I didn't achieve those dreams. Well not entirely. I'm not a marine biologist, though my fascination with the ocean and marine life is still alive and well. I do consider myself an artist though. Instead painting on canvas with oils and skilled brush strokes, I create art by painting a picture with words. If I do it well enough, you as the reader will feel as though the story comes alive for you. Like you are actually right there with the characters every step of their journey.

I consider this dream to be an everlasting work in progress. Each time I sit down and open my manuscript, it is an opportunity to grow and perfect my piece of art. I want to learn from the authors I admire and aspire to be like. My critique partners each serve as my teachers (though they may not realize it). They share their strengths through their feedback, they encourage me to see the beauty in what I've created, and most importantly… they keep me positive, grounded, and somewhat focused on the larger picture. And of course my own personal tidbit of advice… listen and don't be afraid to pursue opportunities that fall into your lap.

Once you decide on that dream, the one you can't live without achieving, you want to immerse yourself in the pursuit of it. You want to surround yourself with people who can help you along your journey. So do tell, what do you want to be when you grow up and what little tips and tricks do you have to share about your journey to success?

Moira

Moira spends her daytime hours as a typical 9-5 slave chasing the almighty dollar, and raising twin zombie sons. During her evening hours, she can often be found steeped in homework, watching an episode of the Walking Dead, or penning her latest novel. She is an author of urban fantasy with a romance kicker, a woman with a penchant for men in kilts, lover of shoes, and connoisseur of Guinness! In other words...Moira is a complete mess.

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I wrote and edited.

I submitted something…. yet at this point, I can't even remember what that was [maybe it's just a figment of my imagination].

I moved. I settled–mostly.

I am ready for the New Year.

Come on in and tell me what your New Year looks like to you.

Have a Happy One!!

May God Bless it with the satisfaction of success.

Bethanne Strasser

Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.

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 To me, Christmas is about a promise. The promise of new love. The promise of new life. The promise of eternal happiness.

This story is for anyone in need of a good, old-fashioned promise. May this Christmas season be filled with Love.

Dear Isabel,
Two months, three days and six hours until you come home. (No, I’m not counting)
Yesterday, I walked past the school and it reminded me of when I first saw you. You might not remember me because you were scolding some bully for picking on a little kid. I always wondered what set you off. You were bigger than life, long hair flying, mouth running—in Spanish! I had no idea what you were saying, but it didn’t even matter. I think that’s when I first fell in love with you…

       Isabel Rodriguez dropped the well-worn letter into her lap and stared through the tinted window of the crowded bus.
       He loved her? The idea of someone loving her made her stomach twist. She rubbed a hand over her heart. Her secret admirer wanted to meet. On Christmas morning, no less, but after twenty-four letters—two for every month of her deployment—she wanted the discovery. “Although, if he knew me at all,” she muttered under her breath, “he’d know I was going to church with my family.”
       The passenger next to Isabel—in her Christmas vest, bright green and red with Rudolf knitted on one side and Santa on the other, shifted, looking at her with a questioning frown.
       Isabel cleared her throat and smiled, “Sorry. Just thinking out loud.”
       …just thinking that when she found out who’d made her fall in love with him without even telling her his name, she was going to kick his butt.
       The bus pulled into her home town of Red Bluff and stopped on the corner of Elm Street and Main.
       Cold air washed over her as she stepped down into Northern California’s December mist. The driver pulled her duffle from the cargo bay, and she thanked him.
       “No. Thank you, miss.”
       She smiled and shook the hand he offered. “Merry Christmas.”
       “Welcome home,” he added then waved before driving off.
       “Eesabel!” An oh-so-familiar voice echoed from the church parking lot, strong and clear—or just plain loud. Heels clattered over the cold cement and jangling sounds of bracelets filled the air like bells in a Christmas song.
       At first braced for impact, Isabel relaxed in her sister’s arms, the worry of tomorrow falling away.
       “Maria, girl,” she scolded. “You need a jacket.”
       “Never mind that. How was your flight home? Did you have to stay long on base before they set you free?” Maria looked her over—head to toe. “You lost weight again. Oh, but it’s so good to see you.”
       Isabel cringed inside. It seemed with every deployment she lost a few too many pounds. “I’m just glad to be home. Where is everyone? No balloons? No band? Not even a roll of ticker tape for my return?”
       “Very funny. We know you too well. You would be tempted to use your M-16. Come on. Mom says to stop at the church and light a candle. Then we’ll go home.” Maria hooked her arm through Isabel’s with a pregnant pause before she continued, “Have you gotten any more letters?”
       “He wants to meet.” Isabel still didn’t know what to think of it. A secret admirer? It was weird… yet romantic—for a deprived soul like herself. “Christmas morning.”
       The answering sigh was expected and familiar. “Have you figured out who he is?”
       She threw her bag in the back of the car with a shrug and climbed in. “No. I’ve thought about it, but in the end, something stops me from really trying. Is it wrong to just enjoy the conversation and the attention?” It had been a long time since anyone had pursued her. “He’s kind, smart, funny. He likes kids and wants a large family. Of course, I’ll have to convince him otherwise about that.”
       “Ha ha. You love us.” Maria tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Just one guess, though. You have to have at least one guess.”
       “You want to gossip,” Isabel accused with a laugh. “I don’t know. If I knew, I might not be so taken.”
       “So you are attracted. I do hope he’s young and good-looking” She wagged a finger in her direction. “He could be fat.”
       Maria’s reality check made Isabel smile.  “Love handles won’t matter as long as he has a brain and a heart.”
       The neighborhood passing by—the Christmas lights especially—drove home the absoluteness of her mission completed. She swallowed the lump in her throat.
       Straining her neck to see down River Road as they crossed it, she wondered if Zack was back yet. She missed having him to talk to like they’d been able to do while she trained at Fort Benning. 
       “Well, you won’t go alone.”
       But, Isabel had every plan to go alone. Good Lord, she didn’t need an audience to watch her make a fool of herself.

