recently I purchased a creative writing book titled “642 Things to Write About”. Some were full pages to write on, some pages were divided into quarters for small comments, or even pictures. The prompts were everything from a single word to a sentence suggestion and most were very thought provoking. Since it wasn’t set up to write from page 1, I flipped through it and jotted things throughout the book as a particular suggestion triggered a thought. Until I came to this one:

“You are a fifty-three year old woman living in Chicago. Write a letter to Santa.”

 You might think “well, isn’t that a fun twist on an old theme – grownups writing to Santa.”

My thoughts were along very different lines. You see, I had actually written that story; the one sentence writing prompt could be the tag line for my book. So my question is—did someone make that up or did they submit the suggestion after reading my book, “If Wishes were Magic”?

 People have said there are only so many plots, but what are the odds that this writing prompt and my story are EXACTLY THE SAME? I mean, it could have been a different town, or a different age groupnor a different plot line. I don’t consider it plagiarism as it’s only a sentence descriptor. If it was, in fact, based on my book, I consider it a compliment that whoever wrote this (and the book was a compilation of many writers’ submissions) considered my story to be one worth using.

“If Wishes were Magic” was a fun book to write, with lots of ‘feel good’ scenarios such as rescue dogs and cats, volunteerism, connecting with parents in the Service and best of all—making kids’ Christmas wishes come true. Add all that to a developing romantic relationship between my two main characters and you have my kind of story – happily ever after! Here is a little more about this story:

In Chicago, Chantilly Morrison is set to launch Chantilly Frost, a new cosmetics line, by holding a “Dear Santa” contest to make women’s fantasies come true. But because of an error in the ad copy, she’s inundated with letters from children, whose scribbled wishes tug at her heart. She hires an investigator to find the letter writers so she can throw a huge Christmas party and make the children’s fantasies come true.

AJ Anderson can find the unfindable, whether it’s lost artifacts or people, and he’s very good at his job. But when Chanti dumps hundreds of letters in his lap with the directive to find the children-- before Christmas Eve-- he knows the request is impossible, but the woman is irresistible. Should he use his skills to make her Christmas wish come true, or can he use the countdown to Christmas to find the key that unlocks the lady’s heart? 

You can purchase this fun Christmas book at your favorite online bookstore by clicking this link: https://books2read.com/If-Wishes-Were-Magic. 

If you’re looking for more Christmas magic, I have also written “Always Believe”

https://books2read.com/Always-Believe, 

and “Snowflakes and Kisses,https://books2read.com/Snowflakes-and-Wishes, and all three holiday books are currently on sale for ½ price at Amazon! Happy Holidays! 

Barb

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/