“I quit,” he said, his smile fading.
“What?” Breck asked. Her heart began to hammer hard in her chest—an anxious, frightened kind of hammer.
Reese nodded. “That night we got home from Thanksgiving…I dropped you off, turned around to drive through the city back to my own house, and…and never made it. I came back here and spent some time talking with my parents. Then I worked on this house…worked hard physically, you know? I’ve missed that.”
“What do you mean?” Breck asked. He’d quit? If he’d quit his job at Wilson Investigation, then Breck could only guess what was coming next—or at least part of what was coming next.
“I own this house, Breck,” he told her. “I bought it from Mom and Pop a few years back…the house and about two thousand acres.”
“You’re moving back?” she ventured. She felt light-headed—sick to her stomach. He was leaving the city—he was leaving her!
“You don’t think I should?” He seemed concerned—seemed to doubt his decision—and Breck knew she must encourage him, for it was where he belonged, where he would be happy. And she wanted him to be happy.
“Oh, no,” she stammered. “I…I think…I think it’s wonderful.”
Reese grinned then, his eyes narrowing as he searched her face. “Hold on a second,” he told her. Then he walked to one corner of the room, lifted the lid on an old record player, and next—next Breck heard the melody of one of her favorite old Bing Crosby Christmas songs begin to play. Instantly, tears began to roll down her cheeks. It was a beautiful moment. The most beautiful, most heartbreaking moment she’d ever known. Reese was so excited about his decision to come home—wanted her to be excited for him. He’d gone to the trouble of finding her one of her favorite Bing Crosby songs, and all she could do was cry because she was devastated.
“Dance with me?” he asked, taking one of her hands in his. Breck wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to smile.
As he led her in an old-fashioned waltz, he asked, “What’s the matter, baby? Don’t you like the house?”
“I love the house,” she sniffled.
“Well, guess what, Miss Breck McCall?” he said, lowering his voice and stopping their waltz. Taking her face in his hands, he gazed down into her face and said, “I love you.”
Breck closed her eyes for a moment, letting more tears escape down her cheeks. He’d said it! At last he’d said he loved her. But it was almost bittersweet. A long-distance relationship? Still, she loved him, and she didn’t want to lose him.
“I love you too, Reese,” she whispered, opening her eyes and looking up at him. “And I want you to be happy…here. You belong here.”
“Do I?” he whispered, taking one of her hands in his, raising it to his lips, and kissing it tenderly.
“You do,” she managed.
Breck gasped then, her tears turning to tiny rivulets as they streamed down her face—for Reese raised his other hand then—his fisted other hand. He opened it a moment later to reveal a beautiful diamond solitaire ring lying in his palm.
“You’re all I want for Christmas,” he said. “Every Christmas,” he added, pushing the ring onto her appropriate finger. “Will you marry me, Breck? Will you quit your job in the city, give up everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve there…and be a farmer’s wife?”
Breck buried her face in her hands and sobbed. This couldn’t be happening! She shook her head, trying to dispel the dream—but it stayed. Reese stood there—wiping the tears from her cheeks, kissing her forehead, and chuckling. It was real!
“Will you, Breck?” he asked again.
With rivers of tears rolling down her cheeks, Breck nodded and said, “Of course, I will!”
Instantly, she was in his arms, his mouth taking her own in a driven, passionate exchange. He was hers! Reese Thatcher would belong to her!
He released her, raised her hand to inspect the ring on her finger, and asked, “Do you like your Christmas present, baby?”
Suddenly, Breck gasped, horrified as she remembered something. “I only got you an electric razor!”
Reese laughed and pulled her into his arms again. “I love you, Breck McCall. And you found me…helped me remember who I was and what I love.” He cupped her face in his hands and gazed down into her eyes. “Thank you.”
Breck smiled and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “You are my dreams come true,” she confessed.
Reese smiled, caressing her lips with his thumb. “Then I guess here…in this moment…in our house…all is right with the world. Isn’t it?”
