Together for Christmas
Debbie Macomber
Praise for the novels of Debbie Macomber
“Another of Macomber’s heartwarming winners.... Tender, funny, sweet and poignant.”
—Library Journal on 1225 Christmas Tree Lane
“Readers will warm to its endearing characters. Prolific Macomber is known for her honest portrayals of ordinary women in small-town America, and this tale cements her position as an icon of the genre.”
—Publishers Weekly on 16 Lighthouse Road
Praise for the novels of Brenda Novak
“Heartwarming, life-affirming, page-turning romance. I can always count on Novak to make me weep, laugh and fall in love!”
—Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author
“Brenda Novak doesn’t just write fabulous stories, she writes keepers.”
—Susan Mallery, #1 New York Times bestselling author
Praise for the novels of Sheila Roberts
“The ultimate in feel-good family drama and heart-melting romance. Plus there’s the added bonus of getting to celebrate the season with a community that couldn’t be more devoted to Christmas.”
—USA TODAY on The Lodge on Holly Road
“A deftly crafted and delightfully entertaining novel from the pen of an author with a genuine flair for originality and the creation of memorable characters.”
—Midwest Book Reviews on Christmas from the Heart
Praise for the novels of RaeAnne Thayne
“Endearing small-town residents and bratty cats add humor to this heartwarming, steady-paced holiday romance.”
—Publishers Weekly on Sugar Pine Trail
“This quirky, funny, warmhearted romance will draw readers in and
keep them enthralled to the last romantic page.”
—Library Journal on Christmas in Snowflake Canyon
Together for Christmas
Debbie Macomber
Brenda Novak
Sheila Roberts
RaeAnne Thayne
Table of Contents
5-B Poppy Lane by Debbie Macomber
When We Touch by Brenda Novak
Welcome to Icicle Falls by Sheila Roberts
Starstruck by RaeAnne Thayne
5-B Poppy Lane
Debbie Macomber
Also available from MIRA
The Cedar Cove novels by
#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber
16 LIGHTHOUSE ROAD
204 ROSEWOOD LANE
311 PELICAN COURT
44 CRANBERRY POINT
50 HARBOR STREET
6 RAINIER DRIVE
74 SEASIDE AVENUE
8 SANDPIPER WAY
92 PACIFIC BOULEVARD
1022 EVERGREEN PLACE
1105 YAKIMA STREET
1225 CHRISTMAS TREE LANE
Also
5-B POPPY LANE
A CEDAR COVE CHRISTMAS
DEBBIE MACOMBER’S CEDAR COVE COOKBOOK
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Epilogue
Prologue
IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON, Christmas Eve. Snow was falling lightly, adding to the festive atmosphere inside and out. Helen Shelton fussed with the decorations in her small Cedar Cove duplex, making sure everything was in place. The tree, a real one, featured the ornaments she’d started acquiring when she’d married Sam in 1946. He’d bought her many of these, and as she hung them carefully on the branches she’d relived their history, hers and Sam’s. He’d died almost thirty years ago but she remembered every Christmas they’d spent together.
The Nativity pieces were arranged on her coffee table with the Infant Jesus nestled in the manger, surrounded by the other familiar figurines. A large evergreen wreath hung on her front door. The house was redolent with the scents of spruce and spice—ready for Christmas.
Helen wanted everything perfect when her only granddaughter and her husband arrived. In preparation she’d mulled cider and baked Ruth’s favorite Christmas cookies from an old gingerbread recipe; they’d first made it together when Ruth was a child. Even now, after all these years, Helen remembered the thrill she’d felt when her granddaughter was born. Oh, she loved her grandsons, but for a grandmother there was something special about a girl.
The doorbell chimed and Helen peeked outside to see her dear friend Charlotte Rhodes standing on the porch. Delighted, she opened the door and quickly ushered Charlotte inside. They were both getting on in years, and Helen suspected neither of them had many Christmases left. She didn’t have a fatalistic view of life by any means, but she was a practical woman. Helen knew what it was to face death. She had no fear of dying.
“Merry Christmas,” Charlotte said, unwrapping a hand-knit lace scarf from around her neck. Her friend was the most exquisite knitter. Many a time she’d assisted Helen with her knitting projects. She gave her the confidence to try new things. Why, with Charlotte’s help a few years back, Helen had completed a complicated Fair Isle sweater. She still felt a bit of pride whenever she wore that sweater. She was a competent knitter in her own right; she didn’t mean to discount her skills. But Charlotte had such an encouraging way about her, and not just when it came to knitting. Helen had confided in Charlotte about what had happened to her during the war, and Charlotte had urged her to share it with her family. Eventually, she had....
“Merry Christmas,” Helen said, taking Charlotte’s coat and scarf and hanging them up. She led her friend into the kitchen. “This is such a pleasant surprise.”
“I knew your granddaughter and her husband were stopping by, so I brought some of my green tomato mincemeat.” She removed two beribboned jars from her ever-present knitting bag.
