Praise for the novels of
New York Times Bestselling Author
Debbie Macomber
“Macomber is known for her honest portrayals of ordinary women in small-town America, and this tale cements her position as an icon of the genre.”
—Publishers Weekly on 16 Lighthouse Road
“As always, Macomber draws rich, engaging characters.”
—Publishers Weekly on Thursdays at Eight
“A multifaceted tale of romance and deceit, the final installment of Macomber’s Dakota trilogy oozes with country charm and a strong sense of community.”
—Publishers Weekly on Always Dakota
“Macomber closes book two with a cliffhanger, leaving readers anxiously awaiting the final installment to this first-rate series.”
—Publishers Weekly on Dakota Home
“Sometimes the best things come in small packages. Such is the case here….”
—Publishers Weekly on Return to Promise
“Ms. Macomber provides the top in entertaining relationship dramas.”
—Reader to Reader
“Macomber’s storytelling sometimes yields a tear, at other times a smile.”
—Newport News, VA Daily Press
“Popular romance writer Macomber has a gift for evoking the emotions that are at the heart of the genre’s popularity.”
—Publishers Weekly
Christmas 2002
Dear Friends,
As an author I can tell you that some stories are a gift. They arrive in the imagination whole and complete and practically write themselves. It’s rare, and when it occurs, I accept it with a prayer of thanksgiving. The book you’re holding is that kind of gift. These stories were originally published in 1998 and 1999 under the titles of Can This Be Christmas? and Shirley, Goodness and Mercy.
Can This Be Christmas? is about a group of passengers, all strangers to each other, trapped in an East Coast train depot on Christmas Eve, and Shirley, Goodness and Mercy are my three irrepressible angels.
The idea for Can This Be Christmas? was based on my parents’ experience when they were caught in a snowstorm in the town of North Bend, Washington. They’d come for Christmas to be with my family. On their way home, Snoqualmie Pass was closed due to the danger of avalanches. I was fifty miles away and unable to get to them. Because my mom and dad are older, I paced and worried, worried and paced. That night, once the storm lessened and the electricity returned, I put on the local evening news—just in time to see an item about the stranded Christmas travelers. The TV coverage showed my dad playing pinochle and my mother helping in the kitchen. Both appeared to be in good spirits, cheerful and upbeat about their circumstances. They made friends during those two days and have stayed in contact with them ever since. Who would’ve thought…?
As for Shirley, Goodness and Mercy—well, they just landed in my lap. This short novel was a return engagement for these three angels—although I hadn’t expected to hear from them again! They’re Christmas angels who had missions to fulfill, stories to tell and a writer who was willing to do their bidding. It was a match made in heaven (so to speak).
I hope you enjoy both of these stories. I’d also like to suggest that you look around. It isn’t only writers who are offered gifts; you just might stumble upon a gift of your own. A gift to last.
Happy holidays,
P.S. I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366 or through my Web site at www.debbiemacomber.com.
DEBBIE MACOMBER
A Gift to Last
CONTENTS
CAN THIS BE CHRISTMAS?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
SHIRLEY, GOODNESS AND MERCY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
CAN THIS BE CHRISTMAS?
For my dear friend Betty and her Judge
Many years of happiness, my friend
To the new
Mr. and Mrs. Jim Roper
One
“I’ll Be Home for Christmas”
A robust version of “Little Drummer Boy” played in the background as Len Dawber glanced at his watch—for at least the tenth time in five minutes. He looked around the depot impatiently, hardly noticing the Christmas decorations on the windows and walls—the cardboard Santa’s sleigh, the drooping garland and blinking lights.
Len was waiting with a herd of other holiday travelers to board the train that would take him to Boston. The snowstorm that had started last evening meant his early-morning flight out of Bangor, Maine, had been canceled and the airport closed. Although the airlines couldn’t be blamed for the weather, they’d done everything possible to arrange transportation out of Maine. Len suspected more than a few strings had been pulled to get seats on the already full midmorning train. Maybe some of the original passengers canceled, he thought with faint hope.
Because, unfortunately, that crowded train was his only chance of making it to Boston in time to connect with his flight home for Christmas.
Len got to his feet, relinquishing his place on the hard station bench to a tired-looking man. He walked quickly to the door and stepped outside. He lifted his gaze toward the sky. Huge flakes of snow swirled in the wind, obscuring his view. His shoulder muscles tensed with frustration until he could no longer remain still. This was exactly what he’d feared would happen when he’d awakened that morning. Even then the clouds had been dark and ominous, threatening his plans and his dreams of a reunion with Amy.
Despite the snow that stung his eyes and dampened his hair, Len began to pace back and forth along the platform, peering down the tracks every few seconds. No train yet. Damn it! Stuck in New England on Christmas Eve.