Breck nodded, and there in the old Thatcher family farmhouse, fragrant with the scent of a cedar fire and warm with the beauty and color of Christmas tree lights, Reese kissed her again—a long, adoring kiss that spoke of promised happiness and everlasting love.
Epilogue
It had been fun having the girls and their families out the day before. Breck couldn’t believe how big Barb’s, Kay’s, Sherryl’s, and Trixie’s children were getting. But then again, her own children were growing up faster than she liked too. Breck shook her head, unable to believe for a moment that her daughter Bobbie was already five years old—and Scottie would be three next month! How time had flown since that first Christmas she and Reese had spent together—that first Christmas when he’d driven her out to their house on a horse-drawn sleigh and asked her to marry him.
Breck dusted the rest of the residual powdered sugar off the counter and into her hand. It was Christmas Eve day, and it had been wonderful! Breck had delivered baskets with Reese’s mother in the morning and later watched Katie’s girls show Bobbie and Scottie how to sprinkle powdered sugar over the gingerbread houses to look like snow. She giggled, thinking the children got more powdered sugar on themselves and the floor than they did the gingerbread houses.
And Reese would be home soon! How she missed him every minute he was away from her. Anytime he was gone from the house doing chores or working with his father and brothers, she missed him. Their life together was wonderful! Oh, they worked hard and had their share of worries and challenges, but it was a life she’d once dreamed of—and her dreams had all come true. The new baby due in June would only add to Reese’s joy and hers, and Breck knew that, come what may, the love she and Reese shared was deeper and stronger than most, and she was thankful for it.
She heard the kitchen door close and looked up to see her handsome husband brushing the snow from his coat sleeves. He stomped his work boots on the mat several times to free them of as much slush as possible before pulling them off and setting them aside. He took off his coat, hat, and gloves and laid them on the counter by the door.
“Hey, baby,” he said, taking Breck in his arms and kissing her hard on the mouth. “Kids in bed?”
“Just now. They’re waiting for you to tuck them in,” Breck told him. “Brrr! Your cheeks are cold!”
“It’s cold out there tonight,” he explained. “But the sky is clear. Santa won’t have any trouble finding our house,” he chuckled.
“Well, I hope not,” Breck giggled, “’cause Santa still has to assemble that dollhouse he’s bringing for Bobbie.”
“I’ll run up and tuck them in.” Reese smiled and kissed her cheek again. “Meet me in the front room in three minutes,” he whispered. With a wink and a mischievous grin, he added, “I wanna make good use of that mistletoe you hung up in there.”
He quickly kissed her cheek, and Breck giggled as she watched him saunter across the room in his stocking feet, bounding up the back stairs toward the kids’ bedrooms.
Sighing with the pure contentment borne of love and Christmas Eve, she went into the front room, sat down on the sofa, and watched the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling in the bay window. Bing was crooning softly on the stereo. It was one of those rare moments a woman experiences when her mind, body, and soul find complete tranquility. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in the scent of their home—the warm aroma of fresh-baked cookies—of a cedar fire
—of love.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Thatcher,” Reese said. He took her hand, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped her in his arms.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Thatcher,” Breck whispered as he kissed her upper lip softly. He gently kissed her lower lip once—then a second time—and Breck’s heart began hammering inside her chest as wildly as ever it did when Reese kissed her. His mouth captured hers for a moment, and she sighed—bathed in the warmth of love and desire.
Reese abruptly broke the seal of their kiss, distracted by the familiar squeak of the seventh step on the staircase.
“Kids? Get back to bed,” Reese growled, in his most fatherly voice.
Breck smiled as she heard Bobbie’s and Scottie’s playful giggling as they scampered up the stairs and back to bed.
“They’ll never get to sleep,” Reese chuckled. “We’ll be building that dollhouse ’til four in the morning.”
Breck nodded and ran her fingers through her husband’s hair. He needed a haircut. She let her fingers trace the outline of his mustache and goatee and then raised herself on the tips of her toes and kissed him softly on the mouth.
