A Small Town Christmas

by Sheila Roberts

  The little green-eyed face at the back of his mind started singing, too. Take a chance. Take a chance. Come on. You run into burning buildings for a living. Get some guts. Take a chance.

  The little voice kept singing long after the movie was over.

  And when Tom managed to knock the Clue game from the window seat and Natalie picked it up saying, “Hey, this might be fun,” it started screaming. TAKE A CHANCE, BOZO!

  Zach jumped off the couch like his pants were on fire. “I’ve got to go.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Merilee had shed her fancy clothes and changed into her cozy jammies: pink flannel with a candy cane print. She’d turned on her tree lights and served herself some light eggnog along with the small plate of Christmas cookies her mother had sent home with her (comfort food), and now she was snuggled under an afghan (more comfort) with It’s a Wonderful Life playing on her TV (which should have been comforting). A perfect ending to a perfect day.

  Not. She was by herself. She didn’t even have a cat now. What was so wonderful about that?

  It will be a new year, she told herself. You’ll go to school. You’ll find the right man on Myotherhalf.com. And you’ll move and get a cat. There. The new year was looking better already.

  She took a big slug of light eggnog. This stuff sucked. Tomorrow she was going to the store and get some good eggnog. And meanwhile she was going to…? Quit obsessing over Zach!

  She opened her laptop. She’d check and see if Myotherhalf.com had sent any new frog princes hopping her way.

  George Bailey was begging to live again and Merilee was checking out a new potential other half when someone started pounding on her door. What on earth? She wrapped her afghan around her and padded over to the door and peered through the peephole.

  Zach? Was she hallucinating? Under the influence of too much eggnog?

  “Merilee, open up.”

  She looked down in horror at her flannel jammies. Great. Where was her slinky black top when she needed it? She pulled the afghan around her shoulders and opened the door, sure her cheeks were as red as her hair, to find him standing there, filling the doorway.

  “Zach,” she said stupidly.

  He didn’t give her time to say anything else. He pulled her to him and kissed her. And what a kiss it was! The only thing that kept her from going up in smoke was her flame-retardant jammies.

  Was she dreaming? No. Her eyes were still wide open in shock, and there was that handsome face, up close and personal. Right along with other parts of him. Ooh.

  But … “What are you doing here?” she asked when he finally set her mouth free. And why was she asking? Whatever Christmas spell he was under, did she want to break it?

  “I’m taking a chance,” he said, and kissed her again.

  Those potential princes were immediately forgotten and the afghan fell to the floor.

  From the TV, Mary Bailey cried, “It’s a miracle!”

  And she was right.

  EPILOGUE

  One year later

  This was the life, thought Ambrose as he stretched by the fire. It looked like it was going to be a nice, long one.

  He had sure earned it. It hadn’t been easy getting Merilee and Zach together, but he’d managed. He still looked back on some of his lives and couldn’t make sense of them. One thing he knew for sure, though: this last one had been his most important. He had used it well.

  And it had paid off. It was snowing outside, fat flakes laying a freezing carpet on the lawn, but in Zach’s living room everything was cozy. Christmas music came from the funny little contraption on Zach’s coffee table, and in the bay window, the lights on the Christmas tree twinkled temptingly. However, Ambrose was too smart to get fooled into going anywhere near the thing. He’d had enough tree encounters to last a ninth lifetime. Still, it was pretty to admire from a distance.

  His evening stretch finished, he relocated to the couch where Zach and Merilee were snuggled with Zach’s computer looking at pictures of brides, making himself at home on Merilee’s lap. She had been off to something called veterinary school but she had come back for the holidays, and to welcome her home Zach had given her a diamond ring.

  Ambrose knew about that. Cats didn’t bother with such fol-de-rol, but humans seemed to need things like rings and ceremonies before they could take mating seriously.

  Come summer, there would be a big ceremony and then probably, somewhere down the road, children. Ugh. But into every cat’s life a little rain must fall.

