A Winter Wonderland

by Fern Michaels

  “I say we toast to the both of you,” he declared. “How ’bout some bubbly?”

  The flutters in Jenna’s stomach wouldn’t mix well with alcohol. “Maybe later.”

  “I’ll take a glass,” her mom replied.

  “Be back in two shakes.” With a wink, Doobie disappeared into the crowd, just as a museum docent approached. She appeared on the verge of panic.

  “Jenna, have you seen the big scissors for the ribbon?”

  Pressure to impress their patrons, to smooth over the Jackie O mishap, magnified the importance of every detail.

  “Last I saw,” Jenna said, “they were at the front desk. Bottom drawer, I think.”

  “Phew. Thank you!”

  When the woman sped away, Jenna’s mom gazed around the room. She spoke in amazement. “I can’t believe you put this together so fast.”

  “Mom, I didn’t exactly do it on my own.”

  Her mother waved this off and met her eyes. “The point is, I’m very, very proud of you.”

  Jenna felt a glow from inside. She recognized it as a deep, genuine pride, not only for the person she was becoming—more of herself, if that made any sense—but for the woman standing before her.

  “Ooh, I almost forgot.” Her mom reached into her purse and retrieved a wrapped, palm-sized box. “I brought along your Christmas present.”

  Jenna hesitated, though not because of a resistance to gift giving. The buzz of the teeming space, and weaving of waiters with passed hors d’oeuvres, didn’t make the moment ideal. What’s more, she’d left her mother’s collectible creamer, wrapped with a few other goodies, back at her condo—the home she thankfully wouldn’t have to give up.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if I open this tomorrow?” Jenna suggested.

  “You could, but I thought it might bring you luck for tonight.” The sparkle in her mom’s eyes made it impossible to decline.

  Jenna removed the paper, and out of the rectangular jewelry box she pulled a beautiful silver bracelet made of Cheerio-sized links. A shiny heart, engraved with her initials, dangled from the middle: For J. M.

  She ran her finger over the letters, fully understanding what she held. A mother’s symbol of love. Many decades from now, maybe a stranger would find it in a flea market or an antique mall. And maybe, if fortunate enough, that person would sense its story.

  “Thank you,” Jenna whispered. “I love it.” Tears welling, they traded a long heartfelt hug.

  Then stepping back, her mom relieved her of the box and wrapping. “I’ll go throw these away for you.”

  Jenna nodded at the simple but meaningful offer; her mother was now taking care of others. So captivated by the change, Jenna almost forgot about her bracelet. She placed it around her wrist and secured the clasp. Luck tonight might come in handy.

  “Merry Christmas, Jenna,” said a man’s voice. She knew that smooth timbre.

  Against the weight of dread, she straightened.

  Reece Porter. A sleek, charcoal suit and black shirt accentuated the broadness of his shoulders. Splitting the width of his chest was a burgundy tie. Beside her dress of a near-identical shade, a person could mistake them for a date.

  “I didn’t think you were going to be here.” Her greeting tumbled out, sounding more of hope than observance.

  His smile tentatively lowered as he motioned behind him. “Guess I could catch a movie down the street instead.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—I meant—when I didn’t see you with your family, I thought . . .” Once again, he’d made her a flustered mess. “Do you need help finding them?”

  “Nah, I already did, thanks. Just wanted to come over and say hi.”

  “Well. Hi.” She glanced away, mentally scraping for an excuse to escape. But her mind was too busy scolding her pulse. Why did it insist on quickening at the sight of those dark brown eyes?

  “So,” he drew out. “How goes life in the estate world?”

  The question threw her off. She thought he would have heard the news from Sandy. Although why would he ask about her? He had a gorgeous, raven-haired, blue-eyed girlfriend to occupy his thoughts.

  “I’m not in the business anymore,” Jenna replied.

  “Wow. I didn’t realize.”

  She lifted a shoulder and said pointedly, “Turns out, it wasn’t a good fit.”

  “You find something better?”

  Had he missed her message? Or was he challenging her?

  “I’m working at the museum now, as an assistant with acquisitions.”

  “So life is good, then.”

  “Life is good.”

  She meant to smirk at him, but his return smile melted the smugness right out of her. And those damn eyes. Once more, they caused her cheeks to flame.

  To her relief, a question came to mind, a cool splash of water. “Will your girlfriend be joining you tonight?”

  At that, his gaze fell away. Thank God. But then he shook his head and said, “We’re not together anymore.”

  “I see.”

  Wait—what?

  “I guess you could say we weren’t a good fit. Just took us a while to see that.”

  The echoed sentiment reverberated between them. She tried to resist, but her defenses, flimsy as they were, couldn’t compete against his undeniable sincerity. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Actually, it did—is,” he amended. “Everything is working out. Just not the way I’d pictured, maybe.”

  Although cautious, Jenna allowed herself another look in his eyes. In them she found mutual understanding, a commonality of unexpected paths. Whose life ever turned out the way they planned?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.”

