Grace A. Johnson's Blog: Of Blades & Thorns, page 48

Short Story Saturday: The Gift of Her Heart

I am so excited about sharing the first scene from The Gift of Her Heart today! I know it's not technically a short story, but it will (hopefully) get y'all wanting to read my latest release. Just a few days ago, the giveaway for The Gift of Her Heart ended, so if you're still sore than you haven't won, then look no further! You get a sneak peek right here!

Chapter 1

Port Royal, Jamaica

Christmas Eve, 1683

This was not going entirely as planned.

An audible gulp hitched Chloe Wellington’s throat as she hesitantly moved her gaze from the similar bob of Kit—ahem, Lord Marshing’s Adam’s apple to his narrowed sea-green eyes, above which were a pair of furrowed brows. The sardonic twist of his mouth, slightly amused and mostly annoyed, spoke volumes more than his calm, well-polished tone when he said, rather flatly, “I don’t consume alcohol, your ladyship.”

Did she detect a hint of mockery, the selfsame kind he had employed countless times before in hopes of irking her—when in reality it only served to remind her of his lowborn status? Which, come to think of it, in fact did itself irk her to no end, so perhaps his goal had been achieved.

Stifling an unladylike sigh, Chloe shoved her beautifully wrapped and tantalizingly sweet fruitcake toward the heartless brute of a peasant who dared to call himself a…

“For thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head, and the Lord shall reward thee.”

The verse from last week’s sermon arose suddenly to haunt her and, along with Charles’ desperate plea that she at least try this time, banished her evil thoughts and replaced them with the image of Lord Marshing’s unruly head of auburn curls bursting into smoldering flames as each strand of hair turned to ash and tumbled down his shoulders.

“’Tis Cook’s special nonalcoholic concoction,” she began on a soft puff of breath as a substitute for the huff she so wanted to emit. “She hates to see drink about the house for fear Charles will take to the bottle.” Somehow, she managed to infuse her words with something other than outright exasperation—she couldn’t dare claim anything remotely similar to kindness or patience, now could she?—as she once again attempted to deposit the cake into Lord Marshing’s clasped hands.

Surely the confounded man realized that if he would simply take the cake and wish her a merry Christ-mas that she would leave him be. If the smirk tugging at his lips were of any indication, he most certainly did.

Folding a pair of thick arms over his waistcoat, his lordship took a smooth step back with the wrinkle of his much too straight nose. “I don’t indulge in sweets.”

He was toying with her, blast it. And all because the idiot liked to watch her squirm. Well, she most certainly wouldn’t grant him the pleasure of experiencing such this go-round.

She lifted her chin in a stubborn tilt, determined not to back down, and batted her eyelashes just for good measure. “I believe I saw you quite clearly ‘indulging’ in a plethora of ‘sweets’ at the Duke of Rothford’s ball in August. Am I not correct?” Oh, how her heart soared with suppressed gloating! He would have to relent now, accept her token of goodwill, then bid her goodbye.

Then she could forever forget being near Christopher Bradley Arlington ever again.

So long as Lord Marshing made a point of her worthy efforts to her brother, who could then give her leave to keep her rightful distance from his incorrigible business partner for the remainder of her very long life.

If only, she mused, Charles hadn’t gotten the hare-brained idea into his head to own stock in a sugar cane plantation in the hot, sticky, savage Caribbean three years ago, then she could have stayed in Margate this entire time and would never have crossed paths with His Royal Painfulness in the first place. But, alas, he had, nearly draining what remained of their father’s almost-depleted “wealth” in what had begun as a terrible investment in the ruination of her life.

Not that Port Royal was all too unbearable. For a native country brimming with lawless criminals, ill-reputed scum, and people of all races who spoke languages she could never hope to understand, Jamaica was quite beautiful and a welcome escape from the monotony of her life in England. ‘Twas the lawful, well-reputed, English-speaking lords that destroyed her plans for a pleasant Christmas eve curled up by the fireplace with a book.

Never mind the fireplace. It so happened to be hotter than hellfire in December this year.

And she wasn’t necessarily referring to the weather.

Lord Marshing commenced to getting cozy with the doorjamb, slacking a hip and supporting himself with a muscled arm against the frame, as though he intended to stay there for quite some time. The lively dance of mirthful green and precarious sky blue in his eyes all but taunted her, begging her to snap and let him play with each broken piece as she struggled to pull herself together.

She wouldn’t. Not today. Not on Christmas eve. Not when Charles had promised her a full month of balls and soirées and operas in January if she made amends with this...this...thing. She couldn’t think of a word nasty enough, and rightly so, for if she did, she was liable to spout it at his face and reveal her weakness, ruining—yet again, as always—everything.

“You are indeed correct, princess,” Lord Marshing stated abruptly, nodding his head slowly as though he were unsure whether to let her have the argument or continue to wrestle with her. “You are. But that does not change the fact that I have turned over a new leaf since you last saw me.”

A new leaf? Bah! The man’s coldhearted nature wouldn’t change even if Christ Himself prayed over him.

Not that the prayers of Jesus wouldn’t at least help in his lordship’s case.

“I have decided to distance myself from sugar and coffee and pork and butter and a number of fattening foods. I’m sure you’ve noticed the extra weight I’ve put on over the last several months.” He patted a stomach as thick and tight as a strong board, certainly rippling with muscles beneath his vest and shirt. Not that Chloe was concerned about her nemesis’ physique, of course. She was only pointing out to herself that the point he was trying to point out was not a valid point at all.

“I simply must do something about it, so I simply must refuse.” A full grin tip his mouth into a broad, crooked curve, barely revealing the teeth she knew to be just slightly crooked themselves.

“Should you be distancing yourself from your plantation and trading then?” she questioned, toying with his words as that boyish smile toyed with her heart and the stormy waves of nausea—or was that pleasure?—in her own stomach.

Finally she caught him!

A lone eyebrow raised, disappearing beneath a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead, as that curve evened out into a straight line. “I, uh, I don’t believe I understand, my lady. Care to explain?”

“Well—” she balanced her cake in the crook of her arm, preparing to stay as long as it took—and it appeared it would take quite some time—whilst she eased her weight onto her other foot “—if you plan to, as you say, distance yourself from these products, then you must stay a safe distance from the plantation and from even all those heavy crates you’re so often lifting onto Lord Turenly’s ships. You know, being that they are full of sugar, coffee, alcohol, and such substances.”

A deafening chorus of applause sounded in her mind as Chloe tempered a smirk. The sight of Lord Marshing’s flaring nostrils and twitching lips told her everything she needed to know—her comment had hit its mark. His lordship didn’t work in the fields like a slave. The future Viscount Turenly didn’t load the merchants with goods like a common sailor. He balanced numbers and assigned tasks and managed the managers of the slaves and common sailors.

She had made him mad, banishing the teasing smile, the pompous arrogance, and the twinkling eyes with her own jab and tone of condescension. Now he would—if her calculations were correct, and they usually were in the subject matter of Christopher Arlington—wrench the fruitcake out of her hands, slam the door before her, and storm away.

