The Christmas Quilts

by Olivia Gaines

  Charlotte asked, “Bisa, did you make all of the tops into quilts?”

  “Actually no, Cody quilted each one, binding and all,” she said with pride. All of the family stared at him as he cheeks warmed to a bright pink. Hugs were given to him one after the other as he squirmed under the praise and adoration from his family over his handy work. The joyous moment was interrupted suddenly by Cody’s mother.

  Rona couldn’t wait any more. “Bisa, when are you and Cody going to give me a beautiful brown angel for a grandbaby?”

  “Mom! Stop it.” Cody corrected his mother. “She can’t give you grandchildren until she is my wife.”

  Doc stepped up, “So when are you going to pop the question, son?”

  “Well, I had this whole romantic scenario planned, but you guys ruin everything,” he said, getting down on one knee. From his pocket, he struggled a bit, but pulled out the small velveteen box.

  “Bisa, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” he asked.

  Tears filled her eyes as she nodded her head yes, extending shaking fingers as he slipped the ring on her hand. Lily Rose teared up as well, knowing the ring her soon-to-be daughter-in-law wore was the same ring Bart Sr. slipped on her finger nearly 65 years ago. She’d saved it for Cody.

  Cody rose, kissing Bisa as the family cheered him on. The way in which Bisa was crying made him stop. “Don’t cry Quilting Bee. Is everything okay?”

  “Rona is getting her Christmas wish,” she said softly.

  “What did she say, Cody?” Jane asked him.

  Cody, all smiles turned to face his family. “She said that Mom is getting her Christmas wish,” he repeated, holding Bisa’s hand.

  “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want you to feel obligated...to marry me, but you asked...you asked me before I told you,” Bisa said.

  “I already knew,” Cody said.

  “How?” she asked, wiping away the tears.

  “I’ve had an intense craving for a peanut butter and sandwich. I hate peanut butter,” he said, holding her close, his hand on her belly.

  “I’m going to be somebody’s daddy!” He turned to yell at his family.

  Cheers sounded in the house, congratulating the new couple as the evening waned and the family departed. Lily Rose retired to her room, sitting up in her bed surrounded by the loads of Christmas presents she’d received, which also doubled as her birthday presents. In her arms she held one final gift which she would present to Cody and Bisa in the morning. Right now she was tired. Exhaling loudly, she leaned back into the pillows, looking at the note she had written on the final quilt she’d made to give her grandson as a Christmas present in the morning.

  The majority of Christmas Day she stayed in bed, complaining of fatigue. Bisa brought her meals to her room, but Lily Rose barely ate. The fireplace was lit as Bisa sat in the rocker, Cody in the chair near his Nana’s bed, reading to her from her old family bible. They left her in the bed as they retired for the evening.

  The morning arrived but Lily Rose did not rise. She ended her final days on her bed holding in her arms the final quilt she would gift to her favorite grandson and his soon to be wife. Cody found her there, her hands cold, giving in to the cool December night as she entered her final sleep.

  In her arms was a quilt made from the bag of scraps saved through the years. Cody pried it from her arms, reading the note.

  “For little Blackbeard,” he read aloud. He sat on the side of her bed holding his Nana’s hand and no tears came to him.

  “Cody, should I call someone?” Bisa asked.

  “In a minute,” he said.

  Bisa stood at his side, looking at Lily Rose. “She looks so peaceful.”

  “She lived her life the way she wanted on her terms,” he said.

  “You gave her that. You were a good grandson,” she told him, kissing him on the head. “You are going to be a great father as well.”

  “And an even better husband,” he told her. “Well, I guess we should get some coffee and tea going and call the family.” His eyes wandered back to his grandmother. Eight years he’d taken care of her and today, no sadness was in his heart as he bid the matriarch of his family goodbye. He was going to miss her so much that his chest felt tight for the loss of her spirit.

  “Okay. Would you like me to call the mortuary? I will start to prepare some trays of food for the neighbors who will want to come and pay their respects,” Bisa said, trying not to get choked up. Lilly Rose knew the day was coming and had prepared herself. As much as she and Cody had attempted to do the same, the loss, the pain of her departure would impact them for years to come.

  “See, this is why I love you,” Cody said. He was frailly trying to lighten the somber mood in the room, his hand touching her belly to feel the life preparing to come into the world as they said farewell to one which had just departed it.

  “I love you more,” she said. “You gave her a wonderful birthday and a very Merry Christmas.”

  “You gave me a Merry Christmas as well,” Cody said.

  The end of one light extinguished as a new light began to shine. Cody Richardson found his light in Bisa. Together, they stitched out a life in the large Antebellum house, adorned with the gingerbread trim which sat on the corner in Aiken, South Carolina. Four adorable children grew up in the house, one named Lily Rose, who grew up to be a quilter and the future owner of the Quilting Bee.

