All Hearts Come Home for Christmas

by Annalisa Russo

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Annalisa Russo

  All Hearts Come Home for Christmas

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Quote

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Jillian slid down the door jamb, sat heavily on the wooden floor, and lowered her head into her hands. Christmas was supposed to be perfect. Weren’t there twelve dozen homemade Christmas cookies in her freezer, waiting to be boxed up for friends and family? Wasn’t the outside of her house decorated like the best Chevy Chase Christmas ever? Wasn’t everything on her gift list checked off? Well…almost everything. So why had the season started off on the wrong foot and continued to go downhill?

  For starters, no snow. No snow angels, no snow forts, no snowmen. No snow at all in her little town of Green Earth, Minnesota. Yep, frozen ground, but not one iota of snow. And with less than two weeks until her Christmas break from school, temperatures in the fifties. If that wasn’t bad enough, her entire family had decided they had other plans this year and left her to fend for herself, over Christmas, for cryin’ out loud. And she didn’t care one patootie about their excuses. Well, okay…they had good ones, but still.

  And last, but not least, no boyfriend. Gone. MIA. The inscrutable Brian had decided he needed to think about their relationship—over the holiday, in St. Croix. By himself. Are you kidding me?

  Praise for Annalisa Russo

  ANGEL LOST, ANGEL FOUND by Annalisa Russo was one of the winners of the 2016 International Digital Award Contest for historical romance.

  ~*~

  Other Books by Annalisa Russo

  Available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  RAGS TO RUBIES

  Followed by a shadowy stranger, Grace Hathaway approaches the country's most wealthy man, Jared Dunstan de Warre III, and intrigue leads them from Chicago to the jazz and glitz of New York City.

  The Cavelli Angel Saga

  Book One: AN ANGEL’S REDEMPTION

  Michael Vincente Cavelli finds a redheaded siren at his door the morning of his sister's wedding, and Faith Truitt is pulled into the crosshairs of lies and treachery—and a whirlwind of undeniable desire.

  Book Two: AN ANGEL HEALED

  Archaeologist Raphael Cavelli should be in Peru drinking a lukewarm cerveza next to a bosomy blonde. Instead, he’s in Chicago and bumps, literally, into the girl he traveled halfway around the globe to forget.

  Book Three: ANGEL LOST, ANGEL FOUND

  Charity O’Malley is about to reopen her father’s speakeasy. Gabriel Cavelli made a deathbed promise to look out for her. Threats and old enemies force the two to band together—and find safety in each other’s arms.

  Book Four: ANGEL BOY

  Seth Truitt needs help to erase his dark-stained past, but helping Meg Cavelli solve a criminal case in return might be more dangerous than flying P-26 fighters.

  All Hearts Come Home for Christmas

  by

  Annalisa Russo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All Hearts Come Home for Christmas

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Johanna Shapard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1685-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1686-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my brother, Peter,

  who loved Christmas as much as I do

  “And He departed from our sight, that we might return to our heart, and there find Him.”—St. Augustine

  Chapter One

  Jillian Magee had had it with Christmas. This was the last straw. Traditional Christmas carols on the radio, a freshly cut balsam curled with popcorn garland, the warming scent of a crackling hickory log, twinkling lights and mistletoe, and everything else that went along with the overall frivolity and joy of the season. Done. Period. End of story.

  She stood at the threshold of her small living room in her flannel, dancing-elves PJs and seethed at her inherited tabby cat and the mess he had made during the night. And after she’d given him an early Christmas present, too—a guaranteed-to-work, genuine leather scratching post. Now he’d been ungallant enough to leave several small packages of cat puke wound in tinsel he’d eaten right off the tree. Antique Shiny Brite ornaments littered the carpet, her grandmother’s treetop angel bent over drunkenly, and one strand of twinkle lights dragged along the floor.

  “BUUUSSTERRR,” she hollered, drawing out both syllables. “Get. Over. Here. Now!” She punctuated the air four times with her index finger. “You’re darn lucky the nativity set is still in the box, and when I arrange the crèche under the tree tonight, if you dare to touch it, I swear you’ll be toast.” Again, the finger.

  Buster, known in some circles as Mr. McGillicutty, didn’t move. He eyed her with what appeared to be feline defiance, cocked up a leg, and proceeded to wash his private parts. The look on his furry face implied, “No big deal. So I got a little hungry during the night. Get over it.”

  Jillian slid down the door jamb, sat heavily on the wooden floor, and lowered her head into her hands. Christmas was supposed to be perfect. Weren’t there twelve dozen homemade Christmas cookies in her freezer, waiting to be boxed up for friends and family? Wasn’t the outside of her house decorated like the best Chevy Chase Christmas ever? Wasn’t everything on her gift list checked off? Well…almost everything. So why had the season started off on the wrong foot and continued to go downhill?