      “Can I get you something to drink, Isa? Gin and tonic? Or perhaps a beer?”
       “Isabel,” she corrected her new, old friend with a smile. “No, thank you. I might fall over. How about a glass of punch?” She put a hand on Phillip’s arm. A gentle squeeze had his eyes lighting up like her mother’s Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. He was a nice guy. Nice. And she wondered if he was the one. Her heart hadn’t fluttered when he approached her earlier, and after all the letters, she was certain there would be something—a spark of recognition.
       Isabel side-stepped into the alcove, out of the way of all the traffic—family, friends, and strangers. Exhaustion blurred the edges of the celebration as the last four days of processing and travel caught up with her. She needed just five minutes against this wall to get her second wind, because if there was one thing the Rodriguez family knew how to do well, it was celebrate. Holidays, holy days, first communions, weddings, even funerals.
       Food would pour out of the kitchen as if it was the last day on earth. Drink would flow and music would resound through the rafters. She loved it. And hated it. The family joke was that she’d joined the Army to be alone. There could be a grain of truth in that.
       A hand settled on her shoulder and she jerked away.
       Zack Benson raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa. Slow down killer.”
       Isabel scowled. “Oh, it’s you.”
       A long time ago, they’d been like siblings. Now, not so much. Now, she had an urge to fix her hair and stand up straighter. Those she could ignore, but the racing of her heart gave her away as it had since that summer after graduation.
       He was her friend nothing more, like a brother.
       “If Phillip’s bothering you, I could take care of him.”
       “You better not,” she demanded, horrified at the thought of him running off a potential love match and just as horrified that he noticed her awkwardness. “You’ve done enough for me in the past, thank you very much, Zack. I won’t have you messing with this.”
       “A love match, eh?” Zack held up a plate of food.
       “I didn’t say that.” Her frown caused a headache right between her eyes. She grabbed a piece of broccoli and dipped it.
       Zack brushed a finger across the paper sticking out of her shirt pocket and left a trail of warmth across her collarbone.
       Maybe the doctor was right about needing more rest. She blinked away a touch of lightheadedness. Yes, that was it—fatigue.
       She’d carried the letter for months. As proof that someone on God’s green earth wanted her. Maybe Phillip? “He works with the fire department—an investigator, and he’s very nice. He likes children.” As a matter of fact, he has two of his own. That hadn’t been in the letters.
       She wanted children, though.
       “You look like hell, Isabel. You need food and sleep in that order, not some idiot who writes sissy love notes and offers you beer when it’s obvious you’re about to fall over already.”
       Tears tickled the back of her eyes. She was tired. And irritated by the whole mystery. Chinese torture, that’s what it made her think of and she wanted to scream. “Don’t call him an idiot.”
       Zack was always being over-protective.
       “Mija, amor.” Her mother approached and interrupted, putting an arm around her and giving Zack a hard look. “Go find something to do besides tease my daughter.”
       Zack winced. “Los sientos, Margaret.” He waited a heartbeat. “And Isabel.”
       Phillip strode through the crowded kitchen toward her and a sound must have escaped, because her mother tsked. “Don’t get caught up in something that isn’t real, Isabel. You don’t even know if he’s the one.”
       “But, he could be the one, Mamá.” Her voice faltered and the room spun.
       Phillip was standing over her with a punch in one hand. The silly grin on his face turned to worry. “Isabel?”
       Isabel opened her mouth to respond. Nothing came out. Lightheaded, she frowned. A chair. She needed a chair.
       Her mom’s lovely face came into sudden, sharp focus. Her lips were moving, but it was as if someone had muted a television. Beautifully tapered fingers snapped at someone behind her.
       “Miguel!” Zack called to her dad. But, his strong, commanding voice faded.
       “I’m so sorry,” Isabel whispered as someone wrapped arms around her, and she slipped into the sweet, blessed oblivion of darkness.

