The Worst Christmas - Part 3 by Diane Burton

The Worst Christmas

Part 3

Jim squeezed Mariana’s hand, but he looked at Nate. “I guess you’d better tell us.”

“I called Grandma Thacker last night.” Shame colored his neck red, and he looked younger than fourteen. More like a six-year-old admitting he sneaked cookies after she’d gone to bed.

When he didn’t say any more, Jim said, “And?”

Nate immediately went on the defensive. “Mom, you were so upset and crying and I was mad that we had to leave home and . . . and I yelled at her, told her we didn’t want to come because she hated us—you and me—and it was all her fault that our car got wrecked and you were hurt. And . . .” He ran out of breath, dropped the attitude, and sheepishly examined his feet.

“Oh, Nate.” She jumped up and grabbed her son’s shoulders. “That was very bad. How could you? She just had a heart attack.”

“But, Mo-om.”

Jim rose a lot slower. “Not so much bad as . . . thoughtless. I understand that you were defending your mother. I appreciate that. And so does she. But yelling at an old woman was probably not the best way to handle the situation.”

Mariana and Nate stared at him askance. He should’ve yelled at Nate. Or blamed her for raising such an inconsiderate kid. Oh, dear Lord, what if her son’s tirade put his mother back in the hospital? Gave her another heart attack? Yet, Jim calmly patted Nate’s shoulder and said it wasn’t the best way to defend her? The man was a saint. A real, live saint.

Nate threw himself against Jim. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Jim held the sobbing teen, the same way he’d held her. “It’s not the end of the world. I’ll call my mother and smooth things over.” He held Nate, patting the boy’s shoulder as he blubbered. “Between you and your mother, I won’t have a dry shirt left.”

“Excuse me, folks?” Cora entered the sitting room. “You have a visitor. Is it okay if I let her in?”

A visitor? Mariana had a terrible feeling about that.

“Thank you, Mrs. Willow. I am right here.” Jim’s mother’s haughty tone preceded her.

“Mother? What are you doing here?” Jim rushed to the doorway and drew his tiny mother in, while the innkeeper backed away. “Sit down. Don’t tell me you drove from Chicago.”

She sat on the edge of the settee. “Of course not. My driver did. Young man—” She stared pointedly at Nate. “—I will talk to you later. Jim, take the boy out to the kitchen. I believe I smell Christmas cookies. I would like to talk to Mariana.”

Mariana panicked. She glanced at Jim then squared her shoulders. She would handle this, if only to save her son from a scolding. He needed one, that was for sure. But this little woman, in her elegant wool pants suit and velvet cloche that perched right on her perfectly-coifed hair, wasn’t going to do it for her.

“Sit, Mariana.” Jim’s mother, her voice softened, patted the place next to her. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding between us.”

Where had that conciliatory tone come from? And the sadness in her blue eyes, identical to her son’s. Reluctantly, Mariana sat on the edge of the settee. Though mere inches separated her from her mother-in-law, the gulf was wider than the Mississippi.

“I want to apologize for the impressions I have given you. My daughters, also. What was intended as concern over Jim’s marriage apparently was perceived as disapproval.”

And it wasn’t? Mariana tightened her jaw so she wouldn’t blurt out the words.

“In the hospital, I had time to examine my life, my priorities.” She reached across the space and took Mariana’s hand. “You have made Jim very happy. I’ve never seen him smile as much as he has in the past three years. After his father passed, he acted more serious than he’s ever been, shouldering responsibilities for his sisters and me. Since he met you, he’s happy.”

Color me stunned.

“Your son’s phone call last night upset me.”

Mariana’s stiffened. No way was this woman going to take it out on Nate. “Ma’am—”

She patted Mariana’s hand but didn’t release it. “I recognized your need to defend your cub. Don’t. He did nothing wrong. He made me aware of the problem between us.”

“But—”

Another hand pat. “This is very difficult for me, so please let me finish. I admit I questioned my son moving out to a farm and telecommuting instead of staying in the city to handle his father’s investments. As I said, he is happy. And that’s all a mother wants for her children. As for my daughters.” She sighed. “They will treat you properly from now on, and with respect. We all will. I am sorry it took an accident, your being hurt, and a young man’s determination to make us realize our shortcomings.”