  The female voice abruptly reminded Jenna of her surroundings, the task at hand. Her boss, Deanne, appeared at the arched entrance of the main hall. A wide red ribbon, tied into a Christmas bow, created a horizontal barricade. Behind her, a closed velvety curtain blocked early peeks.

  Jenna projected a look of attentiveness.

  Deanne raised both arms, palms to the back in an Evita-like pose. The signal worked, and the USO singers concluded their song in a few quick bars. The room fell to a hush. It was all a tad dramatic, but so was Deanne. And Jenna liked her that way. During the past two weeks of preparations, Jenna had come to adore the woman and her boundless passion for history.

  “We are extremely pleased to have so many esteemed guests with us this evening,” Deanne resumed, inadvertently gesticulating. Not the safest of habits with the oversize scissors in her hands. “While we had originally planned to showcase the life of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, I firmly believe the collection we’ve prepared is equally impressive. Maybe more so, as it spotlights significant heroes in our nation’s history who all too often go unrecognized.”

  As Jenna strove to listen, she could feel Reece stealing side glances in her direction. She hoped to God the heat crawling up her neck wasn’t betraying her with a beet red hue.

  In what seemed a hundred hours later, Deanne wrapped up her speech, cut the ribbon, and on cue, two docents slid open the curtains. The crowd murmured as they traveled forward. Over the heads of the herd Jenna located her mother and Doobie. She gestured for them to go on in, that she’d catch up with them soon. Wafts of perfumes and colognes, plenty of Old Spice, mingled in the air.

  “Here they come,” Reece reported as his family drew closer.

  Estelle stood at the helm in an emerald green dress and pearls, her expression distraught. “I really don’t see how anything of mine would’ve been important enough to be here.”

  “Well,” Jenna said, “why don’t we find out?”

  Estelle eyed her at length, then yielded by shuffling into the stream of people. Jenna followed, batting away doubts that this was a mistake. She again told herself: Once Estelle viewed her achievements in a revered display, and with family at her side, she would fully embrace her due credit.

  On the right, they came across the uniform that h
ad kicked all of this off. It now hung sleek and pressed on an elegant mannequin. Yellowed wartime letters filled the case to its side.

  Estelle paused for only a second before continuing onward.

  Military recruitment posters, enlarged and mounted, zigzagged down the wall. They featured colorful drawings of women in every branch: the WACs and WAVES, WAFS and WASPs, ANCs and SPARS, and more.

  What began as an idea to honor the members of the Women’s Army Corps had expanded to include thousands of others. Jenna still had trouble keeping all of their acronyms straight, but not her gratitude for what they had sacrificed.

  She hoped that message was coming through, but Estelle’s face remained unreadable. A glimpse of her family’s confusion generated little assurance.

  The rectangular display case awaited on the left. Jenna debated over pointing it out, but then Estelle halted. Her eyes squinted behind her glasses as she angled her walk. Her Bronze Star, labeled with her name, was propped beside a collage of photos. Though they all featured her unit in the Pacific, only a few of the pictures had belonged to Estelle.

  She stood there, staring at the case. Not saying a thing. No smile, no happy surprise. Just a quiver in her hands.

  “Toss them out, donate them, do as you’d like.”

  Those were the words she’d used when Jenna had first presented the keepsakes. Could she have truly meant she wanted them destroyed?

  “Mom, are these of you?” Sandy asked, confounded.

  Still, nothing in response.

  The family closed in on the case, studying the items intently.

  Jenna felt the angst of an incompetent conductor. She was orchestrating a performance headed rapidly for disaster.

  “How did you . . .” Estelle began in a rasp. Her gaze remained on the pictures. “Where did you find all of these?”

  An honest answer might only make things worse.

  “Mrs. Porter, if you’re not comfortable with this, I could certainly let the director know.”

  They could remove at least the Porters’ belongings—Jenna hoped.

  Estelle’s ragged breaths suggested she was starting to cry. Jenna moved closer, flashing back to the woman’s health scare. But then Estelle glanced up to reveal a growing smile. The puffs of exhales came from quiet laughter, not tears.

  “Hard to believe it,” she said, motioning downward, “but that’s how we did our laundry in a bind.”

  Moisture sprang to Jenna’s eyes out of sheer relief. Amid the collage, she located the photo of Estelle and a stunning light-haired woman. They were wringing out garments over upturned helmets.

  Estelle gained a reminiscent tone as she went on. “Gracious, everything we owned molded in that humidity. And the mosquitoes?” She blew out a sigh. “All bigger and deadlier than Sasquatch.”

  Jenna grinned as Estelle’s focus went on to the next picture. Three ladies sat in a jeep while Estelle leaned against the hood. Palm trees in the background dotted the scene.

  “Would you look at that,” she said. “Roz . . . and Betty. You know they used to call us the SOS girls, Shirley and me, on account of our names.”

  “I’d heard that,” Jenna replied in truth, then diverted from an inquiry about her secret source. “You must have worked hard to take care of the patients there.”

