by Dara Girard
10 Holiday Stories
A Collection
Dara Girard
Contents
10 Holiday Stories
The Special Guest
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
A Cup of Cheer
A Cup of Cheer
New Year’s Surprise
New Year's Surprise
Something New
Something New
The Other Woman
The Other Woman
The Perfect Christmas
The Perfect Christmas
A Song to Remember
A Song to Remember
A Mother’s Day Wish
A Mother's Day Wish
A Fortunate Mistake
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Gift Box
The Gift Box
About the Author
Also Available
Copyright Information
10 Holiday Stories
A Collection
Dara Girard
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Published by ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC
www.iloripressbooks.com
Smashwords Edition
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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express written consent of the copyright holder.
About The Collection
Get comfortable in your favorite reading spot and dive into these ten stories featuring different holidays.
Christmas is highlighted in the story of a jaded singer who learns to renew her joy of music in “A Song to Remember” and a new father and husband struggles to create the perfect holiday in “The Perfect Christmas.” In “Something New” a young woman wants to create a different Thanksgiving tradition and a boy’s secret desire comes to life in “A Mother’s Day Wish.”
Whether serious, funny or with a touch of magic, these four stories and more are sure to delight.
I
The Special Guest
1
“She’s daft, she is,” Mary Marshall said as she set the dining room table for four.
“Mum, keep your voice down,” her daughter Eva replied as she placed an elegantly designed napkin on the table.
“Why? She can’t hear me, with her banging on in the kitchen like that. Acting as if she were expecting the bleeding queen,” Mary said with a careless shrug, her words thick with a northern English accent she hadn’t been able to drop after living nearly thirty years in the United States. Although, not much else about her had changed from the twenty-two year old new bride who’d settled with her husband in Hamsford, Maryland. Her figure had thickened after three children and only her hairdresser knew she was now completely grey. She dyed her shoulder-length hair a light brown to complement her soft cocoa colored skin.
“Mum, shh,” Eva said with warning. She only called her mother ‘mum’ when she was annoyed with her. At twenty-five, she was slender and lovely, with skin that matched her mother’s, and flashing brown eyes.
“You know we’re no better egging her on this way.”
“We’re her friends.”
“Aren’t friends ‘pose to tell each other the truth? We know that no good nephew of hers won’t show up no matter how much she wants him to. Your father had the sense to stay away, and we’re likely as daft as she is.”
“John said he would come,” Eva said, straightening a fork.
Her mother sniffed. “And you believe that?”
It was more likely that Father Christmas would come to visit than John, but Eva didn’t want to admit it for her friend’s sake. “It’s not what we believe, it’s what she does.”
“Maybe the no good bastard might do us a favor and do the decent thing. That’d be a miracle, wouldn’t it? Poor woman could use one.”
Fortunately, Miranda Simmonds, the topic of their conversation, couldn’t hear what the two women were saying. Her heart was too full of joy. Her dear nephew, John Washer, said he’d come and spend time with her over the holidays. He was the only family she had left who bothered to take any notice of her. Her sister had married for a fourth time, and lived in Trinidad, her nieces had little use for her, but John was different. For five years she’d cared for him, while her older sister got her life together after a cancer diagnosis and an addiction to pain pills.
Miranda had provided John with a stable home that his parents hadn’t been able to provide. With the help of her father, she’d helped care for John from the ages of six to eleven. She’d worked with her father at the hardware store he’d started. More often than not, she’d had to get between grandfather and grandson because they were both strong-willed men, but she hadn’t minded. Family was important to her.
But after her sister improved, and John went back to live with her, they’d lost touch. He’d been a rambunctious boy, but she’d found him more inquisitive than annoying. No one had expected much from him, but he’d surprised them. He was a soldier and achieved the rank of staff sergeant. She felt that his desire to serve may have had a little to do with the years she’d raised him. She’d instilled in him the importance of a life of giving to others. She’d taken him with her to volunteer at the local homeless shelter, to deliver a turkey every Thanksgiving, or donate clothing or toys he no longer needed. She’d not wanted him to be like his parents, who’d barely looked past themselves to even recognize that they had a son, and later, two daughters.
And now he was coming to see her after so many years. It wouldn’t be another empty holiday. She’d had a series of them since her father’s passing three years ago. Her sister was always too busy to schedule a time to visit, but that didn’t matter now.
This year she wouldn’t be a charity guest, although she knew her friends meant well. She wanted to return the favor and host a family dinner for them, and now she could. John was one of the lucky ones to come home from the war unscathed, though she didn’t know how his mind might be. She wouldn’t ask too many questions. She was just glad she had family to share the holiday with again.
It was kind of her neighbors to agree to come. It was a week before Christmas and she’d wanted to make it special. In several days they’d be leaving for New York to be with their family.