A stunned Mariana didn’t know how to respond.

Jim’s mother reached up and turned Mariana’s chin. “Oh, my. I’m afraid you will have two beautiful shiners for Christmas. If anyone says anything, just tell them they should see the other guy.” A small smile, one so like her son’s, curved her lips.

“That’s what Jim said this morning.” She squeezed the older woman’s fingers.

“Smart man. But of course, he’s my son.” The smile grew. “You are such a strong woman, Mariana. I admire that. Raising a child by yourself, managing a large farm, and teaching agri-business at the community college is nothing short of amazing. I’m ashamed to say I felt intimidated by you and your accomplishments. Susan and Amelia admitted they are, too.”

They were intimidated by her? Holy cow!

“Mrs. Thacker, I—”

“Do you think you could call me Grace? I would not expect you to call me Mother. But Mrs. Thacker sounds too formal.” This time, she gave Mariana a tentative smile before standing, finally releasing Mariana’s hand.

“Grace, I had no idea. I apologize for my son’s call. He should never—”

“He has initiative. And his defense of you is admirable. You should be proud of him.”

“I am. But he should not have upset you.”

Grace waved that aside. “Let’s find those two boys and hope they haven’t eaten all the cookies. Then, we will get this show on the road, as my father used to say. Mr. Willow promises to take care of your vehicle, which you can pick up on your way home. The girls are preparing a Christmas dinner that will knock our socks off. Or so they say.”

With her arm linked through Mariana’s, Grace led her into the kitchen. A few cookies remained on the plate in the middle of the table. While Grace munched on one, Mariana realized how difficult this visit must have been for her. To admit her failure to welcome Mariana and to take on responsibility for her daughter’s attitude, too, made Mariana regard her with respect.

How fortunate she was. With two men in her life to love her, she could open her mind and heart to accept his family the way they were. Different from her, yes, but united in their love for Jim, they accepted her the way she was.

Instead of the worst Christmas, this one was going down in her book as the most amazing.

Wishing you all a great holiday season. Come back tomorrow for Vonnie Davis’s “A Beary Merry Christmas.”

The Worst Christmas - Part 2 by Diane Burton

The Worst Christmas

Part 2

“Come inside anyway.”

With that, the big man—who made six-two Jim look small—tramped through the snow toward the big, white Victorian house with brightly-lit windows. He waited at the bottom of the steps that led to a wide porch.

“Gotta clear those stairs again.” He tsked. “Be careful now.”

“Wait.” She shuffled through the thick snow, Jim holding onto her arm, and Nate bringing up the rear. “Did you mean there isn’t room for us?”

“Don’t worry. We’re find space for you.”

Mariana breathed a short sigh of relief as the front door opened.

“George? What was that noise—” A large woman in a cable-knit sweater, flannel pants, and fleece-lined clogs stood in the doorway. “Oh, my goodness. You poor dears. Come in, come in.”

Mariana held onto the rail with one hand and Jim with the other as she climbed steps slick with snow. George had better shovel quickly and put down deicer, or someone could get hurt.

“Cora, their car is in the ditch. I’ll get the tractor in the morning and hauled it out. Meanwhile, we gotta take care of them. They can’t go anywhere.”

“Of course, come in.” Cora’s sweet smile and kind eyes reminded Mariana of her grandmother. With a step back, the woman held the heavy front door open for them.

Heavenly aromas of cinnamon and fresh pine hit Mariana as she eagerly entered the home. The foyer welcomed her with its warmth, gaily-decorated evergreen boughs, and lit candles inside hurricane lamps. Off to the right, a large lighted tree stood in front of a picture window. Though Mariana could hear voices, she didn’t see anyone.

An elderly gentleman, clad in country tweeds, came toward them. “The more the merrier, eh, Cora?”

“Dad, take their coats while I get an ice bag for her face. Looks like you’ve got a nasty cut there, ma’am.” Cora left them standing in the foyer.