  With a calmed hand, Estelle touched the glass, hovering over a snapshot. A WAC was serving a food tray to a bedded soldier. “Met some real good fellas in that ward, that’s for sure. Her response carried a current of bittersweet memories. Something in it confirmed that the reference wasn’t limited to patients.

  Reece’s father turned from the collection. “But—this is the Bronze Star,” he said, a near whisper. “Mom, why didn’t you ever tell us you served in the war?”

  When Estelle fumbled for an answer, Reece interjected, “Because she thought her past was something to be ashamed of. And she was wrong.”

  The warmth and meaning of his words seemed to resonate with his grandma, as well as his father. In fact, they had the same effect on Jenna.

  “What a cute puppy,” Lisa commented, admiring the photo of Estelle with a Yorkshire.

  “Ahh, yeah,” Estelle said. “She used to ride with a flight crew. Called her . . . oh, what was it? Smoky, I think. Her tricks were great for cheering up patients. The staff too.” Estelle shook her head with an air of remembering, and asked Jenna, “Wherever did you find these?”

  As if summoning the answer, in the most literal sense, Jenna spotted his face. Tom Redding stood across the thinning room, dapper in his bow tie and gray suit. He’d claimed he was too busy to come, a blatant excuse. Yet he had gathered the nerve after all.

  “To be honest,” Jenna replied, “I had a little help.”

  Estelle wrinkled her brow. Her gaze proceeded to trace where Jenna had been looking and discovered the elderly gentleman. As he made his way over, he removed his fedora and smoothed his silver hair.

  Recognition captured Estelle’s face, punctuated by her hand to her lips.

  They stood only a few feet apart.

  “How are you, Stella?”

  Again, she had fallen silent and still.

  The tension palpable, Tom tried again, “You’re looking lovely.”

  Reece touched Jenna’s elbow. Who is this? he mouthed. The rest of his family appeared just as bewildered.

  Tears mounted in Estelle’s eyes, mixed with questions. Beneath those arose a history of romance and heartbreak. Had Estelle harbored too much of the latter to even return a greeting? Maybe Tom should have mailed the letter he’d mentioned, to test the waters first.

  A metal tinkling entered the air. At the end of the room, adjacent to the next hallway, Deanne jiggled a bell over her head. “Pardon me, everyone. But we have a special performance about to begin in the next hall. If you’ll kindly follow me.”

  The USO girls were scheduled to sing a tribute. Jenna had helped assemble the small stage between the Rosie the Riveters area and that of the All American Women’s Baseball League. It was a highlight that now mattered little, for Jenna’s heart ached for Tom—who now angled sideways, as if to leave.

  But he didn’t. He was simply offering his elbow. “Shall we, Stella?” he hazarded to ask.

  She glanced down, then back to his face. The whole family was watching, waiting.

  After a long beat, she slowly raised her arm and hooked it through his. Although inquiries in her eyes persisted, the smile stretching her lips mirrored the one now lighting Tom’s face. Evidently, he had no need for a letter. He’d delivered himself instead, which was a hundred times better.

  Together, the couple walked out of the emptying hall. Reece’s dad and mom exchanged looks of pleasant interest, and the rest of the family followed behind.

  Except for one.

  Reece gave Jenna’s sleeve a soft tug, turning her around. “You mind filling me in?”

  To best explain, she guided him to the last photo. Tom was holding a small branch above Estelle’s head. “That’s them.”

  Reece leaned down for a closer view. “What’s he got there?”

  “Some makeshift mistletoe.”

  He grinned. “Smart guy.”

  When Reece stood up, the distance between them shrank to inches. From the warmth of his breath and realization of being alone, Jenna fought off a shiver. Tenderly, he ran the back of his fingers across her cheek.

  “So, tell me,” he said. “Did it work?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The mistletoe.”

  She shook her head no.

  “That’s too bad.”

  Through the fog of Jenna’s thoughts came the rest of the story. “After their holiday party, though, she found him behind the supply tent.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Before she could say more, he demonstrated a guess by pressing his lips to hers. She hedged for a second, merely from surprise, then wrapped her arms around his neck. She could feel his heart against her chest, and lost herself in th
e beat. His hands, strong and safe, rounded her waist and pulled her close. As he kissed her deeper, her skin prickled and knees went soft. Indescribable desire surged through her body.

  Never had her emotions clashed like this. Newness battled the familiar in the scent of his skin, the taste of his lips. His touch wove a web of comfort and fear. A tangle of thoughts. A collection of feelings.

  Jenna never wanted it to end.

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  Compilation copyright © 2012 by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  “A Winter Wonderland” copyright © 2012 by MRK Productions

  “The Joy of Christmas” copyright © 2012 by Elise Smith

  “The Christmas Thief ” copyright © 2012 by Leslie Meier

  “The Christmas Collector” copyright © 2012 by Kristina

  McMorris

  Fern Michaels is a registered trademark of First Draft, Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4201-2826-0