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Shenandoah Christmas
Lynnette Kent
Will Christmas come to Goodwill, Virginia, this year?Ten-year-old Maddie Tremaine is supposed to be the announcing angel in the town pageant this Christmas. But unless they can find someone to direct the show, Maddie's dream won't come true. Her dad's not much help. Ever since her mom went to heaven, he's been too sad to think about the holidays. He hasn't even met Miss Caitlyn, the new choir teacher, who'd be the perfect person to run the pageant.Then somehow–maybe because it's nearly Christmas–Maddie's wish comes true in the best possible way. Her dad and Miss Caitlyn are going to produce the pageant together. Suddenly her dad's smiling again. And her little brother–who stopped speaking after the accident–is beginning to talk.As for Maddie? She's going to be the best announcing angel Goodwill has ever seen!
“Christmas is only nine weeks away.”
Ten-year-old Maddie Tremaine’s face brightened with enthusiasm. “Maybe Miss Caitlyn can stay till Christmas. Wouldn’t that be neat, Daddy? I bet she sings carols like an angel.”
This wasn’t the first time Ben Tremaine had heard about the wonders of Caitlyn Gregory. “I’m sure she’s fun to sing with. But won’t you be glad when Miss Anna comes back? I know how much you like her as your regular choir teacher.”
“Miss Anna’s really nice.” Maddie nodded. “But Miss Caitlyn kinda…sparkles.” She gave a worshipful sigh.
“Just remember, sweetheart—” He debated the warning for a second, then decided to go with it. “Remember, she won’t be here for very long. It’s nice of her to come and help out, but once Miss Anna’s baby is born and the doctor says she can get back to normal, Miss Caitlyn will leave.”
“I know, Daddy.” Maddie’s smile dimmed, then brightened. “But it’s only nine weeks till Christmas!”
Dear Reader,
I remember very clearly being five or six years old and listening with envy to another little girl learning to play the piano. I got my own piano in the third grade, and music has been part of my life ever since. I’ve been involved in children’s church music, as a volunteer, for more than fifteen years. I also play the bassoon and serve as the librarian for our local symphony. Sometimes I’m required to make the hard choice between going to rehearsal and staying home to work on a book!
It was only natural, I think, that when I decided to write a Christmas book, music would play an integral role. Carols are the voice of the season, the means through which most children first learn about the love and joy associated with Yuletide. I can no more imagine Christmas without carols than I can imagine spring without the songs of birds.
The heroine of Shenandoah Christmas, Cait Gregory, has committed her talents to a successful musical career. But she’s been estranged from Christmas—and its songs—for a long time. Widower and fellow skeptic Ben Tremaine goes through the motions of the holiday only for his children’s sake. Helping these two isolated souls discover each other and the true meaning of the season has made writing this book sheer pleasure. Now I hope their story brings you all the laughter and good cheer your heart can hold.
Merry Christmas!
Lynnette Kent
P.S. Reader mail is a wonderful gift. Please feel free to write. Box 1795, Fayetteville, NC 28314 or e-mail lynnette@lynnettekent.com.
Shenandoah Christmas
Lynnette Kent
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my friends who meet on Sundays at the corner of Ann and Bow Streets, especially all the children who share the laughter and the songs.
And for the women who have taught me so much about music and about sisterhood—
Charlyne, Sharon, Linda and Maryann.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Eighteen years ago
“WE NEED more feathers.” Ten-year-old Cait Gregory sat back on her heels and surveyed the project on the floor in front of her. “We’ve still got half a wing to cover.”
Her sister, Anna, bent over and pressed a feather into the tiny bit of glue she’d squeezed out of the bottle she held. “We don’t have another pillow.”
“Daddy has pillows.”
“Are you crazy?” Anna pushed back her curly red bangs and stared at Cait in horror. “He wouldn’t let us use his pillows. He’s gonna be mad enough that we used our own.”
“He’s a minister—he has to do what’s good for Christmas.”
“You only say that because you’re the angel in the Christmas Eve pageant this year.” Anna tried to be the boss, just because she was two years older than Cait. “There’s lots more important stuff about Christmas than that.”
“No, there’s not.” On her feet now, Cait propped her hands on her hips. “The whole point of Christmas is the story the pageant tells. And the main part of the story is when the angel announces the birth of the baby to the shepherds. I’ve already got the words learned. ‘Fear not, for I bring you good tidings of great joy…. Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’ See?”
Her sister shook her head and glued another feather onto the shapes she’d drawn and cut out of white poster board. Anna was an artist, for sure. The wings—wider than Cait’s shoulders and as long as she was tall—curved just like the pictures of angels she’d seen in books. Covered with millions of tiny white feathers, they would be the best wings any announcing angel ever had.
As soon as she found one more pillow.
Prowling the house, she tested every cushion she came across, but only the pillows on her dad’s bed had feathers. Cait stood gazing at them for a long time. Did she dare?