Took you long enough, you roguish imp—uh, sweet, darling person.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, a low breath slowly easing out from between clenched teeth to ruffle his open collar. Then he slipped back a step, holding the door open a small crack more. “Fine idea, your ladyship. I would do good take your advice. Now, get out of the cold and come inside, and I’ll share your, em, gift of goodwill with my family.”

Chloe stared at him blankly. For one, it was hotter in December here in Jamaica than it ever had been in Margate during the summer. And for two, it was obvious that he knew her gift was not one of goodwill. It was, plainly put, a selfish peace offering that would secure her a lifetime of freedom and, well, peace and a month of Charles catering to her, during both of which she would never see Christopher Arlington again.

(Aside from, of course, all the many times they would possibly cross paths once he inherited the viscount-cy and returned to Margate himself. In which case, she would do good to move her permanent residence to Jamaica.)

For three, why was he not relenting? She had obviously hit the sore spot that had always caused him to retreat before—like several months ago when she’d commented that she would like to see his ill-begotten, beggarly behind thrown into the sea and marooned on a deserted island. Later that evening, she had regretted her rash—and harsh—remark, as the image of the pain etched into his features still had not left her mind to this day. And because he was not actually illegitimate or impoverished, but the rumors that had surrounded him since he had entered the viscount’s family as stepson still brewed and would likely haunt him for the remainder of his life.

Now, she realized that saying such a heartless thing—for she most assuredly wouldn’t want it said of her—was the most stupid mistake of all her life. Mostly for the fact that it left her standing on his doorstep peddling cake, partly because it meant he despised her even more, and slightly because it pained her as well.

Which had to be the result of the first two reasons, rather than a reason all its own with a separate origin.

She hoped.

Well, all that nonsense aside, she simply had to find a way out of the perilous position he had put her in. The last thing she needed on Christmas eve—when she had a book waiting for her—was to surround herself with Kit—eh, Lord Marshing’s boisterous family of besotted parents; flirtatious brother; outspoken sister; as-sarcastic-as-her-half-brother sister; nosy adopted sister; and moody brother, demure sister-in-law, and squalling infant nephew.

(Yes, in comparison to Chloe’s one older brother and long-deceased parents, the Arlingtons were the largest family that had ever lived. Right next to Jacob and his twelve sons, that was.)

Placing one foot behind her and imperceptibly lowering herself to the third doorstep, she once again held out the fruitcake. “I am truly sorry, your lordship—” for this and much else “—but I’m afraid I must decline. You see, Charles has a large supper planned for this evening, and I should need ample time to prepare,” she lied, and quite expertly, with the tip of her nose in the air. “But, please, share the cake and wish your family a merry Christmas for me.”

With a scoff nearly as perfect as one of her own, Lord Marshing all but threw the door open and began to advance toward her, purely evil intent emblazoned upon his face. One hand closed around the fruitcake, a welcome vise for sure, but then his other came to clamp upon her forearm, each thick finger a brand on not only her skin but also her soul, gripping, tightening—did she dare think it?—beckoning.

Her knees grew weak, buckled, her physical strength melting along with her resolve. She had been standing out here for thirty minutes, sweating half to death in her usual winter attire, with only one thing keeping her from turning around and walking away—hope.

Hope that she could spend her Christmas in a pleasant, serene mood. Hope that Charles would finally let her have her way for once.

Hope that Kit would quit hating her.

If she let him drag her into the lion’s den, might his loathing cease? Might his taunting tongue still and leave her be? Might she be able to sleep at night without dreams of his smoldering eyes and heartless laugh and too-perfect face?

He inclined his head, bending down as he drew her up the remaining two steps until her body was flush with his—the hem of her dress brushing against the toe of his boots, the heat of his stuttering exhale blanketing her, his well-muscled frame boxing her in until there was absolutely no escape whatsoever.

They were so close. They had never been this close—where she could see each individual eyelash making up the dense bronze red forest ‘round his eyes, could memorize every curve of his strong mouth, could taste the coffee on his breath. He was so beautiful, and…

Good heavens! Was she going insane?

She had to escape. She had to.

Or else his half-lidded, sleepy-eyed gaze might just swallow her whole and then she wouldn’t want to escape.

“K-Kit—” no, Chloe, wrong name “—Christopher.” Wrong again. Spit it out, imbecile!

“I love it when you say my name,” he crooned, the hand around her arm loosening as his fingers splayed out against her side, there beneath the heavy thud of her heart, surely feeling each echoing beat, his touch melting into her body even though layers of fabric separated them.

More than fabric needed to separate them.

She had to pull away. Or at least get him to, since it appeared her feet were bolted to the doorstep.

“Christopher, you...I...”

His tongue darted out, within only a quarter of a second, to lick his lips, drawing her attention from his shuttered eyes to his mouth. What was it she was supposed to say? “Please don’t kiss me,” perhaps?

Oh, but what would it be like to taste him? to feel the warm pressure of his mouth on hers? to have his love, his desire, rather than his blatant abhorrence?

She would never find out. She couldn’t. Not when she had spent three careful years abhorring him in return.

“Chloe...” It came out on a sigh that flitted over her, the besotted groan that followed a sure sign that he was going to kiss her. Were they ready for that? Were three years of an opposing relationship enough to give them leave? Was a distance of thirteen years far too great of a divide? Did she even want this?

What? No! Of course not! She hated Christopher Arlington and Christopher Arlington hated her. Upon their very first meeting, he had called her—an innocent fifteen year old girl at the time—a selfish, spoiled brat. The next time she had seen him, she’d been ready, and had retaliated with the vicious statement that he, in return, was a heartless fool who never thought beyond his own little world and his own little preferences and his own little happy family.

How true the both of their remarks had been—were still, in fact.

He could not possibly be attracted to her—although that was not to say she was unattractive, of course—and she could not be attracted to him. Although he was not entirely unattractive himself, what with the mane of auburn waves he never hid from sight, his straight Greek nose and prominent features, his gorgeous eyes and muscular physique.

But love was blind and so was hatred. His pretty face, and likely hers as well, was only marred by their own disdain for each other.

Resolved, she jerked back, spoiling the strange moment that had passed between them, causing the cake to tumble from their entwined arms and his body to sway forward then back with shock.

She ducked her head to catch the cake before it hit the ground and to avoid his wide-eyed glare, then, depositing her gift into his listless hands as she had set out to do in the first place, swept past him and in through the open doorway.

It wasn’t until she was halfway through the foyer that she heard the patter of the footman’s footsteps—where had he been all this time?—and the unsteady clomp of Chris—Lord Marshing’s behind her.

She was going to end this, once and for all, even if ‘twas the very last thing she did.

Copyright © 2020 Grace Ann Johnson

It's Time to Announce the Winners!

It is my honor and my duty to announce the winners of my The Gift of Her Heart giveaway! But before I do so, I want to thank all of you who entered, shared on social media, and helped get the news out there!!! Even if you didn't win, I hope you'll join me on Saturday for a glimpse into The Gift of Her Heart on my blog!