  A new song started and a chorus of humans began to sing, “We wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  It had been a Merry Christmas, with all of Zach’s family over, and lots of women to pet Ambrose. They hadn’t brought Aphrodite but that was okay. It meant more attention for him. He and Aphrodite had managed to keep in touch and probably later tonight he’d be slipping out his cat door for a rendezvous. Ah, life was good.

  “We wish you a Merry Christmas,” crooned the singers, “and a Happy New Year.”

  A log shifted on the fire and settled with a little whoosh, adding “And a happy ninth life.”

  Thank you, thought Ambrose, and he closed his eyes and purred.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I have lots of people to thank for helping me tell Ambrose’s tale. Thanks to Daniel Olson, fire chief for Poulsbo, Washington, for taking time to explain the workings of the fire department. Keeping the citizens of Poulsbo safe and keeping Sheila on track—I don’t know which was more challenging! Anyway, both Ambrose and I thank you. Thanks also to my writing pals Susan Wiggs, Elsa Watson, Anjali Banerjee, and Kate Breslin for all their great input as I worked on telling Ambrose’s tail … er, tale. Last but not least, a huge thanks to my awesome editor, Rose Hilliard, and my amazing agent, Paige Wheeler. You two make work fun!

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE NINE LIVES OF CHRISTMAS. Copyright © 2011 by Sheila Rabe. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Roberts, Sheila.

  The nine lives of Christmas / Sheila Roberts.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  e-ISBN 9781429989466

  1. Cats—Fiction. 2. Fire fighters—Fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 4. Christmas stories. I. Title.

  PS3618.O31625N56 2011

  813'.6—dc22

  2011025844

  First Edition: November 2011

  A VERY HOLLY CHRISTMAS

  Sheila Roberts

  St. Martin’s Press

  New York

  After that Christmas strike…

  Joy Robertson held her breath. “So, is it too many?”

  Her husband, the former Bob Humbug, shrugged. “No. Go ahead and invite whoever you want to the Christmas party.”

  Had she heard right? This from the man who, only a year ago, poo-pooed all things Christmas related. “Are you sure?” she called after him as he went down the hall to his writing room.

  “I’m sure,” he called back.

  Who would have thought one little strike by the women in the town of Holly would bring about such changes? Joy thought as her husband shut the door behind him. This was going to be an awesome Christmas.

  She spent the afternoon happily baking cookies and, later that day, when Bob was running errands, she slipped into the office to snag her laptop so she could send out internet invites to their Christmas bash.

  Bob was already hard at work on a new mystery. With his writing career starting to take off, it seemed like he was always at work on a new book. She saw some pages sitting on his desk and couldn’t resist snooping. The Holiday Bash read the title. Oh, clever. He’d typed a little summary of the book under the title: Frustrated husband plots to murder wife at family�
�s Christmas gathering.

  Frustrated husband. Was that Bob? It had been a whole year since she accidentally started the strike that led to his life-changing epiphany. Bob had seemed so sincere when he claimed he was a changed man and that he wanted to enjoy all the holiday festivities with her. Now, with Christmas chaos bearing down on him, was he thinking of serving up a little revenge and bumping her off in a book?

  She frowned. They were middle-aged with grown children. Surely they had gotten past playing these games.

  After what went on last Christmas? Who was she kidding.

  “Okay, Bob Humbug,” she growled, opening her laptop. “Guess what. The guest list for the Christmas party just doubled.”

  Sharon Benedict left the mall on Saturday with her car loaded with new Christmas decorations – tasteful decorations to beautify their house both inside and out. Pete and the boys may have taken over the tree last year, but this year was going to be different. Yes, they were already planning their next holiday monstrosity, hoping to win Holly’s tree decorating contest again, but she had news for them. Their tree would be relegated to the family room. She was going to put a flocked tree with rust and gold ornaments and bows in the living room. It would be stunning. And the outside of the house would, of course, tie in perfectly, with gold festoons along the porch and pretty little icicles hanging from the roof.

