A Heartwarming Christmas: A Boxed Set of Twelve Sweet Holiday Romances

by Melinda Curtis

  “He’d tell you to protect family and sell to Ted.” There was a hard note in Noelle’s voice that wasn’t normally there. “He’d remind you of your responsibility to your sisters.”

  Marnie took a book from the shelves, a biography on Warren Buffet, and shook it like a preacher mid-sermon. “He’d tell you that running a business is hard. You have to stick with it. Every day.” Marnie should know. She’d been running the family chapel with Dad for years. “You have to be in it for the long haul and the ups and downs. For the family that depends on your success. For the employees who rely on your paycheck.”

  Oh, those knots in her gut. They fused into a sickening lump. “I don’t need to hear you both say I’m a failure when I’ve already admitted it.”

  “We’re not saying that,” Noelle said in her soft-as-angels voice.

  “But you were thinking it.” Chloe stood, snatching the book from Marnie’s hands. “I’m not an everyday business person. I’m a visionary. I buy, I fix, and I sell.”

  “You’re not a visionary. You’re a gambler.” Marnie turned to go, and then spun back around, sending her dark hair swirling. “What if you were married? What if you had kids? You couldn’t afford to risk the roof over their heads or food on the table. You’d have to settle for the grass on this side of the fence, no matter what color it was on the other side.” She made a noise of frustration and marched down the hall.

  “She’s right,” Noelle said. “At some point, you have to put down roots and stick it out.”

  Chloe thought of Ted. He would‘ve sold the mill at the first offer. He would’ve run the car wash with a tight hand. He would’ve considered it too risky to buy in the first place. Because he had a family to provide for, a legacy to carry on.

  Chloe had no legacy, past or future. She had the mill. But the mill was just a mill. When she looked at it she could find nothing to fix, no plans to make for its future. It might just as well have been a tear-down. There was nothing there for her.

  Her gaze fell upon the spot of color on her desk.

  But there was something for Teddy.

  Magic apples.

  ~*~

  Ted walked into the living room of the family farmhouse at eleven o’clock at night. It was full. “People. I know it’s Saturday night, but it’s late. Someone besides Lizzie should be asleep.”

  Dad was hanging upside-down from his inversion table. Mom was embroidering something. Uncle Ben was watching a show about hunting turkeys. And Abigail was juggling.

  “Look at me.” Abigail stood on the worn carpet over the creaky spot in the hardwood floor. “I’m juggling magic apples.”

  “The girl’s gotten good.” Ben sat in a stained and outdated tan recliner. “Only smashed about a dozen.”

  Ted took in the rundown state of the room with fresh eyes – the faded furnishings, the peeling wallpaper, the noisy floors – and realized why Frank considered them beneath him.

  And then Ted's gaze fell on the bucket filled with battered and bruised apples. They looked Grade A to him, worth twice what some of the other apples would sell for. Didn’t anyone think about managing inventory? “Couldn’t you have practiced with tennis balls or grapefruit or something?”

  “No. Chloe says there’s a different feel to things you juggle. I need to practice with magic apples.”

  “And then make a wish before you eat one,” Mom said cheerfully. She peered at her embroidery stitches beneath the rim of her glasses. She needed bifocals, and had been putting it off until money wasn’t so tight. “That’s the most important part, making a wish.”

  “Agreed. None of this wishing upon a star,” Ben said, firing his imaginary gun along with the turkey hunters. “Blam-blam! Magic apples are where it’s at. Magic apples are going to make us a fortune.”

  “What is wrong with you people?” Ted demanded. “There is no such thing as magic apples.”

  One of Abigail’s apples fell to the floor with a splat. Ben muted the television. Mom lowered her embroidery to her lap. She was embellishing a tea towel with a cluster of stitched apples. There was a packet of new towels next to her on the floor, just waiting to be embroidered and sold. Too little. Too late for this holiday season.

  Ted’s back hurt. His family was in la-la land. They looked at him as if he was an alien on display at the museum.

  “Son.” His father’s voice. A command. “Help me up.”

