The Year the Cat Saved Christmas
by Barbara Bretton
by Barbara Bretton
Genre: Contemporary
romance
Publisher: Free
Spirit Press
ISBN: 9781940665009
ASIN: B00FEXP44K
Number of pages: 80
Word Count: 22,000
Book Description:
Christmas used to
be the happiest time of the year in the big house on the hill. But this year
when the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Day, it will all be over. Can
Sebastian, a wily Maine Coon cat, find a way to bring his people back home or
will this holiday be their last?
Previously published as "Home for the Holidays" in Penguin Berkley's anthology "The Christmas Cat."
Previously published as "Home for the Holidays" in Penguin Berkley's anthology "The Christmas Cat."
Buy Links:
Excerpt:
Prologue The Year the Cat Saved Christmas
As a rule, Sebastian endured Christmas with
the good grace for which the best cats were known. He never indulged in
merrymaking. His self-defined role as elder statesman precluded such a loss of
dignity. Instead he held himself aloof and watched with great indulgence as his
humans did the strangest things.
Once a year, around the first snowstorm,
they opened the front doors wide and dragged in a big pine tree from outside.
The same people who scolded him when he came in with muddy paws ignored bugs
and dirt and sap and set the tree right smack in the middle of the living room
carpet. They hung round, shiny objects from the branches and strung twinkling
lights from top to bottom. Then, when that was all done, they placed boxes tied
up with bows underneath the lowest branches.
Everyone who came to visit gathered around
the tree to sing songs and drink something called eggnog and to give each other
presents that weren't half as much fun as catnip or a ball of yarn. All things
considered, it was a most puzzling time of the year.
At Christmastime a cat had to learn how to
cope or he'd find himself with a Santa Claus hat on his head and a ribbon
around his neck, posing for some stupid holiday card picture that would
embarrass him for the rest of his days. The dog and the parrot were perfectly
happy to make fools of themselves and wear all manner of ridiculous outfits to
make their humans laugh, but not Sebastian. The first person who tried to make him
wear snow boots or a bow around his neck would find himself picking kitty
litter out of his teeth for a year.
Sebastian did not suffer fools gladly.
Christmas was not his favorite time of year. He preferred Thanksgiving, thank
you very much, with that big juicy roasted bird on the table and lots of
leftovers. When Christmas got too loud and confusing, he retreated to his
hiding place in the Girl's room where a cat in his golden years could sleep in
peace and quiet until things got back to normal again.
This year, however, something was wrong.
There was no tree, no beribboned packages, no friends and relatives gathered
around singing songs to torment the ears of innocent cats. The Boy and Girl
moped around in their rooms and not even talk of Santa Claus could make them
smile. And what worried Sebastian most was that their parents weren't smiling
either.
When it all began, the Man slept downstairs
on the sofa while she had the big bed all to herself. Sebastian, with the
sensibilities of a diplomat, had tried to divide his attentions between the two
of them but his twelve-year-old legs weren't what they used to be. The stairs
took their toll on his rickety knees and made him wheeze like a bulldog, so
most of the time he slept on the landing so he could be near them both.
Finally the time came when he didn't have to
do that any longer, because the Man packed his bags and moved to something
called a hotel.
The dog refused to believe anything was
wrong. The parrot thought Sebastian was making a mountain out of a molehill,
but Sebastian knew in his ancient bones that change was in the wind. He had
been around since the beginning and he knew how it used to be when they were
happy. There had been so much laughter in the little cottage that he couldn't
hear himself purr. Now he couldn't remember the last time he'd even seen them
smile.
He found himself dreaming about the little
cottage where he'd first lived with them and how happy they'd been. It was as
if the cottage itself were somehow calling him back home. The Woman used to
sing while she cooked dinner and sometimes the Man came into the kitchen and
drew her into his arms and they danced around the floor. Sebastian would even
get into the act. He'd wind his way between their ankles until, laughing, they
would bend down and stroke his fur just the way he liked it. Ah, those were the
days....
He'd been young then and fast. A better
mouser never lived than Sebastian in his prime. He'd bring his treasures home
proudly and place them on the front porch but she never seemed to appreciate
them the way Sebastian thought she should. As far as Sebastian was concerned,
it didn't get much better than dead mouse.
