Wrapped in Red: A Three Rivers Romance Novella

by Meghan M. Gorecki

  “Need any help?”

  “Oh! You scared me, Merry Grace!” Mum whipped around, still in her red terry-cloth bathrobe, and flecks of mashed potatoes went flying—landing smack dab on Merry’s shirt. Which had seen better days. But it wasn’t a holiday if someone didn’t spill something or burn/cut themselves. All of which contributed to a giggle fit that stole her breath.

  “I’m…oh, sorry.” Wheeze laughing, Merry caught her mom up in a hug.

  She’d never admit it—but one of Mum’s catchphrase-like platitudes was right on the money: laughter was the best medicine. And as Merry took over spooning the freshly whipped mashed potatoes into a crockpot, she purposed to stomp away the niggling dreams that had not yet died in her heart. She wouldn’t let anything steal her contentment. Not this day, at least.

  The contentment that smelled like turkey, sounded like laughter and felt like home.

  “So how big of a crowd are we having this year?” Merry put her back into scraping out the pot. Based on the vat of mashed potatoes she was finishing, there would be at least twenty for dinner. And no telling who Mum had invited to stop by for dessert.

  “Oh, the usual.” And her mother began rattling off a list of names of extended family and church family combined. As if eerily planned, just when the kitchen timer sounded, Mum uttered a quick, “And Sam.”

  Great. “And Sam? Sam Shepard?” So kind of her mom to inform her of that after she’d tossed on a decrepit sweatshirt and glorified yoga pants that would accommodate the amount of food she’d indulge in.

  “The poor boy doesn’t have any family around here! Speaking of, I’d better change. He may get here early. Maybe you two could talk about the play. How is the rewrite coming along?”

  Following the bouncing ball of her mother's train of thought was sometimes exhausting. As was her matchmaking endeavors. Best to get it out now before more embarrassment would ensue. Merry took in a lungful of air and instantly calmed. Or maybe it was the tryptophan in the cooling turkey on the stove that eased some of her tension.

  “Mum—I’m not interested.”

  “Not interested in who?” A braided, blonde head poked through the doorway first—followed shortly by a burgeoning baby bump. With a squeal, Merry dropped the potato pot on the stove and half-ran half-skidded over to her sister.

  “Hey, sissy.” Grabbing her niece/nephew's bump, Merry pressed a quick kiss to her sister's tummy. “And happy first Thanksgiving to you, little bean.”

  Kara leaned against the doorframe and laughed. “You are the only one who can get away with touching my belly, Merry. And calling me “sissy.” Just so you know. Immediate family only. But that was it for you today. And may I repeat—who are you not interested in?”

  “Sam Shepard, if you must know. Mum keeps trying to throw me in his arms.” Okay, so an exaggeration. And the identical looks on her mother and sister’s faces told her so. She may not have been the daydreamer all three of her siblings were—but she had always been dramatic.

  “Mom, go change. I'll try to convince her.” Kara wove her hand through Merry's arm and dragged her into their old room down the hall—now it was part craft room, part-in-progress grandchild nursery. Kara lowered herself into the gliding rocking chair with a sigh and Merry perched on the ottoman.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Kara’s mouth twisted to the side and she shrugged. “Fat as a whale. And ready to meet our baby. But I’m fine. Don’t worry—and don’t ask me again today. Jackson has been such a nervous Nellie the last two weeks.”

  Merry grinned. That was why she loved her brother-in-law. “I'll bet.”

  Kara shifted in the seat and a tired grin dimpled. “Enough about me. So—you’ve met Sam Shepard, huh? I was hoping it’d happen sooner rather than later. And you two are reviving the play I hear?”

  Merry pressed a hand to her forehead. Apparently, their mother kept everyone very well informed—except for her. “I'm editing the play.” Heavily. But the spin on the classic tale was rather sweet and held the heart of the original Christmas Carol. The only Dickens book she had enjoyed.

  “And Sam?” Kara pressed further and Merry leveled her with a look that usually telepathically told her sister that, enough was enough.

