“A chair should do it,” he said, moving to the dining room to get one.
Bev was feeding Louise in the high chair in the kitchen, while Leo gobbled up Cheerios as they fell from the tray onto the floor.
Our five-month old daughter, Serena, giggled and cooed as my mother carried her around the breakfast bar, bouncing at the knees.
Scott brought a dining room chair to the tree, and I passed him the angel to set on top. It wobbled for a few seconds until he found the right balance, then he plugged it into the string of white lights.
Getting down off the chair, he reached for my hand so we could stand back and admire our tree together.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my cheek on his chest.
Serena let out a happy shriek and we both turned to look her. My mother smiled at us. “It sounds like she likes it, too.”
I left Scott to tidy up the boxes while I moved to take Serena from my mother’s arms and carry her on my hip to examine the sparkly tree ornaments among the evergreen boughs. I was just fingering a gold trumpet on a string when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.” Scott set down the empty boxes and moved to answer it.
“Good evening,” he said to the uniformed courier who stood outside on our front step in the cold. “You’re working late.”
“There’s always plenty of overtime when it gets this close to Christmas,” he explained as he handed a package the size of a shoebox to Scott and asked him to sign for it.
A moment later, Scott closed the door and brought the box over to me. He stared down at the return address, hesitated briefly, then said, “It’s for you.”
Slightly unnerved by the look in his eye, I swapped Serena for the package. While he carried our daughter to the kitchen to join Bev, Louise, and my mother, I checked to see who it was from.
“It’s from Angie,” I said with a sudden spark of unease as I moved to the coffee table and sat down. My reaction wasn’t rational of course. I had moved on a long time ago and had let go of any lingering animosity, but I suppose she would always be my late-husband’s ex-lover and the friend who had betrayed me in the worst possible way. Seeing this package from her was an unexpected reminder.
The others were quiet while I ripped off the packing tape and opened the outer box. Inside, there was a card in a red envelope that said “Claire,” along with a smaller gift wrapped in festive paper and shiny gold ribbon, all on a bed of green tissue paper.
The others watched quietly while I opened the card and began to read the letter.
Dear Claire,
It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken, and I’m not sure how you will feel when you receive this package from me, but I felt a great need to make contact with you this holiday season.
First of all, congratulations on the birth of your daughter. Barbara let me know that everything went well, and I am very happy for you and Scott. No one deserves happiness more than the two of you.
As for me… I do not feel worthy of all the gifts you have sent my way over the past year, much less your kindness and forgiveness.
For that reason, I feel a deep and unrelenting need to thank you, and to let you know that you have made a tremendous difference in my life. Something changed in me when Barbara arrived with the Christmas gift that came from you, not long before I went into labor last year. She told me what you had said in your letter to her, and I was deeply, deeply humbled. But still, I couldn’t bring myself to contact you, because I was too ashamed.
Then Wesley was born, and the love he brought with him when he came into the world exploded inside of me. I can’t explain it, but his birth, coupled with your forgiveness, was a true miracle in my life. I never felt more blessed, and I knew in that moment that I would never again intentionally inflict pain on another human being, nor would I betray a friendship, or act without honor or integrity. I want to be a good example for my son and be the best person I can possibly be. All I have to do is think of you, and I have a shining example to emulate.
Thank you, Claire—not just for the money, which has been extremely helpful to me as a single mother—but for your selflessness and forgiveness, your loving nature, and for showing me how to be a better person.
Which brings us to this moment, a year later, approaching Christmas. Please find enclosed a gift for you and Scott, and you can probably guess what’s inside.
Barbara and I decided together that you should have it, because it is a cup full of love, and no one deserves it more than you.
I feel certain that if Wes is looking down on all of us—which I believe he is—he would approve of my choice to pass this along to you. Please know that he was very sorry for the mistakes he made and the pain he caused you. His regret and shame weighed heavily on his heart.
So now, here we are. I will move forward with sadness over the loss of a man I loved and the friend I had not treated as she deserved to be treated. But I will endeavor to go on with joy for all the blessings I have received, and for the lessons I have learned. I will spend the rest of my days making myself worthy of those gifts.
Merry Christmas, Claire. May you always be surrounded by joy and love and Christmas miracles. You deserve that more than anyone.
Sincerely,
Angie
As I finished reading the letter, I wiped tears from my cheeks and found myself smiling.
I set it down on the coffee table and reached for the gift. Pulling the gold ribbon free, I opened the box and found the gleaming sterling silver baby cup and spoon that Barbara had given to me a few Christmases ago, when Wes and I were just beginning our journey together with the dream of creating a family.
So much had happened since then. There had been pain and heartbreak, but today there was nothing but an overflowing cup of joy and love.
I stood and turned to hold it up for Scott, Bev, and my mom to see. “It’s from Angie,” I said, my voice trembling with emotion. “She wrote me the most wonderful letter.”