Sebastian didn't do much mousing anymore and
his birding days were a thing of the past. He hadn't gone exploring in longer
than he could remember, content instead to stay close to home in case he was
needed. Sometimes he thought he caught the mourning doves laughing at him as he
lay on the back steps and sunned himself. He pretended he didn't notice them
waddling by, but he did. It was a sad day when a proud cat like Sebastian
couldn't catch a mourning dove but time marched on and, like it or not, there
wasn't anything he could do about it.
Not long ago a sign appeared in the front
yard and every day strange people marched through the house. Sebastian refused
to acknowledge their presence as they peeked in closets and peered under the
beds. He didn't know exactly what was going on but he knew enough to understand
his life was about to change.
He
hadn't seen his people together in a long time. The Man hadn't been around much
since the sign appeared. The other day Sebastian had heard his voice through
the answering machine and he'd winced as the dog danced about with delight.
Poor Charlie just didn't understand the difference between a machine and the
real thing. For a minute Sebastian had wished he didn't either. He wanted to
believe that his people would be together again and things would be the way
they used to, but he was starting to suspect it never would.
When the big long truck pulled into the
driveway that morning, Sebastian knew it was all over. He sat in the foyer and
watched with growing dismay as the televisions vanished into the truck, along
with the piano and dishes and even the paintings on the walls.
A snowy boot nudged his flank. "Move,
fatso."
Sebastian aimed a malevolent look in the
human’s direction but he didn't budge an inch. It was his house. Let old Snow
Boots move.
"Hey, tubs." The brown boot nudged
a little harder. "I got a twelve foot couch to move. Get your furry ass
out of my way."
Sebastian considered turning the human's
pants into confetti but thought better of it. Instead he leaped onto the sofa
with a surprising display of agility and curled up in the corner as if he
hadn't a care in the world. He was having trouble catching his breath but he
refused to let on.
"Hey, lady!" the human bellowed.
"Do something about this cat, will you?"
"Sebastian!" She appeared in the
doorway. "Scat! Stay out of the moving man's way."
Sebastian arched his back and hissed. Scat?
Since when did she tell him to scat? She'd never embarrassed him in front of
strangers before and he didn't like it one bit.
"Bad cat!" Her voice shook as if
she'd been crying. "Don't you ever do anything right?"
Her words cut him to the quick. He jumped
down from the sofa, landing hard on his paws. Pain shot up his legs and along
his back. He was getting too old for gymnastics. He waited for her to come see
if he'd hurt himself but she turned away as if she'd forgotten he was even
there. That hurt most of all.
"You gonna stand there all day,
fatso?" the human asked, aiming that boot in Sebastian's direction one
more time. "You heard what the lady said. Now scat!"
Sebastian couldn't help himself. There was
only so much a cat could take before he defended his honor. With one graceful
swing of his paw, he turned the moron's right pants leg into a windsock and
then he marched out the front door, tail held high. Maybe next time the human
would think twice before insulting an innocent feline who was just minding his
own business.
He strutted out onto the porch and surveyed
his domain.
Snow was everywhere he looked: on the porch,
the driveway, all over the yard. Sebastian's whiskers quivered with distaste.
He hated snow. It was cold and wet and reminded him of baths and other
indignities. Maybe if he looked pathetic enough, she would come out and rescue
him. An apology would be nice but he wouldn't insist.
He waited patiently, watching as tables and
chairs and beds and tables disappeared into the big truck parked in the
driveway. It seemed a very strange thing to do and he was pondering the mystery
when he suddenly remembered the last time something just like this had happened
to him.
The Boy and Girl had been babies then, too
little to do anything but sleep and eat and cry. Sebastian would have suggested
they leave the babies behind but his people had a strange fondness for the
little roundheads, a fondness Sebastian learned to share only after they were
out of diapers. In his opinion, litter boxes made a great deal more sense.
He remembered that summer as if it were
yesterday. All of their furniture had disappeared into a truck that time, too,
only back then there hadn't been quite as much of it, and most of what they had
boasted claw marks.
"Don't look so sad, Sebastian,"
the Woman had said, chucking him under the chin. "You'll love the new
house!"
"Wait until you see the backyard, old
boy," the Man had said with a laugh. "Slower birds and plumper mice
and lots of shady places to take a nap."
Was that the last time they'd all been
happy? The Man worked harder than ever and was home less and less. She worked
harder too, sitting alone at the computer late at night while the Boy and Girl
slept. Sebastian never saw them curled up side by side on the sofa or dancing
in the kitchen or heard them laughing together in their room late at night.
