Wrapped in Red: A Three Rivers Romance Novella

by Meghan M. Gorecki

  Wrapped in Red

  Meghan M. Gorecki

  ISBN-13: 978-1540501301

  ISBN-10: 1540501302

  ©2016 Meghan M. Gorecki

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author. Similarities of characters to any person, past, present, or future, are entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Meghan M. Gorecki

  Images from Shutterstock.com

  Author photo by E.A. Creative Photography

  First Edition: December 17, 2016

  Published by Northern Belle Publishing

  Bethel Park, PA 15102

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Zedóh

  Adeste fideles

  In loving memory of Raymond Bunchek

  July 24, 1942 — June 17, 2016

  Chapter One

  “Magical? More like laughable. It’s only November.” The first snow of the season was flying so thick and fast that Merry pulled over onto the pothole-riddled shoulder and turned on her blinkers. Because of course her wiper blades decided to become anemic. I don’t have time for this. Some enviably voiced diva warbled about Christmas being magical, and it reverberated against Merry's last nerve. She punched the volume knob to "off." Burrowing deeper into her wool coat, she grabbed for the ice scraper and braced herself before opening her door to emerge into the near whiteout.

  All because this latest guy had cut their date short claiming he had to do laundry. If she could kick herself, she would. For more than just getting her hopes up.

  After plucking the wiper blades up and down to clean them until her fingertips were numb, Merry glanced up at the sky only to have fat snowflakes fall on her lashes before she slipped back inside her stiflingly hot car. She could just hear her dad's Pittsburgh accent chiding her with nothing but a paternal kindness about buying winter wiper blades for her PT Cruiser. Some things never changed. Merry turned the radio back on, Irving Berlin's Count Your Blessings streamed from her speakers, and the melted snowflakes on her lashes turned to tears.

  Counting blessings only served to raise her hopes, lure her into a deceptive peace right before life would come and kick her down. Blessings—they were getting increasingly harder to identify these days.

  With her turn signal on to merge back onto an empty road, Merry took a deep breath, changed the radio station, and pulled out into the white din. In an instant her tires began whirring and spinning, sending the back of her car swinging into the oncoming lane.

  “Ohh crap.” Glancing over her shoulder, Merry gauged how she would have to steer to avoid the guardrail. Maybe she’d get lucky and there wouldn’t be any jag-offs out in this weather to crash into her.

  “Come on, baby. Come on.” Tires protesting, she shifted a smidge into the right direction. Tires…shoot. Dad had told her when she had a spare few hundred dollars he’d find the best winter tires and mount them for her. Except her school loans were almost paid off, proving that God did provide, as Gram always said. Even on a librarian and freelance editor’s salary. But not enough for snow tires at the moment.

  “I am an independent, self-sufficient…” Merry craned her neck and squinted through the snow. Good. No oncoming headlights. “…Twenty-six-year-old woman. I can do this.” Blind spots were clear, so Merry muttered a two-word prayer, faced forward and shifted to neutral in hopes of drifting.

  Her slippery heel slammed on the brakes when the blinding lights of a truck sent blood rushing to her ears. Just a few yards away, the truck stopped, and its four-ways started flashing. What the heck?

  Merry shivered in spite of the warmth, locking her doors and pulling her parking brake. A knock on the window set her jumping out of her skin to bump her head on the roof. When she lowered the window, fresh, perfect snow blew in and she stuck her head out, trying to see through the golden-white fog. “Can I help you?” Now she’d be officially late for Sunday dinner with the family.

  The stranger lifted both hands in mock surrender and his five o’clock shadowed jaw widened into a smile. “Just wondered if you could use a hand. I have salt in my truck…” The broad-shouldered red plaid coat jogged around the car before skidding to a stop in front of her window again. “And you seem to be getting nowhere fast.”

  Chafing at the thought of needing a rescuer, Merry was at least glad she now would not have to call her dad and brother to bail her out of this snowy shoulder. “Sure. Thanks.”

  And so the tall stranger strode back to his truck, skidded to a stop and almost fell over. Merry snorted around a laugh and brushed the melting snow off her lap. Another knock on the window and she slowly rolled it down so the snow dusted man could practically stick his head inside. “If you want I can wrangle this to point in the right direction in the lane for you.”

  She pressed back against her heated seat. Danger, Will Robinson. This guy could easily hop in her car and speed away, leaving her stranded. Then again, not many people just pull over when they see someone stuck in the snow. And the risk of giving him the benefit of the doubt was far preferable to calling a family member, which would result in both an interrogation about her date and she'd get razzed for weeks about getting stranded.

  Merry waved her hand and he took the hint, backing away so she could swing her door open. But a graceful exit as she had hoped was not to be had. No such luck seemed to be the year-end theme. She was going down and in a skirt, no less. Her feet slipped farther apart and her arms waved in vain as if unattached from her body. Could this day get any worse?

  Two marshmallow-soft arms smelling of Old Spice caught her before they both toppled backward into the snow.