       The letter, which had been in her pocket last night, was gone. She threw back the covers of her bed, frantically searching, and dumped the contents of her dresser drawers. Gone? After all this time? She couldn’t believe it.
       She wanted to cry.
       Maybe it was a sign. She’d held onto it for so long. Maybe God was telling her to put aside false hopes. She sighed. That’s what her mother had said, anyway.
       After rushing to get out the door, Isabel drove to Ayer Park with a pounding heart and sweaty hands. She hadn't been this nervous since…well, ever. There wasn't even a car in the parking lot. Isabel shut off her car and got out. A breeze cut through the trees, and she tightened her coat, tying it off in front. She slipped her hands into leather gloves and stuffed them in her pockets.
       After years of playing in the park as a kid, the stone path was familiar under her feet.
       God had allowed her a good night’s sleep followed by the most gorgeous sunrise she’d seen since leaving Afghanistan. There was eternal promise in the blazing colors and it lifted her hesitant mood as she took the last turn in the path and followed it toward the row of trees along the river bank. A figure stepped into view.
       Someone was there.
       Slowing, she caught a glimpse of dark hair and a jean jacket—she knew that jean jacket. And a jaw line, smooth and square. She would recognize it anywhere. Her heart fell.
       Oh no. What had he done? A fire started under her feet and she steamed closer. That son-of-a-gun. She did not need his protection any more.
       “Zachariah Edward Benson!”
       He turned, watching her approach with hooded eyes.
       “You sent him away, didn’t you?” She stopped short in front of him and pummeled him with her fists.
       “Isabel,” he growled, trapped her in a grip and gave her a little shake.
       Her teeth chattered closed. And she stopped. “Who was it?”
       “Back to your old fighting self, I see.”
       She stomped her foot and looked him in the eye.
       All argument fled at nervousness shimmering in his blue eyes. Not just nerves. Longing. “But…”
       “I have something for you.” He fumbled into the front of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper.
       “My letter!” Isabel grabbed it from him and smoothed out the roughened edges. “How did you? I mean, when…”
       He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged a shoulder. “I took it last night after carrying you up to your room.”
       “You? Oh,” she breathed. “I’d thought…”
       “Um, do you think you might finish a sentence?”
       She shook her head slowly and really looked at him again. The spark of humor in his eyes. The slightly crooked nose, broken during combatives during training together a few years ago. Maybe it was okay that he’d scared the letter writer away. She already loved him. Letters from a stranger could not mean as much as what she was feeling right this minute.
       Isabel grabbed the letter by each side and started to rip.
       “What are you doing? Stop,” Zack exclaimed and stole the paper back from her grip.
       “Don’t you see?” she questioned, stepping closer to him and reaching for his hand. “It doesn’t matter anymore who was here.”
       His brow rose and, with a chuckle, he handed the letter back. “Read it.”
       A touch of sadness stole over her as she let go of love that could never match what she'd had right here all along.

I can’t wait to see you on Christmas morning.
Stay safe. I’m praying for you.

      What? Her gaze flew to Zack then back to the letter. Her heart pounded ferociously against her sternum, and a laugh bubbled out.
       A line had been added at the bottom of her letter.

P.S. It’s me.

Bethanne Strasser

Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.

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      December 15th.  Morning

      "Mommy! What is Santa doing to that man?"
       Kelly stopped frosting the gingerbread house and peered under the table where her four-year-old daughter recently sat with a cache of stolen gumdrops. Shelby wasn't there; she was calling from the front room. Surveying the leaning gingerbread structure—more shack than house, really–Kelly sighed. "I don't know, honey. What is Santa doing?"
       "I don't know. But the ladder just fell on them."
       She dropped the frosting-smeared spatula and picked up her cell phone, then hurried to the front room. Shelby sat on one of the many moving boxes Kelly had yet to unpack. Out the picture window, she saw a man lying in the bushes, a plastic Santa atop him and a ladder across them both. Neither Santa, nor the man, were moving, but standing on the cement stoop and waving a dishtowel, her elderly neighbor stared at the man in horror—apparently too panicked to do anything else. "Come with me, Shelby," she ordered in a voice that made the child comply without question. She took the child's hand and together they went outside.
       As they crossed the street, she could hear the woman shrieking, "O-di! O-di! Madonna mia! Trey! O-di!" in time to her dishcloth waves.
       Kelly dialed 9-1-1 as they neared the man. "Shelby, go stand next to the lady," she told her daughter as she took in the scene. "This is Dr. Pierce. I need an ambulance."

