“Hello?”
Devon popped up from the bow of the boat. “I’m sorry to be on your boat without asking,” Devon said. “I just needed somewhere…”
Bill lowered himself down the ladder and into the boat. Devon wasn’t the first teen to show up on his boat unexpectedly. Bill kept a spare key hidden under the mast. Anyone who spent time with him working on the boat knew about the key. Bill didn’t mind. As long as nothing was damaged and everything was replaced as it was found. Bill surveyed the boat. A sleeping bag lay across the lower bench. A small kettle steamed and the radio played softly. Devon was planning for more than a one-hour stay on the boat. “Holidays are hard, huh?” Bill asked.
Devon sat down on his unrolled sleeping bag. He fiddled with the zipper. “Yeah,” he said without looking at Bill. “Everyone seems so happy. Eric has Cassie and all he can talk about is the wedding. Sadie and Damon are so happy together, I don’t think I fit in so well.”
Bill picked up the tea kettle. He poured the last of the hot water into a mug and dunked in a tea bag. “Why don’t you grab the map?”
Devon turned around and grabbed a rolled up map from the shelf above the lower bunk bench. “How come you aren’t married?” Devon asked suddenly. “I bet you’d be great with your own kids.” Devon ducked his head shyly. “I’d like you as a dad.”
Bill swallowed hard. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. He picked up his mug and took a long drink of tea. “I guess I’m just a little nervous about the whole marriage thing. My parents didn’t have a very good one. I’m not sure I’d make a very good husband.”
“I bet you’d be great,” Devon said. “I didn’t think Eric would ever get married and look at him and Cassie.”
“Yes,” Bill said slowly. “You’re right.” Eric had been determined to keep to himself. He had a lot of responsibilities and he didn’t feel he should involve someone else in his problems. But, when Cassie came along, Eric surrendered. Was it the same thing with Elizabeth? Could it work with her?
“You can do it,” Devon said.
Bill eyed Devon over his cup. He smiled. Devon sounded like he did when he was coaching sailors how to take a boat through rocky waters. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I could.”
“What are we doing with the maps?” Devon waved his hand over the set of maps spread across the table.
“The best thing I know for taking care of the blues is planning where I’d like to sail. It helps me figure out how to chart my course. Life is a lot like sailing. Sometimes it’s calm and other times storms come up. You have to know how to sail in both. But, most important, you have to know where you are headed.”
“Does it work?” Devon asked.
“I’ve planned a lot of sailing trips this way. So yeah, I guess it does.” Over the years, he’d sailed to a lot of the places he once dreamed about. He’d rented boats in the Caribbean. He sailed the Great Lakes. He sailed on the Atlantic. All the trips started with a dream and mapping the route.
“Where would you go?” Devon drew his finger down the map’s waterways.
Bill perched on the bench across from Devon. “I think I might go to San Diego,” he said slowly.
“San Diego!” Devon said. “That’s a big sail.”
Bill chuckled. “It’s a big trip to plan. But,” he looked at Devon’s unrolled sleeping bag, “looks as though you planned to be here awhile.”
Devon flushed. “Is it okay to spend the night?”
“Did you tell Eric?”
Devon looked down. He shook his head no.
“Give Eric a call,” Bill said. “I’m sure you have your cell phone.”
Devon reached into his pocket and pulled out the small phone. He grinned sheepishly.
“Good,” Bill said. “Make a call.”
Bill reached behind him and pulled down more charts. What would be the best route to San Diego?
****
On Christmas morning, Elizabeth rang the doorbell at Sadie’s Bed and Breakfast. The circular driveway was packed and cars lined the street. Sadie must have invited everyone she knew this year. Elizabeth checked her wristwatch. She was running a little late for the holiday brunch and hoped everyone wasn’t already eating. She’d sent Madison ahead of her and sent an email to the San Diego Zoo telling them she would be pleased to interview in January. Afterwards, Elizabeth drove over to Marcie’s house to drop off a poinsettia plant. She wanted to thank Marcie for the fantastic job with the Holiday Homes Parlor Tour. Everything had gone off without a hitch and more than a couple people marveled at the beautifully decorated tree.