  “Can’t remember the last time someone fell for me.” A full-on grin now from the handsome snowman she was far too close to for comfort. Warmth bloomed in her chest and spread to her cheeks at the nearness, and she let loose a laugh before biting the inside of her mouth to quell her smile. If she were writing this would make a ridiculously cheesy meet-cute that may actually hook readers.

  Brushing the thought of that pesky old dream away, she stood to brush the snow from her frame. “Trust me—its clumsiness.” Cheeks hot, Merry busied herself fixing her favorite cloche hat sure to be askew on her—bare, damp head? Where did it go?

  “Ouch. Shot down. This your hat?” The stranger was now enviably snowless and steady on his feet, standing in all his six-foot glory with a small, smug smirk on his face.

  She took her hat and shoved the sodden thing back on her head and bit back a growl. “I’m running late. Would you mind?”

  Another laugh and the man handed Merry a snow shovel she hadn’t noticed before. “Insurance. It's my best shovel. Don't make off with it while I move your car.”

 
Hilarious. Grabbing the shovel, Merry backed up away from the path her car would hopefully make if this tall stranger could work his promised maneuvering magic. Within five minutes, she breathed again with her car idling warm and safe pointing in the right direction on the street. The snow had even slowed to but a handful of flurries. Maybe this night could turn around after all. Handing the shovel back to her nameless rescuer, Merry shoved her gloved hands into soggy pockets. “I’ve got to get going. Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem, happy to help. Drive safe.”

  “Yeah, you too.” Merry slipped back into her car and put it into drive. Already twenty minutes late.

  But at least she had the not-so-distant memory of chocolate crinkle eyes on a Good Samaritan to redeem the date shortened by that lame laundry excuse.

  Now, to get through family dinner.

  Chapter Two

  Who says after seventy minutes that they should head home and do laundry? That’s what Merry wanted to know. The guy didn’t even try to be creative with an excuse. She pounded the steering wheel as she turned onto her parents' street. Back in the South Hills bubble with its wet, black roads was a welcome respite from inner city Pittsburgh streets and guys who didn't even hold the door for her when they left the coffee shop.

  She should be used to rejection by now—proof in an email folder full of rejections from publishers and dating apps that taunted her hope with no fewer than ten dates that led nowhere. Rejection still stung. But it would sting more if her endearingly meddlesome family knew she was dating again and got their hopes up—and inevitably disappointed—along with hers. So, she wouldn't relate her dating forays to her family at dinner tonight—instead, she would perhaps share how there were still Good Samaritans in the world.

  She’d just be sure and leave out the fact that the guy had been young and vaguely good looking—even if he wasn’t her preferred blond Avenger-like type.

  Pulling into the driveway, Merry rolled her shoulders and rubbed her hands together, trying to infuse warmth into her cold bones, as she soon would be enveloped with upon crossing her family’s threshold. Coming home eased away the loneliness and made her grateful to return to her own space at the end of the evening. She liked her life, even if it was nearing Madam Librarian Marion Peru status. That was a happier thought—maybe she’d suggest a family movie to watch after dinner. The Music Man—a longstanding favorite.

  “Merry, Merry pin a rose on me!” Gram was the first one to greet Merry before she could even push the door open. Her hug was so strong that Merry almost fell over but she caught herself on the door handle. Laughing, she kissed her grandmother’s cheek and they moved inside the warm house smelling of sugar cookies. I hope it’s not a candle this time.

  “You didn’t text me. I was starting to get worried about you, hon.” Mum’s grey-streaked dark hair flew wildly in bouncy curls around her face as she appeared in a cloud of flour and the aroma of a pot roast dinner. Hunger overrode missing her parents for the moment, and Merry squirmed out of her mother’s tight hold.

  “Please tell me those are actual cookies and not a candle I’m smelling.”

  Mum scoffed, dusting her hands on the apron Merry made her in high school. Even though it was in ragged tatters, she still used it. “It’s a candle. We have to save room around here for the pies for Thursday.”

  Merry let a smile escape at how some things never changed. Not with her family. And it felt right. She tossed her coat on the banister, bent to kiss Dad’s bald head before he resumed shouting at the Steelers on TV. Passing through the dining room—one of Mum’s pride and joys she’d coined the Ancestry Room—Merry stopped at the seat that had been hers for most of her life. Her eyes bore into the far-off gazes of men and women gone before her, preserved in black and white and hanging in mismatching frames. She knew a handful of them, had been held as an infant by all the great-grandmothers. But the one face that should be sitting at the table to Dad’s right was not there.

  And it still hurt. Even after five years.

  Gram’s peppery geranium perfume wafted near and Merry turned, not trusting her voice. The last thing she wanted to do was get Gram crying over Grandpap. The petite golden-gray haired woman squeezed her arm. “I know, honey-girl.” And Merry let those three words glaze over her heart like warm, rich gravy over a lump of dry pot roast.

  I need food.