Later that night, lying flat on her bed in the dark room she and Anna shared, with tears drying on her cheeks and her stomach growling because she hadn’t gotten dinner, she wasn’t sorry she’d taken her dad’s pillow. Nothing mattered more than making the pageant the best it could possibly be. This was Christmas, after all.
And for Cait, Christmas would always be the most wonderful day of the year!
CHAPTER ONE
The present
WITH HIS CHISEL poised to make a delicate cut, Ben Tremaine looked up as footsteps crunched through the fallen leaves outside the open door. “Maddie? Shep? That you?”
He had just enough time to put down the tool before two small cyclones whirled into the workshop, bringing with them the crisp scent of autumn. “Daddy!” Maddie dropped her book bag and threw herself into his arms. “We’re home!”
When Shep wiggled in beside her, Ben closed his arms tight around his children, kissing first Shep’s smooth blond head, then Maddie’s tight dark curls. This was his favorite part of the day. “Good to see you guys. How was school?”
“I got a hundred on my math test.” Maddie settled in on his knee. “We had a handwriting quiz—Miss Everett said mine was the prettiest in the class. We played hopscotch at recess and I won. And during story time Miss Everett read what I asked her to—‘How the Leopard Got His Spots’ from Just So Stories. You remember that one, Daddy?”
“I sure do. Sounds like you had a great day. How about you, Shep?” Without answering, the little boy slipped from his hold and moved to the workbench, running his fingers lightly over the fretwork veneer Ben had been working on. “How’d school go?”
His son shrugged one shoulder and gave a small nod. Knowing the futility of pushing any harder—Shep hadn’t said a single word to anyone in the eighteen months since his mother died—Ben stifled a sigh of frustration and looked at Maddie again. “This is Wednesday, so you went to choir right after school, didn’t you?”
“Brenna’s mom took us.” The little girl’s face brightened with enthusiasm. “Miss Caitlyn played her guitar and sang us some of the songs she wrote. They’re so beautiful, I can’t believe it.”
This wasn’t the first time Ben had heard about the wonders of Caitlyn Gregory. “I bet you’ll be glad when Miss Anna can come back, though. I know how much you like her as your regular choir teacher.”
“Miss Anna’s really nice.” Maddie nodded. “But Miss Caitlyn kinda…sparkles.” She gave a worshipful sigh.
“I’m sure she’s fun to sing with. Just remember—” He debated the warning for a second, then decided to go with it. “Remember she won’t be here for very long. She’s pretty famous and she has lots of work to do in other places. It’s nice of her to come and help out, but once Miss Anna’s baby is born and the doctor says she can get back to normal, Miss Caitlyn will be gone.”
“I know.” Maddie’s smile dimmed. “Brenna said Miss Caitlyn’s some kind of big rock star or something.” She slid off his lap and started toward the door, then turned back, her face shining again. “But Christmas is only nine weeks away. Maybe she’ll be here at least until Christmas. Wouldn’t that be neat, Daddy? I bet she sings carols like an angel!”
Ben called up a halfhearted grin. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You and Shep go into the house and get started on your homework. I’ll close up and be right there.” He turned to straighten his tools and clean up the workshop while the kids streaked across the backyard in the gathering dusk.
As he swept cherrywood shavings into a corner, he realized with surprise that more than two-thirds of October had come and gone. Having accustomed himself to the slow pace of life in the country, Ben rarely looked very far ahead anymore. He hadn’t realized how soon the holidays would arrive.
Another Christmas, he thought, deliberately relaxing the set of his jaw and the tight grip of his hands on the broomstick. I can hardly wait.
THE THIRD TIME her brother-in-law David commented on the number of meals they were eating out of cans, Cait’s redheaded temper caught fire. She spent Friday morning studying Anna’s cookbooks and making a grocery list. Just after lunch, while her sister napped, Cait headed for the only grocery store in Goodwill, Virginia.
Driving through the little town, Cait rolled down the car windows to catch the breeze. In the past ten years she hadn’t had time to notice the seasons much, and she was realizing what she’d missed. Old trees lined the narrow streets, their leaves turning gold and maroon and brilliant orange with the arrival of chilly fall nights. The forested mountains to the west blazed in the early afternoon sunshine, an impressionist collage of all the reds and yellows imaginable. Eastward stretched the rolling pastures and fields of the Shenandoah Valley, their gentle summer greens fading now to tawny. Under a wide blue sky, the ancient hills imparted a sense of time to spare. Cait hadn’t felt so free of obligations in years.
Time had, in face, been kind to Goodwill. Set on lush lawns among the colorful trees, many of the houses in the area dated back a century or more; the town had been settled before the American Revolution and had escaped most of the ravages of the Civil War. Windows paned with antique wavy glass looked out over a brick-paved main street called, simply, the Avenue. Old buildings of brick and stone and painted wood siding had aged gracefully, adapting to changed circumstances and purposes with dignity. What had once been the schoolhouse was now a computer software business. The one-time blacksmith’s stable had become a bookstore, and a dress boutique occupied the shoemaker’s shop.