A large wreath hung on Sadie’s front door. Elizabeth could hear the sound of music and people talking inside. She shifted a large shopping bag full of presents from her right to her left hand. Every year, Cassie, Elizabeth and Sadie promised each other no presents, and every year, there were presents. Elizabeth reached forward to ring the doorbell and then, laughing, she shook her head. It was foolish to think anyone would hear the doorbell. She placed her hand on the door knob, when, suddenly the door swung opened.
“Merry Christmas!” Bill said.
“Bill?” Bill never came to Sadie’s holiday brunch. What was he doing here this year? What changed his mind?
Bill moved aside. “Come in. It’s freezing out there. Let me take that.” Bill reached down and lifted Elizabeth’s large shopping bag out of her hand.
Elizabeth stepped into the front hallway. She slipped out of her coat and Bill stepped behind her to help her. “Thank you,” Elizabeth said.
“I’ll just put this in the coat room.” Bill winked at Elizabeth. “It’s pretty packed, but I think we can find room.”
“Elizabeth!” Sadie cried. She rushed over to the front door. She wore a red velvet top with a scoop neck and a long black skirt swirled to her feet. At her throat sparkled a gold necklace in the shape of a sailboat. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Your Christmas necklace is beautiful,” Elizabeth said as Sadie enfolded her in a hug.
“Bill is here,” Sadie whispered against her cheek. “Can you believe it?”
“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Whatever changed his mind?”
Sadie drew back and looked at Elizabeth. “I think it was you.”
“Me?”
“He told us you have an interview in San Diego.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “It’s just an interview. I wasn’t sure if I would take it, but I decided it would be for the best. I just sent the email this morning.”
Sadie winked at her. “Bill’s been talking to Damon about sailing to San Diego.”
“What?” Elizabeth asked.
Sadie shrugged. “He said he might want to take the boat around to San Diego. Damon is trying to convince him to take it over land and put it in the water once he gets there.”
“Why would he do that?” Elizabeth said.
Sadie smiled mischievously. “Love does a lot of mysterious things.”
Elizabeth looked around the crowded room for Bill. She had to talk to him. She had to tell him that he could not leave Rochester. He could not leave the teens that depended on him. He could not leave his life here.
Elizabeth spotted Bill at the food buffet. He was heaping scrambled eggs onto an already full plate. “Excuse me,” Elizabeth said to Sadie. She hurried over and tapped Bill on the shoulder. “I need to talk to you.”
Turning, Bill smiled at Elizabeth. “I would say the same to you.” Bill set his plate down on the table. He lowered his hand and placed it on Elizabeth’s lower back. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
“It’ll be quiet in the library,” Elizabeth suggested. “Sadie uses it as her office. She usually keeps the door shut during parties.”
Keeping his hand on Elizabeth’s lower back, Bill steered her to the library.
Elizabeth sat down on a small, leather couch and Bill sat beside her.
“Bill. You can’t….”
“…go to San Diego.” Bill finished.
“Y
es,” Elizabeth said. “Your life is all here—the teens, the Foundation, the Sailing Club. Everything.”
“What if the woman I love is not?”
“The woman you love?” Elizabeth repeated slowly.
“Yes,” Bill said firmly. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. I always thought we had a great friendship. When you told me you had a job interview in San Diego, I didn’t want to stop you, but I don’t want to lose you either.”+
With tears in her eyes, Elizabeth looked up at Bill. “I feel the same about you. But, I don’t even have a job yet. How can you make plans to take the boat?”
Bill chuckled. “Well, maybe the boat will stay here and I’ll fly. But, no matter what, I can’t imagine not going with you.” He leaned forward and whispered against her ear, “We’re going to make this work, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth reached down and threaded her fingers through Bill’s. “You’re the best present I have ever received on Christmas.”
“I could say the same about you,” Bill said. “Now, how about that mistletoe kiss?”