Now, without further ado, the winners!

Libby

Lisa

Sophia

Jan

Linda

If that's your name, check your inbox, because your prize should be there!! I'll be following up in a couple days to make sure you've received your free copy!

I had a ton of fun running this giveaway and I hope you'll all stay tuned for when I give away a few copies of Bound and Determined! (Note: It'll be a while.)

In the meantime, don't forget to check out this month's Short Story Saturday and come back for Theories of Man! Just a heads-up, my post may be a little late...but it'll be here before next year!

Y'all have a fabulous Christmas Eve!

Ask Ann-Marguerite™: How Do I Know Which Genre to Write?

The café was quiet all month long. Once snow begins to fall and rain to pour, it usually is. It may seem strange to some, what with all the tourists around Noël, but business has always slowed down for Rousseau’s. Part of the reason is because it is a tiny little café sequestered away on the second floor of a vieux apartment building. I live in the room above, across from Madame Abreo and her family and Monsieur Rousseau, whose daughter moved in with him after his wife’s death last month.

The inhabitants of the building, which are little more than the ones mentioned, are nearly the only customers Rousseau’s has. We are enough to keep him afloat, oui, but I suspect that most of his stock went out of date in 1990. He putters around his petit checkered kitchen because it is what fuels him, his raison d’etre. We all are glad to give him purpose.

But once winter comes around, most of us do not have time to sip on coffee and gossip over beignets. Mme Abreo is usually taking her daughter Chloë to her weekly ballet rehearsals leading up to Casse-Noisette performance her studio puts on every year. The young couple on the first floor fly to America in novembre and do not return until janvier. M. Watteau rarely leaves his apartment during the winter months, when his arthritis is at its worst. The neighbors across the street, who stop in from time to time, will be too busy Christmas shopping uptown.

I am the only one left. The atmosphere in Rousseau’s is much more peaceful than my room on the top floor, where the rattling of the heating unit and the rumble of my dishwasher affords me no quiet moments. Not to mention Rousseau’s out-of-date coffee is far better than mine.

Now that Noël is a few days away, not a soul enters the café. Only the muffled noise of M. Rousseau in the back with his grandson and the steady click-clack-ding of my typewriter permeates the heavy silence.

I lean back on two legs in my chair, surveying the stack of papers that amounts to the first draft of my first manuscript. Eleven years of blood, sweat, tears, rejection, neglect, and procrastination has finally brought me to the long-awaited point of completion. I have discarded a myriad of stories, ideas, and half-finished manuscripts, learning something new every time. I have had short stories lose contests and get picked apart by critics. I have had novellas rejected from small, unknown presses. Through all of this, I have felt my way to the one story I hope and pray will be good enough for publication.

Of course, I have many drafts to go yet, but I am one step closer to my goal.

I made good progress, I think. I am quite pleased with myself, pour être honnête.

It seems a long time passes as I take in this accomplishment. All I have left to do this day is gather my papers and haul my typewriter upstairs—there are no unanswered letters for the column, no chores, no meals to plan for Noël, as there is no family to come. I will spend the holiday with Monsieur Watteau, who is as much an unmarried, childless orphan as I am.

He is also very quiet, oui. I enjoy his companionship, and so he does mine. We are a bonne pair.

My cup of café has run dry as well, and my plate of éclairs is now crumbs and a few smudges of icing. I could ask for more, but I would do my best to save my appetite for the holiday meal I will prepare in a few days. I usually gain fifteen pounds during Noël, and if I get started on them now, I will not be able to fit into my pants.

So I sit. And breathe. The heated air within the café is tainted with the frost from outside, and suddenly it seems a gush of this chill engulfs me.

I look up to see the door swinging open, a man bustling quickly inside with a rough shudder against the low temperatures. He looks about the café as though he has yet to realize where he stumbled into. Longingly he gazes at the kitchen, only turning away once M. Rousseau begins to clatter again.

His eyes lock with mine, startling in their intensity as he starts toward me, tugging a pair of leather gloves from his hands. “You...” He squints at me, rubbing his clean-shaven jaw with a finger. “You are Ann-Marguerite, oui?”

I smile gently. I did not realize I am a celebrity. M. Calvin must have overlooked that fact. I motion to the empty chair before me, moving my papers closer to my typewriter and adjusting my cup and saucer. “Bonjour, monsieur. S’il voux plait, sit down.”

He rounds a table to pull out the chair and plops down, still with his stare focused on my face. “Merci. J’ai raison, non?”

“Oui, you are right. Is there something I can help you with?”

“As a matter of fact, I sent in a letter to you this morning. Since I have stumbled upon you here, I may as well ask my question. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

He tosses his gloves down on the table, shrugging out of his coat. “Well, I enjoy writing, as you can imagine, but I have yet to find a genre that fits. Pour être honnête, I would like to write them all, but all writers have their...niche, tu sais? I simply cannot find mine.”

I mull over this question, lifting my coffee cup to my lips only to remember—ah! It is empty! I set it down carefully, my gaze flickering to my manuscript. It was a simple task to find my preferred genre—not a task at all, vraiment. It called to me at a very young age, through the books I would gravitate to, the settings I so adored, the stories my imagination conjured up.

Some are more broad than I, of course, and therefore they have a choice to make. Should they write historical fiction, contemporary, fantasy, or science fiction? Should their stories be adventurous, mysterious, or romantic? Should they follow the rules and stick to convention, modeling their writing after those in their genre before them?

The answer to the latter is by far the simplest.

Non.

And therein lies the answers to the former questions.

One must not feel pressured to choose one genre and one genre only. Now, I understand this man’s dilemma; he wants a niche, a hollow dug out solely for him, his realm of comfort, and most of the time that niche is small, contained, reserved for only one or two certain genres. A great deal of people will write fantasy and science fiction or historical and contemporary, keeping their worlds and stories separate but retaining their individual style, their voice, no matter which of the two genres they are writing.

This is nothing to them, selecting which genres to write within. They have long explored them—be it through classical writers like C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, Shakespeare, Dante Alighieri, Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo, Agatha Christie, Jane Austen, and more; or through their contemporaries, such as J. K. Rowling, George R. R. Martin, James Patterson, Nora Roberts, Nicolas Sparks, Édouard Louis, Katherine Pancol, and Marc Levy. These authors and many besides have already swayed them to their niches, already dug their hollows for them.

But for an aspiring writer who has not confined himself to a few authors or genres, who has read the great poets like Bryon and Baudelaire, the novelists like Hugo and Tolstoy, the fantasy and science fiction authors like Jules Verne and Pierre Benoit, the mystery writers like Gaston Leroux and Émile Gaboriau, the romantics like the Brontë sisters and Anne and Serge Golon, and the up-and-coming like Rainbow Rowell and Guillaume Musso, picking just one is too difficult.

Especially when one begins the novel.

