Praise for the novels of Kristina McMorris
The Pieces We Keep
“Kristina McMorris’s novel moves masterfully between past and present and locks us straight in the heart with a love story, a story between a mother and son, and a story of healing. The Pieces We Keep gripped me from the first page and didn’t let go.
Alyson Richman, bestselling author of The Lost Wife
“Readers will have a hard time putting this absorbing book down.”
RT Book Reviews
“Kristina McMorris has written an utterly absorbing novel, which takes us from present-day Oregon to World War II London, and touches on profound themes. This is a beautifully woven story, at once gripping and uplifting.”
Margaret Leroy, author of The Soldier’s Wife
“An expertly woven and richly satisfying work of historical fiction that will touch any reader who has experienced love, loss, tragedy, or the impact of family secrets.”
The Boston Globe
“From the past to the present, The Pieces We Keep is a compelling tale with memorable characters, written in McMorris’ elegant and captivating prose. I didn’t want this novel to end.”
Erika Robuck, bestselling author of Call Me Zelda
“Combined with true-to-life stories of German saboteurs on American soil from World War II . . . it is a story that is guaranteed to captivate and enthrall readers to the very end.”
Times Record News
“The past collides with the present in this sensitive and multilayered story where the discovery of long-held family secrets leads to healing. The contemporary twist will be a treat for fans of World War II historical fiction.”
Beth Hoffman, New York Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
“McMorris’s second novel gracefully blossoms through swift prose and rich characters….This gripping story about two ‘brothers’ in arms and a young woman caught in between them hits all the right chords.”
Publishers Weekly
“A sweeping yet intimate novel that will please both romantics and lovers of American history.”
Kirkus Reviews
“Impeccably researched and beautifully written, Bridge of Scarlet Leaves is a story of loss, triumph, and awakening—and of forgiving those who have injured us the most. I highly recommend this book!”
Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of The Time Between
“Rich in historical detail, peopled with well-developed characters, and spiced with tension and drama, Bridge of Scarlet Leaves is a novel to savor, and then to share with a friend.”
The Historical Novel Reviews
“Fascinating and moving…an absolute pleasure to read.”
Whitney Otto, author of How to Make An American Quilt
“An unputdownable love story…[McMorris’s] attention to detail is meticulous, the East meets West clash between cultures—revelatory.”
Lesley Kagen, New York Times bestselling author of Whistling in the Dark
“A wonderfully poignant tale, it’s at times terribly dramatic and others beautifully gentle.”
RT Book Reviews
“A beautiful, timeless love story, rich in detail and emotion, Kristina McMorris’ words reach right off the page and grab at your heart. An altogether comforting and satisfying read.”
Sarah Jio, author of The Violets of March
“Readers of World War II fiction will devour Kristina McMorris’s Bridge of Scarlet Leaves, a poignant, authentic story of Japanese and American lovers crossed not only by the stars but by the vagaries of war and their own country’s prejudices.”
Jenna Blum
Letters from Home
“This sweeping debut novel is ambitious and compelling….will appeal to historical fiction fans hungry for a romance of the ‘Greatest Generation.’ ”
Publishers Weekly
“The tale is emotionally moving and the end is heartwarming. This is a tough book to put down!”
RT Book Reviews
“Letters from Home is an absorbing debut, combining the emotional power of The Notebook with the stirring history and drama of Saving Private Ryan. An evocative and compelling storyteller, Kristina McMorris gives us a novel to savor and remember.”
Ben Sherwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud
“McMorris gives readers a poignant and resonant ‘Greatest Generation’ story of love and loss during wartime.”
Booklist
“McMorris writes of the people and the period with a great deal of insight and compassion. Through the three heroines she captures a cross-section of the myriad experiences and coping mechanisms of the women left behind with their hopes and dreams and fears.”
The Historical Novels Reviews
“This poignant novel digs deep into the emotional and physical effects of war and is well written and well researched….highlight[s] the harsh realities of both war and human nature.”
New York Journal of Books
“A tender and heartfelt glimpse of a time long past. While wholly original, it’s filled with characters as beloved as your own grandparents. Propelled by the epic sweep of world war, yet warmed by intimate human moments, this story will linger in the reader’s memory long after the last page is turned.”
Susan Wiggs
Books by Kristina McMorris
LETTERS FROM HOME
BRIDGE OF SCARLET LEAVES
THE PIECES WE KEEP
THE EDGE OF LOST
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
THE CHRISTMAS COLLECTOR
Kristina McMorris
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Delilah Devlin
This title was originally published as part of the anthology TEMPTED BY A COWBOY, copyright 2009 Kensington Publishing Corp.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: January 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0865-7
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0865-5
Printed in the United States of America
Note from the Author
Dear Reader,
Only upon completing this novella did it occur to me that my literary journey has indeed come full circle. After all, it was a family Christmas gift that had sparked the idea for my debut novel, Letters from Home. The fact I had “borrowed�
� two characters from that story in order to create The Christmas Collector, though now as their elderly versions, seems all the more fitting.
