Table of Contents
Title Page
Book Description
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Also by Vicki Lewis Thompson
The Fix-It Man Excerpt
Nerd Gone Wild
About the Author
‘Tis the Season
by
VICKI LEWIS THOMPSON
Love thy neighbor . . .
Providing the White House Christmas tree is a dream come true for Connecticut tree farmer Sam Garrison, but the filming of a TV special in his hometown promises to be a nightmare. The house he inherited from his grandparents is not ready for its close-up, yet he dreads the makeover offered by the ladies of the town’s craft guild. His prayers are answered when he meets his new neighbor.
NYC interior designer Anna Tilford bought a farmhouse as a weekend retreat from her job, but the TV special threatens her quiet idyll. She’s not interested in taking on Sam’s decorating project -- until she spots his grandmother’s floor loom. In exchange for use of the loom, she agrees to create a Christmas wonderland fit for the cameras. And spending significant time in the company of the loom’s rugged owner may be just the creative spark she’s been missing...
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
‘TIS THE SEASON
All Rights Reserved © 2014 by Vicki Lewis Thompson
ISBN: 978-1-940515-11-3
No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover design by Kellie Denison at Novel Graphic Designs
http://www.facebook.com/novelgraphicdesigns
Formatting by Heart to Hard Drive
http://hearttoharddrive.com/
First edition published December 1989 as Harlequin Temptation #278, by Harlequin Enterprises
Second edition (updated and revised) published December 2014, by Vicki Lewis Thompson
For Opal Campbell, who rereads this story every Christmas. This updated version is for you, Opal! Enjoy!
One
Anna placed her sack of ripe tomatoes on the counter of the Sumersbury grocery and reached into her shoulder bag for her wallet. Before the balding man behind the cash register could ring up her purchase, a large woman barreled into the store and headed toward them.
“Edward!” the woman panted. “Have you heard the news about Sammy?”
The man blinked and smiled apologetically at Anna before answering the woman. “No, can’t say I have, Estelle.” He pushed the keys on the old metal register and quietly gave Anna her total.
“Well, you must be the last person to hear.” Estelle smiled in triumph. “Sumersbury’s going to be on national TV. National TV, Edward. Prime time.”
“You don’t say.” Edward took Anna’s money. “Why’s that?”
“The TV people called Sammy an hour ago and told him they want to do a special about cutting the White House Christmas tree. They’re calling it A Connecticut Christmas. Now what do you think of that?”
Anna glanced at the woman, who was built like a hip-roofed barn. She hadn’t met her before, but then she hadn’t met most of the residents of Sumersbury. She’d deliberately kept to herself during her weekends at the farmhouse. But she had to ask about this television thing. Her peace and quiet could be in jeopardy if what she suspected turned out to be true. “Pardon me,” she said, “but does this have anything to do with Garrison’s Christmas Tree Farm?”
Estelle turned to Anna. “It most certainly does. You must not live here, or you’d know that for sure.”
“I only come up on weekends,” Anna said, and instantly regretted offering the information.
“Oh.” Estelle looked her over. Then she snapped her fingers. “You’re the one! I’d heard some woman from New York bought the McCormick place as a vacation home.”
Anna groaned inwardly. Now she’d done it. So much for keeping a low profile. “Yes, I’m the one,” she said.
“So you’re Sammy Garrison’s neighbor. I can’t believe you don’t know he won that contest.”
“I’ve never met Sammy—uh, Mr. Garrison.” The news was getting worse and worse, but Anna decided to find out what she could. “What contest are you talking about?”
“Why, the annual Christmas Tree Growers’ Association contest. Our Sammy took the grand prize this year, and one of his trees will be sitting smack-dab in the middle of the White House at Christmastime. Isn’t that thrilling?”
“Thrilling,” Anna said.
“And now this television special.” Estelle’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve already told Sammy that my ladies, the Sumersbury Craft Guild, will redo his house for him. Typical bachelor—no decorating sense whatsoever. We can’t have the cameras filming the inside of Sammy’s house the way it is, can we, Edward?” She turned for support to the grocer.
“I guess not.”
“Well, I have to pick up a few things for dinner, and I have a million calls to make.” Estelle moved away from the counter. “Nice to have met you, Miss…What did you say your name was?”
“Tilford.” Anna picked up her tomatoes with a resigned sigh. “Anna Tilford.”
“I’m Estelle Terwiliger, dear.”
Anna recognized that she was supposed to be impressed by the name, and she smiled vaguely. “Nice to meet you, too.” Her long, peaceful summer was over.
On the drive to her weekend home, Anna considered what she’d learned, and the irony made her laugh. Of all the secluded farmhouses in the state of Connecticut, she’d bought the one next to a place soon to be featured on national TV. She’d foolishly imagined that being situated between a Christmas tree farm and a wildlife preserve would give her the perfect setting to heal and regroup.