Short stories and novellas are already ambiguous enough. If one does not assign to it a specific genre but leaves it open to interpretation, it is easier all around. But a novel cannot be such a mystery. It must have a focus and a clear, concise thesis, much like an essay. Is it persuasive or retrospective? informative or fantastical? innovative or classical? romantic or comedic? tragic or a fairytale? suspenseful or dynamic? adventurous or intellectual?

And yet…

I retrieve the top page of my manuscript, the page upon which is written in bold typeface the title of my novel (which took nearly as long to figure out as it did to write the first draft itself, and I am almost certain I shall end up changing it...again). My book could be defined by all the above adjectives, at least so early on in the writing. It is both hopeful and heartrending, light and dark, amusing and haunting. The possibilities are endless, I suppose, and if I were to confine it to one solid genre and strip it of anything not pertaining to the chosen one, I would be left with a lifeless piece of scrap. Because of my characters and their story, I have a novel so fathomless and broad. It has a niche, oui, but it transcends it as well.

I should hope to write more like it, with the same characteristics and in the same style. It would provide me with a niche all my own if I did so, inventing, perhaps, a genre of its own within a predetermined genre. It would not be the first time something of the sort has happened. Within the fantasy genre alone there are dozens of subgenres. High fantasy, dark fantasy, paranormal, steampunk, gaslight, historical fantasy, urban fantasy, the list goes on. And one must not stop there. Fantasy determines the setting, but not the story. Is it lighthearted and romantic or mysterious and frightening? It could be either of the two and still be fantasy.

One could be left with a romantic fantasy, and then go on to write a fantasy mystery and then an allegorical fantasy and a fantasy epic and a collection of slightly ambiguous (but still fantasy) short stories. After that, they could call themselves a fantasy, romance, mystery, Christian short story novelist poet.

Or a fantasy writer for short.

All of this is determined by one thing. My own story is proof of that.

Characters.

You may have a mermaid for your main character, and it is up to her whether or not she is going to fall in love with the prince or solve the mystery surrounding his birth or become a spy in his courts or do nothing but sing love songs and fantasize about him in the form of a sonnet or lai.

Perhaps the main character is a pirate. Why, he could be on a mission to capture a politician’s daughter and fall in love with her! Or, in a tragic turn of events, he could murder her and be sentenced to hang, finding mercy only as he meets the noose. In another reality, the pirate and his captive are caught up in a satirical game of political intrigue. In yet another, they set off to discover the Fountain of Youth and become eternally young, roving the seas together forevermore.

Do not set yourself on a genre. Set your sights on a character.

Do you want a character who changes the world by designing a super-suit? I suggest science fiction, and I am sure your character will have many challenges along the way, opening up different subplots and subgenres.

Do you want a character who moves to a new town to attend a snooty prep school? YA (a genre, not an age group, mind you) is best for this, and no doubt some romance will come along.

Do you want a character who finds God in the midst of insurmountable odds? Contemporary would present more situations for your character and a greater way for readers to understand and empathize, although historical fiction has its perks. And you never know what else your character will discover on the path to transformation!

I have my answer, and looking up at my inquisitor, I find him watching me intently, eyes darting from my face to my fiddling fingers. “Monsieur, I believe I understand your problem completely. It is not a genre you need; it is a character.”

It's The Most Wonderful Time...

...Of the giving season! Guys, the giveaway ends in mere hours!!!

Due to a discrepancy in time (on my part, of course), The Gift of Her Heart giveaway ends in less than twelve hours! I'll be announcing the winners on my blog on Christmas Eve, but if you win, I'll send you an email on the 23rd containing your prize!!

Now, with such little time left before the window closes, I want to give everyone another chance to enter, enter, ENTER! The rules and widget (aka, place where you enter) can be found here! If you're not interested, please share on social media and with your family and friends! I'm super excited to be giving FIVE winners this awesome Christmas gift, so don't hesitate to enter yourself or share with others!

If you don't win, do not fret! I'll be sharing the first scene from The Gift of Her Heart on my last Short Story Saturday, the 26th of this month--and you can read some Christmas short stories on my blog too!

Don't forget to catch my Theories of Man post on the 27th! I'll be examining predestination and free will--from multiple perspectives!

Coming up in January, I'll be replacing my Name of the Week with a Design of the Week, which you'll be able to purchase on t-shirts, mugs, notebooks, and more at my Redbubble shop!

I'll also be sharing another sneak peek from Bound and Determined! Whoop whoop!

Don't forget to subscribe at the bottom of this page to receive email alerts when I post on my blog AND receive my monthly newsletter!

Y'all have a very merry Christmas!!

Name of the Week: Santa Claus

Y'all know I had to do it.

It's Christmastime, anyway, and you can't go wrong with a little festivity, now can you?

But Santa Claus is more than just a name selection--there's a nice long backstory I can launch into and many different name variations I can share. In this misguided Western World we live in, most everyone has begun to associate the name Santa Claus with the white-bearded fat man, right?

Well, just like said fat man wasn't always the man we envision, the name Santa Claus wasn't always scrawled out on envelopes and tied to the North Pole.

Santa Claus is Dutch in origin, actually, derived from the dialectal Sante Klaas. This form came from the Middle Dutch Sinter Niklaas, which ultimately comes from the English name for the Greek Saint Nicholas.

Saint Nicholas, of course, was a follower of Christ in what is now modern-day Turkey who, because of his good deeds in both rescuing three girls from prostitution and caring for children, became well-known and revered throughout Asia Minor. He soon became the Bishop of Myra at a young age, and later the patron saint of children and sailors and of Russia and Greece. He also was known across the world to preform miracles.

After the Reformation, devotion to Saint Nicholas died out amongst all the Protestants in Europe but for the Dutch colonists, who brought his legend to New Amsterdam (modern-day New York). Their Sinterklaas merged with old Nordic folktales of a magician who (you guessed it) rewarded good children and punished naughty ones. Then--boom! Santa Claus was born among the English-speaking natives of the American colonies, and before long, their figure of both history and myth became legendary across the entire world.

Now, Father Christmas in England is a whole 'nother story. That name is attested from the 1650s, while Santa Claus didn't exist until the 1770s.

As for Kris Kringle... He's not even Saint Nicholas. In fact, the name Kris Kringle comes from the Pennsylvania German dialectal form of Christkindlein, which means... Christ Child. So there you have it, folks! Kris Kringle is Baby Jesus!

I didn't even go to Behind the Name for this Name of the Week. If you're interested in more information on the origins of Santa Claus, click here. For more about Saint Nicholas, click here!

Name of the Week: Santa Claus

Y'all know I had to do it.

It's Christmastime, anyway, and you can't go wrong with a little festivity, now can you?

But Santa Claus is more than just a name selection--there's a nice long backstory I can launch into and many different name variations I can share. In this misguided Western World we live in, most everyone has begun to associate the name Santa Claus with the white-bearded fat man, right?

Well, just like said fat man wasn't always the man we envision, the name Santa Claus wasn't always scrawled out on envelopes and tied to the North Pole.

Santa Claus is Dutch in origin, actually, derived from the dialectal Sante Klaas. This form came from the Middle Dutch Sinter Niklaas, which ultimately comes from the English name for the Greek Saint Nicholas.