“Thank you for making all my dreams come true, Mr. Thatcher,” she whispered.
“I love you, Mrs. Thatcher,” he told her, tracing the curve of her face with the back of his hand.
“I love you too,” she said, kissing him once more.
Again they were interrupted by one of the squeaky stairs, and Reese chuckled as they looked up to see their two little black-haired, freckle-faced babies, peering down at them through the wooden banister rails.
“We can’t sleep, Daddy,” Bobbie whined.
“Wead us a stowy, Daddy,” Scottie begged. “Pwease?”
Breck smiled as her husband sighed. She knew he was tired. He’d worked hard all day getting everything finished so he would have minimal work the next. Still, she knew how the children tugged at his heartstrings.
“Okay,” Reese agreed. “But you have to be in bed before I get up the stairs,” he said, releasing Breck and sprinting for the staircase.
Bobbie and Scottie erupted into giggles, fleeing up the stairs and down the hall to their bedrooms. Breck could hear their delighted laughter as Reese tickled and teased them before finally settling them for his own rendition of The Night Before Christmas.
Breck glanced to the beautiful Christmas tree standing in her bay window. She watched its lights for a moment—admired its beauty. Her life was more wonderful than she’d ever dreamed it could be. There were still good people and good things in the world. There was still true love—the unsurpassed kind—the kind she shared with Reese.
“Mommy!” she heard Scottie call. “Come hear the stowy wiff us.”
Smiling, Breck climbed the stairs of the old Thatcher farmhouse to where her husband and children sat waiting to cover her face with kisses, warm her with their hugs, and keep her heart forever safe—enfolded in their love.
Author’s Note
Do you know what the funny thing is? When I first wrote An Old-Fashioned Romance, I thought everyone would hate it! I was so scared that my first contemporary story wouldn’t be well-received that I included an Author’s Note at the beginning of the book. It read thus:
An Old-Fashioned Romance is different than most of my other stories. First of all, it takes place in the here and now, rather than the past. It is also a mirrored reflection of many things and people I cherish.
In truth, I’ve been very unsettled about releasing this story…afraid it reveals too much about myself or that it doesn’t have enough adventure to entertain the reader. However, those who have read it adore it—and it seems to strum a chord in their hearts…a tender chord often overlooked.
Therefore, I entrust it to you now, hoping you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed pouring my heart into it.
To all of us…
And those ‘Old-Fashioned’ everythings we miss.
As the little “Author’s Warning Label” read, I was afraid that sharing so much of my personal self might provide a target for hurt and harm—not only to my own heart and feelings but for loved ones making an appearance in the book as the fictional characters Barb, Kay, Sherryl, and Trixie. However, An Old-Fashioned Romance didn’t crash and burn. In fact, it is often listed as a reader favorite—and I’m so glad!
Therefore, having been inundated with requests for details about the inspiration for the book, I’m delighted to have this opportunity to add a little something to it for you—to once again give the reader a little insight into the workings of my mind and the beloved things of my heart that helped inspire this book.
Let’s begin with pumpkins. Ah! Wonderful pumpkins! Oh, how I love pumpkins! Few things make my heart soar the way the vision of a field of pumpkins does. Yes, I’ve seen fields of tulips—acres upon acres of tulips blooming in fields that stretch off into the horizon nearly as far as the eye can see. I’ve see the waves of the sea rolling in—lapping or crashing upon the sand or rocks of the shore. I’ve seen snowy mountains—majestic in their white cloaks of winter beauty. Yet none of these thrill me the way a field of pumpkins does. I love them! I love the fascinating squash, so resplendent in orange, so perfect for making pie and jack-o’-lanterns, or for simply lingering on a front porch in glorious autumn. It’s a happy thing, the pumpkin, and I love it! I write poetry about pumpkins, collect ceramic pumpkins for my kitchen, wear pumpkin-themed sweaters as often as I can September through November. I even had a pumpkin-themed guest room in my house in Colorado, and currently my office is blissful in pumpkin color and decor. In short, pumpkins make me happy! Just the sight of one (or a ton) lifts my soul to the very zenith of joy. Thus, in An Old-Fashioned Romance, Breck loves pumpkins too. Breck’s adoration of the King of Squash is a not-so-secret reflection of my own pumpkin passion! (P.S. I love pumpkins!)