This was supposed to be the season of joy, but there was little evidence of that in the faces around him. Most people were burdened with luggage and armfuls of Christmas packages. Some of the gift wrap was torn, the bows limp and tattered. The children, sensing their parents’ anxiety, were cranky and restless. The younger ones whined and clung to their mothers.
Worry weighed on Len’s heart. He had to catch the Boston flight, otherwise he wouldn’t make it home to Rawhide, Texas, today. He’d miss his date with Amy and the family’s Christmas Eve celebration. Part of his precious leave would be squandered because of the snowstorm.
There was another reason he yearned for home. Len didn’t intend this to be an ordinary Christmas. No, this Christmas would be one of the best in his entire life. It had everything to do with Amy—and the engagement ring burning a hole in his uniform pocket.
Len had enlisted in the navy following high-school graduation and taken his submarine training in New London, Connecticut. Afterward, he’d been assigned to the sub base in Bangor, Maine. He thoroughly enjoyed life on the East Coast, so different from anything he’d known in Texas, and wondered if Amy would like it, too….
Len was proud to serve his country and seriously considered making the navy his career, but that decision depended on a number of things. Amy’s answer, for one.
A real drawback of military life was this separation from his family. On his most recent trip home last September, he’d come to realize how much he loved Amy Brent. In the weeks since, he’d decided to ask her to marry him. They planned to be together that very night, Christmas Eve—the most wonderful night o
f the year. Once they were alone, away from family and friends, Len intended to propose.
He loved Amy; he had no doubts about that. He wasn’t a man who gave his heart easily, and he’d made sure, in his own mind at least, that marriage was what he truly wanted. In the weeks since their last meeting, he’d come to see that loving her was for real and for always.
They hadn’t talked about marriage, not the way some couples did, but he was confident she loved him, too. He paused for a moment and held in a sigh as the doubts came at him, thick as the falling snow. Lately Len had noticed that Amy seemed less like her normal self. They hadn’t talked much, not with him saving to buy the diamond. And it was difficult for Amy to call him at the base. So they’d exchanged letters—light newsy letters with little mention of feelings. He had to admit he found their letters enjoyable to read—and even to write—and the cost of stamps was a lot more manageable than some of his phone bills had been. The truth was, he couldn’t afford to spend money on long-distance calls anymore, not the way he had in previous months. His airfare home hadn’t been cheap, either.
It wasn’t as if he’d put off traveling until the last minute, which Amy seemed to suspect. He’d been on duty until the wee hours of this morning; he’d explained all that in a letter he’d mailed earlier in the week, when he’d sent her his flight information. Although Amy hadn’t come right out and said it, he knew she’d been disappointed he couldn’t arrive earlier, but that was navy life.
He hadn’t received a letter from her in ten days, which was unusual. Then again, perhaps not. After all, they’d be seeing each other soon. Amy and his parents were scheduled to pick him up in Dallas, and together they’d drive home to Rawhide. He closed his eyes and pictured their reunion, hoping the mental image would help calm his jangled nerves. It did soothe him, but not for long.
He had to get home for Christmas. He just had to.
This was Cathy Norris’s first Christmas without Ron, and she refused to spend it in Maine. She’d buried her husband of forty-one years that October; her grief hadn’t even begun to abate. The thought of waking up Christmas morning without him had prompted her to accept her daughter’s invitation. She’d be joining Madeline and her young family in Boston for the holidays.
Cathy had postponed the decision until last week for a number of reasons. To begin with, she wasn’t a good traveler and tended to stay close to home. Ron, on the other hand, had adored adventure and loved trekking through the woods and camping and fishing with his friends. Cathy was more of a homebody. She’d never flown or taken the train by herself before—but then, she was learning, now, to do a great many unfamiliar things on her own. In the past Ron had always been with her, seeing to their tickets, their luggage and any unforeseen problems. He had been such a dear husband, so thoughtful and generous.
The battle with cancer had been waged for a year. Ron had put up a gallant fight, but in the end he’d been ready to die, far more ready than she was to let him go. Trivial as it seemed now, she realized that subconsciously she’d wanted him to live until after the holidays.
Naturally she’d never said anything. How could she, when such a request was purely selfish? It wasn’t as if Ron could choose when he would die. Nevertheless, she’d clung to him emotionally far longer than she should have—until she’d painfully acknowledged that her fears were denying her husband a peaceful exit from life. Then with an agony that had all but crippled her, she’d kissed him one final time. Holding his limp hand between her own, she’d sat by his bedside, loving him with her entire being, and waited until he’d breathed his last.
Ron’s death clouded what would otherwise have been her favorite month of the year. She found it devastating to be around others celebrating the season while she struggled to shake her all-consuming grief. She’d accepted Madeline’s invitation as part of a concerted effort to survive the season of peace and goodwill.
