Snowfall on Lighthouse Lane

by JoAnn Ross

  The fishermen, including many retired ones, like Jerome Harper, Sarah Mannion’s grandfather, had all gathered at the tree created from crab pots and decorated with red-and-white painted wooden crab pot buoys. With all legally having to bear the name of the crabber, the tree was like a Who’s Who of the area’s fishing community. When the bugler played a fanfare, Jerome, being the eldest of the group, turned on the multicolored lights.

  A moment later, all the boats that had been waiting beyond the harbor sounded their horns, turned on the decorative lights, and began moving toward the harbor. There were big boats, most festooned with green lights along the sides, looking like garlands. Three of the favorites among both parents and kids alike were one featuring inflatables of all the Toy Story characters, another with Minions from Despicable Me and one from Mannion’s restaurant with a pirate dressed like Captain Jack Sparrow (not coincidentally the name of his award-winning beer) dueling with a trio of pirates while the Jolly Roger flew from the mast, the skull part of the skull and crossbones wearing a Santa hat.

  Another favorite was from Kira’s Fish House where workers had created three large Dungeness crabs with animated snapping claws. The red-and-white Honeymoon Harbor lighthouse drew applause and cheers, as did a boat that featured breaching orcas wearing green-and-blue Seattle Seahawks helmets. Several sailboats had string lights on their sails, other boats had decorated their decks with varying size Christmas trees, and Luca’s Kitchen had opted for a gondola, flashing lights strung along the sides, with a gondolier lip-synching to a recording of “Bianco Natale,” that was “White Christmas,” in both Italian and English. Jolene was too nervous to count, but she supposed there were more than two dozen boats in all.

  Then finally, a blue-and-white police car with flashing red, white, and blue lights, like the ones she remembered flashing in her rearview mirror the day she arrived home, appeared and a siren blasted three times before switching to a recording of “Jingle Bell Rock” that had everyone in the crowd not only singing along, but kids and even adults, like Mike and Gloria started dancing.

  As the boat pulled up at the dock, Santa got out with a red megaphone shouting, “Ho ho ho, merry Christmas!” with grand enthusiasm for someone who Jolene knew had been dreading playing the role. She was hoping she could help make the experience a little more enjoyable.

  Donna Ormsbee, dressed as Mrs. Claus, and two girls from the pep squad wearing red parkas and green elf earmuffs, led Aiden to an oversize red chair where he began handing out candy canes from his bag to the children who’d lined up to meet him and tell him what they wanted for Christmas. He’d stood his ground on no lap sitting, but no one seemed to mind. The more shy children received their candy canes from the perky elf helpers.

  Jolene waited until the line had cleared before walking up to him.

  “Well, ho ho ho, pretty girl,” he said. “Are you here for some candy?”

  “No.” She climbed up on his lap, suspecting he wouldn’t stick to that rule about no sitting. She was right. “I wanted to tell you my Christmas wish.”

  “Well, then,” he said, “that’s what Santa’s here for.”

  She leaned closer, only vaguely aware that nearly the entire town had leaned forward, attempting to hear their conversation. “I want you,” she said. “Forever and ever, amen.”

  “Well then,” he said. “I think Santa can handle that request right now.”

  He reached into his bag and handed her a candy cane. Then a red velvet box. “I’d planned to give you this for Christmas. But this finally seems like the right time.”

  Jolene was certain her heart had literally stopped. Her hands trembled as she lifted the lid and there, sitting on a bed of white satin, was a sparkling heart-shaped diamond ring.

  “Dottie and Doris found it for me right after you hit town, and I had it reset in a more modern style in recycled white gold. The stone is rescued from a Victorian age antique and didn’t involve any new mining, which I figured you’d prefer. It’s said to have belonged to an opera singer who used to perform here back in the town’s wealthy heyday. But who knows?” He shrugged. “What really matters is that you’ve always had my heart. So I wanted to give you this one.”

  “It’s beautiful. And absolutely perfect. And they didn’t give away a single hint when I was in shopping today with Mom.”

  “I swore them to secrecy. Doris, by the way, has been married over sixty years. Dottie would’ve made that, too if her husband hadn’t keeled over playing pickleball.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he said. “But all that’s important is that I love you, you love me, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So, what do you say?”

  “I say it’s about time.” As she slipped the ring on her finger, huge, fluffy flakes of snow began to fall from that single cloud hovering overhead. Then she lifted her lips to his and heard the crowd cheering, before the band, obviously given a heads-up on the event, began playing the old Dean Martin classic, “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm.”

  And for that wonderful, heartfelt moment, kissing the man she loved, the man she’d always loved, inside what felt like their own magical snow globe, Jolene discovered that sometimes, if the fates smiled on you, and you got really lucky, life could be even more perfectly romantic than any Christmas movie.

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank, yet again, the most excellent team in publishing. Writing is, by necessity, a solitary business, which is why I’m so fortunate to have you all in my corner!

  Huge thanks and smooches to my editor, Susan Swinwood, for never once saying, “You’ve put a ghost in the story?” Bodhi and I love you for that!