Pumpkin pie for breakfast on Thanksgiving morning? Of course! In the book, Reese’s mom mentions that Reese’s father likes to have pumpkin pie for breakfast on Thanksgiving morning. Well, who doesn’t? My children can thank my kind, loving, understanding mother for that family tradition. Although we didn’t have pumpkin pie for breakfast on Thanksgiving morning when I was growing up, we did have it for breakfast the following day. Once Kevin and I started our own family, pumpkin pie for breakfast became a tradition not only for Thanksgiving Day but also for two or three days following! I usually make ten or eleven pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving if we’re having company for Thanksgiving dinner—a few less if we’re not. That way there’s always plenty of pumpkin pie for breakfast, lunch, and dinner! Breck’s tried-and-true pumpkin pie recipe (included at the end of this Author’s Note) is, in truth, my own recipe. Mmmm! I love pumpkin pie!
When I was six years old, my mom took me to a little craft evening with some ladies at church. There we were provided with old-fashioned wooden peg clothespins, red and blue paint, black yarn pom-poms, and some gold braid. Guess what we made? That’s right—toy soldiers to hang on the Christmas tree! I remember making the toy soldiers—very vividly remember making them—and I remember hanging them on our Christmas tree every year after that. I love them! To me they were simply magical, and I cherished them because I remember Mom and me making them. When I left home, Mom gave me two of them, and my children hung them on our Christmas tree. Well, one year (being that I have three children and only had two toy soldiers) I sat down with my own children at our kitchen table, and we made some wooden peg toy soldiers of our own. Of course, my boys eventually began breaking up toothpicks, dipping them in red paint, and gluing them onto a few extra toy soldiers to make it look like they had been in battle. Needless to say, I felt the project needed to come to an end—and so did Reese’s mom. I love those simple little clothespin soldiers my mom and I made when I was six. I wholeheartedly treasure them.
Some of my most tranquil moments have been spent in front of a Christmas tree, late at night, when all else is quiet and calm. In those moments I love to turn out all the lights (except f
or the ones on the tree, of course), put on a little Christmas with Conniff or White Christmas by Bing Crosby, and just sit in mesmerized wonder at the beauty of the Christmas tree and the season. Sometimes when I’m stressed—worried and feeling tired and perhaps discouraged—I can climb into bed, close my eyes, and envision those Christmas tree moments. Ahhh! I love the soothing, rather healing power of a Christmas tree.
Between 1992 and 1994, I met four women that would literally change my life—individuals that would become four pieces of my heart. Barbara, Dixie, Karen, and Sheri were and are absolute blessings from heaven—given to me to entertain, strengthen, support, and teach. The five of us met when we all lived in Rio Rancho, New Mexico, between 1992 and 1995—and such kindred spirits I could never have imagined. The laughter we’ve shared has nearly hospitalized us at times! The tears we’ve shed have kneaded our hearts near painfully. I really can’t imagine my life without having been touched by these incredible friends.
The thing about the Groovy Chicks (as we came to be known) is that not only was our group relationship something to behold but my personal, individual relationships with each Groovy Chick is profound. Oddly, we came from about every different walk of life and had every different hobby or interest that you could imagine. Yet there’s something—an invisible thread of commonality that glued us together. Barb, Kay, Trixie, and Sherryl are quite obviously based on my friends the Groovy Chicks.
As a collective group, you’ve never seen more waiters and waitresses have a better time serving customers or get bigger tips than those that served us anytime we were together. What fun we have with restaurant staffs! Furthermore, the one-liners that fly around the room anytime we’re together could rival any favorite stand-up comic. To sum it up, when the Groovy Chicks convene, so does the entertainment.
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