“There is no mistletoe hanging above us,” Elizabeth said, and laughed
“Yes, there is.” Bill reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a twig of mistletoe. A small green tack was tangled in the leaves.
“You took the mistletoe when we decorated the tree!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“Merry Christmas, Elizabeth,” Bill gently placed his lips on hers.
“Merry Christmas!”
Christmas Stockings
Karen Hall
Chapter One
London. December 1892
“Your skin, I would cover with endless kisses and—
“Mr. Smithson!” Holly Chamberlain snatched off her glasses— used only for reading of course— and gave the gentleman across the desk a stern frown. “You cannot say that to a lady you hope to make your bride. At least not yet.”
Mr. Smithson blushed to the roots of his fair hair. “I beg your pardon, Miss Chamberlain. But when I think of Penelope, I am so overcome with emotion I can hardly control myself.”
“Of course.” Holly agreed, settling the glasses back on her nose. “But you don’t want to scare her away with your boldness, do you?”
“Heaven forbid!” Mr. Smithson vowed fervently, raising his hands in supplication. “What do you suggest?”
Holly tapped her chin. “Why not say, ‘your luminous skin outshines all other pearls’?”
Mr. Smithson’s eyes grew misty. “Oh, Miss Chamberlain. How fortunate are we bachelors, clumsy with words to have you. You help us convey our thoughts and deepest emotions for our beloved ladies.”
Holly bit the inside of her cheek to hide her smile at his lengthy praise. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Smithson. Writing letters, especially love letters, is a small talent, but I am happy to use it to help others. Now, let us go on.”
By the hour’s end, Holly had finished with her suggestions, and given a copy of the letter to Mr. Smithson to re—write in his own hand. The smiling gentleman handed over the required fee and departed, whistling a Gilbert and Sullivan tune. Holly had no doubt that by Advent’s completion, she would be reading the announcement of his engagement to one Penelope Witherspoon, insuring Holly’s success as the best letter writer in London. She could write a love letter for almost anyone to anyone.
Except herself.
Because no young lady of her social standing would dare to write a love letter to the man of her dreams. A man who existed in the form of one Grayson Clark, scholar and rector of St. Martin in the Pines. A man who was perfection itself.
Not that Holly didn’t have her admirers. She had several, and to be sure, they were all handsome and accomplished and successful. A woman would be pleased by the attentions of even one of them. Theodore— Theo to his friends—Barrett in particular had been most ardent in his attentions. The barrister’s considerable charm had made him very popular in Holly’s social circle, and more than one young lady had given Holly the evil eye as it became more and more evident that Theo was launching a campaign to win Holly’s affections. A campaign encouraged by Holly’s father, Phineas
“You couldn’t do better,” Papa had wheedled only last night. “Theo is bound to receive a knighthood by the time he’s forty. He’s brilliant.”
And as full of himself as a spotted dick pudding. Holly thought massaging her hands. Her subtle attempts at dissuading Theo’s attentions had only been met by increased fervor. No doubt prompted by Holly’s generous dowry. Theo was quite well off in his own right, and wouldn’t need Holly’s dowry, but sometimes being the only child of a successful businessman who owned London’s largest chain of tobacco and candy shops had its drawbacks.
Holly turned her gaze to the window. The overcast late Friday afternoon sky suggested snow was on the way. Snow at Christmas. How perfectly, wonderfully romantic. Her mind drifted to scenes from her favorite book of love stories. Carriage rides over snow—covered fields, perhaps in search of the perfect Christmas tree. Long walks at twilight with silvery flakes floating down from the heavens, while holding the arm of someone most dear. A stolen kiss under the mistletoe—
The bell over the front door jingled in greeting, snatching her from her reverie. Holly quickly smoothed her hair and set her features into a welcoming smile. In the outer chamber she heard the birdlike chirp of her assistant, Celeste Stillwell, followed by the rustle of her skirts as she burst into Holly’s office.
“Holly,” she called, her china blue eyes wide. “You’re simply not going to believe who is here!”