Scott immediately came to my side, where we stood among the mess gazing into each other’s eyes, rejoicing and feeling grateful for all the little miracles that had brought us together.
And given us Serena.
My mother joined us as well. I handed her the letter to read.
She took a moment to get through it, then looked up at me with damp eyes.
“You did the right thing, Claire. Do you know how proud your father would be, if he were here with us today?”
I nodded as tears filled my eyes. “He is here, Mom.” I touched my fist to my heart. “He’s right in here, and he always will be.”
Scott kissed me softly on the cheek, while our baby daughter reached for the cup with her clumsy little baby hands. We all laughed and returned to the task of decorating our home for Christmas, while the angel at the top of the tree shone her light brightly and smiled down upon us all.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for taking the time to read both books in this collection. If you enjoyed THE COLOR OF THE SEASON and would like to read about Josh’s earlier relationship with Carla, that story is THE COLOR OF LOVE. It’s one of my favorite books in this series (and it’s not easy for an author to pick favorites. It’s like asking someone to choose their favorite child!).
As for THE COLOR OF A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE, Claire’s sister Bev has a very exciting story of her own, which takes place a few years after this story ends, when her daughter Louise is old enough to begin asking questions about her father. That book is THE COLOR OF A SILVER LINING, and it’s an emotionally gripping, dramatic tale. Read on for an excerpt.
Again, thank you for spending time with some of my favorite Color of Heaven characters. If you enjoyed the books and would like to know more about future releases from me, please visit my website and sign up for my E-newsletter. My subscribers are always first to learn about new releases and cover reveals, as well as special events and giveaways.
You can also follow me on Bookbub, where
you’ll receive an alert whenever one of my backlist titles goes on sale for 99 cents or is offered for free.
Happy Reading!
Julianne
Available Now
The Color of a Silver Lining
by Julianne MacLean
It’s been five years since Emma Cochran endured the worst possible tragedy—the sudden, unexpected death of her two-year-old son. The emotional trauma tore her marriage apart, but now her divorce is final and she wants to begin again. She’s found happiness at last with her fiancé, Lucas, who is eager to start a family with her.
On the other side of the country, single mother Bev Hutchinson watches helplessly as her five-year-old daughter Louise drowns in a high-profile boating accident. Miraculously, Louise is brought back to life by first-responders, then claims she went to heaven. The news causes a media frenzy surrounding the little girl, and Bev does everything she can to shield herself and her daughter from the relentless swarming of the press.
Lives collide when Emma becomes obsessed with the story of the child, thousands of miles away, who drowned and went to heaven. She wants to connect with the mother, but Emma’s fiancé is against the idea because he wants her to let go of her grief and move on.
But sometimes, moving on isn’t the right choice when miracles are leading you back to your past—toward something, or someone, who was your destiny all along.
Excerpt from THE COLOR OF A SILVER LINING
©Julianne MacLean 2017
Chapter One
Bev
Halifax, Nova Scotia
On the day the tall ship Dalila went down, taking all its passengers—including me, my sister, and my five-year-old daughter Louise—into the cold waters of the Atlantic, I had just turned thirty years old. I was a single mother and had started to notice a few wrinkles I’d never had before, and the odd gray hair in my curly blond locks.
As for Dalila, she was a magnificent, recently refurbished 153-foot, three-masted square-rigger. She was commissioned in 1936 and worked as a support vessel for fisheries in New England and appeared in several movies for the big screen in the 1980s and ’90s. In recent years, she’d become a tourist attraction at Halifax Harbour, Nova Scotia, taking landlubbers on day trips around Sambro Island to view the oldest surviving lighthouse in North America.
It was my sister Claire who convinced me to get onboard that day, because it was something we’d talked about for years. She insisted that my thirtieth birthday deserved a special celebration, something I could tick off my bucket list, and a voyage aboard Dalila had been sitting on that list for a while. What sealed the deal was the fact that my daughter had become fascinated with sailing ships after watching Pirates of the Caribbean, and she was desperate to go “on a big pirate boat.”
So off we went—just the three of us: Claire, Louise, and me—while Claire’s husband Scott stayed home to take their four-year-old daughter, Serena, to a birthday party.
As it turned out, it was a good thing they didn’t join us. It meant there were two less loved ones to worry about when the wave hit.
* * *
The sky was blue and the forecast clear when we stepped onto the gangway in downtown Halifax that morning. It had never even entered our minds that it might be a bad day to go sailing.
In addition to sixteen crew members, there were twenty-five passengers booked for the voyage. Claire, Louise and I were first in line on the wharf, so while other passengers were still arriving, we explored the ship, craning our necks to look at the tops of the masts, which seemed to reach halfway to the sky. We walked around the main deck, marveling at the complex rigging and the sheer volume of rope everywhere we looked.
Louise had always been a mindful, sensible child—surprisingly mature for her age—and she was well-behaved. As always, she kept to a walk when she might have preferred to break into a run toward the bowsprit.