  But she pulled up in front of her house to find that her men had already been decorating the front yard. No, not decorating. Destroying, vandalizing, ruining! She got out of the car and staggered up the walk. A gigantic blow-up Santa with sunglasses waved at her, his hat whipping in the breeze. Reindeer and candy canes lay scattered across the lawn. A Rudolph was already set up and when she walked past the thing it belched at her. “Oh, my Lord,” she whimpered.

  Her son, Pete Junior, emerged from the garage carrying a bundle of multi-colored lights. “Hey, Mom. How do you like it so far? Dad says we’re sure to win the contest for the best yard this year.”

  Sharon thought of all her lovely decorations in the car and felt a sudden urge to stomp that stupid reindeer to death. But her mama raised her to be a lady, so she resisted.

  “Hey, babe,” called Pete from the roof. It was a good thing he was way up where she couldn’t reach him. “How was shopping?”

  “Pete Benedict, you are going to fall and break an arm,” she scolded.

  “Nah, I’m being careful. Oh, and don’t worry about the mess in the kitchen. We’ll clean it later.”

  Sharon frowned. “Mess? What have you all been doing while I was gone?”

  “Baking gingerbread boys,” said Pete Junior. He snickered. “We’ve got some great ones this year.”

  She remembered the anatomically correct gingerbread boy from last year and could only imagine what kind of naughty cookies they had baked in her absence. It was only the first week in December and her perfectly planned holiday was already starting to unravel. Was it just last year that she’d been complaining about having to do everything herself? Be careful what you wish for.

  Now the other two boys were on the lawn, filling the nippy air with squeals and laughter. “This is fun!” cried James.

  Fun. For whom?

  But later that week as a light snow fell and she and Pete walked the neighborhood holding hands as they checked out the competition, the boys running ahead, laughing and throwing snowballs, she found herself smiling. They were doing things as a family like never before.

  “Christmas at the Benedict home will never be Martha Stewart perfect again,” she confessed to her friends when they gathered for their weekly knitting group at the Stitch in Time yarn shop. “But it will be perfect in other ways.”

  “You sound like a Disney movie,” teased Laura Fredericks. “And I can’t believe you haven’t had a nervous breakdown over this.”

  “Well, they may have taken over the yard, but I have reclaimed the house,” Sharon said with a satisfied nod.

  Laura frowned at the same scarf she’d been working on all month. “I think I need to reclaim some territory myself. Glen dropped Joseph putting up my nativity set and shattered him.”

  “As long as you’ve got Jesus and Mary you’re still all right,” Kay Carter assured her.

  “I guess,” said Laura. “We’re putting up the tree this weekend. God knows what he’ll break then.”

  “Well, bless his heart, at least he’s trying,” said Sharon. “You’ve got the help you wanted.”

  Laura rolled her eyes. “Some help.”

  “Sugar, if you could see the X-rated gingerbread boys my sons have been passing out to all their friends you’d be glad you only lost your Joseph,” Sharon told her.

  Their last two members, Carol White and Jerri Rodriguez came in. Jerri’s hair had grown back after the chemo and she now wore it short and spiky. Carol was looking good with her blonde hair freshly highlighted. And she was wearing something new.

  “Oh, my Lord!” exclaimed Sharon, grabbing her left hand to check out the diamond and emerald ring. “You did it!”

  Carol nodded, her smile matching the sparkle of the diamond. “We’re engaged.”

  Everyone was up and hugging her, knitting projects forgotten. “I’m so happy for you,” said Joy. Carol had been too sweet and pretty to stay a widow forever, but last Christmas it had seemed that was what she was determined to do. What a difference love made!

  Except in a certain humbug, Joy thought grumpily as she drove home later. Bob was on the verge of a holiday relapse, she could just feel it.

  “So, how are the Stitch ‘N Bitchers?” he greeted her as she came through the door.