The moving men bellowed something behind
him. Sebastian scampered down the icy stairs and darted under the porch, just
in time to avoid being flattened by work boots and the big couch from the den.
Snow brushed against his belly and made him shiver. He hated the cold almost as
much as he hated the three-cans-for-a-dollar cat food his people sometimes
foisted on him. At his age he should be curled up in front of a roaring
fireplace with a platter of sliced veal and gravy, claiming his rightful place
in the family.
Wasn't
it bad enough that the Man didn't live with them anymore or that sometimes she
cried herself to sleep when she thought no one could hear her? Now they
wouldn't even have a home and everyone knew you couldn't be a family if you
didn't have a place where you could be together.
The cottage on Burnt Sugar Hill.
For days Sebastian had felt the pull of the
old place until the need to see that old house again was almost irresistible.
And now he finally thought he knew why: the secret to being a family was hidden
within its four walls and somehow Sebastian had to lead his people back home
before it was too late.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mrs. Scrooge
Rocky Hill Romances, Book One
Rocky Hill Romances, Book One
by Barbara Bretton
Genre: Contemporary
romance
Publisher: Free
Spirit Press
ISBN: 9781940665023
ASIN: B00FEXXSCA
Number of pages:
240
Word Count: approx.
65000
Book Description:
Single mother
Samantha Dean doesn't have time for Christmas. Or romance, for that matter. She
is weeks away from opening her own catering business, the most important part
of her plan to provide her certified genius daughter Patty with all the
wonderful things she deserves.
Except Patty doesn't want to go to a fancy boarding school. She wants a father and when she meets bartender Murphy O'Rourke at her fourth grade Career Day presentation, she knows she's met the man of her mother's dreams!
But can she convince her Mrs. Scrooge of a mom that it was time to give Christmas -- and love -- a second chance?
Except Patty doesn't want to go to a fancy boarding school. She wants a father and when she meets bartender Murphy O'Rourke at her fourth grade Career Day presentation, she knows she's met the man of her mother's dreams!
But can she convince her Mrs. Scrooge of a mom that it was time to give Christmas -- and love -- a second chance?
Originally published in print by Harlequin American
Excerpt:
Patricia
Mary Elizabeth Dean knew all about biology and how marriage and babies didn't
always go hand-in-hand the way they did in old movies and television sitcoms.
She'd heard stories about the days when a young girl had to leave home if she
became pregnant out of wedlock but those days were long gone by the time it
happened to her mother Samantha.
Sam had stayed right
where she was, safe and secure in her parents' house in Rocky Hill, New Jersey.
She finished her senior year of high school and, nine months pregnant with
Patty, she marched up to get her diploma then marched back out of the
auditorium and headed for the hospital in Princeton. Five hours later Patty was
born, and it seemed that from her very first breath she had been looking for a
man to be her father.
Her best friend Susan
couldn't understand it at all. "My dad is always telling me I can't stay
up to watch Letterman," Susan had complained just last week. "He
won't let me wear nail polish or get a tattoo or even think about going to the
movies with Bobby Andretti until I'm twenty-one. You're really a whole lot
better off with just your mom."
Patty knew her mom was
pretty special. Sam was independent and ambitious and she had always managed to
keep a roof over their heads and good food on the table, even while she juggled
school and work and taking care of Patty. But there was one thing Sam wasn't
very good at and that was romance.
Her mom said she didn't
have time for boyfriends and dating and maybe that was true but it seemed to
Patty that it wouldn't be long before she ran out of time. Patty had heard
women her mother's age talking about their biological clocks and how all the
good men had been snapped up while they were busy building careers and she
hated to think her mom would end up old and lonely with a dozen cats.
Not that Patty didn't
like cats but . . .
And so it was that she
decided to take over the quest.
There had been a few
good prospects but nobody she could imagine becoming part of her family until
the day Murphy O'Rourke walked into the classroom to give his career-day
presentation, and she knew her search was over.
Murphy O'Rourke wasn't
handsome, although his sandy brown hair was shiny and his hazel eyes held a
friendly twinkle. He wore a brown polo shirt with a corduroy sport coat that
was frayed at the elbows—and Patty couldn't imagine him sewing on those wimpy
patches Susan's dad had on his corduroy
sport coat. He didn't have a fistful of gold rings or ugly puffs of chest hair
sticking out of his shirt, and his voice didn't go all oily when he talked to
women. When Mrs. Venturella introduced him to the class he didn't try to be
funny or cool or any of the thousand other things that would have been the kiss
of death as far as Patty was concerned.