  For starters, no snow. No snow angels, no snow forts, no snowmen. No snow at all in her little town of Green Earth, Minnesota. Yep, frozen ground, but not one iota of snow. And with less than two weeks until her Christmas break from school, temperatures in the fifties. If that wasn’t bad enough, her entire family had decided they had other plans this year and left her to fend for herself, over Christmas, for cryin’ out loud. And she didn’t care one patootie about their excuses. Well, okay…they had good ones, but still.

  And last, but not least, no boyfriend. Gone. MIA. The inscrutable Brian had decided he needed to think about their relationship—over the holiday, in St. Croix. By himself. Are you kidding me?

  She let out a longsuffering sigh and, after casting the evil eye at Buster, pulled herself up from the floor to shuffle back to her bedroom. The mess in the living room would have to wait. If she didn’t shower immediately, she’d be late for work.


  Jillian liked to arrive at school an hour before her students to fine tune her lesson plan. She needed to make sure she had enough copies of the daily handout and get her math manipulatives in order. Her ten-year-old students could wreak havoc on any lesson not planned to the enth degree.

  After glancing at the clock on her nightstand, she decided against making a lunch or buying one at the Sheridan Intermediate School’s who-would-ever-eat-this-stuff cafeteria. She’d get a bite to eat at Nola’s Diner, a small cozy restaurant a block down from Sheridan. Melissa, her BFF, waitressed five days a week there, and what were friends for, if not to vent on?

  After a quick shower, she pulled her long, curly hair into a ponytail—hair that was the auburn version of her red-haired Irish father’s. She brushed a light foundation over her smooth golden skin to cover the smattering of freckles over her pert nose—the skin, her Italian mother’s contribution. A swipe of mascara on long lashes, light pink gloss on her full lips, and she was ready to go. When she smiled at her appearance in the bathroom mirror, three dimples popped out—two on her right cheek and one on her left. Darn it, anyway. Why couldn’t she have had four dimples, evenly divided? Or better yet, none. Bah, humbug.

  She opted for basic white underwear, shoved her legs into a pair of beige khakis, and pulled on a bright red, long-sleeved polo shirt, only to yank it off and exchange the shirt for a dark brown, crewneck sweater. Red looked too much like Christmas, and she was on a mission—Scrooge inspired.

  She stopped in the living room for one last look. She glanced past the damaged tree and through the front bay window to the abandoned white clapboard house across the street. The lovely old home mirrored her own and brought back bittersweet memories. Glancing down at the big tabby, she heaved another sigh. “Behave yourself while I’m at work. Christmas hasn’t been the same for the last eight years, Buster, without anything else piled on.” In his esoteric way, Buster was noncommittal.

  ****

  “Hey, Glenn. How’s it going? Busy today, huh?” Jillian moved to the end of the long line in the copy room. Another reason she always tried to arrive at school early.

  “Yeah.” Glenn Bleeker pulled out a used Kleenex and blew hard.

  The music teacher’s bright red nose and rheumy eyes didn’t bode well. Jillian held her breath and took a discreet step backward. The last thing she needed was a bad cold for the holidays. “I think something is going around,” she commented. “I had three kids out with the flu last week. Probably because of the mild winter we’ve been having. Not cold enough to kill the germs. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a flu shot this year. I could kick myself now, but I’m trying to be careful. Extra vitamins, enough sleep, washing my hands fifty times a day.”

  Glenn grunted and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up with his middle finger. “I’m making copies for a sub. Admin said they’d have one here by noon. I thought I’d feel better by now, so I came in, but I’m getting worse. As soon as the sub shows up, I’m outta here.”

  “What about the Christmas concert? If you’re still sick next week, who will take over?” Calling the program a Christmas concert was a reach and usually rankled Glenn. He insisted the musical performance be called the Winter concert. None of the songs had a Christmas theme, much less a religious one. While Jillian appreciated the beautiful music the fifth and sixth graders performed every year, she missed the traditional Christmas carols and nativity play that used to be performed the last week of school before winter break—back when she’d been a student at Sheridan School.

  In the fifth grade, Jillian had garnered the part of the angel who announced the birth of the Christ to the shepherds. Her mother had sewn a beautiful ensemble complete with wire-and-gauze wings. After all these years, the costume still hung in the back of her closet. She couldn’t bear to part with the glittery satin outfit. “Will a sub be able to handle the concert?”

  Glenn snorted. “Heck, no, but I should be better by a week from Wednesday. I still have a few days to get over whatever this is.” He coughed again, a hacking, rasping cough that rumbled from deep in his chest.

  Jillian took a second step back. “Doesn’t sound good, Glenn.” The man thought he was the berries with his trendy clothes and Italian leather shoes, but his latest haircut, the shaved sides and longer top, would have looked better on an eighteen-year-old. Glenn just looked like he was trying too hard. On the weekends, the man drummed in a band made up of a few of his old high school buddies, catching gigs when they could find the work. He made it clear, to anyone who would listen, he was just passing time in the classroom until he could hit it big in the music world.

  “Sounds worse than it is. I wanna go home, hit the sheets, and get some sleep. I’ll probably feel better in the morning.”