  She couldn’t answer. She was too busy blinking in shock, trying to take in what she saw. Their Christmas tree was up – beautifully, perfectly decorated. “You did the tree.”

  Bob grinned, pleased with himself. “Yep. I did something else, too. Think your family wants to do another mystery party this Christmas?”

  He walked over to her and handed her a sheaf of typed papers. “I hope your sister-in-law won’t mind getting bumped off.”

  Joy looked at the top page. The Holiday Bash. “This isn’t the new book,” she said stupidly. He wasn’t publicly killing her off in a book? He’d been working on a fun activity for her big, noisy, family gathering, the same gathering he’d complained about only a year ago?

  “I’m working on the book. But I wanted to have this done in plenty of time this year.” He looked at her funny. “You seem surprised.”

  She grinned and threw her arms around him. He really was a changed man. Like Scrooge, he’d learned to keep Christmas in his heart. “Not at all,” she lied.

  -END-

  One

  When a guy is in trouble he starts making deals with his Creator, and Ambrose was dealing like crazy. Vicious teeth snapped at him, and his whole life (actually, all nine of them) flashed before his eyes. If this dog got him it was all over.

  Becoming dog food looked like a distinct possibility, as the tree Ambrose had chosen was small and the particular branch he was perched on was a flimsy twig barely capable of holding a kitten, let alone a mature cat. And the big, black beast below seemed to have springs on his paws.

  I’ll do anything, Ambrose yowled. Anything! Please, let me live a little longer.

  This was life number nine. He knew he wouldn’t get any more but he’d settle for a longer one in which he could finish his days in comfort. Under the circumstances, it would be a miracle if he survived to see that happen. But he’d seen people stringing up colored lights on their houses just the other day, which meant Christmas season was about to begin, and wasn’t Christmas supposed to be the season of miracles? Not that Christmas had ever been good to Ambrose. That was when he usually managed to meet his end.

  So he wasn’t surprised at what was happening to him now. That didn’t mean he had to like it, though. What a horrible way to go! Pulled from a tree and brutally murdered by a bloodthirsty mongrel. All these houses and there was not a single human around
to help him on this cold, gray morning. No surprise, really. Humans bought houses and then rarely stayed in them … until they got old, and by then, like Ambrose, their days were numbered.

  Below him the dog showed his fangs again and growled. Needing a miracle here. Soon! Not that he deserved one. He thought of little Robbie, who he’d scratched many a time in his seventh life, and poor Snoopy the beagle, who he had tortured in his eighth life. He shouldn’t have made the dog’s life so miserable but he’d been getting bitter by then. How he had enjoyed driving old Snoopy crazy by jumping on him and riding him around the house with his claws dug into the dog’s back. Hee-hee. That had been …

  Bad, very bad. He would never do anything like that again.

  Why oh why hadn’t he picked a tall, sturdy tree to climb instead of this immature maple? What had he been thinking? The answer to that was easy enough. He’d been thinking,

  Run!

  It started to rain—fat, freezing pellets that dug under his fur, and an angry winter wind pushed the tree, making its branches sway. Noooo. Ambrose dug his claws deeper into the bark. I’ll be a good cat and earn my keep here on Earth. Just send me some help and I’ll prove it.

  Now the dog was up on his hind legs, pushing against the tree and reaching for Ambrose like he was some kind of doggy chew toy. Determined not to go down without a fight, Ambrose hissed at him and took a swipe with claws unsheathed. That only made the beast more berserk.

  Where was a dogcatcher when you needed one? Help! Is anybody listening?

  Out of nowhere, appearing as suddenly as the rain had come, Ambrose saw a man wearing what humans called jogging clothes. He ran up to the dog and yelled, “Go on, get out of here.”

  Between the man’s aggressive clap and that big, canine-like growl of his, he not only scared away the dog, he almost gave Ambrose a heart attack.

  The beast loped off down the street and the man said, “Okay, guy, looks like you’re safe.”