Charting a new course for herself at this age was more of a challenge than she wanted. Life, however, had seen fit to make her a widow one month, then thrust her into the holiday season the next.
She was doing her best, trying to cope with her grief, finding the courage to smile now and again for her children’s sake. They realized how difficult the holidays were for her of course, but her daughters were grieving, too.
This snowstorm had been an unwelcome hitch in her careful plans. Madeline had urged her to come sooner, but Cathy had foolishly resisted, not wanting to overstay her welcome. She’d agreed to visit until the twenty-seventh. Ron had always said that company, like fish, began to smell after three days.
“Mom,” Madeline had said when she’d phoned early that morning, “I heard on the news there’s a huge snowstorm headed your way.”
“I’m afraid it arrived last night.” The wind had moaned audibly outside her window as she spoke.
“What are you going to do?” Madeline, her youngest, tended to worry; unfortunately she’d inherited that trait from her mother.
“Do?” Cathy repeated as if a fierce winter blizzard was of little concern. “I’m taking the train to Boston to join you, Brian and the children for Christmas. What else is there to do?”
“But how will you get to the station?”
Cathy had already worked that out. “I’ve phoned for a taxi.”
“But, Mom—”
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Cathy said firmly, hoping she sounded confident even though she was an emotional wreck. She felt as though her life was caving in around her. Stuck in Bangor over Christmas, grieving for Ron—that would have been more than Cathy could handle. If spending the holiday with family meant taking her chances in the middle of a snowstorm, then so be it.
The first hurdle had been successfully breached. Listening to Andy Williams crooning a Christmas ballad, Cathy stood in line at the Bangor train depot, along with half the town, it seemed. The taxi fare had been exorbitant, but at least she was here, safe and sound. She’d packed light, leaving plenty of room in her suitcase for gifts for her two youngest granddaughters. Shopping had been a chore this year, so she’d decided simply to give Madeline and Brian a check and leave it at that, but she couldn’t give money to her grandchildren. They were much too young for that. The best gifts she could think to bring them were books, plus a toy each.
Madeline had consented to let Lindsay and Angela, aged three and five, open their presents that evening following church services. Then the children could climb onto Cathy’s lap and she’d read them to sleep. The thought of holding her grandchildren close helped ease the ache in her heart.
Everything would be all right now that she was at the depot, she reassured herself. Soon she’d be with her family. The train might be late, but it would get there eventually.
All her worries had been for nothing.
Matthew McHugh hated Christmas. And he didn’t have a problem expressing that opinion. As for the season of goodwill—what a laugh. Especially now, when he was stuck in an overcrowded train depot, waiting for the next train to Boston where he’d catch the flight into LAX. The timing of this snowstorm had been impeccable. Every seat in the station was taken, and people who weren’t sitting nervously paced the confined area, waiting for the train, which was already fifteen minutes late. Some, like that guy in the navy uniform, were even prowling the platform—as though that would make the train come any faster.
Christmas Eve, and the airports, train depots and bus stations were jammed. Everyone was in a rush to get somewhere, him included. As a sales rep for a Los Angeles-based software company, Matt was a seasoned traveler. And he figured anyone who spent a lot of time in airports would agree: Christmas was the worst. Crying babies, little old ladies, cranky kids—he’d endured it all. Most of it with ill grace.
His boss, Ruth Shroeder, who’d been promoted over him, had handed him this assignment early in the week. She’d purposely sent him to the other side of the country just so he’d know she was in charge. Rub his face in it, so to speak. This could easily hav
e been a wasted trip; no one bought computer software three days before Christmas. Fortunately he’d outfoxed her and made the sale. By rights, he should be celebrating, but he experienced little satisfaction and no sense of triumph.
Ruth had been expecting him to make a fuss, demand that the assignment go to one of the junior sales reps. Matt had merely smiled and reached for the plane tickets. He’d sold the software, but was left feeling that although he’d won the battle, he was destined to lose the war.
And a whole lot more.
Pam, his wife of fifteen years, hadn’t been the least bit understanding about this trip. If ever he’d needed her support it was now, but all she’d done was add to his burden. “Christmas, Matt? You’re leaving three days before Christmas?”
What irritated him most was her complete and total lack of appreciation for his feelings. It wasn’t like he’d asked for this trip or wanted to be away from the family. The fact that Pam had chosen the evening of his departure to start an argument revealed how little she recognized the stress he’d been under since the promotions were announced.
“I already said it couldn’t be helped,” he’d explained calmly as he packed his bag. His words were devoid of emotion, although plenty of it simmered just below the surface. He carefully placed an extra shirt in his bag.
Pam had gone strangely quiet.
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