by Donna Hill
Traci gingerly walked down the steps, past the seats and to the stage. She walked across the front, then up the side stairs and stood in the center of the stage. She looked out at the chairs that would one day be filled with theatergoers who’d come to see her work. This is what she’d dreamed of, and Noah had made her dream come true, and not because he wanted something in return, but because he loved her. Plain and simple.
She stretched out her hand. Noah descended the steps, then came up to join her on stage.
“Happy, baby?”
“Happy doesn’t explain how I feel,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I love you, Noah Jefferson.”
“Love you back. You can make this be what you want. It’s yours, no strings attached. The taxes are paid for up to a year. I figured that would give you enough time to do your thing and get it off the ground.”
She was giddy with excitement. So many thoughts and ideas were running through her head at once. All she could do was nod. This man of hers was amazing.
Suddenly she whooped with joy and literally jumped up in Noah’s arms. “How can I ever thank you for all this?” she shouted, her voice clear and rising to the rafters.
“You already have.”
“How, how could I ever?”
“You gave me the gift of your love, baby. That’s all a man like me needs.”
She angled her head and kissed him slow, deep, and sweet—sealing their new deal.
“Well, I hate to break this up,” he said against her mouth, and slowly set her on her feet, “but let’s say we go home and celebrate?”
“Hmmm, I like the sound of that.”
Chapter Fifteen
Noah had postponed the Christmas opening of the club until New Year’s so that it wouldn’t overshadow her excitement. It was just one more thing to love about him.
“Girl, I can’t say ‘I told you so’ enough times,” Cara said as they shopped for their New Year’s outfits. “Damn, who buys a woman a whole darn theater?” She laughed, but with amazement.
“I know. I’m on cloud nine. Things are finally coming together. I feel good inside and out every day. That man brings me joy, Cara. You know what I mean?”
Traci was so happy she felt as if most days she was floating on air. While Noah was busy putting the final touches on the club and working on publicity, she was finally writing, really writing. The play had finally come to life for her because she’d discovered what it was missing—heart.
“So what are your plans for the theater?” Cara picked up a black dress and held it in front of her.
“I’ll be finished writing and revising by the end of January. Then I want to start with table reads. I’m going to use students from the college first and then put out a casting call. I’ve also been thinking that on the theater downtime, I could teach classes there for the community and open it up for use by other local playwrights. In between writing and revising the play, I’ve been working on my game plan. Watching Noah in action as he’s built his business, and now expanding for the club, has been the kind of lesson that you can’t get in a classroom. And he’s all for it. He offers suggestions, but never tries to impose his ideas. “
“Traci, I love it! It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
Traci grinned. “Yes, it is,” she said softly. “Now help me find something to wear.”
* * *
Noah and Anthony had left to go to Philly early in the day to prepare and make any last-minute adjustments before they opened for dinner at seven. Anthony was supplying the music and had arranged for the cooks and bartenders. Working with Noah on his project was priming him for expansion as well.
Traci drove in with Cara and Phillip. When they arrived at six-thirty, there was already a line outside waiting to get in.
“Wow, if this is a reservation-only event, imagine the kind of crowd the club will get when it’s open to the public,” Phillip commented.
Noah had advised Traci to come to the side entrance when they arrived to bypass the line. The trio walked around to the side of the building and down three steps. Phillip knocked. Moments later the door was opened by a young man dressed in black shirt and slacks.
“Ms. Long?” He looked from Cara to Traci.
“That’s me,” Traci piped up.
“Right this way.” He stepped aside to let them in. “Mr. Jefferson has a booth reserved for you in the lounge area and your dinner table is ready when you are.”
They stepped inside and the electricity in the air was palpable. As early as the evening was, everything glittered, from the guests, who had stepped out in style, to the décor.
“Is Mr. Jefferson available?” Traci asked as they were being escorted to the lounge on the second floor.
“I’ll let him know that you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
They got settled and were immediately served with a bottle of champagne.
“Wow. I’m impressed,” Cara said.
“That’s how he does things,” Traci said, “in a big way and with style,” she added with a note of pride.
“Listen to you,” Cara teased, and nudged her friend.
Traci grinned. “Yes, who would have thought it?”
“Hey, baby!” Noah came up behind her and kissed her behind her ear. She turned and grinned up at him and took his hand, which he’d placed on her bare shoulder. “Welcome, welcome,” he greeted the trio. “For you guys everything is on the house, so no worries. Okay?”
“Noah, everything is amazing,” Cara said. “Congratulations.”
“You have a real winner here,” Phillip added.
“Thank you. I’d love to stay and hang out, but duty calls. Anything you need, just ask.” He leaned down and kissed Traci again. “You look incredible,” he whispered. “See you later.”
In no time the tables were filled, drinks flowed, food was served, and the band was pumping. The singer Dawne was the main act for the night and the crowd was in musical love with her. Opening night was an absolute success. And as the clock drew closer to midnight, the excitement rippled throughout the three levels.
At one minute to midnight Noah finally appeared and swept Traci away from her friends. The countdown began. Noah and Traci stood in the middle of the dance floor, with controlled chaos swirling around them.