Saint Nicholas, of course, was a follower of Christ in modern-day Turkey who, because of his good deeds in both rescuing three girls from prostitution and caring for children, became well-known and revered throughout Asia Minor. He soon became the Bishop of Myra at a young age, and later the patron saint of children and sailors and of Russia and Greece. He also was known across the world to preform miracles.

After the Reformation, devotion to Saint Nicholas died out amongst all the Protestants in Europe but for the Dutch colonists, who brought his legend to New Amsterdam (modern-day New York). Their Sinterklaas merged with old Nordic folktales of a magician who (you guessed it) rewarded good children and punished naughty ones. Then--boom! Santa Claus was born among the English-speaking natives of the American colonies, and before long, their figure of both history and myth became legendary across the entire world.

Now, Father Christmas in England is a whole 'nother story. That name is attested from the 1650s, while Santa Claus didn't exist until the 1770s.

As for Kris Kringle... He's not even Saint Nicholas. In fact, the name Kris Kringle comes from the Pennsylvania German dialectal form of Christkindlein, which means... Christ Child. So there you have it, folks! Kris Kringle is Baby Jesus!

I didn't even go to Behind the Name for this Name of the Week. If you're interested in more information on the origins of Santa Claus, click here. For more about Saint Nicholas, click here!

Short Story Saturday: A Christmas to Remember

This Saturday's short story is one that I wrote for Held Captive, what you could call a "missing" scene that almost made it in to either HC or Prisoner at Heart as an extra--Rina's first Christmas with her new family. It was on Christmas Day that she and her father bonded over their struggles with unforgiveness and that Rina made a move that will go on to impact the outcome of Prisoner at Heart. (Note: If you haven't read Held Captive yet, there will be spoilers!)

So, without further ado, A Christmas to Remember!

The English Channel
December 25th 1683

Rina Blackstone Bennet

Winter was rarely beautiful on the sea. The waters were murkier, the sky much more grey. The chill was endless, despite the fact that snow was a lot less common and the winds were no more harsh than usual. When the bite of winter’s first frost hit the ocean, every sailor’s dream of sunshine and palm trees and perpetual revelry diminished, replaced by the hunger for a blazing fire at the hearth and fruitcake and warm apple cider in hand. The sea lost her allure and it seemed every soul longed instead for the arrival of the holidays, for with it came a moment of peace and respite in the place they called home.

Normally, winter was my least favorite of seasons. My crew grew more restless, grumbling and griping over nothing save their lack of family and home. My ship seemed to groan with the pains of discontent, creaking with the ache for more. The sun abandoned me while storm pursued me, and all I wanted—had wanted for the past decade—was my father and brother.

This year I stood, tricorn in hand, at the fore of my ship, gazing out at the dark blue expanse before me. My Rina did not groan this year; my crew were all subdued with the aforementioned fruitcake and cider; the sun winked at me from behind snowy clouds. I wanted, for I lacked, absolutely nothing.

I had a home—no, make that homes. I had a father—well, three, counting my Uncle Maverick and father-in-law Collin. I had a brother—somewhere. Kit would probably know exactly. I had a family larger than I could have ever imagined, full of brothers and sisters and cousins galore. I had a husband—who would’ve ever guessed!—who loved me and whom I loved in return. I had, if my mother and mother-in-law’s estimations had been correct, a precious child growing in my womb.

What more could I ask for?

Peace.

Not necessarily an external kind, which I definitely had now that my life was in, well, nearly perfect order. But, I supposed, more of an internal kind, the sort that was the calm even in the midst of chaos, the eye of the storm. The kind of peace that came with the signing of a treaty, the ending of a long-waged war. The kind of peace that erased all feelings of pain and hurt and anger and hate and replaced them with kindness and love.

It didn’t bother me—not as much as it had. The sharp pain had ebbed and the hurt lessened. I could ignore it at times, had barely felt it since Christ had found me. But it still remained. And I didn’t like it. My hate was no longer a comfort to me, and for that I was grateful. But the bitter taste of unforgiveness remained. The fact had not changed, not even after nearly three months of living free from everything else I had struggled with. After nearly eleven years that I’d had to deal with my loss and need for revenge.

I hated Timothy Wilde. I wanted him dead. And three months ago, I would have done anything within my power to achieve that.

But my life was no longer—nay, it never had been—mine to dictate, and neither was Wilde’s mine to take.

Which was why the once easing sense of loathing was anything but comfortable and in all ways disorienting.

Why could I not put these feelings aside? I had done so for years with my guilt and regrets—with my conscious and my hunger. This feeling, however, would not be put to rest. It continued to creep back up to me, to rear its ugly head and snap at me. It rose up like a flame in the night when I least excepted it, wound ‘round me like a boa constricting her prey. And I remained helpless against it. I always had been.

Drink I could refuse—when I was at my strongest, of course. Lust I’d never battled—thank God. The violent urge to clobber Elliot when he acted out would eventually die down—before I clobbered him, that was. Lying was a sin I’d only needed to practice when in the abominable presence of the navy. Killing and stealing had been my livelihood, but since my change of heart I was not filled with bloodlust and greed as I once had been. My pulse still thrummed to life at the sight of gold and my heart would skip beats when a ship sailed into view, but I preferred not to dwell on my flesh’s reactions.

What mattered was my heart. My still decidedly wicked heart. Would I ever have the light, the purity, that Xavier had? That his parents and mine possessed? Even after years of struggling with it, Xavier never once had to fight the urge to drink. It never arose. Mother and Father were angels in every sense of the word—well, aside from the wings, of course. Collin and Jess did not long for piracy and immorality as they once had. In fact, I found it hard to believe they were the very same people my uncle had told me stories of.

I, on the other hand, still lived up to my name. I was a Blackstone—hateful, spiteful, and murderous. Those were the three words Wilde had spat at Julius, Uncle, and me on that day. Would I ever forget them? And would I ever be free of the hold they had on me?

“How does a pence for every thought sound?”

I started at the voice, so familiar and yet in a way not. I craned my head to see behind me, where Father came into view, his stride smooth despite the rock of the ship, his smile easy due to the happy day we celebrated. His eyes, greener than a Christmas tree, warmed like butter over a fire as he neared me, heat radiating from his large frame and chasing away my chill. He sidled up to me, leaned a hip against the railing and wrapped an arm around my waist.

“My thoughts are yours without cost, dearest Father.” I bent in to kiss his smooth cheek, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. There was still a twinge of nervousness, a sense of—Je ne savais pas—perhaps unfamiliarity, when I was around Father. With Mother, it was easy to slip into my role as daughter. In fact, it didn’t feel the slightest bit like a role and I loved every minute I was around her. I felt as though I meant the entire world to her and nothing I could do or say would change that, which I knew to be true. It was freeing, being with Mother.

But Father...I still worried that I would mess up. That I would say something and his eyes would darken. That I didn’t live up to his aspirations for me. That somewhere, something held either one of us back from fully understanding and fully loving each other. When I had first ran into his arms, I’d thought all would change and everything would be perfect. But now I still marveled that he was my father and I still missed my uncle and I still stood on proverbial pins and needles around him.