  Dad’s body was a shell of what it had been a year ago. His chronic pain kept him mostly bedridden and had robbed him of muscle tone.

  When the older man was upright, Ted helped him out of his inversion boots and over to his anti-gravity chair.

  “What’s this all about?” Dad demanded, his voice as gravelly as an old farm dog’s. “You’ve been walking around here for weeks with worry the size of an elephant on your back.”

  “There are no magic apples.” If there were, Ted would be the first one to make wishes – for the mill to be his, for the price of apples to go up, for a second chance with Chloe. She’d hugged him tonight and he hadn’t been able to concentrate since. He’d missed the turn to the farmhouse and had to suffer Abigail’s teasing. He’d mis-sorted the apples for the booth tomorrow, filling one barrel with a lower grade of apples before he realized his mistake. “There’s only work and hard work and more hard work.”

  “It’s about money,” Mom surmised. “Ted never smiles anymore, and money always steals away smiles." She nodded to Abigail. "Remember that, Abigail. Money isn't the most important thing in life.”

  His sister, the traitor, nodded.

  “Do you see what’s going on here?” Dad adjusted his chair with a groan. “You’ve upset your mother over magic apples and bills.”

  Ted refused to back down. “The bills are bad.”

  “The bills are always bad, until they aren’t.” Dad’s logic was circular and confounding, most likely due to the heavy amount of pain meds he was on.

  “You can’t ignore them this time.” Ted came to stand next to his sister. “Abigail will go away to college next year and – ”

  “I can’t go to college.” Abigail tossed her apples on the couch. “What would I do with Lizzie?”

  “I don’t know. Have her stay here? We’ll figure something out.” Ted should be happy Abigail didn’t say Frank was going to marry her and support her through her higher education. “You’re going to college.”

  “You didn’t go,” Abigail grumbled.

  “I always wanted to run the farm and then I got married.” Ted’s situation had been different than Abigail’s. “You’ve wanted to be an archeologist since you were seven. You’re going to college.”

  Abigail frowned. “But – ”

  “I’m still in charge,” Dad said in a voice that was loud enough to wake Lizzie upstairs. “Of this family and this farm.”

  Uncle Ben sat up in his recliner. “Hey, I’m not chopped liver, little brother. Equal partners, remember?”

  “I can’t leave Lizzie,” Abigail said with her naïve determination. “Not for four years.”

  Ted reached into his pocket for an antacid.

  “The fact is our apples are magic,” Dad said, completely straight-faced.

  He must have taken the wrong meds with dinner. “Dad – ”

  “We’re farmers,” Dad said firmly, his eyes clear and bright. “We don’t farm to get rich. Some years we have bumper crops. Others are lean. Some years we get top dollar. Others we’re lucky to break even.” He pointed his finger at Ted. “You have to trust in the apples, son. You have to trust in your family.”

  “I would, if we weren’t one oil change away from bankruptcy.”

  Chapter 8

  “Dad, now’s your chance to talk to me,” Chloe murmured. It was nearly midnight. Unable to sleep, Chloe had come downstairs to continue sifting through her father’s office.

  She sat in his worn leather chair and swiveled forward, bumping her knee on a file drawer that was slightly ajar. She tugged it all the way out. Her
fingers skipped over the file tabs: warranties, operating instructions, owner’s manuals, deeds, important documents…

  Chloe pulled the important documents folder out and opened it on the desk. Her parents’ marriage license, the family's birth certificates, passports, the girls’ adoption papers, and a letter postmarked from Boston twenty years ago. Chloe opened it.

  The words were written in tight loops and gentle flourishes, the “i”s dotted with hearts. Was this a letter written by Marnie or Noelle when they were kids? Chloe had never dotted anything with hearts.

  Dear Mr. Wright,

  Thank you so much for your letter. It broke my heart to give Chloe up, but I couldn’t raise my daughter on the streets. And that’s where we would’ve been if I hadn’t done what Mama wanted.

  Chloe looks adorable in her school picture – all those missing teeth!