       Trey opened his eyes, wondering why his bed was so uncomfortable and who was lying on top of him. And why was he so cold? He struggled to move, but a soft, feminine yet commanding voice told him, "You've had an accident. Lie still. I'm trying to get the ladder off you. The ambulance is on the way." A woman's face loomed over his and his heart stopped. "Theresa?" His wife had died in Iraq; he'd buried her three years ago last Christmas and felt her loss every day. So what was she doing looming over him, a halo shining brightly around her head? "Am I dead? God, I've missed you, baby."
       She frowned. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
       Fingers? Who cares about fingers? He smiled at her; she was beautiful to behold, even though her dark eyes were now as blue as the morning glories she'd loved. "I like what you've done with your hair."
       She nodded. "Thanks. The ambulance will be here, soon." She looked up and spoke to someone nearby. "He'll be all right, ma'am. Don’t cry."
       Nonny. She was talking to Nonny. Trey closed his eyes and took a deep breath—or tried to, anyway. It hurt too much. Why was she talking to his grandmother? Because I'm at her house. I was putting that stupid plastic Santa up next to the chimney. God, I hate that Santa. He's all faded.
       "I fell off the roof," Trey realized aloud. "I'm in the bushes."
       "That's right." Theresa loomed over him again. His heart fell. Not Theresa. A woman, but not his dead wife. She gently touched his face. "I got the ladder and Santa off of you. He's been crushed, I'm afraid."
       "Good," Trey said. The vibrant blue of her eyes held his own. He realized that he ached all over, but through the pain he felt something else, something connected ­­­­to the woman whose gaze locked with his. It was…wonder.

       "O-di!" Shelby muttered as one of Mrs. Natale's—Nonny, she said to call her Nonny—many grandsons knocked an ornament off the tree. He bent and picked it up amidst a wave of ribbing and more o-di's. He turned to Shelby and held the ornament out to her.
       "Here, Princess. You want to put it back on the tree?"
       "Up there." Shelby pointed to a high point on the tree and he lifted her up so she could hang the ornament on her chosen branch. "There."
       "No problem." He put her down and turned back to his conversation.
       Kelly shook her head. In the days after the ambulance had taken Mrs. Natale's grandson away, she'd somehow become enfolded in the familial embrace of this big, warm-hearted—and loud—Italian family. An only child herself, she'd always envied people with families like this and she couldn't deny Shelby the opportunity to experience it. Especially on Christmas Eve, when the entire Natale clan gathered at Nonny's for the traditional Feast of the Seven Fishes. She'd had to Google it after she'd agreed to attend the gathering.
       There was other food, besides shellfish and salted cod balls and fried squid—calamar', Nonny had called it. Cheese lasagna, salads of every description, fresh bread, cookies, cakes, pies. Shelby was so full of sugar, Kelly was sure she was going to have to detox the child for days.
       Despite the house full of people and food, however, something was missing. Nonny had said that her grandson, Trey, would be there as soon as he got off from work. Kelly hadn't asked anymore, because she didn't want it to be obvious she couldn't stop thinking about him.
       Something about Trey had touched her. It had been odd to feel her heart hitch and her stomach jump as he lay on a flattened bush under the squashed Santa and heavy metal ladder.  But there was something in his dark eyes that pulled at her. It wasn't that he'd thought she was his deceased wife. She'd asked Nonny who Theresa was and was struck by the similarities between them; she'd lost James in Iraq three years before, as well. She'd wondered if that was what drew her to him but then realized she'd felt this pull even before she'd known the story of his lost soldier wife.
       A ruckus broke out in the kitchen, a chorus of "heys" and "Merry Christmas" and "It's about time you showed up, you chooch" that made her pulse begin to race. Was it him? She made her way to the doorway to watch the family greet their missing member.
       But Trey's dark eyes met hers right away, and the grin that spread across his handsome face made her breath catch and her knees grow weak. He pushed through the throng to stand before her.
       "You're so tall," Kelly blurted before she could think. "I mean, you looked shorter lying in the bushes."
       "And you're so beautiful." He laughed and brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek. The warmth of his hand left a trail of tingles on her skin. "Thank you for saving me the other day."
       She shrugged. "I’m an ER doctor. It's what I do."
       He nodded. "I'm an EMT. Which ER? I don't recognize you."
       "We just moved here. It was an impulse decision. I wanted to be in a new place," she explained, pulling her gaze from his to take in his uniform. "You're a firefighter?" Her breath caught. Prior to going to Iraq to fight terrorism, James had been a firefighter.
       "Yes I am." He lifted his hand for her to shake. "Company 12."
       "Kelly Pierce. St. Joseph's Hospital." She put her hand in his; his fingers folded around hers and she trembled at the wave of emotion that washed over her at his touch.
       "Hey." Trey's brother shouldered his way up to them. "That's how you're gonna thank the lady? By shaking hands? I'm ashamed to call you my brother."
       Trey tightened his grip around Kelly's fingers. "Yeah, well maybe I'm a gentleman and not a buttagats, like you."
       Joey said something that sounded like "Gee-drool," and punched Trey in the shoulder before holding up a sprig of mistletoe. He held it over them. "There you go. Now you can thank her for real and still be a gentleman, stoonod."
       Trey looked down at Kelly—she laughed up at him, unoffended by his brother's suggestion. When he lowered his face so that his mouth hovered over hers, she stood on tiptoe to make their connection complete.
       As soon as their lips touched, emotion so strong swirled around and through her; she clung to Trey in case she fell. She realized then, he hung on to her as tightly as she held him. Love, powerful—and inexplicable—swept over her. As if it were meant to be. And she knew that Trey Natale would be her husband—and she, his wife—for the rest of their lives.