At times, some wall—mine or his, I didn’t know—would lower and it would seem as though we had known each other since the very beginning of time. But mostly, I always felt like tucking the most important part of me away and pretending I was the marchioness I was born as.

It was wrong, I knew. But something stood between us. I might never know what.

Father cocked his head, raking his gaze over my face in that way of his, seeing everything but not letting on about what he found. “What worries you, my lovely one?”

Oh, how I loved it when he called me that! Forget Mother’s “dear Catherina” and Uncle’s “bright eyes” and even Xavier’s “lady.” I was my father’s lovely one and that was all I cared about. For just as my earthly father saw me in a way I never had, so did my Heavenly Father. I was lovely—all of my scars, all of my bruises, all of my confusing feelings and curious blunders—to God.

I drew in a deep breath, letting the frigid winter air wind through the cracks and cervices of uncertainty in my heart and fill my emptiness. What worried me, in good sooth, was that I would lose the father I’d had for only mere months to the one I’d called Dad for twenty-eight years. What worried me was that, in a matter of days, I might lose my life to the man who still caused my blood to boil.

What worried me was that instead that man might lose his life to me.

But how was I to tell Father that?

Father tucked me into his side, laced his fingers through mine then lifted our tangled hands to his mouth. Against my knuckles, a smile formed on his lips. “I sense that her ladyship worries far too much. Let me see...” He flashed me that charming grin, deepening the dimple in his chin. “You worry that your husband has eaten all the fruitcake, don’t you?”

I felt a chuckle rise up in the place of frustration, and I let loose a smile. “You know how ravenous he is.”

Father nodded contemplatively. “You worry also that your mother has forgotten to get you a Christmas present.”

“Yes, indeed. You know how forgetful she can be.”

“And that the Lord shall open up the heavens and flood your ship not with rain but with snow. Tonnes of it! Then, slowly, the weight of all that fluffy white ice will drag you down, down, down into the depths of Davy Jones’ locker.” He shook his head, tsking, while wisps of greying brown hair brushed against his ears.

“You know how the Lord loves His blizzards,” I replied, leaning back against his chest and laying my head upon his broad shoulder.

After a soft laugh, Father released a breath, settled in gently, with a kiss to my cheek. The moment passed with silence. Not the silence of reprimand Uncle had practiced for punishment. Not the silence of irritation that followed Xavier’s uncharact-eristic glare.

Just silence. Pleasant, slightly thoughtful, perhaps even nervous silence.

Was it wrong to revel in it and pray that it was never broken?

“Father?”

Up go the sails. I hope we float.

“Aye, daughter?”

“How do you feel toward your brother?” Or, as my mind fairly yelled at me with a frown, “Do you hate my uncle?”

If Father grunted, I couldn’t hear. If he shifted, I couldn’t feel. If, in fact, his peaceful state altered in any way possible, I couldn’t have know. He remained as relaxed as he had been a moment ago.

If only I could say the same for my frantically pulsating, deadly rigid self.

“Finally at peace, my lovely Rina. At perfect peace,” Father told me, a sigh in his voice. One of relief, contentment...regret. “If only it had been so much earlier.”

“Tell me.” Oh, how I wanted to know!

“You know that saying, ‘robbed the cradle,’ or what have you? Well, that was what your uncle did. We were fast asleep, the entire household. You had to be, oh, four—maybe five—months old. Then, when we awoke, the door to our bedchamber was wide open and you were gone. Your bassinet was still rocking back and forth.

“I could feel the anger rising up in me. Oh, you don’t want to know. There are still dents in the walls, and I’m pretty sure Ana scolded me for nearly three years for my language. I had never met Maverick—hadn’t even known he’d existed until I lifted the small piece of paper lying where your head had. ‘Your brother,’ it was signed. ‘Thank you for your heir.’ Something like that. I could have killed him right then and there. And I didn’t even know him!

“It only got worse over time. I don’t know how many people were sent, how many trips they made. How many times your mother and I went out looking ourselves. As the years went by, every time your birthday passed, everyday it grew worse. I took to drinking for a while then, but Ana never knew. It just...the bitterness became to much for me to handle.

“Then Xavier walked into our lives. We had known him, yes. Through his father and the church. He seemed a fine young man—twenty-two at the time. He was waving a letter at me, bouncing on his toes, smile so wide I thought his face would be stuck like that. ‘She’s been found!’ he cried. ‘She’s out there! She’s alive!’ For seven years, we followed every lead we could get on that letter. Nothing.

“But Xavier was a bigger help than we had expected. Sometime after the mutiny—after his...accident—we sat down and had a long talk. One we both needed to have. I struggled with forgiving, and he struggling with being forgiven. It still took years for it all to sink in. It wasn’t until you came home, Rina, that I finally realized it.

“God was in control. He is in control. Like Joseph sold into slavery, my brother had taken you and given you away to the devil—but was it Maverick I ought to blame? Nay. It was Satan and this sinful world that had worked against us. But what had been intended for evil, God used for good. You see, Rina, it takes the hard times, the storms, to make a way for the good things. You cannot have a rainbow without rain. Neither can you have peace without chaos and love without first hating. God uses all of our failures, our brokenness, and our trials for His good—like manure in soil to make it perfect for planting. And out of us, like a tilled and fertilized field, spring up beautiful flowers.”

I swallowed back the lump of emotion in my throat, waiting as tears coursed down my cheeks for Father to speak again. When he didn’t, I turned to face him.

His eyes were hidden by thick lashes, his gaze focused on the horizon before him. Drops of salty water stained his face, dripped down to dampen his shirt. But, there, playing on his lips, was a smile.

I could not bite back my own.

The storm of my bitterness still raged. Yet when it passed, when my heart was made ready, forgiveness would blossom.

But would it be hard? Would it take all of my strength to forgive? To set aside all of the anger and hurt and hate, and love without condition?

“Don’t struggle with it, my daughter. Let it go. Cast it onto Jesus and let Him carry it with Him to the cross, bury it in His grave, and watch it drift away, as far as the east is from the west. Then together you shall rise, breathing in new life.” Father reached up, brushed his thumb against my cheek, and chased away my tears.

Father, I give to You my spirit. I give to You my heart. I give to You my hurt, my fear, my worry. I thank You for gifting me with Your Spirit and with Your strength. Help me daily, Lord. You know I need it.

I don’t wanna hate him anymore. I forgive him. Because of him...we’ll all be all right. We’ll be fine. Because You work all things to Your will.

Help me to love, Father.

"You have my love, Catherina. Go and give it away. Share it. Use it. Believe it. Give it wings that it may fly. Let nothing hold you back, my child. Love wholly, fully, and unconditionally.”

Tears anew sprang to my eyes as the low and gentle sound of my Lord’s Voice filled my spirit. I looked back to the water, where the waves softly rocked, and reached for the patch secured around my eye. I would take it off now. At night and when things were calm—when I actually took the time to notice its absence. I had another, somewhere in the depths of my bureau. Uncle’s old one.