  When she’s old enough, please tell her we loved her. We’ll always love her. It’s like you said in your last letter. Sometimes it hurts to do the right thing for those you love.

  XOXOXO, Clarissa

  Dad had told Chloe her biological parents loved her, but she’d never truly believed it. If they'd loved her, why had they given her up? The annual Christmas cards were only signed “Clarissa.” There was never any sentiment, any updates on her life. Never once, “We miss you. We regret having to give you up.” She’d had no idea her biological parents had suffered or sacrificed to keep her safe.

  Chloe read the letter again.

  Sometimes it hurts to do the right thing for those you love.

  Clarissa had been willing to give up her baby with the hope that she’d have a better life. She’d protected Chloe in her own way, although Chloe hadn’t been able to understand it at the time.

  Sometimes it hurts to do the right thing for those you love.

  Guilt made the air in Chloe’s lungs feel thick and heavy. She needed to sell the mill to protect her sisters. She knew that. Was it wrong to choose who she sold it to? Was it wrong to want something left over when it was gone?

  She wouldn’t let herself answer either question.

  She set aside the folder and leaned over the drawer to see what else was inside. Credit card information, insurance, practice…

  The practice folder was thick and in the back, as if it had seldom been used. Dad had once coached the girls’ softball team. It would be like him to keep practice plans. It almost seemed a waste of time to look inside. But if it was schedules for warm ups and softball drills, it’d be one less file she’d have to shred.

  Chloe opened it on the desk and frowned at the title of the page on top. “Let’s Talk Turkey Sandwich Shop.” She’d never heard of it. A sheaf of papers were clipped together – licenses to operate a sandwich shop on Jack Frost Avenue, a yellowed and stained menu, receipts for advertising and signage. And then a note written on the last page by Dad: Failed due to improper marketing.

  Improper marketing? Dad had been a whiz at marketing. Before Mom died, Bells Are Ringing had been the busiest chapel in three counties.

  Chloe picked up the next set of papers. “Good King Wenceslas Smoke Shop.” Dad had saved the licenses to open a retail store on Mistletoe Trail, receipts for advertising and signage, and a long list of inventory, including cigars imported from all over the world. His handwritten note on the last page: Failed due to lack of demand in town.

  The last set of papers was the thinnest and the oldest. “Two Elves Window Cleaning.” Oh, man. That sounded bad. He’d saved a business license, receipts for business cards and a magnetic sign for his car, along with a short list of supplies. His note: Town with eight months of winter doesn’t need window washing.

  Chloe chuckled. And then she stopped laughing. Because Dad had failed. Repeatedly.

  Why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t he commiserated when her businesses had gone under?

  But he had. In all those platitudes, particularly: Failure is just practice for success.

  She’d never asked if he’d failed and he’d never told her. Now she knew where she’d acquired her stubborn pride, the aspect of her personality that wouldn’t let her forgive Teddy choosing Gwen.

  Because Dad had learned from his mistakes. And then he’d opened the wedding chapel.

  ~*~

  Teddy wasn’t supposed to be at the mill.

  Chloe had taken two steps out of the woods when she saw him. He sat on a fallen log staring at the mill one hour before his booth was scheduled to open at the mercantile. His short dark hair ruffled in the breeze, as if inviting her to run her hands through it.

  She wasn’t ready to see him yet. What would she say to him? They’d hugged and her heart had gotten carried away. And then there was the letter Clarissa had written to Dad. It cried out for forgiveness. But if she forgave her parents for giving her up, she’d have to forgive Teddy for choosing Gwen.

  Chloe might have skulked back into the woods if he hadn’t turned and seen her. She supposed her red hair didn’t blend well with a snowy wood.

  “This is becoming a thing,” Chloe said, taking the bull by the horns and slogging through the snow using the path she made every morning. “You trespassing. Me finding you.” Him staring at the building where they’d done the deed a decade ago. Her staring at him and trying not to think about any of it.

  His gaze shifted back to the mill. “I see potential here.”