December 15th, one year later…
       "Thank you for coming with me." Trey blinked back tears as he placed roses on Theresa's grave. "It feels weird, in a way, but–"
       "It feels right." Kelly finished the sentence for him, as she so often did. It was spooky how well they were in sync, often understanding one another without words as if they were telepathic. "I understand." She shrugged. "Besides, I wanted to visit James, today, too." Then her eyes narrowed and she frowned as she studied Theresa's stone. "She was killed today? I mean, on this date?"
       Trey nodded. "I thought you knew. I said it was her anniversary."
       "I thought you meant your wedding anniversary." Kelly looked up at him with wide eyes. "James was killed today, too."
       "They died on the same day?" He shook his head. Too strange.
       Kelly bent and read his dead wife's stone; she gasped and lifted her hand to her mouth. "She was in James' unit! They served together."
       He gaped at her. Her unspoken thought hung in the air between them. And died together.
       Suddenly, it all made sense. Her practically unplanned move to the house across from Nonny's. His accident with the ladder, though he climbed them every day in far more dire situations. Their unexpected attraction and the strength of their love. Trey and Kelly had called it their Christmas miracle…but as they gazed at one another, they realized it was more than that. It was a final gift from their soldier spouses who'd lived and worked and died together, a Christmas gift of love.

Merry Christmas…Buon Natale!

A trapped-at-home mom of three, freelance fiction editor and romance writer, Cynthia Selwyn has been married to the same man for nearly twenty years. If there's anything she knows about relationships, it's that humor can keep the love alive (or at least on life-support).

She invites writers and readers to reach her at cynthia@author-wise.com or check out her blog at: cynthiaselwyn.blogspot.com. You can also find her at: http://www.facebook.com/cynthia.selwyn and follow her at: http://twitter.com/#!/cynselwyn

Cyn

Cynthia Selwyn (aka C.D. Yates) is the trapped-at-home mom of three and wife of one. When she's not hanging around with her Critters, she's editing for one of several e-publishers, writing erotica for Breathless Press or trying to get her characters (and her four-year-old) to behave.

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By Robin Delany

The Smith Bedroom, Dec 24, 12:05 a.m.

      Hattie lay on her side in front of Dylan, who draped a hand over her waist from behind. She kept her eyes trained on her bedside table and wiped at her watering eyes.  
      "I know we wanted to be pregnant by this Christmas, but it'll be okay, Hattie. We have each other, and that's all that matters." Dylan rubbed her hair, and his soft voice made another sob break from her throat.  
      "I know." She wiped again as fresh hot tears spilled over. "I should be happy for what we have."
      After a year and a half of treatments and three failed rounds of in vitro fertilization that had depleted their savings, they'd spent the last five months trying to face reality. She was barren. Barren. What kind of a-hole came up with that ugly term? Like her insides were a desert, or something. She ran a finger along the ruffled pillowcase that she'd so often imagined a tiny form laying on, suckling at her breast, its little fingers wrapped around her big one. 
      Dylan kissed her cheek. "We may not have a baby, but we have a lot." 
      She stared at the ceiling, not wanting to see the ruffle, but really, it didn't matter. Everything brought her loss into focus these days. Was it considered a loss when you never had something in the first place? 
      "For the past five months, I've been trying to count my blessings. I really have." She held a hand up so he could see her fingers as she counted them off. "I've got a loving husband, a supportive family, and the career in journalism I’d always dreamed of. I know I've got a lot. More than so many others, in fact. I just can't make my heart accept what my head tells it." It didn't matter that she'd wanted a child far longer than her career. Or that she'd owned about fifty dolls as a girl and taken meticulous care of each one. She'd even made little outfits for her egg in Home Economics class. 
      "I know, sweetheart." He rubbed a knuckle down her cheek. "Try to sleep. Life is always a little harder when you're coming down with a cold. You'll feel more optimistic in a few days when it's passed and you have more energy."  
      "I think it's probably a mild case of food poisoning," Hattie moaned.   
      "That's the last time we buy sushi from a gas station." 
      She swiped at the last of her tears. "You can say that again." 
      "That's the last time we buy sushi from a gas station."  
      She giggled, and elbowed him playfully. "Go to sleep."

      The Smith Bathroom, Dec 24, 6:05 a.m. 
       "I could loan you some money to try again," Mama said. 
      "After all these years of trying, I don't think there's anything left to do." Hattie sat on the edge of the tub, one hand holding her cell, the other covering her eyes. Her whole body ached and she'd had strange vivid dreams that agitated what little sleep she'd gotten. What the heck was her brain trying to tell her by having a giant octopus chase her across a parking lot? Ridiculous. Yet she'd woken in a sheen of sweat. 
      "You can try it again. Did you ask the doc—?" 
      "I don't know. Look, I'm not feeling well. I have to go."  
      "What's wrong, honey?" Mama's voice pitched higher, the way it did when she was concerned. "Are you sick?" 
        Her stomach roiled. "I think I have food poisoning. I'm nauseous and tired, like Dad was that time he ate the mystery container in the fridge when you weren't home to make dinner." 
      "Ugh. I still can't believe he did that."  
      Hattie smiled, practically hearing the eye roll in Mama's tone. Her stomach heaved. 
      "I'll see you when your flight gets in." Hattie pressed a hand against her mouth.  
      "But Hattie—"  
      She dropped the phone and voided her stomach for the second time that morning. And it was only six. This was going to be a long Christmas Eve.