He smiled at them as if they were real live people and said,
"Good morning. I'm Murphy O'Rourke," and something inside Patty's
heart popped like a birthday balloon.
"That's the one!" she whispered to Susan.
"He's perfect."
Susan's round gray eyes widened. "Him?" The girl
looked down at the fact sheet in front of her. "He hasn't even been to
college."
"I don't care. He's exactly what I've been looking
for."
Susan wrinkled her nose. "He's old."
"So is my mother. That's what makes him so
perfect."
"I liked the fireman," said Susan. "Did you
see those muscles!" The girl sighed deeply and fluttered her eyelashes,
and Patty could barely keep from hitting her best friend over the head with her
math notebook.
"The fireman was stupid," said Patty. "He
didn't even understand the theory behind water-pressure problems encountered
fighting high-rise fires."
"Patty, nobody understands
things like that except you."
"The nuclear physicist from M.I.T. understood."
"Then why don't you
think he's the right man?"
"Because he called
me 'little lady' when he answered my question on the feasibility of nuclear
power near major urban centers."
"But he was
cute," said Susan. "He had the most darling red suspenders and bow
tie."
"I hate bow
ties."
Susan made a face.
"Oh, you hate everything, Patty Dean. I think you're about the snobbiest
girl I've ever—"
"Patricia!
Susan!" Mrs. Venturella rapped her knuckles sharply against the chalkboard
at the front of the room. "If your conversation is so fascinating, perhaps
you'd be willing to share it with the rest of the class."
Susan's cheeks turned a
bright red and she slumped down in her chair. "Sorry, Mrs.
Venturella," she mumbled.
Patty found herself
staring up at the twinkling hazel eyes of Murphy O'Rourke and suddenly unable
to speak.
"Patricia," warned
Mrs. Venturella. "Do you have something to say?"
Murphy O'Rourke winked
at her and before she knew it, the words came tumbling out. "Are you
married?"
All around her the class
was laughing but Patty didn't care. This was important.
O'Rourke looked her
straight in the eye. "No, I'm not."
"Do you have any
kids?"
"No kids."
"Do you—"
"That's enough,
Patricia." Mrs. Venturella turned to O'Rourke and gave him one of those
cute little "I'm sorry" shrugs Patty had seen the woman give Mr.
MacMahon, the phys ed teacher with the hairy chest. "I apologize, Mr.
O'Rourke. Patricia is one of our advanced students and she has an active
curiosity."
"I make my living
being curious," he said, then crossed his arms over his chest and leaned
back against Mrs. Venturella's desk. He looked straight at Patty. "Go
ahead. Ask me anything you want."
"On the newspaper business," said Mrs. Venturella,
with a stern look for Patty, who still couldn't speak.
"Do you make a lot of money?" Craig Haley, class
treasurer, asked.
"Enough to pay my rent," said O'Rourke.
"Did you ever go to China?" asked Sasha D'Amato.
"Twice." He grinned. "And I was thrown out
once."
Danielle Meyer held up a copy of the New York Telegram. "How come I don't see your name
anywhere?"
"Because I quit."
Patty was extremely
impressed: he didn't so much as bat an eye when Mrs. Venturella gasped in
horror. "What do you do now?" Patty asked.
"I'm a
bartender."
The only sound in the
classroom was the pop of Susan's bubble gum.
"Look," he
said, dragging his hand through his sandy brown hair, "I didn't mean to
misrepresent anything. When you guys called and asked me to speak at the
school, I was still a reporter for the Telegram.
This is a pretty new development."
"Why'd you quit?" Patty asked. If there was
anything her mom hated, it was a quitter. She hoped Murphy O'Rourke had a good
reason for giving up a glamorous job as a New York City reporter and becoming a
run-of-the-mill bartender, or it was all over.
"Artistic freedom," said Murphy O'Rourke.
"Bingo!" said Patty.
She'd finally found her man.
* * *
MURPHY O'ROURKE had faced hostile
fire in the desert war. He had stared danger in the face everywhere from the
subways of New York City to the back alleys of Hong Kong to the mean streets of
Los Angeles and never broken a sweat.
He'd been lied to, cursed at, beaten up and knocked down a
time or two but he'd never, not ever, encountered anything like facing sixty
curious New Jersey school kids on career day at Harborfields Elementary School
in Montgomery Township.