  Kara’s brown eyes crinkled and she raised her chin a notch. “C’mon. Humor me. I am carrying your niece or nephew.”

  Groaning, Merry rubbed at Kara’s belly again. “You really pulled that card, didn’t you? Your mommy, little bean, is a stinker.”

  Kara snorted and swatted Merry’s hand away. “Fine. I’ll lay off. Help me up and let’s go see what Mum needs help with.”

  As if summoned by the mere mention of standing from the rocking chair, Jackson poked his head inside the room. “Need help?”

  Merry stepped back and let her brawny brother-in-law haul her sister out of the rocking chair without making her feel like an imposition—or a whale. Watching Kara be so completely cherished made her heart wince with longing, her fingers absently tracing the spot where an engagement ring would have been sitting on that all-important hand if all had gone according to plan.

  But, as Mum was fond of saying, tell God your plans and hear Him laugh.

  Chapter Five

  “This will be good. You've spent too many holidays alone. It'll be fun. You like these people. So long as you don't audibly talk to yourself.” Sam exhaled on a groan as he sat in his car the Grainger's cape-cod style home, already lit up for the holidays. From behind the lace curtains on the front window, he could see a decent crowd had already gathered. He was late. And the nausea was both from an accidental Thanksgiving fast—and being a part of a family’s holiday for the first time in too long. He hadn't planned on doing anything for Thanksgiving other than watching football and finishing up those last plans for a new chain of bookstores.

  “God, what am I doing here?” And with no answer but a quiet nudge in his spirit to go inside, Sam scooped up the harvest-colored bouquet he had bought at Trader Joe’s and left his stuffy car to march up to the front door. His head knew God had a plan and provided this day to get him out of a funk, away from self-pity and the dangerous road it could lead down.

  But his heart?

  The plastic cover on the bouquet crinkled as his grip tightened. His heart ached with homesickness for what his family had been prior to when Mom had started leaving them. But before the darker memories of her last days sent him back to his car—and the two years of holidays where he had been miserably hung over—the front door eased open to reveal Susanne Grainger, beaming as usual. “Don’t just stand there out in the cold—c’mon in.” Sam’s heart stung with whiplash but he pasted on a smile and did as told.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. G.” Thrusting the bouquet towards her, Sam bit down on the inside of his mouth in case less-than manful tears decided to make an appearance.

  The house smelled like home. And it was alive. The furniture and décor were eclectic at best, well loved and warm. Not a showcase, but a lived in, thriving home. And the smells—he could drop to his knees right there if he wasn't careful just on the heady scents of an actual Thanksgiving feast assaulting his senses.

  “Oh, what a sweet gift. Thank you, Sam." Mrs. Grainger pressed the bouquet close a moment before she spun around to shout, “Merry, come put these in water! And say hi to Sam.”

  “I thought you said your golden boy might get here early." And the feisty redhead herself rounded the corner and straight into his chest. He reached out to steady her, and suddenly smiling didn’t seem so tough anymore. Not with that furious blush of hers as she squirmed against his hold—in a truly ugly Thanksgiving sweater.

  “Golden boy’s here early today. Nice sweatshirt.”

  Shrugging away all-too-soon, Merry half-grimaced, half-smiled. But her dimples didn't come out to wink and Sam felt the loss even as she wished him a happy Thanksgiving before escaping into the kitchen.

  Was he that repulsive? Or was she that determined not to have her family’s m
atchmaking hopes come to fruition? Either way—it was frustrating.

  Two different timers buzzed, the smoke alarm soon added its screeching pitch to the din of voices, laughter, and some nineties sitcom on the TV, and he was wrapped up into the fray as if he had been a part of the family for years. Rich Grainger made warm introductions all around when in-laws and aunts and cousins and nieces and nephews filed in. The females congregated around the kitchen, and Ricky dragged him and most of the other “menfolk” as Mrs. G had called them, to the finished basement to see the model railroad and slot car racetrack. Old stories were regaled of how Rich's dad had begun the tradition of a model railroad. And hearing them didn’t cause the regret to rise up that Sam braced himself for. Instead he felt something he hadn’t in years ever since he and his father had stopped speaking: the urge to call him. Not an urge—but a conviction. And he didn’t know what to do with it.