Miranda cast an anxious glance at the clock. He’d be there any minute, she thought, as she cast a look over the food.
Spices scented the bright, airy kitchen, which hosted toasted hardo bread, limeade, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a turkey that was browning in the oven, fried plantain and an assortment of cookies and a cake. She could imagine the look of delight on John’s face as he piled his plate high with food. “Oh, pumpkin pie, my favorite. I can’t believe you remembered,” he’d say. And she’d grin and not let him know that she hadn’t forgotten anything he enjoyed.
Her phone alerted her to a text, waking her from her daydream. She glanced down and her heart stopped.
Won’t be able to make it. Sorry, Auntie.
Miranda read the text four times. No…five, then six times. It had to be a mistake. Or maybe a joke. As a boy, John was known for his silly jokes. He’d knock on the front door any minute and laugh. And she’d playfully hit him in the shoulder and scold him for scaring her. She waited.
But the knock at the door didn’t come.
Why couldn’t he make it? Why would he cancel a few minutes before he was supposed to arriv
e? The message had to be wrong. She texted him back.
If you’re running late, I can keep the food warm.
Sorry, Auntie. Another time.
Sorry, Auntie. She could almost hear the casual, dismissive way he’d say it. He’d said it so many times before. ‘Sorry Auntie, I couldn’t help myself,’ he’d say when she found he’d eaten a pie she’d meant for a guest, ‘Sorry Auntie,’ he’d say when he’d broken a new vase she’d brought, or when she’d told him not to play with his ball in the house, or when he’d leave jelly stains all over her father’s woodworking magazine. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Always sorry.
But she was sorrier still. Sorry that she’d told her neighbors he was coming, even boasting to her employees at work. She usually didn’t have any news. She’d devoted most of her life to her father—a man who’d been her best friend—and their store. That dedication hadn’t bothered her until his passing, leaving an emptiness in her life. But her nephew’s upcoming visit had given her something interesting to share—and some attention—at least for a little while.
Attention usually passed her by. She knew many residents of Hamsford felt sorry for her. She was an example of what not to do with one’s life. A cautionary tale for young women. “If you don’t find a man now, you’ll end up a spinster like Miranda.” “Don’t work so hard or you’ll end up like Miranda.” “Be careful not to give so much or you’ll end up an old maid like Miranda.”
She couldn’t blame them and usually didn’t mind the chatter. Nobody had expected much from her, even when she was young. She’d never been a beauty—more handsome than pretty, with chestnut brown skin and dark brown eyes. And now, pushing forty, she knew her options were limited, but she didn’t regret her life. Except when the holidays came, shining a light on her loneliness, but not this time. This holiday was going to be different because her nephew—a soldier—was coming home for the holidays. And her colleagues had been pleased for her, they’d even given her a card and money to give to him. Thanking him for his service.
What would she tell them now?
Mary came into the kitchen. “It’s getting late. Take off your apron and fix your hair,” she said, glancing at the untidy bun at the top of Miranda’s head.
“I forgot something,” Miranda said, feeling the need to escape. To think. To plan. She couldn’t tell them yet. She didn’t want them to feel sorry for her. Not again. “I have to go to the store and—”
“But there’s no time.”
Miranda hung up her apron. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“I’ll go. Eva brought that scarf you wanted to borrow and—”
“No, no, you stay here,” Miranda said turning away, tears building. Their kindness hurt her. They were so good to her. Couldn’t John have come at least for them? He and Eva had played together when they were younger. Couldn’t he have made an appearance for her? She’d even entertained a vague hope that they’d get on since they were both still single.
Miranda left the kitchen and raced past Eva. She grabbed her coat. “Won’t be a minute,” she said again before grabbing her car keys and leaving.
2
She drove, not knowing where, or for how long. She didn’t have much time. She couldn’t leave Mary and Eva waiting forever. But how could she face them? “I told you so,” Mary would say. “Didn’t I say that nephew of yours was no good?” Eva would just look at her with pity. It was all so humiliating! But she knew she had to go back; running away wouldn’t solve anything. Oh Dad, I wish you could help me. I miss you so much, she thought, holding back tears. She had no other choice. She’d wrap up all the food and send Mary and Eva home. She’d lost her appetite anyway.
Miranda slowed her car and stopped at the empty four-way intersection then quickly turned to head back home just as a young man in uniform stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. She braked quickly, but not soon enough. She felt the thud, saw him fall and her heart dropped.
She jumped out of the car and raced over to him, grateful not to see any blood.
The man sat up, looking dazed.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, kneeling beside him.