But this one...this one I had strapped around my head the moment I had uttered those four ugly words—I hate Timothy Wilde.

I slipped it off, held it in my hands. Then I reached out and released it, watched as it fluttered to the ocean and drifted off. “I forgive you, Timothy.”

Copyright © 2019 Grace Ann Johnson

Ask Ann-Marguerite™: How Do I Hone My Craft?

I had not been perplexe before. I cannot afford to be stumped by a simple question. The newspaper editor was clear about our terms when I made the suggestion several weeks ago—if I am to keep up an advice column, I must be prepared to answer any and all questions. Last week’s question, I suppose, was the only exception, as M. Calvin was uncertain how I would be able to answer it.

My response went over rather well, and from then the letters flooded in. The one M. Calvin selected for printing this week is...difficult. It should not be, sans doubte, but I am struggling with how to reply.

I set down my coffee cup, bending to grab the paper once again and read over the question, brief and concise, printed in its allotted space.

Dear Ann-Marguerite,

I want to become a better writer. How do I hone my craft?

Merci,

A Longing Learner

It is less that the question itself is hard and more that the answer cannot be conveyed in a mere few sentenced confined to a newspaper column. The art of writing is nuanced, so much so that it can take years to hone one’s craft. This, Je vais admettre, is not exactly what one desires to tell a person, let alone hear for themselves. The individual methods and techniques can vary from genre to genre, from writer to writer, from era to era.

In the past, there was little one could do but experience that which they wanted to write, read, write with painstaking care, edit ruthlessly, then write some more. The process was slow and many did not have the strength, the patience, nor the passion to devote so much of their time, effort, and heart into such a venture. The research for one novel alone was extensive and could span a lifetime. The market of the last millennium was limited and very few books, no matter how good, made the cut.

Now, en revanche, research need not be done in libraries or through experience. Resources, from old books to newspaper articles to blog posts, are available online with just the push of a key. The market has expanded, oui, and self-publishing has done anyway with all restrictions on content, quality, and other elements the traditional route was so strict on. Classes for creative writing are offered in schools, and veterans authors are now sharing their secrets to success. Communities of writers, readers, and editors allow for easy critiquing, feedback, and support. Social media is the numéro un marketing outlet, entirely self-directed. Writing contests give writers feedback, encouragement, prizes, and critical acclaim early on in their careers. Writers are no longer impressed upon to figure things out for themselves, neither are they constrained to a specific market or genre.

Anyone can be a writer.

Cela dit, not everyone can be a good writer.

I lay the newspaper down on my kitchen counter and head directly to my pantry. Uncertainty makes me hungry. In fact, most everything makes me hungry, but I would not call that a noticeable fact, as I am still petit for as much as I like to eat.

My neighbor Madame Abreo brought over a fresh batch of canistrelli while I was out this morning, and I have been craving a taste of the shortbread for hours since I have returned. She baked it with anise, exactly the way I prefer it, and when I bite into my first cookie, the flavors explode in my mouth, distracting me from the myriad of to-dos and concerns.

Until the sight of my typewriter, left on the table earlier ce matin, catches my eye. A blank sheet of paper is wedged between the rollers, awaiting with patience the moment I come to write.

The caliber of growth differs across genres, levels of experience, time constraints, and many others. Some writers need to enhance their voice and develop it into a unique writing style. Others need help with the technicalities, such as punctuation and language use. Other still perhaps want to better manage their time, create schedules, and write larger projects. Some need to grow in the authenticity of their work, the accuracy of their research, or the originality of their stories.

It would take me an entire year and thousands of sheets of paper to give advice for each category.

To put it simply, I would encourage one to write. Continuously. Religiously. Without ceasing. To grow, one must be proud of their writing and never become discouraged by their stories, the quality of their writing, or any other aspect that may not be parfait. Giving up is not an option.

Even while invested in a love affair with their writing, however, they must come to it after completion with the eye of an editor—sharp, piercing, unbiased, and just. The author himself must be prepared to blot out, scratch off, cut out, and restructure his work from the foundation up. The heart needs always to remain, oui, but an editor strives to strike out everything impeding, overshadowing, or distorting the heart, be it incorrect grammar, confusing sentences, plot inconsistency, or something else. Once the book has been purged of these inhibitors, the heart can truly shine. The author can polish their characters, their message, and their plot until their true intentions are clear.

Read, most importantly. Even before putting pen to paper, the foremost endeavor any human being should engage in is reading. For writers, all of the learning, research, and information that could ever be gathered throughout hundreds of separate mediums are obtained through reading.

Regardless of the particular area of one's craft they desires to hone, these three rules always apply: Write full of passion, edit without inhibition, and read to gain knowledge of everything.

As I reach for my fourth cookie, I realize I have already composed my response.

Eh bien, c'était facile.

Name of the Week: Kenneth

If y'all joined me the last two Saturdays for my short story, Home for Christmas, then you'll remember my character Kenneth Merritt. I knew it'd be fun to mix it up a little bit this week and share a name from a different work--so here we go!

Kenneth was super popular in the mid-1900s, but it's been around long before then. Since the before 9th century, Kenneth's original forms and Cináed have been common in Scotland and Ireland. Variants like Kennit are found in Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian, while you're liable to stumble across a few Kennys, Kens, Keninas, and Kennas in English-speaking countries.

Kenneth is also related to the Scottish surname MacKenzie (but you already called that one, didn't ya?).

Kenneth has two meanings, since it's the Anglicized form of two different names. Per its roots in the name Coinneach, Kenneth means "handsome," and from its roots in the Scottish and Irish name Cináed it means "born of fire."

I'll be honest, I just picked the name out because it was popular during the time my character was born, but it has such interesting meanings and origins (you'll find I love anything Scottish and Irish) that I might just have to use it again!

I know I'm cutting it short this week, but that's because I have so much going on during the holidays! Short Story Saturday will continue until the end of the month, I had an author interview this time last week, and my giveaway for The Gift of Her Heart is still running! Don't forget to enter for a chance to win!!!

Y'all have a very merry Christmas!

Short Story Saturday: Home for Christmas Part 2

It's here! Part 2 of Home for Christmas is here! Come and get a taste of Christmas! Find out what happens to Kenneth and Kate in this holiday short story!

Kenny? No, it couldn’t be. Kenneth was away...lost somewhere...buried somewhere… If he were alive, he would have been here sooner. Therefore, he couldn’t be standing there in the doorway, alive and...there.

But he was.

He was.

Oh, God, thank You, thank You, thank You!

Ragged breath filled her lungs, a lump lodging in her throat that prevented her from screaming or crying or even speaking. Kate took the smallest of steps forward, suspended somewhere outside of her body as she watched herself inch closer to the husband she hadn’t seen for three whole years.

He whispered her name. For the first time in so long, she heard his voice, felt its soothing cadence caress her aching heart.