Her father pointed to a wood bench against the short wall on the left. “Sit down, folks. Give me your coats and take off those boots.”

Mariana looked at her husband who appeared as overwhelmed as she by the rapid orders from the innkeeper and her father. Didn’t seem to bother Nate, though. He leaned against the bench and toed off his boots while she and Jim sat. Driving for hours in the blizzard followed by plummeting into the ditch caught up with her. She couldn’t even think what to do next. Weariness weighed down on her, crushing her spirit. What kind of a Christmas is this? Stranded in the middle of nowhere. No room at the inn. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

“Mom? Are you okay?” Nate, sweet dependable Nate, stooped in front of her and unlaced her boots. Jim helped her off with her coat.

All she could do was cry. This was the worst Christmas of her life.

* * *

After Cora ushered them from the foyer into a warm kitchen and gave them hot chocolate to drink, she disappeared. Moments later, George came in from outside. He sat at the country table and pushed a plate of snickerdoodles closer to them. He asked about the roads and where they were from. All the usual questions innkeepers asked their guests. The momentary break, cookies, and chocolate drink helped Mariana compose herself. She was about to ask about the accommodations when Cora reappeared.

“Okay, folks. Come this way. George, take care of the young man.”

She led Jim and Mariana down a hall, family photos hanging on both sides—a “rogue’s gallery” her mother would have described it. Cora opened the door to a bedroom at the end. “Here you go. George brought in your luggage. If you need anything, just ask.”

A weary-to-the-bone Mariana flopped across the big sleigh bed, icepack on her nose while Jim unpacked her small carryon bag. When she realized her son hadn’t followed, she asked, “Where’s Nate?”

“He’s settled down in the sitting room with the other kids. George gave him blankets and a pillow. The kids grouped themselves in front of the fire. Big ones on one side, little ones on the other.” Jim carried her cosmetics bag and his shaving kit into the attached bathroom.

“Hey, hon?” he called. “I think this is their bedroom.”

“Huh?”

“George and Cora. I think this is their bedroom.”

She sat up so abruptly the room swam. Holding the ice bag against her nose, she looked around. Formal family pictures hung over a long dresser, covered with a lacy scarf and more casual family photos, similar to the ones in the hall. This was, indeed, the owners’ bedroom. Cora must have run in there and prepared the room for guests. How very kind.

And selfless. Where would they sleep? They weren’t young people to sleep on the floor. Yet, they gave up their bed for strangers.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Okay, babe. What’s going on?” Jim sat on the edge of the bed next to her. When he put his arm around her shoulders, she leaned into him and rested her head against his chest. Though they’d only been married three years, he’d become her rock. Always there for her, comforting her, giving her strength.

“Are you still shaken by the accident?” His breath fluttered her hair.

She shook her head. “Yes. And no.”

His chuckle rumbled under her ear. “Decisive, as always. Seriously, where do you hurt? Besides your nose.” He gently touched that feature. “You are going to have a shiner. Or two.”

“I didn’t want to come on this trip.”

“You’ve made that clear from the get-go.” He sounded more disappointed than sarcastic, which would’ve been her attitude if their roles were reversed. “I’ve tried to understand.” That, he had. “But I can’t figure out why you’re so opposed to spending Christmas with my family.”

Last year, they’d celebrated Christmas at the old farmhouse where she’d grown up. After her mother passed, she’d moved in when she realized her dad couldn’t live alone anymore. Her aunts (widowed, no children), Mariana’s seven sibs and their families gathered around the dining room table, like they’d done for years. A loud, boisterous group, clad in jeans and “ugly” sweatshirts, with kids ranging in age from fourteen (Nate and his cousin Alex) down to the babies (three of them now, with two more on the way). Laughter, tears of reminiscences, too much food.

Such a contrast to their first Christmas with Jim’s mother. Quiet, a catered affair, his sisters and their stuffy husbands, no children. Everyone dressed to the nines. The loudest noise was the clinking of silver against china, where her insecurities skyrocketed.

“Your mother hates me. Your sisters, too.”