After we’d seen everything on the top deck, we ventured below to the main hold—an impressive, wide-open space with a gleaming oak floor and knotty antique planks forming the hull.
“Feels like we’re inside a giant wooden barrel,” Claire said as she fingered the wrought iron hardware holding the planks together.
“That’s not a disturbing thought at all.” I raised an eyebrow at her while Louise danced around on the expansive deck.
Claire and I turned to watch her do a few pirouettes and pliés, which she’d learned in ballet class. Her blond curls bounced as she moved, and the smile on her face melted my heart. She curtsied and we gave a round of applause.
Continuing our exploration toward the forward deck, we found the galley—an ultra-modern kitchen with the newest technologies—and back toward the stern, through a narrow passageway, we came upon a number of small private cabins for the crew. The captain’s quarters were located aft and spanned the full width of the stern.
“It’s very luxurious, isn’t it?” Claire said quietly as she peered in at the varnished oak furnishings, shiny brass fittings and crimson upholstery.
Louise was about to run in and climb onto the bed, but I held her back. “I don’t think we’re supposed to do that, sweetheart,” I whispered gently.
She gave no argument, then followed Claire and me back to the companionway that took us up to the top deck. By that point, other passengers were exploring below deck as well.
A short while later, it was time to depart.
“Everyone is welcome to take a turn at the helm today,” our captain explained as we motored away from the wharf. He was a handsome older gentleman, very distinguished looking in a navy blazer, white trousers, white shoes and a smart-looking captain’s cap. “Our crew members are expert sailors and if you’re interested, they’ll be happy to show you how to set sails, assist with maneuvers, and once we’re beyond the mouth of the harbor, I’ll talk to you all about navigation, weather observations as well as plenty more. Now…” He spread his arms wide. “Are you all ready to see this gorgeous girl leave the harbor under full sail?”
We all cheered and clapped as the crew set to work.
“It’s going to be such a fun day,” I said to Louise, hugging her close and kissing the top of her sweet head. She wiggled with excitement on the bench, and Claire and I shared a happy glance.
* * *
We learned later that the crew could never have predicted the extreme wind gusts that would slam into the Dalila shortly after we circled Sambro Island, nor could they have done anything to save the boat. What happened was a meteorological phenomenon called a “micro-burst,” which is an abrupt downdraft during a thunderstorm. The wind shoots straight down from the clouds and bounces off the ground or water. Typically, it affects less than a two-and-a half mile geographical area, and wind speeds can reach hurricane force in a matter of seconds. It’s very precise. If you’re near the bullseye of a micro-burst, it’s almost like getting struck by lightning.
* * *
First came the rain, but that wasn’t a surprise to any of us, as we’d seen bad weather approaching from the horizon. The crew donned their foul weather gear, and as soon as the rain was upon us, the captain ordered us all to the main hold below to stay dry, while assuring us that he and his crew had sailed in far worse weather than this.
Down we went to the place where Louise had danced pirouettes a few hours earlier, and where they had served us a delicious hot lunch just before we reached the island. There were no portholes in that section of the ship so we couldn’t see out, but we felt the intensifying movements of the ship through roughening seas.
There was a sudden crash of thunder that seemed frighteningly close, and Louise started to cry.
“It’s okay, baby, don’t worry.” I scooped her into my arms and steadied myself against the center bulkhead. “It’s just a thunderstorm. And the captain knows what he’s doing.”
The ship pitched and rolled, and one of the other passengers—an older lady in her sixties—began to complain to her husband that they should have simply taken the ferry back a
nd forth to Dartmouth like she wanted, rather than get on a sailing ship headed for open water. It would have been far cheaper, she said, and they would be on dry land by now. They continued to argue about it.
I was beginning to think the ferry boat sounded pretty good at that point, because I’d never been a risk taker when it came to wild adventures. I was a nurse in the city hospital, so I’d seen enough broken bones and concussions to steer me away from unnecessary risks to the only body I had. Yet here we were, on an old-fashioned square-rigger, riding violent ocean waves in the middle of a thunderstorm.
“The captain seemed confident,” Claire said to me, rather uncertainly, as she grabbed hold of the center post and braced her legs farther apart. “I’m sure he’ll get us out of this. Right?”
“Of course,” I replied, swallowing hard over a sudden surge of seasickness in my belly.
All the passengers grew quiet, even Louise, who remained very brave in my arms and didn’t cry. I suppose we were all too petrified to speak. It went on like that for a while, with the floor pitching and rolling beneath us while we fought to hold on to whatever was fastened to the floor or walls.
Then suddenly there was great roar from topside, as if it had come from a supernatural beast in the sky, and water came sloshing down the companionway.
The ship heeled sharply to starboard and we were all thrown against the hull. I tried to hang onto Louise, but I didn’t want to crush her as I slammed into the wooden planks and iron fittings, so I let her go and she flew out of my arms, catapulting into another couple and landing on top of them.
Christmas Miracles Page 34