  She, on the other hand, saw a young couple running hand-in-hand to the one place in town where they’d be guaranteed privacy. “My dad had plans for the mill. He bought it twenty years ago because he’d heard there was going to be a new exit off the interstate near here. He hoped to be a one-stop bridal destination. Buy your wedding dress, flowers, and tux at the mill and drive down the street to get married at the chapel.”

  “There’s no freeway off-ramp nearby.”

  “And the building is falling into disrepair.” Chloe came to a stop a few feet away from him. “I don’t know what my dad was thinking, leaving it to me.”

  “He was thinking you’d be the one daughter with vision to make applesauce out of apples.” He smiled. “Apple farmer humor. You’re supposed to laugh.”

  “I would if my dad hadn’t been so wrong. I look at this place and I just see…the past. Our past.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own, clogged as it was with unwanted emotion – bittersweet longing and pride. “I can’t see what he wanted me to. It’s why my last venture was a bust. I couldn’t see what the car wash could be.”

  “So you made a mistake.” Teddy’s voice was forgiving, so like Dad’s.

  Perhaps that was why she admitted, “Some mistakes are more expensive than others. I’m in debt.”

  “Mistakes happen before you strike gold.” His gaze dropped to her lips, making her heart thud in her chest. “Let me help you out and buy the mill. Ninety-five thousand.”

  And here she’d been warming up to him. She let his offer drift off on the wind through the pines. “I’m not ready to sell to you at a price that doesn’t get me out of debt.” She hadn’t realized until just then that she could sell to him, that she could forgive him.

  Chloe stared at Teddy as if seeing him for the first time since she'd come back to town. He wasn’t the boy she’d had a crush on or the young man she’d worshipped through high school from afar. He was a grown man – honest, hardworking, honorable.

  His eyebrows shot up at her offer and his voice grew excited. “Name your breakeven price.”

  She did, with more than a twinge of shame.

  “I…wow…One hundred? I’ll have to call in some favors, but…I’ll do it if you agree to sell me the mill, Chloe.” He stood and cradled her chin in one hand. “It’d save you from having to juggle apples for a living. You could move on with whatever you want to do with your life.”

  And wasn’t that the trouble? She’d move on from... “I like juggling magic apples.”

  “But the truth is…” He put his hands in his pockets. “There’s nothing magic about those apples. All t
he magic is inside you.”

  ~*~

  Sunday the mercantile wasn’t as busy at it had been on Black Friday, but Chloe and Abigail were still able to draw a crowd and the apple supply was on pace to sell out.

  “Santa’s Orchard. Brought to you by Lincoln Farms.” Abigail smiled at the sign Chloe had made. She had on lighter make-up today and a long sleeved red shirt that said: Ho-Ho-Ho. She looked more like a happy eighteen year-old than a desperate, scorned baby mama. “I like it. Did you draw Santa?”

  “Yep. It’s a nice touch, don’t you think?” She’d made the sign last night after discovering Dad was a failure, too. She’d felt better focusing on marketing instead of profit and loss statements. She was starting to believe that failing wasn’t always the end of the world.

  “The kids love it.” Abigail picked up three apples and began a slow juggle. She added a few kick-ball changes, which sounded impressive considering she wore tap shoes. The girl had brought her A-game today.

  “You’ve been practicing.”

  “Last night. After Lizzie went to bed.” She tap danced forward and then back. “Which is also when Ted had a meltdown. He doesn’t believe in magic apples.” She caught the apples like a pro.

  “How Scrooge-like.” Considering magic apples were earning him a pretty profit and he’d told Chloe more than once that she was magic.

  He thinks I'm magic, her heart whispered.

  Friends can point out attributes they admire in friends, her head countered.

  “Talking about my finer points, I see.” Teddy wheeled in a barrel of apples on a dolly. “I put a cooler under the counter with water and sandwiches, courtesy of Mom.” He put the barrel against the wall, looking strong and handsome in jeans and a red checked flannel shirt. “If you guys are good here, I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  Abigail sauntered up to him with a toe-heel, toe-heel, click-clack of her tap shoes. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”