My son is a man on a mission. He’s been
nagging me for what seems like weeks already to go Christmas shopping, posting
his list in a prominent place on the refrigerator where I will be sure to see
it each and every time I open the door. He knows his “big” gift is already in
the house—somewhere—and because I went shopping again last evening, he also
knows some of the other things he wants are…somewhere.
So I know that as soon as he’s left alone
in the house for any length of time, the great Mission Gift Search begins. How
do I know this? Not because he’s given himself away…well there was the incident
last night with the flashlight in the room where the tree’s located…but because
I did the exact same thing every single year growing up.
I found them in the trunks of cars.
I found them in the cedar closet in our
basement.
I found them in my Dad’s Army footlocker
(thanks for already wrapping them, Mom).
But then came the year of the bicycle. I
had asked for a ten speed. And I knew my mother well enough to know that she
would never wait until the last minute to get a gift. After all, this was the
woman who documented in a little notebook any toy trades or sales between
siblings, which we then had to sign so no one could argue over what belonged to
whom. This was the same woman who yawned at day-after-Thanksgiving shopping
because she was already through. So I knew the bicycle must be somewhere around
our house.
I looked everywhere I could think of, even
questioning neighbors and friends to see if she might have sneaked it over to
another house. I finally had to draw the conclusion that I just wasn’t going to
get the bike I wanted. Another thing my parents were strict about was budgeting,
and the bike was on the upper limits of what they would be willing to spend on
any one child.
Christmas morning arrived. I promised
myself that no matter what was under the tree, I would be happy with it. When I
reached the bottom of the steps and turned the corner into the living room,
there sat a gleaming white and chrome ten speed bicycle, parked right in front
of the fireplace.
In the garage, where I had looked many
times, sat our ski boat with its canvas cover in place. I had looked under it,
behind it, and on top of it. I had just never pulled the cover off to look in
it. You got me, Mom.
So, Jacob, search away. This year your
presents are buried.
The issue of presents plays a role in my
holiday release, Santa’s Helper. The
heroine, Merry, is working three jobs to support herself and her son, but also
in hope of being able to provide him some sort of Christmas. Jack, the hero is
ringing the bell for charity outside the local mall where Merry’s working
part-time as an elf.
Despite the fact she’s short on cash,
Merry’s not short on the idea of Christmas giving as you can see:
“I
thought you might like a cup of coffee.”
Jack looked down for what seemed
like forever to a pair of bright blue-green eyes and curly red hair sticking
out from beneath…an elf’s hat? He blinked. Was he delusional? Had the cold
gotten to him to the point where he was imagining elves?
Her smile disappeared as she bit
her lip. “I noticed you when I came in to work. I thought you might be cold if
you were still out here. And we—we had some leftover coffee.”
He took the cup from her.
“Thanks.”
She shifted from one foot to the
other. “Right. It’s black. I hope that’s how you like it.”
“It is.” Jack knew he was making
her nervous, but he couldn’t resist. He remembered her now. She
was the woman in the tailored
overcoat who’d been so cheap…tossing in just a buck. And here she was
dressed like an elf.
She hadn’t entered the mall to
shop; she’d arrived for work. The woman in the tailored camel hair coat was
working as an elf.
A small shiver shook her slender
frame beneath the costume.
“You’ll freeze out here. You should
go in unless elves have some sort of magical protection.”
This time she blushed, as if
only now realizing she still wore her elf suit, and nodded. “I should go
inside.”
She turned to hurry away from
him.
“Wait!” She stopped and glanced
over her shoulder. His gut clenched with sudden desire. “What’s your name?”
She blinked. “Merry.”
“Mary?”
“Merry—like
Merry Christmas.”
And that is exactly what I wish for all of
you. Santa’s Helper is available
through TheWild Rose Press.
If you’d like to check out my other
releases, you can visit my website www.laurabrowningbooks.com.
1 comment:
Searching for presents is all part of the fun for kids. Sometimes the anticipation is better than the actual gift.
Post a Comment