Posted by Cyn on Dec 17, 2011 in
Life More than a Miracle
by
Cynthia Selwyn
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).
Cynthia started writing at the age of six and has been writing since then. She writes for Breathless Press, where she hopes to earn enough money in royalties to support her coffee habit. Her goal with each book is to bring a smile to her readers' faces and love to their hearts, by writing a sexy story with a touch of magic. Her e-books, romantic comedy, Dog-Gone But Not Forgotten and eroticas, In the Cards and Naughty Can be Nice, can be found at Breathlesspress.com and Amazon.
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
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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Tags: 12 Days of Christmas Stories on PC, Love, miracles, stories
Posted by Robin Delany on Dec 16, 2011 in
Christmas,
Holidays,
Life The Gift
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.
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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Tags: 12 Days of Christmas Stories on PC, A Passionate Christmas, Authors, Christmas, Christmas miracle, contest, Love, miracles, Passionate Critters, Robin Delany, Romance, Short story, stories, trying to conceive
Posted by Bethanne Strasser on May 21, 2011 in
Life I’m having a contest over on my own blog, Romance in Writing. Come on over and tell me a Love Story. I want to hear how you met your sweetheart. Were you friends first? Or did you fall madly in love and learn that friendship is what makes it last?
I’m going to draw one lucky winner of a GOODIE BAG from those who post a comment. 
Have a great week!
Enjoy the spring.
~Penny/Bethanne
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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Tags: Books, contest, Friendship, Love, Prizes, Writing
Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Feb 13, 2010 in
Holidays,
Life 
Are romance books for the romantic? Or are they for those who like to imagine it?
We have so many wonderful ladies in Passionate Critters who write romance. Young, married, career oriented, moms… It takes all kinds, and I love how we all come together with one purpose.
To spread a little hope, a little love.
Happily Ever After is for everyone. It's the dream my United States of America was built on. If I'm sounding all verklempt, it's because I am. I read romance because it reminds me of the hope I have inside of me. I write romance because I want to share that light with everyone.
Happy Valentine's Day!
With Love,
Bethanne
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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Tags: Classical, Hope, Love, Modern, Romance