“No, they don’t,” he said too quickly.

“You haven’t seen the way they look at me. Dumpy Mariana, Jim’s big mistake.”

He squeezed her shoulders. “Not a mistake. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered. “I was repeating what they think.”

Pushing her away, yet gripping her shoulders, he stared at her, his piercing blue eyes hard. “They said that? I will talk to them.”

“Not in so many words, but I can tell. Their actions, their whispered asides. Not your mother so much as your sisters. Your mother just looks down her nose at me, which is a good trick since I’m eight inches taller.” She looked up to see if that got a grin. Nope. “I’m not good enough for her precious little boy.”

He snorted. “Suze and Amy are pains in the butt, always trying to protect their little brother. Don’t pay attention to them. They’ve run off every girl I brought home, which is why I didn’t let you meet them before the wedding. I told you I dated some real losers. I suppose my sisters mean well.”

“Yeah? That’s what I always say about my aunts when they butt into my affairs.” She gave him a small smile. “Ever since Mom died, they tried to take her place, cautioning me about men, telling me how to raise Nate. Even so, they think you walk on water.”

“Really?” He grinned. “Smart ladies.”

Mariana gave him a playful punch on the arm. “I wanted to stay home this Christmas.”

“I know you did, but Mom isn’t up to the long drive out to see us, and her doc said she can’t fly yet.” Jim cleared his throat. “I wanted to spend this Christmas with her. It might be her last.”

Guilt swept through her. “You never said that. I didn’t know you felt that way.”

He pulled her close again. “I didn’t want to burden you with my morbid thoughts. Besides, I thought it would be fun to take Nate and do some after-Christmas shopping down Michigan Avenue. He’ll go nuts in the Lego store.”

She thought about the hours her son spent designing and assembling airplanes and spacecraft with the tiny tight-fitting blocks. And how he devoured the catalog each time it arrived in their mailbox, dogearing pages and circling items on his wish list. “He would love that. Thank you for thinking of him.”

“Hey, he’s my son now, too. I can’t take his father’s place, but I can love him like my own.”

How did she get so lucky to find such an understanding man? She’d thought Tom was the only man she’d ever love. Turned out she was wrong about that.

Maybe she was wrong about other things.

In thinking about how awkward she felt with Jim’s family, she hadn’t considered that he missed them. In September, he’d flown up to Chicago for his mother’s heart surgery, a real scare for him. She couldn’t leave the farm because of her dad and the animals. Not that she’d wanted to go. Maybe she should’ve figured out how to be with him for support, the way she’d gotten her brothers to take over while she was gone now. After his mother’s heart attack, she should’ve realized Jim would want to spend this Christmas with her.

Again, guilt raced through her. Instead of focusing on her own insecurities, Mariana should have thought of Jim. She’d been alone, with just Nate, for ten years. Putting Jim and his needs first hadn’t occurred to her. Quiet, undemanding Jim supported her and her son, asking for nothing in return. How could she be so selfish?

Mariana stroked Jim’s jaw. “I’m sorry for being such a jerk about going to your mom’s. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He clasped her hand. “No. I want you to be yourself. I know it will be hard on you but try not to let Suze and Amy get to you.”

She blew out a raspberry. “Easier said than done.” When he started to say something, she added, “I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl.” He kissed her soundly.

After checking on Nate, she crawled into bed next to Jim who was already sawing wood. She lay quietly, thinking about how she could make it up to him. She promised to accept his mother and sisters as they were. They were his family. Despite being uncomfortable with them, she would make the effort to be nice.

* * *

The next morning, the sun greeted everyone as it shone on the snow-covered trees. Cora prepared a breakfast that left no one hungry. But when they left the dining room, George had bad news.

“I towed your car out of the ditch, but it won’t start. I called Henry, best mechanic in town, and he can’t come out and look at it until he pulls other poor souls’ cars out of ditches. Won’t be until this afternoon, probably.”

Mariana glanced at Jim. “I am so sorry.”

“Not your fault. I’ll call my mother and tell her we’ll be late.”