  But that is another story.

  - Fin -

  Have a very merry Christmas.

  Coming February 2018

  On A Rainy Night in Georgia

  Prologue

  Three days.

  It had been three days since he’d left her in the raggedy, termite eaten shack. Three soggy, wet days later, the fire was waning, but the rain was not. The last lonely embers sat in the fireplace beginning a slow death of the last log of dry fire wood. If she didn’t move soon, it would also be her fate. I am not going to die here. My life is not forfeit.

  The chain around her ankle was loose now that she’d lost a great deal of weight in the past month. A coldness seeped into her bones from the minimal firewood. As well as being skimpy on wood and coal, her captor didn’t feed her very much. The little food he did leave for her dining pleasure wasn’t fit for a dog to eat. The scraps were all she had to sustain her body and she rationed as much as she could, as often as she could.

  Three days.

  The constant downpour for three days straight did not appear to be letting up. The leaky roof dripped rain onto the cold wooden floor which held craters of cracks and crevices allowing in varying insects and on one semi-warm night, a black snake which came in from the rain to warm itself by the fire. The snake didn’t stay long. The shack was too cold for it. She too was cold. Naked. Cold. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, for the second time in eleven months, fear of her pending death in a shack in the butt crack of a mountain in Georgia sat beside her like a silent friend.

  A pain shot low and deep across her belly.

  “No, no, no,” she wailed as another pain hit her, crumpling her body. An involuntary moisture seeped from her body causing another wave of fear. Dirt covered hands reached between her legs to feel where the pressure was building. In the low light of the shack, in her hand, she saw the yellow mucus.

  The mucus plug has come out.

  This was about to happen.

  This is happening.

  I will not die.

  My life is not forfeit.

  “Father, hear my prayer,” she said softly setting to work to free herself.

  The handful of yellow mucus she rubbed around the chain on her ankle, adding enough lubricant, with some effort, to wiggle the chain off her leg. Free. I am free. She stood, trying to get her legs under her, grateful, that when she’d been alone, meticulous exercise routines we enacted to maintain her muscle tone, just in case this day ever came.

  Naked.

  She was naked as a new born babe but her new born was not going to arri
ve in that cold prison where he’d kept her. On a hook on the wall hung an old, weathered rain slicker. Grabbing the fabric, she shook it hard attempting to free it of any guests which may have taken up residence in the fabric. Pulling it over her head, she yanked the unlocked back door open, stepping barefoot onto the splintered back porch. Grateful the arrogant prick didn’t bother to lock the door because he never thought she’d get free, she stepped off the porch making her way around the house.

  Run.

  The rain hit her in the face like so many of her bad decisions which, thus far, had led her to this fate. My life is not forfeit. Cold fingers touched her belly, gripping it low as she set out and a steady pace, running down the hill on the driven path way. Uncertain of where she was running. Not knowing where she was going. Not really caring. All she knew was that she had to get away.

  Branches slapped her in the face as she ran through the dense foliage of the woods when the driven path came to a muddy end in a deep red clay pool. She lost her footage, slipping, protecting her belly by landing on her side, her face in the dirt. Turning, scrambling, struggling to get back on her feet, the aggressive rain washed the dirt from her face, but the hood kept her head dry. The pain in her feet all but ignored since they had gone numb some time ago as she got back up and continued to run downhill. Downhill meant a road should be coming up soon. The pains in her belly were intensifying signaling she was almost out of time.

  “Hold on Baby,” she said, breaking through the foliage onto a clearing.

  Asphalt.

  I made it to the road.

  The heavy rain was blinding her since there were no trees on the road to slow its torrential downpour. The sliver of moonlight which lit her way in the night gave no indication of city lights, a nearby residence or a direction in which to turn. Closing her eyes, she dropped to her knees.

  “Father, order my steps,” she prayed.

  Rising slowly, a pull to her left suggested she go in that direction. Hands clutched around her belly, which was moving, squirming and ready to release its incubating inhabitant; she knew she would be in trouble if she didn’t find help soon. A pain shot low forcing her to stop running. She leaned down, holding her knees, trying desperately to catch her breath. Then another pain hit her a few minutes later.

  The contractions were growing closer and closer together.

  If her water had broken she didn’t know. Everything was wet. The poncho had holes in it, but her head stayed dry. That was important. A wet head could mean death before she even had a chance to meet her baby.

  Move Girl. You have to move.

  She picked up her pace running a bit further only to discover more sections of a washed-out road. The gap in it was too large for her to clamber over in her current state. As fast as the water was washing down the mountain, the last thing she needed was to be swept away in the down pour.

  I can’t go back. I can’t go back.

  Tears, started to well in her eyes.

  I can’t believe He brought me this far...to leave me here.