Traci was giggling like a schoolgirl. “I’m so proud of you!” she shouted.
He held her hands against his chest. “I wanted to do this at Christmas,” he said into her ear. “But I wanted this gift of love to have its own moment.”
“Do what? What gift?”
“This.” Out of his tuxedo jacket pocket he took a ring that rivaled all of the glitter of the night.
Traci stopped breathing.
10, 9 . . .
“I love you, woman, and I want to spend the rest of my life showing you just how much. We can do amazing things together. I believe that. Me and you.”
8, 7 . . .
His gaze roamed over her face. Tears of pure joy sprang in her eyes. She knew that this time would be different, because Noah was different and finally so was she. He’d opened her world and healed her heart and soul.
5, 4, 3 . . .
“Me and you,” she whispered. “Yes, yes.”
2, 1 . . .
“Happy New Year!”
Noah slid the diamond onto her finger, and as they always did, they sealed their deal. And it sounded as if everyone was celebrating their joy.
Holiday Spice
FARRAH ROCHON
Chapter One
“Who needs a fat guy in a Santa suit?”
Miranda Lawson stood at the edge of Booth 48 in Istanbul’s famed Spice Market, the viewfinder on her Nikon D3s positioned over her right eye. She honed in on the shot, her camera poised a foot away from a handcrafted scarf that draped along one of the booth’s sturdy posts. It was myriad bold pinks, bright oranges, and the slightest trace of turquoise. The lights shimmering from the arched ceiling of the centuries-old building glin
ted off the gold lace that edged the borders of the yemeni, the traditional Turkish scarf. The colorful fabric embodied the very essence of Istanbul’s rich culture, creating the perfect frame for the shot Miranda wanted to capture.
She adjusted the camera’s lens, bringing the shop owner, who stood just a few feet beyond the scarf, into focus. Miranda snapped the picture just as the leathery-skinned man handed a smiling patron a sachet of spices.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Miranda murmured underneath her breath.
It was a postcard-worthy shot, which is exactly what she was going for. She’d taken so many awe-inspiring photos over the past two days that she would probably have to flip a coin to figure out which ones to send to the magazine editor once she got back home. Maybe it was finally time for her to put together her own travel book, or at the very least start up that blog she’d been contemplating for the past few years.
Miranda snapped a couple more frames of the shoppers inspecting the goods at this particular booth before foraying deeper into the crowded marketplace. The clamor of thousands of shoppers speaking in deep Turkish accents blended with the hustle and bustle of commerce taking place at a frenetic pace. The sounds were sweet music to Miranda’s ears, drowning out thoughts of what she would be hearing right now if she were back home in Portland: strands of “Jingle Bell Rock” being piped through grocery store speakers, the crinkling of wrapping paper stretching over gifts, greetings of “Merry Christmas” from strangers at every turn.
No thanks.
But you said this year would be different!
Miranda tried to ignore the annoying voice in her head, but it would not be silent. After all, her conscience was right. She had said that this year would be different.
This year marked a turning point for her. She had a decision to make. Either she finally let go of the tragedy that changed everything fifteen years ago, or she accepted that it would rule her life forever. For months she’d prepared herself for the holiday season, resolved that this would be the Christmas when she finally moved on.
But things weren’t working out as planned.
Instead of enjoying what was once her favorite holiday, Miranda had accepted a last-minute job, hopping on a flight to a non-Christian country where it would be unlikely to encounter cheerful dancing elves, Salvation Army bell ringers, or fake trees covered in messy tinsel.
Call her a coward, but when it came to suffering through another Christmas or working, she’d choose work every time. She would much rather be in one of her favorite cities in the world, doing exactly what she was doing right now: capturing the essence of Istanbul through her camera lens.
Besides, the opportunity to completely avoid the holiday had been taken out of her hands this year. Her best friend, Erin, cajoled Miranda into promising to celebrate Christmas Day with their family, using every underhanded trick at her disposal, including the fact that it was the couple’s brand-new baby girl’s first Christmas.
Miranda could still hear Erin’s voice in her head.
How will you explain to your goddaughter that you missed her first Christmas?
Goodness, she was such a pushover.
Miranda was scheduled to arrive back in the States on December 23, and as she’d just been shown a few minutes ago via a text from Erin, she had a place waiting for her at a table so crowded with poinsettia leaves, gold-dusted pinecones, and stout candles, Miranda wasn’t sure it would hold up under the weight of an actual meal. Everything just oozed Christmas.
Yay.
Thank goodness she had a reprieve here in Istanbul. Hopefully, over the next day and a half, she could summon up the courage to get through the upcoming holiday.
Cupping the barrel of the lens in her palm, Miranda once again peered through the eyepiece, shrinking the massive seventeenth-century bazaar to the small scene she could only spot through her viewfinder. She centered the frame on the miniature mountains of colorful spices lining the entrances of the booths. Shaped like the pyramids of Egypt, the aromas of the rich, jewel-colored spices permeated the air, filling the space with the scent of cumin, smoked paprika, and Indian saffron.
“Pretty scarf for the pretty lady?” One proprietor smiled, thrusting a bright red scarf toward Miranda as she walked past his small storefront.