He looked so handsome. Oh, he was beautiful, leaning against the doorframe with rapture coloring his features. He hadn’t changed much, she noticed. His form was more gaunt, compliments of the war, his eyes shadowed and red-rimmed, his face sullen. But he was still Kenneth, with strength emanating from his square jaw; a zest for life in his crooked grin; boyishness in the dimple in his chin; love alight in his blue eyes. It was her Kenny.

Praise be to God, it was her Kenny!

A smile cracked, eased onto her lips as she moved with shuddering steps near enough to reach out and place her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers craved to touch him and feel if he was really, truly there and that she wasn’t dreaming. She brushed her knuckles against his cheek, where a scar had formed, traced the curve of his jaw.

He shifted closer, leaning into her touch as his eyes slid closed, his step slow and wobbly. It was then that she looked down and saw the crutches, the tied up pants leg that stopped at his knee.

It hit her like a ton of bricks.

He’d lost his leg.

“Oh, Kenneth,” she breathed, images flooding her mind of blood and bullets and makeshift hospitals and… She slammed her eyes shut at the torture she imagined, wrenching back as though burned. The pain… God help him. Three years to her and Bonnie had been slowly passing, tedious days of endless waiting. Three years for him had come and gone, robbing him of the life he’d once known with one swift jerk.

She saw his gaze dim, casting to the floor, when she finally looked up. His voice was hoarse, a mere murmur against the hum of the heater and the echoing tick of the clock, when he stuttered out, “Kat—Katie, I...I missed you.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his chest heaved in labored breaths.

He looked as though he had been stabbed in the heart, face drooping and stare averted, body lurching with every inhale.

Distress seized her, nearly knocking her off her feet as a myriad of possibilities assailed her, each one a dart more fiery than the last. Was his love for her still there? What if he were...regretting the hasty decision they had made so many years ago—when they were fresh out of high school, madly in love, and eloping?

Surely that wasn’t it. Absence made the heart grow fonder, after all, and she had no regrets. Maybe he was just still so shocked over it all. Maybe he was still addled from the war. Maybe he…

Then his arms were around her, her breath caught in her chest when he wrenched her to him and crushed her in a desperate embrace. And he was whispering words in her ear, his mouth warm against her skin. She could barely hear his voice over the wild thud of her heart, but she knew the words he spoke denied her every concern.

He was here. And nothing had changed.

Kate nestled into his arms, grasping him by the waist, both afraid he would topple without his crutches and longing to soak in his strength. The strength that kept her upright when she sagged against him in relief. He was home. Forever. To be with her and Bonnie until death did them part. And, oh, how sweet it was!

Kenneth drew back only an inch to meet her gaze and gifted her with the big, huge grin she had missed for so long. “Oh, Katie, tell me you’re all right. Tell me everything’s going to be all right,” he mumbled on a groan, his sky blue eyes wild with worry, love, yearning.

“I’m all right, sweetheart. It’s all okay.” All expect for one thing. “What about you, baby? I mean, your leg!” A frown stole over her lips as she chanced a glance at the space where his leg should have been. The very thought of him going through such pain, from the wounds to the infection to the surgery, ripped through her heart like nothing else. It was a miracle that he was still alive.

Thank You, Lord!

Kenny heaved a rough, tormented sigh that slit through her heart like a knife. “I know, Kate. I know. And i-if it bothers you, then...”

She knew what he meant, what he didn’t have the guts to voice. She wished she didn’t, though, that he wouldn’t have even thought so low of her. Where had he gotten the harebrained idea that she would love him any less? Her love for him was more powerful than any anguish he could endure, any wayward desire, anything that said one less leg made him that much less of a man.

“Kenneth Merritt, look at me.”

He did, half torn between the hope in his eyes and despair etched into his haggard features.

“Only one thing bothers me, and that’s that you would ever doubt my love for you. You are the man I chose to marry eight years ago. You are the one I loved with my whole heart then and the one I love with my entire being now.” Her hand lifted once again to cup his cheek, her fingers soon trailing off into the silky strand of black hair teasing his collar. “And you are the one I will love wholly, fully, and unconditionally until the very day I die.”

“Katie.”

Her name was a moan as her husband tugged her back into his embrace and cradled her head in his hands. “I love you too.”

She remained for moments or years—she didn’t know which—listening to the thump of his heart, the steadiness of his breathing, savoring him just in case he disappeared again.

Then a thought interrupted the calm in her mind, disconnecting her from him both mentally and physically. “Kenneth, are you hungry? Gosh, you’re probably dog-tired, and here I am keeping you up. Do you want something before you go to bed?” Heaven knew she wasn’t that great of a cook, but if her man was hungry, she’d stay up ‘til morning fixing him whatever he wanted. He deserved that much, with a good night’s rest to boot.

Kenny chuckled softly, a wicked gleam entering his eye that she hadn’t seen since high school. “Oh, I’m hungry all right, but not for food.” Even while she protested, he reeled her in, angling her mouth beneath his as he dominated her with a kiss long overdue.

* * *

The sunshine seemed so much brighter that morning, but not even the glitter of the sun’s rays sparkling like diamonds against the snow could compare to the light in Kate’s heart that Christmas morning.

Rolling over in bed with a soft moan, she collided with something hard, warm, and—hairy? Strong arms wound ‘round her waist, the vibration of very loud snoring jolting her from slumber.

Kenny!

Memories of the past night filtered through her mind like a dream—a dream sweeter and more real than any her subconscious could have ever conjured up. It was the best Christmas she’d ever had, and all because of one amazing gift that God had brought back to her.

Kate curled up in Kenneth’s embrace, relishing the warmth he gave. It was so good to have him back—for more than one reason. She slid her own arms about him as he began to nuzzle her neck, the touch she had so sorely missed causing her heart to skip a beat as though it were their wedding night again.

At that very wonderful moment, the door burst open, and little footsteps pattered their way into the room before a bonny little lass jumped right on top of her mother.

Kate coughed as all her organs shot up to her throat, smiling all the while at the excitement in her daughter’s squeal.

“Mommy, Mommy, Chris-mas is here! Chris-mas is here! Hurry and get up so I can open my presents!” As if collapsing her mother’s stomach was not enough, Bonnie began bouncing on Kate’s legs in a painful display of feverish impatience.

Kate sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then pulled her little bundle of joy into her arms. “Merry Christmas, sweetie. Mommy has a very special present for you.” She couldn’t contain her grin—surely it gave her away—as Kenneth shifted in bed.

Bonnie beside Kate, her eyes wide. “You mean the man in your bed that looks like Daddy?”

She nodded. “Bonnie, Daddy came h―”

Bonnie launched herself into her father’s open arms with a happy shout. “Oh, Daddy, I miss you lots!”

Kenny laughed heartily, collapsing onto to bed and holding her close. “I’ve missed you too, baby. Now why don’t we go open up those presents of yours?” he suggested, lifting her up and setting her on the floor beside the bed.

As Bonnie bounded out of the room, Kenneth leaned over to give Kate a long, lingering kiss that warmed her down to her toes.

Yes, it was a very merry Christmas indeed!

Copyright © 2020 Grace Ann Johnson