“Uh, Mom, Jim?” Nate tugged on Mariana’s arm. “We need to talk. First.” He led them into the empty sitting room, where folded blankets and pillows had been stacked next to the fireplace.

“You probably want to sit down,” he said.

From her son’s expression, a frisson of fear shot through her. “What’s wrong?”

Nate shuffled his feet. “I, uh, might have done something bad.”

Come back tomorrow for the conclusion of The Worst Christmas.

The Worst Christmas - Part 1 by Diane Burton

The Worst Christmas

Part 1

She peered through the snow-spattered windshield at the neon sign and hoped like hell there was room at the inn. The red glowing sign on the billboard for The Willow Inn, two miles ahead, barely penetrated the blowing snow caught by the headlights. It reminded Mariana of scenes from 2001: A Space Odyssey. As much as she liked snow for Christmas, this storm had caught her unawares. The weather report she’d watched last night hadn’t mentioned the intensity. Apparently, the storm’s path had shifted, too.

The wipers scraped the glass, proof that Jim hadn’t replaced them like she’d asked before they set off on this trek. The song “Over the river and through the woods . . .” always made her think of going to her grandparents’ farm for Christmas, not into downtown Chicago and a high rise. Even though she’d grown up driving in snow, she hated it. Feared it. And there she was creeping along on a country road at five miles an hour.

“Wake up, darn you.” She didn’t dare take her hand off the steering to poke her husband’s arm. “Wake up, Jim. The storm is getting worse. I told you we should’ve stopped at the Holiday Inn we passed. But, no, you wanted to keep going.” Then he made her drive while he snored away. “Couldn’t you have stayed awake to keep me company?”

“Huh?” Jim struggled awake, the way he did every morning—jaw-cracking yawns, throat clearing, grumbles. The man was not a morning person. But here it was eleven-thirty at night, and he’d better pay attention.

“I told you we shouldn’t drive any farther tonight. That we had plenty of time to make it to your mother’s in the morning.”

He straightened and scrubbed his hand down his face. “Wow. It’s snowing. Pretty bad, huh?”

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock.” Mariana hunched over the steering wheel, squinting to see the neon sign through the patches of clearing amid the frost on the windshield. The defrost wasn’t working properly, as she’d told her husband three weeks ago.

“Why aren’t we on the highway?” he asked.

“I saw a sign for an inn. I just can’t drive any farther.” They climbed a hill so slowly she feared the tires wouldn’t grip, and they would slide backwards. Who knew Illinois had hills? “The storm is more than pretty bad, damn it. It’s wicked dangerous. I told you—”

“Mom, could you give the I-told-you-so’s a rest?” Their backseat driver—aka, Nate—must have looked up from the game on his cell phone long enough to yawn in imitation of his stepfather. “He knows you didn’t want to go to Chicago. I didn’t, either, but nobody asked my opinion. I could’ve stayed home with Grandpa, you know.”

They crested a hill, Jim pointed. “There, see that white sign? The Willow Inn. Quaint.”

“Thank God.” Mariana tried to slow, but the car gained momentum as it traveled downhill. In her agitation over her son’s comment, she hadn’t watched the speed. Okay, she told herself, I can do this. Years of driving in winter weather kicked in. Slow, no braking hard, take it easy.

The driveway came up faster than she expected. Automatically, she hit the brakes hard. The car slewed to the right then left. A red light on the dash flared as the ABS kicked in. The brakes automatically gripped and released. Her hands, knuckles white, gripped but didn’t release the steering wheel. Her heart clutched. She wasn’t going to make it. She pressed harder on the brakes. Thudding vibrated through the wheel.

“Mom! You’re going to put us in the ditch.” Panic flared in Nate’s voice.

“You’ve got this, babe. You’re doing fine.” Jim laid his hand on her thigh. Despite her anger at him, his calm voice helped her more than she could say. “Nate, calm down. Your mother is a good driver. We’re not going—”

Crash.

Several things happened at once. The front of the SUV plunged to the right. A ditch. A deep ditch. She’d missed the driveway. The seatbelt tightened. The airbag exploded, jamming her glasses into her nose. Fear overwhelmed pain as she realized what she’d done. She’d buried the car in a ditch. After batting the airbag down, she turned off the engine. Blessed silence.

