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 Tina Vaughn on Dec 13, 2011 in
Books,
Christmas,
Holidays,
Life A HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
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 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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Tags: Christmas, Passionate Christmas, Passionate Critters, Romance, short stories, Tina Vaughn, Twelve Days of Christmas
Alright, that started maybe Dec. 1st and most of you are probably starting to panic as you realize the malls are opening longer hours, it's getting colder out, and kids are already handing you their Christmas list or Dear Santa letters.
Here at Passionate Critters…writing never stops even though we do get busy with our every day life and wonder what greatness is going to happen next. But no worries. We all have big plans, whether it's to plan that big holiday party, gather together our friends and family, or just tackle down our muse and force it to product the next big best seller. Yup, that's us. We're all busy bees around here.
As you know, the first A Passionate Christmas Anthology has been released by Decadent Publishing and many of our critters have also added new releases to our growing group of brilliant authors here! So of course, us passionate critters have been cherry, merry, and bright for Santa to bring us many gifts as we share with you all our great happenings.
So don't go too far. We have so much more news to share. If you're curious as to what each of us critters have been up to, feel free to stop by any of our websites. Our links are just right there. ———-> (On the side bar along with some awesome book covers.) Don't be shy! Drop us a note. I promise we don't bite and many of us are really friendly, I swear.
What do you have going on this holiday season? What big plans are you hoping to accomplish before Santa arrives?
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Tags: Decadent Publishing, Passionate Critters
Posted by admin on May 3, 2009 in
Pacing,
Writing My first post on the Passionate Critters’ (hereafter referred to as PC 
)blog, and I’m a bit nervous. See my hands trembling? My name is Jennifer Bianco, please call me Jenn, and I’m an aspiring writer of light, humorous mysteries with romantic and sometimes paranormal elements. I’m currently working on a YA mystery–hopefully the first of a series.
Yesterday, my daughter and I watched The Seventh Sign, with Demi Moore and Michael Biehn. I first saw it when it first came out in 1988. I fell in love with this movie–it’s twists and turns, the information, the ending. I purchased the VHS and must’ve watched it at least 10 times. It spoke to me on so many levels, and when I happened to turn to a channel showing it, just as it began, I couldn’t believe it. I became very excited and told my daughter how awesome it is.
Then a good 45 minutes in, I thought about how slow it seemed. Where were the good parts? Why was everyone just talking? I knew how it ended, and recalled some of the parts where I once oohed and ahhed, but they seemed sooo far away. It was during the middle of this movie that I realized how times have changed.
We hear all the time how we don’t have the attention spans we once did due to the media. Commercials deliver a full commercial in 30 second…S.E.C.O.N.D.S! Can you believe that? I watch commercials all the time (HUGE television fan here), but I never counted how long they were–never cared. The shows my kids watch zip, zing and zap. We’ve grown accustomed to fast, fast, fast.
Lately I’ve been hearing a lot of groans from other writers who enter contests and receive comments about how their book opening is too slow. Does every beginning nowadays need explosions in the first 250 words? Are stories only good if they’re chock full of trapeze acts? What about the slower, more quiet stories that still grip your heart and thrill your soul? Is the destination good only if the journey is strung out on caffeine?
Don’t get me wrong, I love an exciting explosion or edge-of-your-seat tension throughout, but if we continue at this pace, where will we be in another 20 years?
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Tags: commercials, Demi Moore, explosions. mystery, Jennifer Bianco, Michael Biehn, Pacing, Passionate Critters, The Seventh Sign