All in all, it made running naked down the Turnpike backward
in a blizzard seem like a day at the park.
They asked him about passports and phone taps. They asked
him about deadlines and drug busts and protecting his sources. Those kids had
more questions than the White House press corps and he had a hell of a time
keeping up with them.
Why had he let his old man talk him into this, anyway? His
father had always been big on community participation and had agreed to this
command performance a few months before the massive heart attack that laid him
low. When Murphy stepped in to take care of things for Bill, he hadn't expected
his job description would include a visit to Sesame Street.
Funny how quickly it all came back to you with the first
whiff of chalk dust. The pencils and the rulers; the big jars of library paste
and gold stars for perfect attendance; blackboards and erasers and the
unmistakable smell of wet boots on a snowy morning. Of course today there was also the hum of computers and the
friendly LCD glow of hand-held calculators, but except for a few different
trappings, it was still the same.
Even though it had been over twenty-five years since he'd
been in the fourth grade, he found that a few things never changed. It wasn't
tough at all to peg that dark-haired boy in the first row as the class wise
guy, or the pretty little blonde near the window as the class flirt. The clown
and the jock and most-likely-to-end-up-at-trade-school were just as easy to
pick out.
But that serious-looking
girl with the bright red hair and big blue eyes—damned if he could figure out
where she fit in the scheme of things. She didn't ask the usual questions about
the glamorous life of a reporter. Instead of giggling when he told his best
"I interviewed Justin Bieber" story, she asked him if he'd ever been
married. Hell, even after he told her he'd never taken the plunge, she went
right ahead and asked him if he had kids, and she never so much as blushed. In
fact she seemed more interested in knowing the details of his after-hours life
than the details of his headline-making rescue of an Iranian hostage last year.
When Mrs. Venturella
introduced the lawyer—"Anne Arvoti, divorce specialist"—Murphy
breathed easily for the first time since he entered the classroom. He nodded at
Mrs. Venturella, then was making a beeline toward the door when a small hand
snaked out and grabbed him by the coat tails.
The red-haired girl with
the ponytail. He should've known.
"You can't
leave," she whispered, her freckled face earnest and eager. "There's
a party afterward."
"I've got a bar to
run," he whispered back, wondering why he felt like he'd been caught
playing hooky and she was the truant officer.
"You have to stay," she insisted,
clutching his coat more tightly. "I have to make sure that you—"
"Patty!" Mrs.
Venturella's voice sounded to his right. "A bit more respect for Ms.
Arvoti's presentation, if you will."
He had to hand it to the
kid. Her cheeks reddened but not for a second did she look away.
"Please!" she mouthed, turning her head slightly so her teacher
couldn't see. "You have to stay!"
Murphy hesitated. He
hated schools. He hated school parties. He hated the thought of answering a
thousand questions while he juggled milk and cookies and longed for a stiff
Scotch. He had to get back to the bar and take over from Jack so the guy could
grab himself some dinner. There was a meeting of the Tri-County Small Business
Association at 7:00 p.m., then back to the bar for the usual late-night crowd.
The last thing he had time for was playing Captain Kangaroo for a roomful of
ten-year-olds.
But this kid was looking
up at him with such unabashed eagerness that the rock that had passed for his
heart for longer than he cared to remember thawed a bit.
"Christmas
cookies," she whispered, her blue eyes eager and bright behind her
wire-rimmed glasses. "My mom made them."
"It's only December
first," he whispered back. "Aren't you rushing things?"
"Christmas can't
come soon enough for me. Besides, I have a deal for you
Murphy O'Rourke knew
when he had been bested and he was okay with it. She was probably a Girl Scout
pushing chocolate mint cookies. He could handle that.
"Why not?" he
said, shrugging his shoulders and taking a seat near the blackboard. A glass of
milk, a few Santa Claus cookies, and he'd be out of there.
An hour, give or take.
What difference could one more hour possibly make?
* * *
IT
TOOK MURPHY exactly fifteen minutes to find out. The kid was some piece of
work.
"Fifty
dollars," Murphy said, meeting her fierce blue eyes. "Not a penny
more."
"Sixty-five dollars
a tray," Patty Dean stated in a voice Lee Iacocca would envy.
"Anything less and we'd be running in the red."
Murphy threw his head
back and laughed out loud. "I don't think you've ever run in the red in
your life. You're one tough negotiator."