Wait. Silence?

“Is everyone okay?” she cried. “Jim? Nate?”

“Yeah.” Jim swatted his airbag out of the way. “Nate?”

“Told you so.”

“Nate.” Jim never shouted at her son, even when he deserved it. His quiet, steel-clad voice was worse.

“Yeah. I’m okay. Sorry, Mom.”

Tears ran down her face. Frustration, anger, fear, despair. A sob wracked her chest.

“Babe?” Jim released his belt and leaned over to her. “Are you hurt?”

Head down, she cried harder. She wanted to go home. Home to the cozy farmhouse, the live tree with family ornaments, and the homey decorations. Home where she belonged. Not on the road in the middle of an Illinois blizzard.

She never wanted to drive four hundred miles to her mother-in-law’s condo in downtown Chicago, where everything was perfectly matched by an interior decorator. Where Jim’s perfect, size two, itty-bitty mother would give a tight smile and stilted welcome to her size sixteen daughter-in-law who towered over her by almost a foot. And his sisters—who took after their mother in size and attitude—would snicker behind her back, often not bothering to hide their disdain of the country bumpkin their baby brother had married.

Jim enveloped her in his warm arms while she cried even harder. He always knew the right thing to do and say. “It’s okay, babe. We’re okay. Don’t cry.”

“Yeah, Mom.” Nate leaned over the front seat and patted her shoulder. “Don’t cry. We’re okay.”

Despite the cold seeping into the car, she wanted to stay where she was—in her husband’s arms, with her son close by.

“So. Are we going to sit here all night—in the cold,” Nate groused, his concern for her gone. “Or go inside where it’s probably a lot warmer?”

Practicality was her son’s middle name. He’d had to be. All those years they’d been alone after his father died. He’d been a great kid. Loving, kind, thoughtful. Not the snide, sarcastic teenager he’d turned into the past year. As much as she appreciated his practical approach, she could do without the attitude.

“We’ll deal with the car in the morning,” Jim said, Mr. Practicality himself. “Nate’s right. We need to get inside. C’mon, Nate, throw our jackets up here.”

“But what if there’s no room?” she whimpered, as he helped her into her heavy jacket.

Jim ignored her question and opened the passenger door. Rather, he tried to open the door, but the snow prevented it. Mariana looked out her window before trying her door. It opened. A blast of wind and snow hit her in the face. She flinched, ducking her head into her coat, turtle-like. Tipped as they were, gravity shut the door.

Jim angled sideways to put on his jacket then pulled up her hood. “I’m going to have to crawl over the gearshift. Nate, get out and help your mother first.”

Nate grumbled at Jim’s directions but followed them. When he widened the opening of her door, he gasped. “Mom? You’re bleeding.”

“Babe?” Jim took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her head toward him. Now, with the interior light on, he could see where her glasses had cut into her nose. He grabbed a tissue out of the console, took off her glasses, then gently wiped the bridge of her nose and down her cheek. “There now. That’s not too bad.”

When she winced, he added, “Sorry. Okay, you have a good gash there. We’ll put some snow on it to take down the swelling. There’s certainly enough of the white stuff out there.” He chuckled at his joke. She didn’t.

Her nose felt like the size of an elephant’s trunk. Crying made the damage from the airbag worse. Supporting the door on his hip, Nate scooped up a handful of snow. “Here, Mom.”

She gave him the look, and he dropped the snowball with a sheepish grin.

“You folks okay?” A bear of a man, clad in a heavy parka, a scarf wrapped twice around his neck, and a hat with furry flaps, bore down on them. “Thought we heard something out here. Wife sent me out to look.”

“Mom drove into the ditch,” my oh-so-helpful son announced.

“I can see that. Your car slewed sideways, so you aren’t sticking out in the road. That’s good. C’mon, little lady. Let’s get you out of there.”