  Luckily, before he had time to mull on it further, dinner summons echoed down the stairwell and they all lumbered up to the main floor where an impressive spread awaited in the kitchen. Something that chased all thoughts of his parents away and replaced his aching heart with hunger.

  “Gather round; Mr. G's going to pray before we dig in.” After Mrs. G’s announcement, the twenty-plus people in the house all linked hands one by one and bowed their heads. Glancing to his left he found Ricky Grainger gripping his hand manfully—all while wearing a deepening blush. Peeking over the kid's head, Sam bit back a grin when he noticed a cute brunette from church on Ricky's left. Ah, the puppy-love years. So simple.

  Suddenly feeling old, Sam turned over his right unclaimed hand while the room quieted down. Merry slipped in at the end of the curving line of people around the dining room—beside him. Sam didn’t miss her small sigh. He could feel her guard radiating upward in her hesitancy to take his hand—until her dad started praying. At, “Father God…” Sam bowed his head and shut his eyes, ready to focus on counting blessings and giving thanks. Lord knew that was a habit he needed help with. At least until slim fingers slipped into his with the lightest of grips and warmth shot up through his arm and into his heart, chasing away all thoughts of Thanksgiving.

  Opening one eye to turn his head and peek—sure enough, Merry was beside him. Her hair was gathered messily atop her head, and her shoulders drooped. What was weighing this beauty down so much—and how could he lighten the load?

  Mr. Grainger’s voice came back into Sam’s radar and he shut his eyes again as the prayer continued. “We ask you comfort us with fond memories of those who will no longer be sitting with us at this table, Lord. Those You have called home, we thank You for having them here with us as long as they were…”

  Sam's eyes flew open and slid over to Merry, who sniffed once before a tiny tear formed beneath impossibly long eyelashes that dusted rosy flour-dusted cheeks. And he could've sworn he heard his heart crack.

  He knew that grief all too well. But, those years ago, he hadn’t had a hand to cling to—and it almost destroyed him. So he tightened his fingers around Merry’s, just a moment, fighting the urge to sling an arm around her shoulder.

  She didn’t let go.

  The “Amen” sounded. Organized chaos ensued and the room filled with conversation and laughter and scents that meant lids were lifted, the oven was opened and dinner was served. Sam turned to Merry who was busy blinking hard and dusting her face off—of flour and tears. “Are you okay?”

  He wasn’t in any hurry to let her hand go, despite the fact that he could all but see his heart rate spike at the nearness of her. Another new sensation at war with his common sense that told him, She doesn’t like you. You’re a moronic hopeless romantic.

  Pursing her lips, Merry swallowed hard and a small smile revealed her dimples. “I am. Uh…” She lifted up their hands and started to pull away. “You can let go now.”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry.” A lie. He wouldn’t give up that easy.

  “Ready to eat?” Merry held two plates in her hands and extended one toward him.

  “You know it.”

  Stuffing met his plate first as he followed Merry, who chatted and even laughed out loud with an aunt in front of her in the buffet line. Upon reaching the cranberry sauce, Sam almost dropped his plate when he heard Merry’s aunt ask, “Is this your young man your mother was telling us about? And you haven’t introduced us, Merry Grace!”

  Oh boy. This was not going to be good. Balancing his plate on one hand, Sam nudged Merry's elbow and spoke over her head to the somewhat giddy aunt. “Just a friend of the family back here, ma'am.” I’m not so lucky.

  Two kids tried to cut into the line that sent the aunt shooing them away. Sam could hear Merry muttering under her breath before she stalked out of the kitchen without a backward glance. Cranberry abandoned, Sam struggled not to step on the other guests’ toes as he attempted to keep up with Merry who blazed a trail to an empty card table near the front door.

  “Why are you following me?”

  Setting his plate down, Sam shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “I need a place to sit?”