Yet the bakery still used wood-fired ovens built two hundred years ago; descendants of the first attorney in town still practiced in his original building and the physician’s office still housed a pediatrician. Modern intrusions were few and carefully designed, including Food Depot, one block east of the Avenue. Old brick with white wood trim disguised a very modern grocery, while the mature trees standing between the parking spaces out front created an arbor on what would have been a bare asphalt plain.
Inside the store, Cait pulled out her list and prepared to concentrate on shopping. Her dinner preparation usually consisted of making reservations or ordering take-out food. But she didn’t expect to have much trouble cooking a real meal. How hard could pot roast be?
Potatoes were the first problem. Idaho? Golden? Red? New? Cait tried to visualize the last pot roast she’d eaten, but ten years on the road, staying in a different town every night, had buried the memory too deep. She decided she liked the look of the small red ones, and moved on to carrots. Organic versus…what? Did organic change the taste? Would David notice? And should she peel them herself, or be lazy and get the ones already peeled?
The vegetables were easy, however, compared to the meat department. All the plastic-wrapped roasts looked the same. The recipe called for rump roast or shoulder roast or round roast. Which was the best? How was she supposed to choose?
She flipped her braid over her shoulder. “Why isn’t beef just beef?”
“I beg your pardon?” A baritone voice, soft southern vowels, obviously startled.
With her cheeks heating up, Cait glanced at the man standing beside her. “I…um…was talking to myself. Sorry.” He flashed a half smile and returned to studying packs of hamburger.
She took advantage of his preoccupation to steal another look. This was a man to write songs about. Dark-blue eyes, wheat-gold hair in short curls that reminded her of an ancient Roman statue, impressive shoulders under a cinnamon-colored sweater. He reached down to pick up a package of meat, giving her a view of lean hips and long legs in faded jeans.
Wow. Cait mentally fanned herself. She’d shared the stage with several of Hollywood’s biggest heartthrobs at an awards ceremony a few months back, but none of them had left her breathless like this. Who knew Anna’s tiny town could offer such interesting options?
“Excuse me.” Following her impulse, she tugged on the elbow of his sweater.
Her reward was another chance to gaze into those deep, deep eyes. “Yes, ma’am?”
A gentleman all the way. Better and better. “Do you know anything about pot roast?”
His brows, slightly darker than his hair, drew together. “Pot roast?”
Cait gestured at the meat case. “Which one works the best?”
That small smile of his broke again. “Oh. No, I don’t do the fancy stuff. But I think my mother-in-law uses chuck roast.” Leaning across her, he lifted a huge hunk of meat out of the cooler one-handed. “Like this.”
“Ah.” Cait held out her hands and he eased the roast into her grasp. Mother-in-law. So much for options. “Thanks for the help.”
He nodded. “Anytime.”
Don’t I wish. Feeling like a kid denied her lollipop, Cait pushed her cart toward the dairy section. Anna needed to drink milk every day. Two percent? Whole? Skim?
And why were all the really great men already married, anyway?
The ultimate torture was standing behind that same guy in the checkout line—her chance to pick up all the details she’d missed before. An easy stance, a strong jawline, square, long-fingered hands which saw their share of physical labor, if a few healing cuts were anything to go by. Not to mention all the kid groceries in his cart—small juice cartons, boxes of animal crackers, fruit roll snacks and cereal with marshmallow shapes. The guy not only had a mother-in-law. He had children.
A tune from a few years back came to mind, a daughter singing about the strength and love in her daddy’s hands. This man had that kind of caring, working hands. Lucky kids.
Lucky wife.
Cait shook her head and fixed her gaze on the tabloids in the rack beside her cart. After ten exhausting years, her music career was about to break into the big time. She had a New Year’s Eve slot on a major network show and an album scheduled to start production in the spring. Who needed a husband and kids? Or a house to keep?
Anna was the domestic sister, the homemaker, the mom-to-be. Cait knew herself for the wanderer, seldom happy for more than a little while in one place. She hadn’t seen a town she couldn’t leave. Hadn’t met anyone she wanted more than she wanted the smiles and the tears, the sighs and the applause, of a live audience.
But she had to admit, watching the guy in the cinnamon sweater reach for his wallet, that an available man who looked as good as this one might tempt her into changing her mind.
BEN FELT the presence of the woman behind him in the checkout line as if the air around them stirred slightly every time she took a breath. That minute by the meat case had left him with fleeting impressions. Hair in every shade from gold to copper, tamed into a thick braid over her shoulder. Eyes the color of spring leaves, fringed by dark lashes. Skin as smooth as a little girl’s, sprinkled with freckles. A cigarettes-and-whiskey kind of voice which, along with the fact that she looked very much like her sister, told him who she must be. Cait Gregory, superstar, was shopping for pot roast at the Food Depot in Goodwill, Virginia.