Nobody, not even Jim, called Mariana little lady. Since her son stood off to the side, acting like a dunce, she took the big man’s hand. With the SUV leaning to the right, climbing out was not an easy task. It was for the big man. With one pull, she flew out of the car and into his arms, nearly bowling him over. His big hands on her shoulders steadied both of them.

“Uh, thanks.” Snow—up to her knees—filled her boots. When she tried to back away from the man, she lost her balance. Fortunately, Nate came to his senses and grabbed her flailing arm. Between the big man and her son, she avoided a face plant in the snow. Rather, a butt plant.

While they helped her onto higher ground, Jim crawled across the console. Before the big man could help him, Jim lunged out of the car. He did the face plant. Nate slid down into the ditch to help him. So did the big man. “Thanks. Appreciate the help. Jim Thacker.” He held out his hand.

While they shook hands, Mariana said, “Please tell me you have a vacancy.”

He hesitated. “Wish I could. We’re full up.”

Return tomorrow for Part 2 of The Worst Christmas.

Being Thankful by Diane Burton

This time of year, you’ll see many posts on being thankful. I hope you’ll indulge me with one more. I am so blessed with my family. Hubs and I were married on Thanksgiving Day. He says that’s how he’ll never forget our anniversary. 😊 After forty-six years, we’ve had many events—big and small—to be thankful for. We’ve had good times and difficult ones. Our relationship grew stronger during the difficult times. We don’t always see eye-to-eye on issues. Most of the time, we cancel each other’s vote. We enjoy different TV shows and movies. I love reading fiction. He doesn’t. However, he will read my books. His usual response: not bad or pretty good. Glowing praise from him. Together, we raised two children. Because of the demands of his job, he missed much of the children’s early years. He’s making up for that with our youngest grandchildren.

I’m so proud of our children. Despite the “normal” teenage conflicts, when I despaired that we’d ever have a good relationship, they’ve become loving, responsible adults with families of their own. I admire their parenting skills. Most of all, I’m thankful they found loving spouses who support them in so many ways.

There’s a saying “If I knew grandchildren were so much fun, I would’ve had them first.” I can say, with all certainty, that’s true. During a stressful time, we visited our daughter’s family in Indianapolis when our first grandchild was a baby. Rocking a sleeping baby brought so much peace and relaxation. My stress went away as I cuddled her. With each grandchild (five now), I’ve felt the same. Time disappeared. I had nowhere else to be. No chores to do. Just holding and rocking a baby was enough. I wish I’d known that when my babies were that small. I’m so thankful for the second chance.

While I’m thankful for living in a land of freedom, I fear for our future. In our efforts to protect our country, will our liberties be lost? Will Emma Lazarus’ poem on the Statue of Liberty (“…give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me…”) be a lie? I’m thankful my ancestors found refuge here.

As I give thanks, I must add the fabulous authors I’ve found here on this blog. We went from strangers to friends as we shared our lives, our sadness and triumphs. I’m grateful for the support they’ve given me, the attagirls and the commiserations. While the deadlines for twice monthly posts always seem to catch me unawares, I wouldn’t have missed this experience. These ladies made me stretch my creativity with the annual holiday stories. Prior to my first time, I hadn’t written a short story since high school (back in the Dark Ages). Talk about fear and trepidation! That was in 2013. Now, I look forward to writing a short story that begins with the same first line as the others. More than that, I look forward to reading the others’ stories. Despite the same prompt, we all have such different stories. I hope you enjoy them, too. My story will be up on December 8 – 10.

With this being my last post, I want to say how thankful I am for all of our readers. Enjoy the holidays.

Our Little Flood by Diane Burton

Fall has finally broken Summer’s stranglehold on west Michigan. Just like the Winter That Never Ended. We don’t have regularly spaced seasons anymore. Spring lasted about a week, if that. I’m afraid Fall may be just as short-lived. That may be true in the rest of the country, I don’t know. We had a drought in July and August. Those who didn’t water lost their lawns. Those who did, like us, have astronomically-high water bills.

Finally, the rains came. And came and came. Even though we live on a pond, our house is high on a slope so we never worried that we’d be flooded. Maybe we should’ve thought there are other types of floods.