      The Smith Living Room, Dec 24, 12:05 p.m. 
       Hattie cuddled with Dylan on the couch, picking at the bland turkey sandwich he'd made her.  
      "Now she thinks I'm dying of the plague."  
      Dylan laughed. "When you stubbed your toe, your Mama thought it was the plague." 
      "She's a little overprotective." Hattie tried to keep her mouth straight and failed. "She means well, but she's a diagnoser. During my childhood, I had ADD, PCOS, and any other syndrome with an acronym. By the time she gets here, she'll have my symptoms all figured into an official diagnosis and the pharmacy on standby with penicillin." 
      "I bet she will." Dylan's smile widened to show more of his teeth, and he tugged a strand of her hair. "So, what do you think I gave you for Christmas? What's your guess this year?" 
      She set the sandwich on the plate at her feet and leaned into him again, resting a hand on his stomach. "I'll bet it's a bowling ball. You've been wanting one all year. I bet you got one for me so you can use it when I say I don’t want it." 
      He lifted an eyebrow. "And I bet you got the ultimate box set of Sex in the City for me." 
      "Wasn't that what you wanted?" she asked with wide eyes. "I swore it was on your list." 
      He smiled down at her and tweaked the tip of her nose. "You're the best thing in my life. You know that?" 
      "Of course I am." Hattie laughed, stretching to kiss him. "I love you, too."

      The Smith Dining Room, Dec 24, 6:05 p.m. 
       Thud.  
      Hattie rubbed a hand over her face. Thud, thud. 
      She pushed away from the table and went to the door, pausing a moment before opening it to see Mama and Papa walking toward the house. Her stomach was rebelling again, but this time, it seemed, the rebels had pipe bombs and machine guns. Or at least pitch forks.  
      After hugs and kisses, hauling in bags and gifts, and an hour of work related small talk, Mama stood. "I've discovered the problem." 
      Hattie sneaked a sly glance to Dylan. "Oh?" 
      "Yes, and I've got just the thing for you here in my bag." Mama walked to where her purse sat on the kitchen counter and opened it. It must be an herbal remedy, if she had it in her purse. St. Johns Wort? Noni juice, perhaps?  
      Mama drew a long box with a light blue cover and a picture of a pregnancy test. Hattie's mouth fell open and a stone dropped into her stomach. 
      "That's cruel, Mama. I'm sick, and I'm tired, and now you shove this in my face?" She thrust a hand toward the disgustingly cheerful blue cover. 
      Dylan came to stand next to Hattie and put his hand on her shoulder. Papa looked away as if unaware of the conversation, as he had during every fight she and Mama had since her childhood. Hattie frowned. How diplomatic.  
      "That's right, sweetheart. You're sick. You're tired. When I called at eight o'clock, you said the smell of the pot roast was bothering you, and when I called again at two-thirty, you yelled at Dylan to take out the trash before it made you—what did you call it?—ah, yes, before it made you hork. You're pregnant, dear. Now take the test." 
      Hattie couldn't even let herself wish it in the smallest part of heart. It had been too long, there had been too many 'no's to have a 'yes' with no help. To have a yes at all. She clenched her jaw to keep her chin from trembling. "Mother, do you know what the doctor told me on our last visit?"  
      Dylan stiffened at her side, and Mama shook her head.   
      "That's because I couldn't bear to tell you. He said we'd be better off looking into a surrogate, since my body wasn't inclined to accept implantation." She stormed to the cabinet and pulled out the brochure he'd given them, and threw it on the table. It skittered off the edge and landed on the carpet at Mama's feet. 
      Mama bent to pick it up, studying the cover image of a couple standing on either side of a pregnant woman with their hands on her belly and insipid smiles on their faces. 
      "I can't give you grandkids. It's not going to happen. Face it." Hot, angry tears rolled down her cheeks. 
      "All right, now you listen to me, Hattie Jane Smith. You will walk into that bathroom and take this test. If it says negative, I won't say another word." She shook the box and the test clacked around inside it. "But until then, I'm going to harp on this like the cruel mother I am." 
      "Fine!" Hattie scowled and snatched the box from her hands. "But after this, you'll never mention children to me again. Understand?"  
      Mama nodded, her chin lifting an inch. Hattie huffed and turned. From the edge of Hattie's vision, a smile lifted Mama's lips. The woman may have given birth to Hattie, but she would be the death of her one of these days.