“Serves me right,” he said, standing. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
That was true, but that didn’t make her feel any better. She stood too, but he was nearly a foot taller than she was so she had to look up at him. He was young, though there was a cool cynicism to his features that belonged on a man much older. “Do you need to go to a hospital?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine really.” He dusted off his pants, although the action did nothing to make them look less worn. “What? You’ve never seen a man fall on his pride before?”
Miranda looked him over to make sure he was really okay. He had skin the color of rye bread and his face didn’t appear kind. Perhaps, if he’d had more pleasant features she would have left him alone, but his biting brown eyes and sharp arrogant jaw made her think of her father when he was in one of his gruff moods or when a customer was ready to voice a complaint. She’d spent years soothing over such moments. A handsome, pleasant stranger would have made her flustered, but this irritated stranger with his sarcastic tone made her feel more relaxed.
“At least let me take you where you were going,” she said. “I can drop you there.”
He looked over her head at something in the distance, making it clear he wanted to be somewhere else. “I’m not going anywhere really.”
“Where are you staying?”
He shrugged. “Haven’t figured that out yet either.”
Miranda folded her arms. “You’re not from around here.”
He met her gaze and for a moment a glint of humor lit his dark gaze, shedding the anger and cynicism and the years, making him appear younger than he had looked before. “What gave me away?”
The uniform for one. It was ill-fitted. Most of the Hamsford men who’d chosen to fight wore their uniform with an arrogance, as if to compensate for a sense of divided loyalties. Hamsford was a community filled with immigrants, some not sure if their sacrifice meant much to their new home country. There were still those in their adopted homeland who saw them as outsiders no matter how much blood they shed on battlefields abroad.
But this young man looked dejected. Defeated. Haunted. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, really,” he said, then his stomach grumbled.
Miranda couldn’t help a smile. “You’re hungry.”
He folded his arms, his frown increasing. “Well, I’m fine aside from that.”
She bit her lip, looking him up and down. He was just the right age, height and look. And if she did him a favor…
“I’ve got a hot meal waiting,” she said, “if you’d just do one thing for me.”
“What?” he asked with caution.
“Pretend to be my nephew just for one evening.”
His hands fell to his side. “But I’m—”
She clasped her hands together. “Please, just for an hour maybe two. All you’d have to do is stuff your mouth with oven roasted turkey, browned to a crisp succulent sheen, but if you’re vegetarian,” she quickly added when he started to speak, “I also have mashed potatoes with chives, a bean salad medley, fried plantain and—”
His stomach growled louder.
She grinned. “Is that a yes?”
He frowned. “You’re a cruel woman.”
“No, just a desperate one. This isn’t a time for pride. I owe you anyway. I nearly ran you down.”
“No, I walked into the street without looking.”
“Yes, exactly,” she said snapping her fingers. She ran her hand over an invisible dent on the hood. “See that damage? That’s your fault. What are you going to do about it?”
A slight smile touched the corner of his hard mouth. “Fine, I’ll be your nephew.”
Miranda opened the passenger side door. “Good, thank you. Your name is John.”
He sat inside and pulled on his seatbelt with a groan. “Please don’t
tell me you call me Johnny.”
“No, but Ms. Mary sometimes calls you Jay.”
He froze. “How many other people will be there?”
“Just two,” Miranda said starting the car. She glanced at the clock. She’d met this stranger just in time.
He tapped a beat on his knee. “I’m not much of an actor.”
“You don’t have to remember much. I’ll cover for you. It was so long ago that you were here I doubt they’ll expect much from you. Just keep your mouth full and nod and you should be fine. And you can talk about your time abroad if you want, but there’s no pressure.”
“And what do I call you?”
“Just call me Auntie.”
3
Brett Greenwood stared at his reflection in the pristine bathroom mirror, wondering how he’d gotten into this mess.
He looked terrible. His uniform was worn and big. Why would she want to present someone like him? But he was hungry and if this was the price of a good meal, he’d do it with a smile, even though he hadn’t felt like smiling for a long time. At twenty-eight, he felt decades older. Only a couple of hours ago he’d been on a bus leaving New Jersey heading south, not caring where he ended up. Twice, strangers had thanked him for his service and sacrifice. One little boy called him a hero. But he knew he wasn’t.
He barely felt like a man. He didn’t want to feel at all. After losing his savings in a business deal that had gone bad, he’d paid back his best friend, Leonard, who’d loaned him some money, only to discover he’d lost more than that.
He’d gone to Leonard’s office to repay him and was told he was out of the office. And he’d believed the receptionist before he caught Leonard coming out of a utility closet with Sarah—Brett’s girlfriend—both of them adjusting their attire. If it had been someone else, he would have found it funny. Sarah didn’t even use the ladies’ room and never took public transport, and yet this was where they’d decided to be intimate.