  From the look of Glenn’s flushed cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, Jillian didn’t think he’d be back anytime soon. “Good luck. Hope you feel better.” She waved a hand toward the copier. “Your turn.”

  Glenn mumbled something unintelligible and threw his master copy on the glass.

  Jillian still had fifteen minutes to spare after she set up her room, so she strode across the hallway to Cleora Butterfield’s classroom. Cleora was another of her high school friends and the drama teacher at Sheridan. She could see Cleo from the door. This morning the woman’s wardrobe consisted of a bright, gypsy-like outfit with a long swirling skirt and loose-fitting blouse. All she needed was a crackling campfire and a tambourine. Her shoulder-length, curly black hair was pulled back on the sides and sported a narrow red streak at the temple, which just sneaked past the dress code. Her purple-rimmed reading glasses perched on her head.

  “Do you want to join me at Nola’s for lunch today?” Jillian asked as she entered the drama room.

  Cleo glanced over her shoulder from the stage built into the corner of her room. “We always go on Fridays. Today is Monday. So what’s up?” Cleo arranged a podium along with a few chairs on the stage. Jillian remembered her students were slated to give their “My Hero” speech. Cleo had joined the faculty at Sheridan School after a ten-year stint in Broadway theater. Her colorful stories about a world Jillian could only imagine were legendary, and her students loved her.

  “Buster wrecked my holiday decorations.”

  Cleo snorted. “Of course he did. So what else is new? I don’t know why you don’t get rid of that cat.”

  “You know why I can’t. And…I checked my caroling sign-up list in the teachers’ lounge. It still has only seven names on it,” Jillian complained, with a weak smile. “You aren’t planning to bail on me, are you?” She sank into the student desk set next to Cleo’s, the desk every teacher has for those special-slash-problem students.

  “And never hear the end of it? Nosiree Bob. I’m not crazy. I’ll be there with rings on my fingers and bells on my toes.” Cleo wiggled her ten fingers, of which eight sported glittery rings. “Six o’clock, right?” Cleo arranged the last chair and stepped back to take a better look. She made a minor adjustment to one of the chairs, and then, apparently happy with the arrangement, sat at her own desk.

  Jillian propped her chin on her hand. “Yep, but listen. We need to convince Melissa to join us. She hasn’t agreed to come yet.”

  “Probably because she’d have to ask off work or change her schedule.” Cleo flipped through her plan book for the day’s lesson. She gestured with her mechanical pencil. “I get the feeling she’s not keen on the idea.”

  “I know, but she has such a beautiful voice. Have you ever heard her sing?”

  “No, but if you say she’s good, she’s good. Do you think it’s a money issue? Maybe she doesn’t have money for a sitter, or doesn’t want to bring Wendy along? Could turn out to be a late night.”

  Melissa’s daughter was four years old and adorable. If truth be told, Jillian was a little jealous sometimes. She’d always figured that by twenty-eight she’d have a husband and a couple of kids. But Melissa was a friend and a wonderful mother, so she squashed the big green monster whenever it
reared its ugly head.

  If anyone deserved happiness, it was Melissa. Her husband was on his third tour in Iraq as part of a Special Forces unit, training Iraqi soldiers. Besides worrying for her husband’s safety, she was raising a child on her own and making ends meet, and in Jillian’s opinion that deserved a medal.

  “So…do you want to join me for lunch and persuade her to carol with us?” Jillian knew Cleo was addicted to Nola’s Santa Fe burgers.

  “Since my breakfast consisted of a microwaved egg-in-a-cup, I’m there.” Cleo made a note in the margin of her planner. “What were you and Glenn discussing when I walked by the copy room? He looked about ready to pass out. Not that I care very much. The man irritates me.”

  “Why?”

  “ ‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ ”

  “Hamlet?”

  “As You Like It.” Cleo pursed her lips. “He brags too much. I went to one of his gigs recently, and most of the musicians in the band were actually pretty good, but Glenn could have used a few lessons.” She made a la-dee-da motion with her eyes as she twirled her ringed fingers in a circle. “I’m trying to be kind here. Of course, we can’t all be Trystan Sol.”

  When Jillian sucked in a breath, Cleo reached over her desk to squeeze her hand. “Oh, God, Jillie, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Sometimes my mouth runs away with my common sense.”

  Luckily, Jillian was saved from making a comment by the morning bell. “Don’t give it another thought, Cleo. I don’t.” She hurried away. The last thing she needed was to be reminded of an old boyfriend, who just happened to be America’s latest heart throb and the man she had trusted with her own heart.

  Christmas was turning out to be a bust.

  Chapter Two

  Nola’s Diner overflowed with customers who appreciated good food at a reasonable price. Red-and-white-checked tablecloths, ice cream parlor chairs, and a lot of chrome invited the consumer into its cheerful atmosphere. A three-tier pie display case graced the chipped Formica countertop, and a jukebox played fifties tunes interspersed with the occasional Christmas ditty. Every possible doorway or arch shimmered with silver garland and artificial holly.