by Ann Major
Grant knelt down and folded the little boy into his arms. "Right here… son." Very gently he lifted him from the ground.
"Are you really going to stay?" Darius demanded eagerly.
"Forever."
Norie drew a deep breath of pure happiness.
"Merry Christmas, Norie," Grant whispered, his blue eyes dazzling bright, as he drew her closer into the warm circle of love.
Holding Darius tightly, Grant bent his head and kissed her.
Author's Note
For me, Christmas is a very special time of family, love and renewal. It is truly a season of miracles.
A beautiful pecan tree hangs over my backyard. I know Christmas is coming when the pecans start falling and the squirrels start racing about collecting them. My mother (who loves fresh pecans nearly as much as the squirrels) uses the nuts to make homemade candy-divinity, pralines, fudge and my Aunt Bill's recipe for carmelized fudge. I use them to make pralines and date-nut fruit cake. I've included the recipe in the front. Now my daughter is old enough to bake cookies for her friends.
With three children in our house, there is always great excitement as Christmas approaches. My two younger children, Kim and Tad, insist on putting up the Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving. I guess just seeing the tree in the living room is a daily reminder that Christmas is really coming soon. My older son, David, decorates the outside of the house.
Usually, before Christmas, we go to our city's local production of The Nutcracker. My sons used to object, but now they look forward to it as a pleasant ritual. And then on Christmas Eve there is a beautiful candlelight service in our church. After attending the service we go to my parents' for eggnog.
On Christmas Day, I cook a big turkey dinner for my family and all of our relatives who live in town. At some time during the holidays, we drive to the Texas hill country, where my husband's parents and sisters have homes, and we spend several days visiting them. If we make the trip before Christmas, we always go into the woods to help them cut down their Christmas tree.
I always look forward to Christmas, and I hope that this year's Christmas will be special for each and every one of you.
LIGHTS OUT! by Rita Rainville
A recipe from Rita Rainville:
This recipe should probably be called Grandma's Graham Torte, because the only time we ever had it was when we lived in Chicago and went to visit Grandma. When I grew up, she eventually-and grudgingly-gave me the recipe. It's one of my favorites because not only is it delicious, it's easy-and when I bake, easy is a priority with me.
GRAHAM TORTE
4 eggs
1 lb (5 1/4 cups) crushed graham crackers
2 cups milk
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 cup butter or margarine
4 tsp baking powder
Preheat oven to 350° F.
Combine crushed graham crackers and baking powder.
Set aside.
In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar. Add eggs, milk and graham-cracker mixture. Blend well.
Put mixture in ungreased 9" x 13" pan. Bake for 45 to 50 minutes. Cool.
Serve with whipped cream.
See? I said it was easy. And you won't have to worry about leftovers!
Chapter One
One alligator, two alligators…
The instant the radio died, Carroll Stilwell jumped up and mentally began counting. She freely admitted that her groan, uttered as she trotted to the bay window that overlooked both her deep front yard and that of her new neighbor, was loud, self-indulgent and self-pitying. She was entitled.
Three alligators, four alligators, five alligators…
Unconsciously using her eight-year-old daughter's favorite method of tolling the seconds, she twitched the lace curtains apart and stared across the sunlit half acre of pine trees, waiting for the rangy, broad-shouldered man to erupt out of his front door.
Six alligators, seven alligators, eight alligators…
Slade Ryan had moved into the sprawling house next door-a house much too large for a single man, everyone in the small mountain community nosily agreed-just two weeks earlier, and in that time Carroll had already devoured her month's emergency stash of chocolate-covered caramels. The tension was definitely giving her an ulcer, she brooded, morbidly prodding a slim finger at her belly.
Nine alligators, ten alii-
Even though she had kept her expectant gaze riveted on the front of his house, Carroll still winced when the sturdy oak door flew open and the big, dark-haired man exploded out onto the porch and down the stairs, heading straight for her place. He wore his work clothes-faded jeans and a maroon knit shirt. Over the past fourteen days she had learned that his appearance at her door in snug jeans and a colorful shirt meant that he had been sitting in front of the computer-at least, until the power had failed.
One part of her mind noted that he was getting faster; yesterday it had taken him eleven alligators. Another part registered the set of his wide shoulders and the long-legged stride that had all the elements of an angry stalk, despite its fluid grace. He definitely wasn't coming over for a friendly chat.
So what else was new? she asked herself wryly. With the single exception of their first meeting, every time she had talked to Slade, he had been ready to wring somebody's neck. No, not somebody's. Kris's.
Sighing philosophically, Carroll headed for the front of the house, arriving just as a fist pounded on the door. She cracked it open and looked up into furious gray eyes.
"Where is he?" Slade demanded, resting one big hand on the doorjamb.
Carroll's tentative smile widened a bit as she took in his straight, dark hair; it looked as if he had been trying to tear it out at the roots. "Now, Slade, you wouldn't hurt an old man who looks like Santa Claus, would you?"
He exhaled sharply. "Right now I'm ready to throttle an old man who thinks he's Santa Claus." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. Carroll had a strong hunch that most people ran for cover when he bit off his words that way. "Where is he?"