  Wiping away her tears, she stood in the rain, looking around. Surveying her surroundings when she spotted a glimmer of hope. A blue mailbox. A, beautiful neon blue, half rusted mail box which stuck out in the all the dark, wet, nastiness of the night.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said aloud.

  A mailbox meant a residence. A residence meant potential safety. The mailbox was old, but not too rusted which meant someone had been maintaining it. She turned towards the red dirt road which sat beside the mailbox. Gratitude shot up her leg at the smoothness of the road versus gravel being used to stop the erosion of the driveway. The gate, which blocked the road was fortunately unlocked as cold, tired hands, pushed at it, opening it just enough to get her body through the space.

  She closed it back once inside.

  Follow the road. Follow the road. A voice repeated in her head.

  Picking up her pace, she knew time was almost up and she needed, no she had to make it to that front door. Whoever was home would be in for a big surprise when they answered the knock. She prayed whoever was inside would be able to lend her a hand

  A sharp pain hit her again, buckling her knees.

  My life is not forfeit.

  My life is not forfeit.

  She began to crawl.

  She crawled until the pain subsided, then she was back on her feet. In her head she counted one-one thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four... continuing to run as best she could. She lumbered part of the way, cried the other part until she rounded the bend coming up the hill. A small cabin sat as if it were looking down at her, encouraging her to continue to its safety, the two front windows appearing as over-sized eyes staring down, encouraging her to come to it. To her joy, one of the eyes had a little something in it, which moved, as if it were pacing.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said again.

  Running as fast as she could move, the lactic acid burned in her legs, her feet had no feeling, but that figure in the window propelled her forward. She reached the front porch gasping for air as another pain hit her low. She growled in pain. A small balled up fist tapped at the door.

  No answer.

  She hit it harder banging it with remaining shards of energy she had left, creating the familiar rhythm of Shave and a Hair Cut.

  Warm air hit her face as the door opened, revealing a cozy fire, the smell of fresh bread and something delicious to eat. Her mouth watered at the scents, but pressing matters were at hand.

  “What in the hell?” The dark figured asked as she pushed her way past him. She moved in front of the fire, pulling the tattered poncho over head to reveal a dirty, scarred and nude, pregnant body.

  “Help me,” she said dropping to her knees. “I have been kidnapped and held against my will by one of the Macklemore brothers. I don’t know which one, but the cops in these parts are low down bastards so don’t think of calling them for any aid. My contractions are one minute apart. I escaped. I ran from wherever that shack is he kept me locked in for the past...”

  A contraction hit her again forcing her body to fold over as she lay on her side. It took some effort but she rolled over to lay on her back on the floor. Her woman parts pulsing and pointing at him. The dark hair on a tiny head pushing out of the ever-stretching hole and the man had not moved.

  “...ten maybe eleven months. Close the damned door! Stop staring at me and help me deliver this child!” She yelled at him.

  He jumped, closing the door and running to her side.

  “I need to boil some water,” he said, finally finding his voice.

  “No, you need to come behind me, sit me up so I can push this child out of my baby maker,” she said, with her voice hoarse.

  The stranger moved behind her. The woman smelled horrible. Her hair was matted and filled with moving things which would infect everything in his home, but first thing was first. She was having a baby in the middle of his floor.

  He held her upright as she bent her knees.

  “On three, breathe then push...one, two, and three,” he said.

  -Fin-

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Olivia Gaines is a two-time Georgia Author of the Year nominee and a multiple award-winning, international best-selling Amazon author. Olivia loves a good laugh coupled with some steam, mixed in with a man and woman finding their way past the words of “I love you.” An author of contemporary romances, she writes heartwarming stories of blossoming relationships about couples not only falling in love but building a life after the hot sex scene.

  When Olivia is not writing, she enjoys quilting, playing Scrabble online against other word lovers and spending time with her family. She is an avid world traveler who writes many of the locations into her stories. Most of the time she can be found sitting quietly with pen and paper plotting more adventures in love.

  Olivia lives in Hephzibah, Georgia with her husband, son, grandson and snotty evil cat, Katness Evermean.

  Learn more ab
out her books, upcoming releases and join her bibliophile nation at www.ogaines.com Subscribe to her email list at http://eepurl.com/OulYf

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  Connecting independent readers to independent writers.

  Did you love The Christmas Quilts? Then you should read A New Mommy for Christmas by Olivia Gaines!

  Nine year old Hayley Marie Culligan kneeled by her bedside, prayed and asked God to send her a new mommy for Christmas. Maybe God must have been busy when she made her request, because Jillian showed up as her daddy's new girlfriend.

  Jillian was not the mommy type. Hayley even overheard her saying so on the phone.Ms. Kember, who lived next door was the mommy type.Maybe, if Hayley could get rid of Jillian, Ms. Kember could marry her daddy and be her new mommy.

  Read more at Olivia Gaines’s site.