You see, I was in the midst of interviewing my grandmother for the biographical section of a homemade cookbook, intended as a Christmas present for the grandkids, when she revealed a shocking detail: She and my grandfather had dated merely twice during WWII before uniting in a marriage that lasted until his passing, fifty years later. Until then, I had no idea their courtship had blossomed almost entirely through heartfelt letters, each of which Grandma Jean then retrieved from her closet to share.
Captivated by their relationship and a fading era, I soon sat down to pen my first novel, based on the question: How well can you truly know someone through letters alone? What formed as a result was Letters from Home, in which a WWII soldier falls deeply in love through a yearlong letter exchange, unaware that the girl he’s writing to isn’t the one replying. Unique cases of loved ones separated by war have since continued to fascinate me, as proven by my second novel, Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Again inspired by a true account, the story follows a Caucasian woman who, refusing to be separated from her Japanese American husband, moves to an internment camp by choice. In many ways, the struggle of living between worlds, seeking out one’s true identity, is a common thread among my books—as are themes of redemption and forgiveness, loss of innocence, the complexities of family, and the importance of memories. I hope you enjoy The Christmas Collector for all these reasons and more!
With warm holiday wishes,
Kristina McMorris
For 1940s holiday recipes, special book club features, and excerpts from the letters by Kristina’s grandfather, visit www.KristinaMcMorris.com.
Chapter 1
She tried to ignore him throughout dinner, but the squatty monk held Jenna’s focus in a fisted grip. He seemed to be mocking her with a half smile curled into round rosy cheeks, his hand resting on the wide shelf of his belly. Traditionally a symbol of self-sacrifice and frugality, he instead radiated sheer overindulgence.
The fact he was a mere saltshaker didn’t lessen Jenna Matthews’s anxiety. She shifted in her seat, forced down another bite of instant mashed potatoes. She knew without question the Friar Tuck collectible was new to her mother’s house. In a brown robe, his hair forming a silver wreath, he stood amid the Thanksgiving dishes as if staking his claim. A matching pepper shaker and sugar bowl flanked him on the dining room table. Candlelight flickered over the trio, casting shadows across the floral vase and oval doily.
New vase. New doily. New condiment holders. All signs that Jenna’s mother, Rita, had potentially relapsed.
But the woman gave no other indications. Over their holiday meal of turkey TV dinners—her mom’s standard menu, now accustomed to cooking for one—she was rattling on about a film she had seen with a friend from her days in group therapy. Jenna feared those sessions might now be needed again.
“I just don’t know why they insist on doing that.” Her mother used a melodramatic tone for emphasis. “It ruins a perfectly good movie, don’t you think?”
At the expectant pause, Jenna reviewed the discussion she had caught in disjointed pieces. “What does?”
“When they have those corny endings.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I swear, I can’t recall the last time I saw a romantic comedy with a realistic ending. Some character always has to give an over-the-top speech in front of a reception hall, or even a whole baseball stadium. As if big revelations only come when you’re holding a microphone.” She puffed a laugh that jostled her hoop earrings. “Honestly. When have you ever seen that happen in real life?”
Forging a smile, Jenna shrugged, and her mother moved on to the next topic: a Thanksgiving conspiracy by U.S. turkey farmers, based on her doubts over the pilgrims’ actual supper. From a marketing perspective, Jenna hated to admit, the theory was intriguing enough to contemplate. She tried her best to listen, but her surroundings were of greater concern.
What other new purchases lurked in the shadows? She wrestled down the urge to spring from her chair and tear through the china cabinet on a hunt for more evidence. Perhaps she was overreacting.
Then again, she had witnessed firsthand how quickly a handful of knickknacks could multiply until they packed an entire mantel. A wall of bookshelves. Every drawer and cupboard in the house. And before long, you were drowning in a sea of objects no more satisfying than cotton candy: a temporary filler that, for her mother, eventually gave way to the reality of loss. It was this very emptiness that had devoured most of Jenna’s high school years.
“Honey?” her mother said.
“Sorry—what?”
“I was wondering what you wanted for Christmas this year.”
“Nothing.” The reply came stronger than intended. “I mean . . . there really isn’t anything I need.”