It didn't take even a second's thought on her part; she did what she had always done: protected her grandfather. "How would you like to talk about it over a cup of coffee and a piece of Mom's famous graham torte? She made it this morning."
He gave her a harried glance. "I don't want to be fed, I just want to stop him. He's driving me nuts!"
"It's fantastic," she forged on. "You've got to try it. You can yell at him later." She held out her hand and waggled her fingers. "Come on."
As usual with Slade, she got more than she bargained for. He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, stopping only when her soft palm rested snugly against his hard one. Startled, she looked up and met his waiting gaze. A definite mistake, she decided belatedly. His silvery eyes had the same expression of masculine hunger that she had spotted several times before. And it bothered her now just as much as it had then. She didn't need a complication like Slade Ryan in her life. No, all in all, with things as they were, it was safer to have him mad.
Besides, Carroll reminded herself as she turned and led him toward the large, cheerful kitchen, he did have a legitimate grievance. Her grandfather, Kris K. Ringle, was a man with a mission: an obsessive determination to turn their small town into a winter fairyland of twinkling lights. And he was going to do it before Christmas or bust. This Christmas. The townspeople, to a man, woman and child, were crazy about the idea, and they supported his efforts. Just as they had last Christmas, and the one before that, and the ones before that.
This year, they had even volunteered to do without electricity for a couple of hours each afternoon so Kris could test the lights he had strung all around town. And therein lay the problem. He didn't test every afternoon between one and three, just when he could no longer do his testing at night. Unfortunately, the closer Christmas came, the more frequently the need arose.
It was a cozy arrangement, the sort of thing that could only happen in a small town. The people who were at ho
me declared a moratorium on cooking and housecleaning, using the two hours for leisure time, doing anything that didn't require the use of electricity. Even the small shops in town had rigged up various emergency alternative methods of recording sales-some of them quite creative-to use when they sold their wares to the tourists.
And in the way things had of happening, the tourists from San Diego and the surrounding cities were charmed by the spirit of small-town cooperation, and intrigued by the ruling passion of one aging, plump, determined man. The fact that he did look like Santa Claus merely added a piquant element to a good story. The early tourists had told their friends, who in turn told their friends, and now the small town had a steady stream of visitors coming to check on the progress of the lights and, incidentally, contributing to the economic enhancement of Pinetree. Since the stream swelled noticeably during the holiday season, everyone was happy with the arrangement-the chamber of commerce, the business owners, the residents.
Carroll cast an oblique glance at Slade's stubborn expression as she waved him to a chair with her free hand. Well, she amended, almost every resident. Slade Ryan, with his high-tech computer graphics and an imminent deadline, was the one glaring exception. He was definitely not a happy camper.
When Slade slid his hand to Carroll's wrist, he felt a shock jolt through her body and allowed himself the indulgence of a split-second fantasy. It was over before it was fully formed, because if Slade was anything, he was a realist. Carroll Stilwell's pulse wasn't racing because she had an uncontrollable urge to crawl all over him and drag him off to her bedroom. No, much as he would like to think it was, there was another reason.
The wary expression in her deep blue eyes said it all. As far as she was concerned, he was a stick of dynamite about to go off, and she wanted her family to be out of range when he blew.
"I don't bite," he assured her grimly.
"Really?" She raised a skeptical brow, then looked pointedly at the large hand holding her wrist captive. It was strong and tan, dusted with dark hair. When he reluctantly released her, she filled two mugs with coffee and cut a hefty piece of the torte for him. After transferring everything to the table, she slid into the chair across from him. "You could've fooled me," she told him, leaning back and eyeing him with a severe frown. "You're as cranky as a hungry bear."
Slade winced. She had a point. He was. Both bad-tempered and starved. And he'd been that way since the day after he had moved in, the day she had strolled over with a home-cooked meal, a welcome to the neighborhood, and a smile that practically knocked him to his knees. His body had gone on alert, and it hadn't eased since.
Short blond hair just skimmed her jawline. Her deep blue eyes were candid, curious and cautious. He had ticked off the first two items the instant he'd opened the door. The rest hadn't been long in coming. One glance at his expression had apparently triggered her alarm system, and her changing smile had both warned him not to get his hopes up and attempted to reassure him, just on the off chance that he had a knee-jerk masculine reaction to the meal she was offering. It told him clearly that the food was only a neighborly gesture; she wasn't aiming for his heart via his stomach.
He'd opened the door and fallen in behind her when she'd carried the steaming casserole to the kitchen. Her lance-straight back, slim waist and swaying hips had made his palms tingle. She reminded him of one of the long-stemmed mountain wildflowers, bright yellow, with a deceptive air of fragility. When she'd turned, her eyes widening at his speculative expression, the lady hadn't been pleased. With a blink of her lashes, the No Trespassing signs had been posted.
They were still up.
Suddenly, Slade was tired of the whole mess. Tired of the way she leaped protectively between him and her grandfather, tired of being on the other side of the signs. Especially tired of the edgy look she got whenever he came into sight. He swallowed a bite of the rich cake and made an appreciative sound. "How'd Christy's appointment go?" he asked casually.