"Thank you."
She didn't even blink. "But it will still be sixty-five dollars a tray. My
mother is an expert chef, and food doesn't come cheap."
"Does your father
have you on his payroll? You're better at this than most Harvard MBAs."
He caught the swift
glitter of braces as a smile flickered across her freckled face. "My
mother will be glad to hear that."
"And your
dad?"
She shrugged her bony
shoulders. "I wouldn't know. The last time I saw him I was two years
old."
"Two?"
"Yes," she
said. "My long-term memory is excellent and I remember him quite
clearly."
Murphy wouldn't have
thought it possible but his battle-scarred heart again showed signs of life.
He'd grown up without his mother, and he knew that the emptiness never left, no
matter how old you got or how successful. "Yeah, well, then tell your mom
she has one hell of a businesswoman on her hands."
"Sixty-two
fifty," Patty said. "Take it or leave it."
"Sixty-three,"
said Murphy, extending his right hand and engulfing the girl's hand in his.
"Not a penny less."
Patty's auburn brows
rose above the tops of her eyeglasses. "Sixty-three? Are you
certain?"
"Take it or leave
it."
"You're got
yourself a deal, Mr. O'Rourke."
Patty gave him her
mother's business card and promised that Samantha Dean would be at the
TriCounty meeting later that evening to finalize the arrangements. Feeling smug
and self-satisfied, Murphy grabbed an extra cookie and headed out toward his
car in the rainswept parking lot.
It wasn't until he was
halfway back to the bar that he realized he'd just made a deal with a
ten-year-old budding corporate shark whose mother might take a dim view of
handshake agreements with unemployed gonzo journalists who were now pulling
drafts for a living.
And, all things
considered, he wouldn't blame her one bit.
* * *
SAMANTHA
DEAN stifled a yawn as the New Jersey Transit train rumbled toward the station
at Princeton Junction. The railroad car was cold and damp and it took every
ounce of imagination in Sam's body to conjure up visions of hot soup and a
roaring fire. Before she knew it she'd be home with Patty, the two of them snug
in their favorite robes as they watched Monday
Night Football.
"One more day," she said to her best friend
Caroline. "Twenty-four hours and I never have to ride this blasted cattle
car again."
"Speak for yourself," said Caroline, eyeing the
handsome businessmen sitting opposite the two women. "I rather enjoy
riding the train."
Sam resisted the urge to kick Caroline in her fashionable
ankle. "You wouldn't mind a trek through the Sahara if there was a man
involved."
"Try it some time," Caroline said, her dimples
deepening. "You might find you like it. Men are pleasant creatures, once
you tame them."
Sam would rather tame a grizzly bear. At least grizzly bears
hibernated six months of every year. She could never find time in her crazy
daily schedule for a man, no matter how handsome. She turned and looked at her
fluffy blond friend. "Do me a favor," she said, giving way to another
yawn. "Why don't we just pretend you gave me matchmaking lecture number
378 and be done with it?" Caroline started to protest but Sam raised a
hand to stop her. "It's not as if I haven't heard it all before."
Caroline leaned her head against the worn leather seat. Even
at the end of a rainy, cold Monday she looked superb. If they weren't best
friends, Sam just might hate the woman.
"You may think you've heard it all," Caroline
said, "but I can tell you haven't paid attention. Patty needs a father,
Sam."
Sam's jaw settled into a stubborn line. "Patty has a
father," she snapped. "It's not my fault Ronald doesn't care that he
has a daughter."
Caroline was as stubborn as Sam. "I'm not talking about
Ronald Donovan and you know it. I'm talking about you, Sam. About your
future."
"My future is fine, thank you. This time next month,
I'll be open for business and from there the sky's the limit." For two
years Sam had eaten, breathed, slept Fast Foods for the Fast Lane and she was
finally on the eve of reaping the benefits of her backbreaking schedule of work
and school and motherhood.
"There's more to life than your career, Sam."
"Easy for you to say. You already have a career. Mine
hasn't started yet."
"There's Patty," Caroline said softly, tearing her
limpid blue-eyed gaze away from the man in the gray flannel suit across the
aisle. "You should think about her happiness."
Sam's fatigue disappeared in a quick blaze of anger.
"That's exactly what I'm thinking about, Caroline. Patty needs more than I
can give her waiting tables or typing envelopes. Fast Foods for the Fast Lane
is my best hope."