“Oh, Charlotte, thank you.” Helen accepted the jars and put them on the counter to admire. Charlotte was well aware that Helen had a weakness for her homemade green tomato mincemeat.
“Consider this a small Christmas gift,” Charlotte said, looking pleased at Helen’s reaction.
“Didn’t you say it was too much work this year?” Helen could swear Charlotte had claimed she was finished with canning. And who would blame her?
“I did say that, and then I took a look at all those green tomatoes and I couldn’t help myself. Besides, Ben swears mincemeat is his favorite pie.”
“I thought your peach pie was his favorite.”
Charlotte actually blushed. Those two had been married for several years now but they still behaved like newlyweds. It always made Helen smile.
“Ben says that about all my pies.”
“Well, I’m very happy to get these. I’ll make a pie for tonight’s dessert.” Helen automatically set the teakettle on the burner, dropping tea bags into her best china pot.
“What time is your granddaughter getting here?”
Helen glanced at the kitchen clock. “Not for several hours. Around five.”
Charlotte pulled out a chair and sat down, reaching into her voluminous bag for her knitting. Socks again. Charlotte was never without her knitting, and these days it was usually socks. Helen had recently made socks, too, but not ones you’d wear. She’d knit both Ruth and Paul Christmas stockings to hang by the fireplace. Because of the intricate pattern, it had taken her the better part of three months. She planned to give them their made-with-love Christmas stockings when they exchanged gifts that evening.
&nb
sp; It wasn’t long before the tea was ready and the two of them sat across the table from each other, a plate of the gingerbread cookies between them.
“I’ve met your granddaughter, haven’t I?” Charlotte asked, picking up her teacup and frowning slightly.
“Yes, don’t you recall? Ruth certainly remembers you.”
“She does?”
“It was a few years ago. She was in quite a state when she came by to visit. She was absolutely beside herself because she wasn’t sure what to do about Paul.”
Charlotte looked confused.
“That was shortly after they met,” Helen explained, surprised her friend had apparently forgotten the episode, since Charlotte had answered Ruth’s knock at the door. “They’d been corresponding for a while. Paul was in the marines. Well, he still is, but that’s not the point.”
Charlotte chose a cookie. “It’s coming back to me now,” she said. “They had a lovely romance, didn’t they?”
“Oh, yes.”
She took a bite. “Mmm. Delicious. Now, remind me again how they met.”
Helen settled back in her chair and picked up her own cup of tea. This was such a wonderful story. Her own love story was part of it, too. All those years ago during the Second World War. There were fewer and fewer people who knew what that war had really been like.
For more than fifty years she’d refused to talk about that time, refused to even think about her adventures and ordeals. She’d lost so much—and yet, she’d gained, too. At the urging of the few friends she’d confided in, including Charlotte, she’d finally told Ruth what had happened. Ruth and her Paul. Afterward, her granddaughter had said that her experiences were more than family history; they were history.
“Helen,” Charlotte murmured, shaking her out of her reverie. “You were going to tell me about Ruth and Paul.”
“Oh, yes. The story of how they fell in love...” She settled back, listening to the comforting click of Charlotte’s needles, and began.
One
RUTH SHELTON HURRIED out of her classroom-management lecture at the University of Washington, where she was completing her master’s of education degree. Clutching her books, she dashed across campus, in a rush to get home. By now the mail would have been delivered to her small rental house three blocks from the school.
“Ruth,” Tina Dupont called, stopping her in midflight. “There’s another antiwar rally this afternoon at—”
“Sorry, I’ve got to run,” Ruth said, jogging past her friend and feeling more than a little guilty. Other students cleared a path for her; wherever she was headed must have seemed urgent—and it was, but only to her. Since Christmas, four months ago, she’d been corresponding with Sergeant Paul Gordon, USMC, who was stationed in Afghanistan. There’d been recent reports of fighting, and she hadn’t received a letter or an email from Paul in three days. Three interminable days. Not since they’d initially begun their correspondence had there been such a lapse. Paul usually wrote every day and she did, too. They emailed as often as possible. Ruth had strong feelings about the war in Iraq, although her opinions didn’t match those of her parents.
Earlier in the school year, Ruth had been part of a protest rally on campus. But no matter what her political views on the subject, she felt it was important to support American troops wherever they might be serving. In an effort to do that, Ruth had voluntarily mailed a Christmas card and letter to a nameless soldier.
Paul Gordon was the young man who’d received that Christmas card, and to Ruth’s surprise he’d written her back and enclosed his photograph. Paul was from Seattle and he’d chosen her card because of the Seattle postmark. He’d asked her lots of questions—about her history, her family, her interests—and closed with a postscript that said he hoped to hear from her again.
When she first got his letter, Ruth had hesitated. She felt she’d done her duty, supported the armed services in a way she was comfortable doing. This man she’d never met was asking her to continue corresponding with him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to become that involved. Feeling uncertain, she’d waited a few days before deciding.