Carroll blinked, surprised at his mild tone. But not being one to overlook a gift from the gods, however small it might be, she plunged into the new topic with enthusiasm. With any luck, he would forget that he'd come over ready to raise hell with Kris, she thought optimistically.
"Fine. The doctor took another X-ray and made reassuring noises, said again that it wasn't a bad break and that she's healing fast. He wants her to keep the cast on for another few weeks. I think that it's more because he knows that her only speed is fast than because she really needs it. So she'll still be thumping around on crutches for a while, endangering everyone's toes."
Slade savored her smile. It was warm and tender, not the cautious curve of her lips that she usually aimed at him. Of course, neither the warmth nor the tenderness was for him, but he would take whatever she was offering. For now. "Christy's had a rough time."
"The first day or so," Carroll agreed. "But now she's really milking the situation for all it's worth."
Slade placed his fork on the empty plate. "But think of the boon she's been to the community theater group. They have a Tiny Tim on genuine crutches."
"The whole cast is spoiling her rotten. They're also hobbling around with bruised toes." Carroll grinned. "Be warned, she's really getting into the role. In the last couple of days she's perfected a waiflike look that will have you believing she's underfed and neglected." She got up and brought the coffeepot over to the table. Filling the mugs, she said, "I've come to the conclusion that my daughter is a ham at heart."
"Maybe she comes by it naturally."
Carroll sat back down and stared at him thoughtfully. "You mean my mother?"
He nodded. "It's not that much of a leap from an artist to a budding actress. Where did Noel study?"
She laughed softly. "Upstairs." When Slade mutely pointed toward the ceiling, she nodded. "Yep. When I was a kid, Mom and Kris turned our place in San Diego into a boarding house. One of the lodgers took off in the middle of the night, leaving his paints behind in lieu of the rent. Mom decided it was an omen. She sold the house, and we moved up here, where she could be inspired."
Slade shrugged. "Whatever it takes. Apparently it worked. Her landscapes seem to be pretty popular."
"Um-hmm." Carroll didn't try to conceal her pride. "The word's finally getting around."
"Where was your dad while all this was going on?" Slade asked, finally giving in to his rampant curiosity about her. In the past two weeks, in her efforts to keep him away from Kris, she had talked at length about her grandfather, her mother and her daughter. She had said nada, zippo, about herself or the men in her life.
Now it took Slade all of three seconds to decide that he'd been patient enough. He would have preferred that she volunteer the information, but since she obviously didn't intend to, he wasn't above taking advantage of the situation. If she wanted to keep him out of the basement, away from Kris, she could damn well talk.
The smile left Carroll's face. "My father took off when I was a baby." Her tone told him that the subject was closed.
"Why?"
She shot him an aggravated glance. After seeming to weigh her options, she sighed. "Good question. He never said."
"He just left?"
"Yep. In the middle of the night, just like the lodger with the paints."
"Must have been rough."
"We managed," she said briefly.
"What happened to your husband?" He slid it in fast, before she could offer him another piece of cake or change the subject. She didn't like it, and he really couldn't blame her. Her narrowed eyes told him to go to hell.
"Are you always this rude?" she demanded, temper adding color to her cheeks.
Slade's shrug was a lazy movement of his wide shoulders. "No. Only with people who are as close-mouthed as you. And then only when it's important."
Carroll's brows rose. "Important?"
His steady gaze held hers. "I need to know just how softly I have to walk around you."
"I don't think I understand." Her puzzled frown
etched two vertical lines between her brows.
More to the point, she didn't want to understand, he reflected, even as he nodded and kept his voice patient. "I want to know what happened to the man in your life. As I see it, there are several possibilities. You could have had Christy without the benefit of a wedding, you could be divorced, or you could be a grieving widow." Or you could have a lover. He was wise enough to keep the last option to himself.
Carroll concentrated on lacing her fingers around the mug. "Does it really matter which it is?"
Slade nodded again. "Yeah, it does. I'd walk more softly around a grieving widow."
"How much more?"
His sudden grin startled her and sent her pulse tap-dancing, made her resolve to tether her impetuous tongue. It also answered her question: only as much as he had to. She fussed with the coffeepot. "I don't know how we got on this subject," she said carefully, "but it's not going to get us anywhere, so why don't we just drop it? I don't need a man in my life, however he walks."
Slade took a swallow of coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. He waited until some of the tension went out of her shoulders before he asked, "So what happened to him?"
Carroll closed her eyes, her sigh a gust of irritation. When she finally turned her gaze to Slade, he was placidly drinking his coffee, waiting. And he would keep on waiting, she realized with a sudden flash of insight. Waiting and asking until he finally got an answer. The neighborhood grapevine contended that he was a top-notch design engineer, doing something hush-hush for the military on his state-of-the-art computer. She didn't doubt it for a second; he had the typical engineer's annoying habit of asking questions, then digging with pit-bull persistence to get the answers.
With an impatient wave of her hand, she gave up. "It's an old story, and a dull one. He did exactly what the other two did-walk. Only I got the courtesy of an explanation. He was looking for something."