      The Smith Bedroom, Dec 25, 12:05 a.m. 
       Hattie lay on her side in front of Dylan, who draped a hand over her waist from behind. She kept her eyes trained on her bedside table and wiped her watering eyes. 
      She sniffed and lifted the diamond bracelet he'd given her at the stroke of twelve. "We have to give this and your stereo to Mama for Christmas, you know. The insulated socks don't seem like enough anymore."  
      He kissed her cheeks. "Yeah, and we may have to get her a new car too." 
      She used a fingertip to wipe a tear from the ruffled pillow. "Don't go giving it all away. We've got more than just us to think of now." 
      "That's right. We did it, sweetheart," he whispered, his breath tickling her ear as his palm rubbed her lower abdomen. "We got our baby for Christmas."

I hope you enjoyed my little contemporary Christmas story, and I'd like to invite you to visit with me a bit more. I'm taking part in a blog hop all week (Dec 16th-23rd) Please join me on my blog for a chance to win a signed copy of Jillian Stone's An Affair With Mr. Kennedy, and a chance at the grand prize, a Nook Color.

Robin Delany

I have a fab hubby, 2 sweet babies, & I love 2 write romance, research, travel, read, & letterbox. I'm NOT trying 2 take over the world. Really...

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     The aging oak trim splintered as Teresa pushed in the last tack.
     “Dammit.” She whispered a quick prayer of forgiveness. She hated cursing.
     She arranged the pine garland to hide the dime-sized hole. Finally satisfied that no one attending tonight's party would be able to see the blemish, she turned to survey the rest of the room. From her perch on the stepladder she soaked in the scene – and smiled.
     A twelve-foot tree in the corner glowed with flickering lights and silver tinsel. Above the soft melody of Christmas music, the roof creaked under the weight of last night’s snow and lanterns sizzled. On each of the fifty crimson-draped tables she’d centered a polished silver oil lamp.
     Teresa took a deep breath, the scents of pine resin and cinnamon tickled her nose and brought tears to her eyes.
     As the only child of a Baptist minister, most of her Novembers and Decembers, until now, had been spent polishing pews and sanctuary woodwork with her mother's homemade furniture polish. To this day every time Teresa smelled vinegar she thought of Christmas.
     “That's really disturbing,” she murmured as she rubbed the mound of her belly. Did little Nicholas or Holly have a sense of smell yet? She’d have to research that when she went to work at the library in the morning.
     She glanced at the clock on the wall. She had just an hour before the party began. Jolene would be here any minute with the food. That would give Teresa just enough time to get home, get changed and get back.
     There was a lot of getting to be done this time of year.
     She wasn't sure what it was – maybe a noise or a movement – that caught her attention. She turned toward the door, and her breath exited her lungs in a violent whoosh, leaving her lightheaded. There stood Jeremiah, his broad shoulders filling the entryway, as equal parts happiness and anger filled her heart.
     He'd come home.
     She lost her footing, the stepladder rocked, tilted…
     She didn’t actually have time to panic. It just sorta happened. Dizziness, a flash of light, hot and cold…
     “God, help me,” she whispered.
     “Hell, woman.”
Suddenly she was on the ground, but she was standing, not sprawled on the scarred floor as she’d dreaded.
     A big, muscled arm cradled her back while a giant hand pressed her face into the rough wool of a coat still carrying the chill of wind and dampness of blowing snow.
     Her knees shook and her stomach quivered like a lime-gelatin wreath.
Seconds passed. Long anxiety-laced seconds in which she heard and felt, warm, reassuring, deep-voiced murmurings from the man who held her tightly. Tears burned her eyes and throat. It was the first hug she'd had since he left.
     Where had he been? Why hadn't he called? She wanted to punch him in his square jaw or kick him in the shins. He was the only person in the world who made her feel so violent – or so good. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed.
     Tension drained from her muscles, and the shaking eased.
     She leaned back. Well, as far back as he’d let her.
     “Jeremiah? Jeremiah Roberts?” It was more question than statement, despite the fact he was right there and touching her.
     “It's me.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Did you forget what I look like?”
     Never. Even frowning, Jeremiah was the best-looking man she'd ever seen. Her heart jumped and lodged in her throat.
     His eyes were as green as the pine tree in the corner, and his jaw was shadowed by stubble the same deep black as his hair. His cheeks were red from the cold and she almost reached up to touch them. Almost.
     But, she hadn’t seen him in – she automatically rubbed her stomach when the baby kicked – well, it seemed like forever.
     It would be presumptuous of her, wouldn’t it? To initiate such contact.
     She settled for curling her fingers around the lapels of his coat. She didn't know whether to shake him or pull him closer, to laugh or cry.
     Jeremiah stared down at her belly, then back to her face. His eyes were filled with questions that probably wouldn’t pass his lips.
     He’d never been curious about her, had always tried to avoid her.
     Except for that once…