She’d further congratulated herself when someone on the Christmas tree farm unknowingly provided summer evening concerts on the harmonica. The plaintive sounds, distant and sweet, had filled her with comfort. The past couple of weekends, though, the harmonica player had been silent, probably because he was off winning Christmas tree contests and wreaking havoc with her country retreat. Great.
She pulled into her driveway and stopped, blocked by the red maple that had fallen early in the summer. The tree had toppled over during a midweek storm, so at least her compact Honda hadn’t been trapped inside the garage. But the barrier had forced her to lug her small suitcase and sack of groceries around the splintered trunk each weekend.
As she opened the car door, she heard a chainsaw buzz from the direction of the Christmas tree farm. Already her quiet ambience was gone. She got out of the car and pulled her suitcase from the back. Then she hefted the bag of non-perishables, put the sack of tomatoes on top and closed the car door with her hip.
The chainsaw continued to whine in the distance as she carted her belongings around the fallen tree. Machinery like that could clear her driveway in no time, she realized, pausing on the brink of an idea. If Sammy Garrison had a saw already in operation, surely he wouldn’t charge her much to cut up one red maple. Besides, he’d entered a contest that might soon destroy her privacy. He might decide that he owed her one.
Af
ter depositing her suitcase in the hall and her groceries in the kitchen, she locked the front door and hurried back to the car. The chainsaw still whined its noisy tune, but she had to be quick. The operator might stop any minute for supper, and the immediate opportunity would disappear.
She backed her car out of the driveway and caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Wild woman, she thought, and chuckled. Her neighbor wouldn’t be swept away with admiration for her baggy yellow sweats and her hair hanging in unruly corkscrews down her back. When she was a kid, her older brother had said her hair reminded him of an orange sweater the dog unraveled. He’d also complained that redheads were supposed to have blue eyes, and her brown ones were the wrong color.
When he’d gained some maturity, he’d apologized and said she was pretty, but Eric had been the first man to call her beautiful. He’d announced, with his artist’s gift for hyperbole, that her hair reminded him of cirrus clouds at sunset and her eyes of rich milk chocolate. After they’d become lovers, he’d encouraged her to let her hair grow until it reached past the middle of her back. Then last year, when the fights had started, he’d minimized her anger by ascribing it to the color of her hair, thus neatly turning a former asset into a liability.
As she retraced her route along the lane that led past Garrison’s Christmas Tree Farm and her house, Anna gazed at the low rock walls that bordered the lane and divided up the gentle countryside. She remembered Robert Frost’s line from “Mending Wall” about good fences making good neighbors. Maybe in Frost’s day they had, but these fences weren’t high enough to shield her from TV crews and nosy townspeople.
She turned down the unpaved graded road that led to the white, two-story farmhouse. To the right of the house stood a red tractor barn, and the sound of the chainsaw came from somewhere behind it.
Only a pickup truck, its green and white paint marred with rusty scratches, sat in the driveway area between the house and the barn, and Anna parked her car beside it. She got out and glanced past the barn to the precise rows of evergreens about two or three feet high. Baby Christmas trees, she thought, breathing in the freshness of pine. If it weren’t for this contest Sammy Garrison had won, she would be more appreciative of the sweet smell.
The September daylight thinned as the sun settled closer to the horizon, and she walked briskly toward the barn to find the operator of the chainsaw. She rounded the corner and spied him turned partly away from her. He reminded her of a picture in a country-living magazine, with his red plaid shirt and faded jeans and his dark, collar-length hair. No doubt the TV crews would love filming a scene like this.
Before she could call out, he braced a section of log across twin sawhorses and sent the chainsaw into action. She stuck her fingers in her ears. When he was finished, she moved across the clearing with a loud “Excuse me,” and he swung around, pushing his goggles to the top of his dark hair to glance at her in surprise. His hair is as untamed as mine, she thought, pleased to find someone else with impossibly curly hair.
“Can I help you?” He switched off the chainsaw and rested it on a stump before taking out his earplugs.
“My name’s Anna Tilford. I live down the road.” She felt less sure of her request than she had at first. The efficiency of his movements and the decisive set of his shoulders intimidated her. “Are you Sammy Garrison?”
A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “You must have been talking to Estelle.”
“Why?”
“She’s the only one around here who’s allowed to call me Sammy.”
“Oh.” Anna felt her cheeks flush. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Nice to meet you, Anna. You bought the McCormick place?”
“That’s right.” As her embarrassment faded, she studied him. He was about her age or a little older, maybe thirty-two or three. High cheekbones, jaw as square as a spade, plenty of laugh lines around clear blue eyes—a good face.
“So you’re the city woman everybody’s wondered about.” He smiled.
“So it seems.” Anna had imagined herself nearly invisible in this tiny community, and yet she’d been the talk of the town. “And I have a favor to ask.”
“Sure. Name it.”
Just like that he’d agreed to help her. She was taken aback. “I need a chainsaw,” she blurted.