Having a genius for a daughter wasn't your everyday
occurrence. Patty was quickly outstripping the ability of Harborfields
Elementary School to keep up with her. Unfortunately Patty's nimble mind was
also quickly outstripping Sam's financial ability to provide tutors, books, and
advanced courses her little girl deserved but didn't have.
Sam had no college degree, no inheritance to fall back upon,
no friends in high places. What she had was a sharp mind, common sense, and the
ability to turn the simplest of foods into the most extraordinary fare. With
the area around Princeton booming with two-paycheck families and upscale
life-styles, Sam realized that all the modern conveniences in the world
couldn't compensate for the lack of a home-cooked meal made to order and ready
when you were.
From that simple idea came her brainchild, Fast Foods for
the Fast Lane and with it the hope that she would be able to give Patty every
chance in the world to achieve her potential.
The tinny voice of the conductor blared from the
loudspeaker: "Princeton Junction, next stop!"
Caroline, elegant as always in her timeless gray silk dress,
stood up and reached for her parcels in the overhead rack. "I should be
imprisoned for grand larceny," she said, sitting back down next to Sam,
her lap piled high with loot. "Three vintage Bob Mackies and a Donna Karan
and I didn't have to empty my bank account."
"I take it business is going well?" Sam asked,
collecting her books and papers from the empty seat next to her. Caroline ran
an offbeat boutique called Twice Over Lightly, where one-of-a-kind designer
dresses could be rented for a night by New Jersey CinderelIas.
Caroline's broad smile told the tale. "It's going so
well I can afford to wear the Schiaparelli to the TriCounty Masquerade Ball.
Jeannie Tremont will be green with envy."
"No," said Sam, searching her briefcase for her
car keys. "Absolutely not."
"Absolutely not what?" Caroline asked.
"I am absolutely not
going to the Christmas party."
"Of course you are," Caroline said. "Don't be
silly,"
"I hate Christmas
parties and I refuse to go to one where all the adults wear Santa Claus masks.
I have better things to do with my free time."
Caroline's elegant nose
wrinkled in disdain. "Spare me your Mrs. Scrooge routine, Sam. It was old
last year."
"I don't ask you to
forgo your mistletoe, Caroline," Sam said evenly. "Don't go asking me
to run around whistling Jingle Bells."
"You used to love
Christmas," Caroline persisted. "You used to start decorating before
Thanksgiving,"
"I used to wear
braids and watch Saved by the Bell, too."
"You even celebrated Christmas the year you were
expecting Patty and we both know what a rotten holiday that was."
"I was seventeen." Seventeen and filled with hope
and promise despite the fact that she was about to become a single mother. She
had decorated her parents' house from top to bottom and even lit the dozens of
tiny candles that illuminated the driveway on Christmas Eve. Had there really
been a time when setting up those tiny white candles outside had seemed so
wondrous, so important? "I didn't know any better."
Leave it to Samantha Dean to fall in love with a boy from
the right side of the tracks. A high school romance with a girl from Rocky Hill
was one thing; marriage to that very same girl was something else entirely.
There would be no marriage, said the illustrious Donovan
clan, not even to legitimize the baby Sam carried. And so it was on Christmas
Eve that Ronald was whisked away from the temptation and sent west where he
ended up in the United States Air Force Academy, on the road to a bright and
shiny future as a pilot.
And good riddance.
Sam had done fine by Patty up until now and, God willing,
she would do even better once her catering business got rolling.
"You should get out more," Caroline continued, as
the train rattled into the station. "Socialize. Christmas soirees are all
part of doing business in this town, Sam."
"Well, the soirees will have to go on without me, I
have ten weeks' worth of work and only four weeks to accomplish it. Trust me: I
don't have time for Christmas."
"Everyone has time for Christmas."
Sam laughed out loud. "You don't even have time for the
Tri-County meeting tonight."
"That's different. The store is open tonight and
Jeannie has the evening off." She narrowed her eyes in Sam's direction.
"I hope you're going."
Sam glanced out at the cold rain lashing against the train
windows. "Not me. I intend to stretch out on the sofa and watch Sex and the City reruns while Patty
tackles nuclear fusion."
"Not a very businesslike attitude, Sam."
"I'm not in
business yet, Caroline."
Caroline waved her words
away. "A mere technicality. You should be out there spreading Christmas
cheer. I don't think you're being fair to Patty." Caroline looked
altogether too pleased with her logic for Sam's taste.