During that time, Ruth had read and reread his letter and studied the head shot of the clean-cut handsome marine sergeant in dress uniform. His dark brown eyes had seemed to stare straight through her—and directly into her heart. After two days, she answered his letter with a short one of her own and added her email address at the bottom of the page. Ruth had a few concerns she wanted him to address before she could commit herself to beginning this correspondence. Being as straightforward and honest as possible, she explained her objections to the war in Iraq. She felt there was a more legitimate reason for troops to be in Afghanistan and wanted to know his stand. A few days later he emailed her. Paul didn’t mince words. He told her he believed the United States had done the right thing in entering Iraq and gave his reasons. He left it up to her to decide if she wanted to continue their correspondence. Ruth emailed him back and once again listed her objections to the American presence in the Middle East. His response came a day later, suggesting they “agree to disagree.” He ended the email with the same question he’d asked her earlier. Would she write him?
At first, Ruth wasn’t going to. They were diametrically opposed in their political views. But in the end, even recognizing the conflict between their opinions, she did write. Their correspondence started slowly. She enjoyed his wry wit and his unflinching determination to make a difference in the world. His father had fought in Vietnam, he said, and in some ways the war in Afghanistan seemed similar—the hostile terrain, the unpredictability of the enemy, the difficult conditions. For her part, she mentioned that at twenty-five she’d returned to school to obtain her master’s of education degree. Then, gradually, without being fully aware of how it had happened, Ruth found herself spending part of every day writing or emailing Paul. Despite the instant nature of email, and its convenience, they both enjoyed interspersing their online messages with more formal letters. There was something so...permanent about a real letter. As well, depending on his duty assignment, Paul didn’t always have computer access.
After they’d been corresponding regularly for a couple of months, Paul asked for her picture. Eventually she’d mailed him her photograph, but only after she’d had her hair and makeup done at one of those “glamour” studios. Although she wasn’t fashion-model beautiful, she considered herself fairly attractive and wanted to look her absolute best for Paul, although she didn’t entirely understand why it mattered so much. For years, she’d been resigned to the fact that she wasn’t much good at relationships. In high school she’d been shy, and while she was an undergraduate, she’d dated a little but tended to be reserved and studious. Her quiet manner didn’t seem to appeal to the guys she met. It was only when she stepped in front of a classroom that she truly became herself. She loved teaching, every single aspect of it. In the process, Ruth lost her hesitation and her restraint, and to her astonishment discovered that this enthusiasm had begun to spill over into the rest of her life. Suddenly men started to notice her. She enjoyed the attention—who wouldn’t?—and had dated more in the past few months than in the preceding four years.
For the picture, her short brown hair had been styled in loose curls. Her blue eyes were smiling and friendly, which was exactly the impression she hoped to convey. She was a little shocked by the importance of Paul’s reaction—by her need that he find her attractive.
She waited impatiently for his response. A week later she received an email. Paul seemed to like what he saw in her photograph and soon they were writing and emailing back and forth at a feverish pace. A day without some form of communication from Paul felt empty now.
Ruth had never had a long-distance relationship before, and the growing intensity of her feelings for this man she’d never met took her by surprise. She wasn’t a teenager with a schoolgirl crush. Ruth was a mature, responsible adult. Or at least she
had been until she slipped a simple Christmas card into the mailbox—and got a reply from a handsome marine sergeant named Paul Gordon.
Ruth walked quickly to the rental house she shared with Lynn Blumenthal, then ran up the front steps to the porch. Lynn was eighteen and away from home and family for the first time. The arrangement suited both of them, and despite the disparity in their ages and interests, they’d gotten along fairly well. With her heart pounding hard, Ruth forced herself to draw in a deep breath as she started toward the mailbox.
The screen door flew open and Lynn came out. “What are you doing home?” she asked, then shook her head. “Never mind, I already know. You’re looking for a letter from soldier boy.”
Ruth wasn’t going to deny the obvious. “I haven’t heard from him in three days.”
Lynn rolled her eyes. “I don’t understand you.”
“I know.” Ruth didn’t want to get into another discussion with her roommate. Lynn had made her feelings about this relationship known from the outset, although as Ruth had gently tried to tell her, it was none of her business. That didn’t prevent the younger woman from expressing her views. Lynn said that Ruth was only setting herself up for heartache. A part of Ruth actually agreed, but by the time she realized what was happening, she was emotionally involved with Paul.
“You hardly ever see Clay anymore,” Lynn chastised, hands on her hips. “He called and asked about you the other night.”
Ruth stared at the small black mailbox. “Clay and I are just friends.”
“Not according to him.”
It was true that they’d been seeing each other quite a bit following a Halloween party last October. Like her, Clay Matthews was obtaining his master’s of education, and they seemed to have a lot in common. But her interest in him had started to wane even before she’d mailed that Christmas card to Paul. The problem was, Clay hadn’t noticed.
“I’m sorry he’s disappointed.”