He regarded her with a knowing grin. “I was wondering when the new owner of that house would get tired of a tree down in the driveway.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Nothing goes unnoticed around Sumersbury, does it?”
“Not much.”
“Incidentally, I’d be more than willing to pay whatever—” She paused as a frown creased his tanned brow. “Now I’ve insulted you. I only meant —”
“It’s all right,” he said, taking a step closer as if to smooth the moment. “I understand. You’re from the city. But one of the values I treasure here is the neighborliness, so let me do you a favor in that spirit, okay?”
“I…I appreciate it.” He was right, she thought. She wasn’t used to country ways—the neighborliness or the accompanying tendency to mind other people’s business.
“I’ve about finished here.” He glanced at the lengths of wood scattered around the sawhorses. “Let’s get your tree out of the way before dark.” He picked up the chainsaw and started toward the parking area beside the barn.
“We can take my car,” she offered as they approached the two vehicles.
He glanced at her shiny blue compact. “I think not. I’m covered with sawdust, and the chainsaw might leak gas.”
“Oh.” She watched as he swung the saw into the back of the pickup. She hadn’t noticed the sawdust before, but now she could see little flecks in his dark hair and covering his plaid shirt and jeans. She didn’t think he was deliberately drawing attention to his body, but his comment had that effect on her. Despite her irritation about the TV special, she found herself taking inventory of him and liking what she saw.
He pulled the goggles from their resting place on top of his head, and sawdust puffed from his hair. “Whew,” he said, brushing a hand across his eyes. “It’ll be good to jump into the shower after this.”
Again she supposed his remark was innocently made, but she felt less than innocent as she pictured him showering. She glanced away. “I’ll bet.”
“Come on into the house while I get the keys to the truck. Then I’ll follow you over there.”
She did as he suggested, all the while admiring the unselfconscious ease he displayed with her, a perfect stranger. Country ways were different from city ways, certainly. During the work week in New York, she concentrated on the intellectual side of life, but here she was confronted with physical realities. Perhaps that was why she was so aware of this man’s body. She’d found him involved in a physical task, not a mental one, so her thoughts were perfectly logical.
He held the front door open for her. “Be warned these are bachelor quarters,” he said. “Make yourself at home while I grab my keys and wallet.” He bounded up the stairs, two at a time.
Estelle had been right about Sammy’s—no, Sam’s—house needing attention before the cameras arrived. Anna stood in the middle of a parlor whose promise hadn’t been realized. Her interior designer’s eye noticed beamed ceilings and an elegant wing-backed sofa piled with ledger books. The sofa’s upholstery, an unfortunate green plaid, clashed with the braided rug in front of it.
Two vinyl-covered armchairs flanked a huge blackened fireplace complete with giant andirons. Now she knew why he’d been using his chainsaw when she arrived. A fireplace this large would eat lots of wood each winter. The decorator in her longed to sweep the mantel clean of its burden of junk mail, a pair of scissors, a rock paperweight and a ball of twine.
She noticed several attractive end tables, one of which looked like a Duncan Phyfe, and three serviceable but unremarkable lamps. None of the room’s furnishings mattered, however, once she caught sight of an object tucked away in a shadowed corner. Although
she couldn’t imagine why, Sam Garrison owned a magnificent eight-harness floor loom.
She approached the loom and laid her hand on the dusty maple as pleasure-filled memories returned. After her introductory weaving class in college, she’d promised herself that someday she’d buy a loom like this one and create wonderful weavings. Someday had never arrived.
Hearing Sam’s footsteps on the stairs, she turned, one hand still on the loom.
“Do you weave?” he asked, coming toward her.
“Once upon a time. I’ve always wished that I—well, anyway, this is a beautiful loom.”
“My grandmother’s.” He seemed pleased with her interest. “I should sell it instead of letting it sit here gathering dust, but I like the darned thing for some reason.”
“Why not learn to use it?” Anna suggested, touched by this evidence of sentimentality. “I’ve heard of a football player who took up needlepoint, and this is the same idea, a stress reducer. Of course, with a job like yours, you may not have much stress to reduce.”
Sam laughed. “I think in the past few weeks I’ve latched on to my share. Maybe I’d better take up weaving, at least until the first part of December.”
“I heard about that today.”
He glanced at her. “You don’t sound too excited about the prospect.”
“I’m not. I bought my house as a quiet retreat.”
“Sorry about that. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not looking forward to this television deal, either.” He stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Winning the contest was okay, but I had no idea that would happen. Damn, there’s my phone again. I was afraid of this. Excuse me a minute.”
He left for the kitchen, and Anna could hear him explaining the television special to the caller. He sounded weary of the idea already, and her feelings shifted from irritation to sympathy. He didn’t welcome the invasion of cameras any more than she did, and she liked him for it. He returned and sighed.
“After I won the contest, my cell rang off the hook. Now with news of the special leaking out, I have that to look forward to again.”
'Tis the Season Page 1