“No, thank you,” she answered in English. This was her fifth visit to Istanbul in the last four years, but she’d decided after her second trip not to attempt to speak the language. She totally butchered it whenever she tried.
She held up her camera, seeking his permission before taking photos. His smile widened and he stood proudly among the handmade trinkets that were clearly targeted to the millions of tourists who visited the ancient city every year. Miranda snapped several pictures of the gold-plated lanterns hanging from the eaves of the narrow shop and the brightly colored fabrics that draped along the ceiling.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Bakiniz,” the man said, holding out a tiny ceramic doll for Miranda to see.
She took it from his hand, thinking it would make a cute Christmas gift for her new goddaughter, Angelica.
Wait? Was she really Christmas shopping?
Miranda braced herself for the onslaught of unease. She waited, fully expecting her skin to crawl and her breaths to quicken.
But none of that materialized, which was the most shocking thing to have happened in quite a while. At one time, the thought of doing anything that even hinted at celebrating this holiday was enough to make Miranda break out into hives. For years she’d refused to even acknowledge Christmas. Despite her agreeing to be part of this new tradition for her goddaughter, Miranda still wasn’t fully on board. She’d been contemplating ways to get out of Christmas at Erin’s for weeks, practicing her cough.
But the fact that she didn’t hyperventilate at the thought of buying a Christmas gift gave her a sliver of hope that things were finally getting better. Maybe after fifteen long years, she’d finally gotten to a place where she could put the past and the pain behind her. She’d long ago stopped believing in Christmas miracles, but if one were to happen, she was all for it.
She held the camera up to her eye again, observing the marketplace through the shrunken scope of her camera lens, searching for nothing in particular. She would know the shot she wanted to take when she spotted it. The camera’s constricted viewpoint had a way of bringing into focus the things she could not see when looking at the larger picture.
As she panned across the various booths, Miranda stopped short, the air whooshing out of her lungs.
Whoa!
Standing in the center of the red frame of her viewfinder was a gorgeous, late-night-fantasy-worthy work of art. He stood in front of one of the booths that sold spices, loose teas, and lokum—the sweet treat staple known to the rest of the world as Turkish Delight.
And he was staring directly at her.
One thing that immediately struck Miranda was the fact that he was clearly American—a bit of a rarity in Istanbul at this time of year. But the fact that he was African American was even rarer. Encountering a fellow African American during the Christmas season was definitely not something she would have expected.
His gaze remained on her as his fingers caressed the dried flowers. He brought a bright red bud to his nose, his eyes never leaving hers.
The warmth that suddenly passed through Miranda had nothing to do with the heat radiating off the numerous bodies crowding the narrow pathways, and everything to do with the stranger looking at her with a subtle intensity that heated her skin.
He wore a green sweater paired with a cinnamon-colored leather coat that stopped midthigh. The green looked good against his smooth, light brown skin. He had strong cheekbones, full lips, and a neatly trimmed goatee. Miranda had never been one for facial hair, but in that instant, she threw away all her previous notions on the subject and decided that facial hair was her new favorite thing.
She and the mystery man continued to stare at each other. A mere ten yards
separated them, but it could have just as well been a thousand. Whenever someone blocked their shared line of vision, he was still staring at her when the space cleared. The next time it happened, there was a smile waiting for her when the handsome stranger came back into view. One edge of his full lips tipped up ever so slightly, causing her heart to beat faster within her chest.
Miranda surreptitiously sucked in a breath and returned his smile. He nodded in acknowledgment, his amber eyes gleaming in amusement.
A cart carrying several thick rolls of colorful silks rolled between them, then stopped, completely blocking her view.
“Ms. Lawson?” Miranda turned to the woman walking toward her from a nearby booth. She looked at the number above it. This was the booth she’d been looking for.
“Yes,” she answered. “Please call me Miranda.” She held her hand out to the woman.
“Merhaba,” the woman said with a bright smile. Miranda returned the greeting. She, at least, remembered how to say hello.
She looked back toward her mystery man, but the cart with the fabrics remained there, blocking her view.
Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted.
It’s not as if she could spend all day playing staring games with the handsome stranger anyway. She had a job to do.
Miranda didn’t bother with one last look. She’d just remember the smile on his face and be satisfied with that.
* * *
Kyle Daniels paced back and forth in front of the main gate of the spice bazaar. He stopped and peered inside the arched entryway, his heart pumping faster just at the thought of spotting the knockout he’d made eye contact with a little over an hour ago. He studied the steady stream of people entering and exiting the ancient building, but not one of them had golden brown skin or hair done in a sexy, messy bun.
Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets and cursed himself yet again for losing sight of her. He’d tried leaving the booth after she’d finally dropped that camera from her eye and looked at him, but the shopkeeper was insistent, and it wasn’t in Kyle’s nature to be rude to someone who’d been helping him. After a promise to the shopkeeper that he would return for the pomegranate tea buds, Kyle had finally started toward the beauty, only to find her gone. He’d spent the past hour searching through dozens of shops, hoping to spot her. Needing to spot her.