  Sean Kapitain, who not only welcomes an author’s input, but once again created a stunningly beautiful portrait of my beloved Pacific Northwest. Thank you.

  Fantabulous HQN publicist Lisa Wray, who makes magic happen.

  Sarah Burningham and Claire McLaughlin, of Little Bird Publicity, who embraced Aiden and Jolene’s story with enthusiasm, and proved even more brilliant and wonderful than I could have wished for.

  Again, those working so hard behind the scenes at HQN to keep the Honeymoon Harbor train on track, getting my books into the hands of readers.

  My assistant, Judie Bouldry, who frees up valuable time for me to write. One of these days we’re getting you up here for a ferry ride to lush, green Honeymoon Harbor!

  Agents extraordinaire, Denise Marcil and Anne Marie O’Farrell, for their steadfast support, wise advice and friendship. Also for laughing at my jokes.

  And, last but not least, to all the readers who’ve allowed me to live my dream all these past years! Because, in the end, it’s always all about you.

  JOLENE’S QUICK AND EASY

  CHEESY CORN-AND-BACON SIDE DISH

  This recipe earned rave reviews and an empty casserole dish when I had to whip up something quickly after learning the day before Thanksgiving that my husband had forgotten to tell me that our neighbor had invited us to dinner. Since it proved so successful, I decided to give it to Jolene, who needed something she could make for Thanksgiving with the Mannions.

  Ingredients:

  1 jalapeño

  2 cloves of garlic

  2 cans of whole kernel (not creamed) corn, drained (Chef Ètienne, who rescued Jolene by sharing this recipe, grills his corn, but canned will work just as well.)

  1 8 oz block of cream cheese (Yes, the entire block and please don’t skimp and use nonfat. This is not the time to worry about calories.)

  A large handful of grated cheddar cheese

  A large handful of grated Parmesan cheese

  About 6 pieces (or more, depending on thickness) of bacon, to taste (If you’re like me, you usually eat a piece—just to make sure it’s okay—before adding to the dish.)

  2 tablespoons of bu
tter

  Salt

  Freshly ground pepper

  For the topping:

  ½ cup panko bread crumbs

  ½ cup finely grated Parmesan

  A handful of fresh herbs: I used fresh thyme leaves and chopped sage from my kitchen garden, but these days grocery stores all carry some fresh herbs. (If you can’t find any, dry will do, just adjust accordingly. Rule of thumb is 1 teaspoon dried for 1 tablespoon fresh.)

  Instructions:

  Cook the bacon, chop into pieces, then put aside.

  Chop the jalapeño, scraping the seeds out if you don’t want the spice, then sauté with two cloves of finely chopped garlic in a saucepan or skillet large enough to fit in two cans of corn and cheese. I recommend adding the jalapeño 2-3 minutes before the garlic, which cooks a lot faster and you don’t want it to burn.

  When the garlic and pepper start to soften and fill your kitchen with fragrance, stir in the two cans of drained corn, cut up cooked bacon, 2 tablespoons of butter, cream cheese, cheddar and Parmesan. (Be sure to leave out that extra ½ cup of Parm you grated for the topping.)

  Season with salt and pepper.

  Taste. If you decide it needs more cheese or bacon, toss more in. You’ve already broken your diet bank and can exercise an extra twenty minutes tomorrow. This is worth the indulgence.

  Pour into a baking or casserole dish.

  Mix the saved ½ cup of Parmesan, bread crumbs and herbs together, then sprinkle over the corn, bacon and cheese mix.

  Bake at 375 degrees for about 15 minutes until the cheese is bubbling and all melted.

  And if this isn’t already easy enough, you can make it the day before! Just leave off the topping, cover the dish and put it in the fridge. When it’s almost time to serve, sprinkle the cheese, crumb and herb topping over it and bake.

  Then, prepare for the accolades from diners wowed by their first indulgent, creamy, cheesy, corn-and-bacon spoonful!

  Keep reading for a special sneak peek at the next book in JoAnn Ross’s Honeymoon Harbor series, Summer on Mirror Lake.

  Welcome to Honeymoon Harbor, the brand new, long-awaited series by beloved New York Times bestselling author JoAnn Ross, where unforgettable characters come face-to-face with the kind of love that grabs your heart and never lets go.

  Home to Honeymoon Harbor (novella)

  Herons Landing

  Snowfall on Lighthouse Lane

  Get your copies today!

  “An excellent start to a promising community series with a stunning Olympic Coast setting.”

  —Library Journal

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  Summer on Mirror Lake

  by JoAnn Ross

  CHAPTER ONE

  New York

  THE HEART ATTACK hit like a sledgehammer as Gabriel Michael Mannion carried the casket of his closest friend down the aisle of St. Matthew’s Episcopal Cathedral. His heart pounded against his chest, sweat beaded on his forehead and at the back of his neck, and as nausea caused his gut to clench and his head to spin, it took all his steely determination not to pass out.

  Which he would not do. Not with Carter Kensington’s grieving wife—dressed in a black dress that probably cost more than Gabe’s first car, and a pair of five-inch stiletto heels, suggesting that she was feeling a great deal steadier on her feet than he was at the moment—following behind.