“The Prince of Wales?” Holly joked. Celeste always grew excited by just about any visitor.
“No, it’s Grayson Clark!” Only Celeste knew of Holly’s true feelings for the clergyman and if possible, her eyes grew even wider.
Holly’s fingers curled around the arms of her chair and a rod of newly poured steel replaced her spine. “What does he want?” she whispered.
“H—he said something about hiring you to write a letter.” Celeste darted a glance over her shoulder before returning her gaze to meet Holly’s. “What should I tell him?”
Commanding her heart to stop its furious gallop, Holly said, “Show him in.”
Nodding, Celeste scampered from the doorway only to return seconds later. “Mr. Grayson Clark,” she intoned solemnly, stepping into the room. After a quick glance in the mirror on the wall, Holly snatched off her glasses, and put them on the desk before standing. She folded her trembling hands and waited.
The tall, thin figure who followed Celeste wore clerical black, with a white band around the collar of his neatly pressed shirt. A wave of auburn hair swept back from his handsome features, and his amber eyes glittered at the women. Holly just barely contained her sigh of appreciation. No wonder half the women in the parish— young and old— showered him with invitations to tea and dinner on the unlikely pretext of fattening him up.
And no doubt looking him over as a prospective matrimonial candidate. Holly had heard rumors that no less than Miss Priscilla Honeywell, granddaughter of Sir Cyrus Honeywell, baronet, amateur scholar and chief patron of the Queen’s Players, a local dramatic society, had her eye on Mr. Grayson Clark. Even Holly’s own kitchen main, Clara, who was cast as Martha Cratchit in the Queen’s Players’ upcoming production of A Christmas Carol, said Miss Honeywell, cast as the Ghost of Christmas Present, did everything but openly flirt with Grayson Clark. Harold, the Chamberlain’s coachman, cast as Fizziwig in the same play, also had commented on Miss Honeywell’s attentions to Mr. Clark.
His smile sent a flush of warmth hurtling over Holly’s skin. “Good afternoon, Miss Chamberlain,” he said. “I hope I find you well?”
“Very well, Mr. Clark,” she said, proud her voice did not tremble. “You remember my friend, Miss Celeste Stillwell?”
“Yes indeed,” he returned, giving Celeste the same smile. “She greeted me most kindly.”
If it were not for Celeste’s death grip on the
doorknob, she surely would have slid to the floor beneath the force of that smile. But like Holly, she managed not to croak out her words. “Thank you, Mr. Clark. Holly, I’ll be right outside if you should need me.”
She stepped into the outer office again, pulling the door not quite shut behind her. Holly gestured at the wooden captain’s chair before her desk. “Please be seated, Mr. Clark.”
He waited until she sat before lowering his long body into the indicated spot and placing the folder he carried on the corner of her desk. “Are you looking forward to the upcoming Christmas season, Miss Chamberlain?”
“I love Christmas,” Holly told him. “It’s my favorite time of year. And you surely must be busy learning your role of Bob Crachit for the Queen’s Players in their production of A Christmas Carol at St. Martin’s?”
His expression turned solemn. “Yes, and it’s because of that production I come to you today. The Queen’s Players and St. Martin’s needs your help.”
“I thought you told Celeste you needed help with a letter of some kind?” Holly could hardly believe that an Oxford scholar needed help with writing anything.
“There is that,” he said. “But our Mrs. Crachit has broken her ankle and we are in desperate need of a replacement. Matthew Timmons, our director has seen you in other productions and asked me to be his emissary to come and beg you to please join our little cast.”
Holly blinked. “Me?”-
“Yes indeed,” Mr. Clark affirmed with a quick nod. “Matthew said your performance in last year’s Christmas Pantomime at St. Bart’s was excellent.”
“Well—”Holly hesitated. Theo was playing Scrooge in the production and even with such a small role as Mrs. Crachit, rehearsals would put her constantly in his company. As it would with the man seated across from her. Holly’s heart skipped a beat at the thought.
“Well,” she repeated, “I suppose I could do that.”
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