"Just because I
don't turn all warm and mushy when I hear 'Deck the Halls,' doesn't mean I'm
going to deny Patty her fun."
"Well, thank God
for that," Caroline murmured.
"I would have
kidnapped that girl for the holidays."
"Wait until I'm
established," Sam said. "In a few more years I'll have plenty of time
for Christmas celebrations?''
"I certainly hope
so. Christmas is a time for miracles, honey, and there aren't many of them
around these days. Who knows? For all you know, your big break might be waiting
for you at the Tri-County meeting." Caroline patted Sam's hand. "You
just have to believe."
"Oh, I
believe," said Sam as the train stopped and the doors slid open. "I
believe in peace on earth, joy to the world, and that not even the promise of a
weekend in the Bahamas could tempt me to go to that meeting tonight.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
About the Author:
Oh, how I hate
bios! All of that deadly dull information about name (Barbara Bretton) and date
of birth (June 25) and geographical data (born in New York City; lives near
Princeton, NJ), marital status (many years married), and hobbies (who has
time??). How do you gather up all of those dull, dry facts and turn them into
something interesting?
No wonder I tell
lies for a living.
I considered
weaving a story for you about life on a houseboat on the French Riviera. Or
maybe my years as a concubine, hidden away in a golden pleasure palace in the
shimmering desert. Then I decided to do the unthinkable and tell you the truth.
When I sold my
first book and my life changed forever. I sent in my manuscript on Thursday
February 21, 1982 and four days later the telephone rang and I heard the
amazing words, "We want to buy your book." How I wish you could have
seen me. I was standing by the kitchen door of our North Babylon house, the
picture of cool sophistication, as I listened to Vivian Stephens explain the
terms of the deal to me. You would have thought I'd sold a first book every
single day of my life. Yes, I said. Sounds wonderful. Thank you so much for
calling. I look forward to our association. That cool sophistication hung on
until I hung up the phone, took a deep breath, then promptly threw up on my
shoes.
I was thirty-one
years old, unagented, unschooled, unfamiliar with anything to do with the
business of publishing. To put it mildly, I was in shock. My husband was
working in Manhattan at the time (and finishing up his degree at night) so it
would be hours until I could break the news to him. This was too exciting to waste
on a phone call. I wanted to see his face when I told him that my dream had
finally come true -- and came with a $6000 advance!
He pulled into the
driveway at midnight. I was waiting in the doorway, holding a bottle of
champagne and two glasses. I didn't have to say a word. He knew right away and
the look of joy and pride in his eyes warms me now, years later, long after the
advance faded into memory.
A lot has happened
to me in the years since that first sale. I've learned that this is a difficult
and demanding business (it takes a tough writer to write a tender book) and
that I am happiest when I am most ignorant. I've also learned that a good
friend, a writer and pal who truly understands, is worth her weight in good
reviews and royalty checks.
I fell madly in
love with Skye O'Malley in early 1982 and wrote an unabashedly gushy fan letter
to our beloved Bertrice Small. By the time Sunny answered, I had joined the
ranks of the published and Sunny became friend and mentor, guide and confidant.
She has held my hand through broken dreams, disappointments, family illnesses,
and accepted my bizarre need to go underground from time to time with great
affection and understanding. Over the years I've come to understand the
difference between the writer and her work, that loving the book doesn't
guarantee that I will love the author. But what a joy it is when you discover
that the author of a beloved favorite is even more wonderful and witty and wise
than the characters she creates.
So this bio is for
you, Sunny, for being the best of friends during the worst of times and -- even
more wonderful -- during the good times as well.
And now for the
statistics:
Barbara Bretton is
the USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of more than 40 books. She
currently has over ten million copies in print around the world. Her works have
been translated into twelve languages in over twenty countries.
Barbara has been
featured in articles in The New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal,
Romantic Times, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Herald News, Home News, Somerset
Gazette,among others, and has been interviewed by Independent Network News
Television, appeared on the Susan Stamberg Show on NPR, and been featured in an
interview with Charles Osgood of WCBS, among others.
Her awards include
both Reviewer's Choice and Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times; Gold
and Silver certificates from Affaire de Coeur; the RWA Region 1 Golden Leaf;
and several sales awards from Bookrak. Ms. Bretton was included in a recent
edition of Contemporary Authors.
Barbara loves to
spend as much time as possible in Maine with her husband, walking the rocky
beaches and dreaming up plots for upcoming books.
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