  “Ack, Merry’s here! I heard you’re gonna help us with the play!” Lydia came tearing up from the semi-finished basement and wriggled in for a quick hug. Merry laughed and embraced her baby sister back.

  “Maybe. Where is this script I'm supposed to be reading?” Not that she was going to do it. The last thing she wanted was a huge commitment like this when the library's holiday senior citizens programs were ramping up.

  And she hadn’t written anything in ages. But they didn’t need to know that.

  Lydia tossed her cinnamon-colored mane and shrugged in answer. Effortless. It seemed Lydia had gotten the grace Merry should have with it being her middle name. Still, the girl didn’t know how beautiful she was.

  “Mum has it somewhere. Oh! And we're all going to church tonight to start taking everything out of storage and see what needs to be done. That's why dinner's made now so that we can go early.” At this, Lydia's phone trilled some show tune and she blushed bright before prancing away to her room. A boy, no doubt.

  Merry slumped against the doorway and folded her arms tight across her chest. So much for a nice family dinner—tonight’s would be rushed and harried and she’d have little room to talk her mother out of rewriting this play. At least Thursday would be as leisurely as a Grainger holiday could get. No one would have to go anywhere—it would just be a revolving door of extended family and friends. Organized, happy chaos.

  There were a few people missing, though. Merry poked her head around the kitchen doorway. “Mum, are Kara and Jackson coming?” The saucepan lid clattered to the counter while the garage door could be heard opening beneath them before two cats tore around the corner of the dining room. Mum zoomed out of the kitchen bearing a huge platter of meat and potatoes, sending Merry pressing up against the doorframe lest she got trampled.

  “Grab the gravy boat, please. And no, they’re not.” Dinner unceremoniously plunked on the table, Mum rummaged in her tote bag hanging in the hall and brandished a crinkled, yellowed packet of papers barely paper clipped together in one piece.

  Oh great. That’s old. Merry’s stomach groaned as she took the outstretched script from her mother who proceeded to shout that dinner was ready. Merry strolled over to stand over her Dad so that she had his full attention, much like she did for her elderly and practically deaf patrons at the library. “It’s time to eat, Dad.” The man may not be that old, but years of working around machinery had taken their toll. Being more a Penguins hockey fan than Steelers meant Dad only lightly grumbled about shutting off the game before coming to the table. A sacred, longstanding tradition. No TV on, no hats at the table—and prayer first.

  They dived into the meal with typical gusto and Merry glanced around. A chair was empty. “Where's Ricky?”

  Huge feet marched up the basement steps and a tawny head emerged. “Right here! Hi, sis.” And so, with the exception Kara who was establishing her own growing family's traditions a suburb away—their family was complete.

  Lydia’s brown eyes danced behind her black-rimmed hipster glasses as she bit into a roll slathered in butter. “So, Merry, there’s this guy…”

  The gravy boat almost slipped from her fingers, but Merry tightened her grip on the heirloom and set it safely back on the table. Nope, nope, no and heck no. Now she’d have to talk her sister and mother off the ceiling about this white knight who apparently had, “Such a servant’s heart,” per Mum as she passed the corn, and, “Oh he’s so great with kids,” from Lydia who was on her third roll.

  At this stage in the game, Merry tuned out the accolades because the guy would be just like every other unsuspecting bachelor
from church—he would scarcely make polite conversation once shoved together with her, and weeks or months later she would hear about his engagement or wedding from her family. This latest one sounded just like all the other “great guys” her family had attempted to set her up with since she was out of college.

  “He went on the last mission’s trip and was on the building team with Kara’s Jackson. Gram, you remember meeting him. Wouldn’t he be perfect for Merry?”

  Merry threw a pleading glance Gram’s way, but she didn’t catch on. Her blue eyes danced and she all but beamed. “Ohh, he would, at that! Such a nice young man.”

  Ricky decided to speak up oh-so-helpfully. "He'll be at church tonight. Didn't you make him head of the stage design, Ma?"

  The creamy gravy turned sour on her taste buds and Merry worked to swallow it. Oh. Great. No wonder Mum had asked her to rewrite and help out with this Christmas play. Despite the fact it brought back the most awkward of childhood memories tinged with velvet, pin curls, and stage fright.

  If ya'll don't mind, though I appreciate the thought, I just need to focus on work. Not a guy. Considerate, simple, kind—those were the words Merry chewed on over dinner where this Sam guy kept coming up. Apparently he was at Dad's table in the men's ministry—but when Ricky chimed in with yet another accolade for this stranger, all Merry could burst out with was, “Actually, if you must know, I just met someone.”

  Having got her family’s attention, she spun all the scant good points from the last three guys she met online into a tall, funny, and kind guy resembling the stranger who rescued her from the side of the road earlier. The incident she spun into a “meet-cute” that occurred earlier than an hour ago.

  “His family’s out of town, so last he messaged he would figure out a date in a few weeks. We’re just getting to know each other, still.”