  And he couldn’t forget wives two and three seated in the pews, each with one of Carter’s four children. Wife number one, Carter’s college sweetheart and the mother of his eldest daughter, had chosen to remain in Santa Barbara. The daughter, Gabe remembered, was taking a gap year in Paris. All on Carter’s dime, which he’d bitched nonstop about while tossing back Manhattans at Campbell’s in Grand Central Station like he’d time traveled back to 1950s Mad Men days. Finally, sufficiently fortified, he’d taken the Metro North home to spend a suburban weekend with his wife, a former swimsuit model, and toddler son in their pricey home nestled into one of the country’s wealthiest communities.

  Despite having come from “old money,” as he’d always point out sometime before Gabe would pour him onto the train, despite a trust fund that would have allowed a normal guy to live a comfortable life, Carter had been an indefatigable force of nature. He’d worked hard, played hard and had, like a comet flaring out, died young. In the bed of one of a string of mistresses, a fact that hadn’t made it into his New York Times obituary.

  Although Carter Kensington had readily acknowledged his many flaws, he’d been a boss, mentor and friend. With the ink from his Columbia business school MBA diploma still wet, Gabe had followed the yellow brick road to Wall Street, when, on his first day of interviews, Carter had taken him under his wing.

  “You’ve got the Midas touch, son,” he’d said as he’d handed out a yearly bonus in the high six figures at the end of Gabe’s first year. Which was more zeroes than Gabe had ever seen written on a check. Despite his small-town Pacific Northwest roots, he’d proved a natural at trading, and reveled in the take-no-prisoners, roller coaster 24/7 lifestyle.

  Though occasionally he had to wonder what good the $1.8 billion Carter had taken home last year from Harborstone Advisors Group had done for him in the end.

  Dealing with more pressing issues at the moment, Gabe avoided that question. As he’d been doing for months.

  You can do this, he instructed himself. You will not drop a twenty-thousand-dollar casket. Although his vision was blurred by vertigo and the sweat dripping into his eyes, his mind created a slow-motion video of the casket bouncing on the stone floor, breaking open, allowing Carter, dressed in favorite James Bond Brioni suit and handmade Brunello Cucinelli shoes, to fall out and roll down the aisle of the Gothic stone church while the choir belted out “Nearer, My God, to Thee.”

  The church had eight steps. Although they were wide and not all that steep, standing at the top of them was like looking down into the Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, he and Douglas Fairfield, the managing company’s sixty-year-old managing partner, were the first tackle to them.

  You can do this.

  As little black dots swam in front of his eyes like a cloud of gnats, Gabe grasped the brass side rail even tighter and lifted his end to help keep the casket level to prevent Carter sliding downward and upsetting the balance even more. The six pallbearers managed to get him onto the sidewalk and into the waiting white hearse. Then in a group, they moved to the side, allowing Carter’s parents, wife and son to make their way to their limo. It was only while he was walking toward the car designated by the funeral home for the pallbearers that Gabe felt himself folding to the ground like a cheap suit.

  Then everything went black.

  * * *

  THE NEXT THING he knew, he was in the back of an ambulance, siren wailing, while an EMT stuck an aspirin beneath his tongue, took his vital signs and assured him that he’d be okay.

  “Nobody’s ever died in my ambulance,” she said.

  “That’s good to hear. So I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Trading didn’t stop just because one billionaire died. It kept ticking along, and every minute Gabe wasn’t working was another opportunity missed and money lost, not just for him, but for the firm.

  “There’s always a first time,” the woman said, her musical Jamaican accent at odds with her stern tone. “You don’t get to cho
ose a plan B. Once you hit that pavement, you handed the reins over to me.”

  “You don’t understand. I have things I have to do.”

  “Yeah, I get a lot of guys who tell me that.” She strapped an oxygen mask over his face, effectively shutting him up. “But here’s the thing. In this case, you’ll be glad that I’m the decider.”

  That said, she went back to monitoring his vital signs, while the guy in front sitting next to the driver was letting the hospital know their ETA.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, on what was turning out to be one of the most fucked-up days of his life, Gabe was lying behind a curtain, listening to what sounded like chaos in the ER. He was thinking that the hum, buzz, chatter and fast-talking reminded him of his summer internship days on the trading floor, when a different doctor from the one who’d examined him on arrival pulled the white curtain back and entered the cubicle.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Mannion,” he said. “I’m Dr. David Kaplan and I have good news for you.” He came to the side of the gurney and took Gabe’s pulse. “Unless you get hit by an ambulance leaving here, you’re not going to die anytime soon.”

  “That’s encouraging.” That bit of snark from a ginger kid who looked as if he’d just graduated medical school had Gabe feeling a million years old. Which, given that Wall Street years were a lot like dog years, maybe he was. “So, my heart’s okay?”

  “It’s still pumping. It wasn’t a heart attack.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “An anxiety attack. Or, another term might be a panic attack.”

  “No. Way.” You didn’t survive in his business by being the kind of wuss who panicked.