  Merry huffed and started stabbing at her stuffing. “My aunt is too nebby for her own good.”

  Sam snorted and folded himself into the chair. “Nebby? What’s that?”

  “It’s our word for ‘nosy.’ I don’t know how my family came up with it.”

  Sam glanced around the room. There were a ton of people—but they all cared. And it was evident—nosiness, or ‘nebbiness,’ aside. “They just care about you.” Gravy pooled in his mashed potatoes and Sam licked his lips before he raised his spoon to his mouth. And dropped it just as suddenly at Merry's next snap:

  “And how would you know that?”

  Sam picked up his spoon and pointed it at her, old resentment creeping up faster than he could stop it. “Because I know what not caring looks like, that’s how.”

  Flecks of conviction muddied the anger formerly sparking in Merry’s eyes, but Sam wouldn’t take his words back. She didn’t realize how good she had it. But was that any of his business?

  No.

  “Listen, I’m sorr—”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  They both stopped as instantly as the words had burst out at the same time, and the tension melted away. Rubbing at the back of his head, Sam raised his spoon. “Truce?”

  Merry’s grin slid to the side and she raised a piece of turkey. “You got it.”

  Peace was wonderful. Until what looked to be another aunt, two cousins and Lydia came over to fill their table. Introductions were made in brief before Lydia giggled as she nudged her older sister. “Didn’t I tell you? They’d be perfect together!”

  Sam snort-laughed around the dinner in his mouth as Merry slapped a palm to her forehead.

  This would be quite a memorable Thanksgiving.

  Chapter Six

  Pulling one boot off at a time, Merry surveyed her open closet before pitching each slushy shoe at the five bridesmaids dresses hanging all properly and prettily in their plastic sleeves. A hanger clanged off the bar and a dark something slipped to the floor. Her favorite little black dress that had hung idle for far too long.

  All I Want for Christmas burst forth from her temperamental and ancient radio alarm clock and Merry jumped, twisting her ankle in the process. The holiday classic chafed at every tired-of-waiting nerve and tight neck after that awkward debacle at dinner.

  “I am so done.” Merry shut the alarm clock off and went to put away the boots and hang up that chic little black dress. She had found it at a consignment shop up in Westfield, New York, where the eccentric store owner said it was sure to make her lucky in love. That had been five years ago. Five years since she had planned on wearing it on her birthday when Cole was taking her out—and she thought for sure they would be talking about The Future.

  Stupid wishful thinking.

  Cellphone buzzing, Merry tripped back to her bed and flopped. Probably Mom. Hopefully, Lydia hadn't ratted her out about snapping when sh
e had to—for the third time—tell extended family that, no, she and Sam Shepard were not dating nor would they be perfect together.

  Her phone kept buzzing—with an unknown number. She groaned a groan loud enough to rival the saltiest of teenagers, but she didn’t care. Merry swiped her phone to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. This is Sam…Sam Shepard?”

  Her phone dropped as if springing to life on its own, hitting her car keys and going to speakerphone that revealed a gruff mumble of, “She knows your last name, idiot.”

  Yes. She did. And she was sick of hearing his name praised to the heavens and back from her family. All she wanted was peace, her pumpkin pie, and a sitcom. “Why’d you call?”

  Make this the second time in a day where she face-palmed. This time for the tone of voice that came back to hit her full-force in the awkward silence. "I'm sorry. Again…for that…and dinner. I'm not sure what's wrong with me. Or what came over my family."

  There it was again—his laugh. A sound that soothed away her annoyance in spite of herself.

  “It’s all right. I’m sorry, too…if this is a bad time, I can call back?”

  She was tired. Her introvert needed quiet to gear up for the holiday weekend at the library. But it was only nine-thirty Thanksgiving night, and here she was ready to either cry herself to sleep or binge on Netflix and pie at the same time—she was multi-talented that way.

  And here a good guy had called her. Kind of a smug guy who was seemingly too perfect but for his putting her in her place at dinner…but a nice guy.

  Don’t be stupid, Merry Grace.