     Teresa's confusion was as obvious as the giant ball of her belly pressed firmly against him.
     He reached and pulled a pine needle from her hair. Her pretty blue eyes widened and her mouth puckered. He almost leaned in to kiss her. But, shit, there was a baby between them. And that meant there was a man…
     He dropped the pine needle on the floor. At her grimace he bent down and picked it up, shoved it in his coat pocket. The place was as pretty as a photo on one of those home-decorating magazines. Teresa had probably cleaned and decorated the room all by herself.
     Everybody took advantage of her… including him.
     She deserved better. That's one of the reasons he'd left.
     Jeremiah might want her. She might want him, but what she needed was some nice, nine-to-five guy who opened car doors and bought her flowers and candy. Had she found one?
     He searched for a wedding band. There was no way she’d be having a baby without a husband.
     But her fingers were bare, as were her wrists. Her nails were short and plain. No bling for Teresa.
     Of course, her beauty was God-given. She was an angel. Pale skin and blonde hair, all sweetness and goodness. Halo-bright.
     Regret and jealousy burned a path from his gut to his throat, even as he exhaled in relief. So Teresa had a man, but they weren't married. Jeremiah still had time… for what, exactly, he didn't know. Because nowhere in his Teresa-inspired fantasies had he imagined a freakin' baby.
     He rubbed his thumb over her cheek. She had the softest skin he'd ever touched. “You okay?”
     Teresa glanced toward the overturned ladder then examined his face. “You mean right now or since you've been gone?”
     He ignored the disappointment, the accusation in her question. He'd stick with now. That's all he could handle.
“What the hell were you doing up on that ladder, anyway?”
     Why the hell are you pregnant?
     “It’s just a stepladder.” She adjusted her glasses and sniffed. “You scared me.”
     He scared himself. Just before he’d left town nine months ago…
     His eyes automatically drifted to her belly. The old pink sweatshirt she wore was too tight, stretched so taut that she — oh, Jesus. There was no way in hell. No way.
     “You look ready to pop.” The words flew from his mouth and he cringed. He’d never had a bit of tact.
     Teresa’s cheeks flushed. She wiggled in his arms.
     “I – I tried to call you.”
     “Call me?” He shook his head. “I don’t have a cell anymore.” He’d tossed that thing before he’d left town. Besides, where he’d been, he couldn’t have it anyway.
     “Oh.” Teresa’s cheeks turned bright red — and he knew.
     He dropped his arms and turned his back on her so she wouldn’t see the panic  stamped on his face.
     Honest to God, his heart pumped faster, sweat trickled down his back and his throat closed up so tight he could barely breathe — the same reaction he'd had that morning nine months ago when he'd woken up with the worst hangover of his life, Teresa draped over him like a quilt and no memory of how she'd gotten there.
     Well, that wasn't exactly true. He recalled one thing from that night – thinking he had no business kissing the preacher's daughter while his breath reeked of Jack Daniels.
     He'd done it anyway and apparently a whole lot more.
     He swiped his hand over his face and through his hair, counted to ten… stalling. Finally, he cleared his throat. “What would you have told me if I answered the phone?”
     “I — Oh!”
     At Teresa’s painful exclamation he was at her side in an instant, his pulse a painful, pounding rhythm that made him woozy.
     She was bent over, rubbing her belly.
     She breathed in quick, loud pants, and when whatever was going on had passed, she  looked up, her pale face tense with fear.
     Her cold fingers curled around his. She needed him, and just like that, Jeremiah's panic faded.
     “We’re having a baby,” she whispered. “I would've told you we're having a baby.”
     Time stopped. Teresa blinked up at him and Bing Crosby sang something about Christmas dreams and light and love –
     “Jeremiah?” Teresa squeezed his hand. She might as well have been holding his heart. Actually, she already did. She just didn't know it… yet.
     He kissed the top of her head and swept her up into his arms, where she belonged. “And I would've told you I'm coming home,” he said.

Tina Vaughn

Tina is a wife, mother and newspaper editor who enjoys writing contemporary romance. "The world is full of dark, depressing news. When I read and write I want to know that my 'Once upon a time' ends with 'and they lived happily ever after.'"

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THE 13TH! I can't wait for it. I've read every story and I'm excited!

Bethanne Strasser

Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.

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1. They keep me humble, reminding me often that I need to keep working, keep improving if I want to succeed.

2. They make me laugh. At least three times a week, I know a conversation we're having on the forum will make me, if not burst out loud, chuckle and/or blush. 

3. My writing partners are very smart. I have a wealth of resource in these ladies, from copy edits to plotting and cover art to marketing/promotion. 

4. We're friends. It's not a given that a bunch of writers, from different parts of the world, with different lifestyles and different beliefs will come together and mesh, but we do.

I'm THANKFUL every day for this group of people.

Bethanne Strasser

Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.

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I wonder if Someone is preparing me for my coming move to Georgia. The weather up here in the midwest STINKS! It’s too hot! I’m ready to move to Alaska!

A gal mentioned on facebook that I would love Georgia and that once you go South, you never want to leave. But I’m having serious doubts about that. LOL

So tell me, where are you from? Is it hot where you are? Do you bask in the heat and love every drip of sweat that pours from your body? Or are you like me and want to get your favorite jeans on and your comfortable sweatshirt?

Oh! I can’t wait!!! My boots, my sweaters, jackets and jeans. Heck yeah, it’s going to be a good day when temperatures drop below 80 again.

Bethanne Strasser

Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.

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