“Well, then. I’ll just have to get creative.” She flashed a smile, accentuating the Mary Kay lipstick she’d worn since the early nineties. Her shimmery eye shadow matched her irises, a deep sea green like Jenna’s, and created arcs beneath brown bangs teased to a frizz. Only once had Jenna tried to update her mom’s fashion, citing her cowl neck sweater and stirrup pants, like the ones she wore now, as “Goodwill bound.” The half joke didn’t fly. Her mother had licked her wounds by buying six new bags of useless “stuff.”
Of course, that was back in the midst of her mom’s grieving, too soon after their family of three became two. Maybe, at last, she would consider a small change.
“I was thinking,” Jenna began, gauging her approach, “I should probably get my hair colored in the next few weeks.”
“Oh?” her mother said. “Are you going with a different shade?”
“Just getting rid of the gray.” Jenna’s stylist would faint from joy if Jenna ever agreed to liven up her shaggy brown bob with red or blond highlights, rather than simply disguising her scatterings of early silver. “Why don’t you come along? Maybe try taking off a couple inches. You know, you’d look great with short hair.”
Her mother’s expression perked for a moment, the idea like a sun rising, then just as swiftly setting. She smoothed the ends of her shoulder-length do. “Maybe some other time.”
At thirty-one, Jenna knew that answer well. Through decades of asking permission—hosting a slumber party, buying overpriced jeans—the meaning hadn’t changed. Maybe some other time equaled No.
Jenna returned to her shriveled, gravy-drenched stuffing. The wall clock ticked slowly away. Every swing of its pendulum echoed against the marred wooden floors.
And from the table, that ceramic friar kept right on staring. His painted eyes speared her thoughts, piercing the walls of her past. Despite her efforts, Jenna couldn’t hold back. “When did you get the new saltshaker?”
“Huh? Ahh, that.” Her mother brushed her hand clean with a napkin, monogrammed with an L for its previous owner—whoever that was—before picking up the item. “I got it back in, gosh, August I suppose. Apparently the creamer broke years ago. I thought I’d shown these to you already.”
Jenna shook her head, bracing herself against her mother’s nonchalance. Minor cracks and chips on the rims made the set’s origin clear. A garage sale. Fliers and posters Jenna had passed on the drive here, each tacked to utility poles in the suburban Oregon neighborhood, now sprang to mind: Yard sale this way! Clothes and furniture sale one block ahead! They were like neon tavern signs tempting a recovering alcoholic.
Jenna should have visited more often, to keep better watch. With Christmas around the corner, folks everywhere loved purging their old junk to make room for their new junk. It was the all-American way. As an estate liquidator, Jenna had built a career upon that very principle. But that didn’t stop her from despising the holiday that brimmed with manufactured, made-in-Taiwan cheer.
As her mother gazed in admiration at the fig
urine, Jenna’s insides twisted into a braid of fear. “I thought you stopped buying those kinds of things.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t buy—” Her mother’s cheery tone dissolved as she explained, “It was from Aunt Lenore.”
Aunt Lenore?
And then Jenna remembered. Over the summer, back in the Midwest, the youngest sister of Jenna’s late grandmother had passed away. Lenore used to send them handwritten Christmas cards, among the few people who did that anymore, and create doilies to raise money for the food bank.
Doilies, like the one on the dinner table. The faded floral vase, too, must have belonged to her great aunt.
“So, you just inherited these things,” Jenna realized. Relief washed through her until she met her mother’s gaze, and a mixture of embarrassment and distrust ricocheted between them.
Jenna sank into her chair, weighted by guilt. She sipped her merlot while her mother set down the shaker. Silence returned, heavy as a damp blanket. It draped the black lacquered chairs, a fake fern in the corner, the framed photo tacked to a pin-striped wall. The black-and-white image caught Jenna’s eye. In a grassy field stood a single tulip, almost three-dimensional, airbrushed in vibrant yellow.
“Did you take that one?” she diverted.
Her mom looked over and nodded. “I was driving past a farm over in Damascus when I saw it. Just had to pull over.”
“It’s a really beautiful picture.” A genuine compliment. Her mom’s new job at a portrait studio, after a long career with the school district, had recently revived the hobby. “I like the color effect you added.”
“Well, I did have some help with that part.” A hint of excitement suddenly buoyed her voice. “I used this amazing new editing program. And Doobie’s been wonderful, walking me through it. You remember me telling you about him?”
“A little.” How could Jenna forget? The name of her mom’s coworker sounded like a product of Woodstock. Or at least the remnants of what was smoked by everyone there.
“Anyway, he’s also been teaching me about different lenses, and about the shutter speed for action shots—which has actually come in handy lately, with all the families getting their pictures taken for Christmas.”
The Christmas Collector Page 1