On the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, we traveled to Indy for my sister’s first grandson’s first birthday party. What fun! (Our twins are only two months behind him, so we have something to look forward to.) We saw family, had a great time, stayed overnight then headed home on Monday. At home, we did our usual—empty suitcases—but didn’t take them downstairs to storage. We should have.

 

bottom of stairs

The next morning, Hubs went downstairs to work in his shop. At the bottom of the stairs, he stepped into water. Three inches of water covered the tile and all of the carpet in our offices and family room as well as the storage areas. Our sump pump quit. Hubs took a piece of wood and hit the pipe (not standing in water then touching something electrical) and the blankety-blank thing started up.

 

hallway between offices

Finally, the water began to drain. We knew we had a mess. We also knew we couldn’t handle this by ourselves. I called a professional company that remediates water damage. The guy asked if I’d called our insurance company. Never thought of that. While I texted our son, hoping that Tuesday was his day off, Hubs called the insurance company. I didn’t know there was such a thing as sump pump insurance. Didn’t know we had it. Thank you, insurance agent.

Son was off work but taking care of the kiddies. We swapped places. I knew I couldn’t handle hauling stuff upstairs, not with my back. Daughter came over. When Daughter-in-law finished work, she came, too. Our kids took over. Daughter ordered a dumpster. Son hired some guys he knew to come the next day to haul boxes and furniture to our garage. They boxed up “stuff” and hauled boxes. After his work, Son-in-law took care of their kids, ferrying them to their after-school activities. Meanwhile, I played with the kiddies, discovered what DIL called the twins’ “witching hour”, fed, diapered, etc. And let Toddler Girl stay up until her parents came home—late that evening. Apparently, I missed Hubs’ rant about me leaving papers and cardboard boxes on the floor of my office. Daughter reminded him of what he’d left on the floor of his office. Never use cardboard boxes, always plastic tubs.

 

ripping up carpet

We’ve been in this house for five years. The carpet in the basement went in the following year. That was my biggest regret. We’ve never had such a nicely-finished lower level. But the soaked carpet had to go. The guys tore it up and hauled it out—through my office window—to the dumpster. (We have what’s called a daylight basement with five-foot windows.) The professionals brought in big blowers and dehumidifiers. After a week and half, they declared it dry and sprayed some anti-mold stuff all over.

Now we’re back to bare cement floors. We’re left with decisions on what to do next. A backup sump pump is the first order of business. Meanwhile we have a $10 water sensor on the floor. Then, restoring the furniture and everything else.

My takeaway from this experience is how grateful we are that our kids live close by. And that they took over. Sometimes in a crisis, a person is frozen. Can’t think of what to do next. Our children dropped everything and came to our rescue. I found out later it wasn’t our son’s day off. He’s the executive chef at a restaurant and was supposed to go in around 3 pm. He left here around 6 or 7, going in because he had to close the restaurant then do monthly inventory. He could’ve begged off helping but didn’t. We are so proud of them. I’ve probably mentioned before that this is the first time in over twenty years our whole family lives close together. We are so blessed.

Our little flood is nothing like what those in the path of Hurricane Florence is going through. We had ground water, not sewage, not dirty flood water. In comparison, ours was a minor mess. At the time, it seemed overwhelming. Even seeing the damage on TV, I can’t imagine how the people must feel seeing the devastation in their homes and businesses.

That’s the biggest takeaway. It could have been worse.

Pinterest by Diane Burton

In 2004, I quit writing. As I’ve mentioned before, Life intruded. A combo of events led to stress, more stress, and though I tried to write through it, I finally gave up. For the next four years, I barely kept up with email and my RWA chapter’s loop. No energy. No writing.

When I came back, sometime in 2009, so much had changed. Facebook, Twitter, Myspace. Huh? Blogging? I felt like the techno-clueless Gibbs on NCIS. My brother-in-law joined Facebook so he could show off his fishing skills. 😊 Hubs joined. I resisted. I’d heard so many horror stories about FB. After peeking at Hubs’ page, I saw the “light” and gave in. How wonderful to connect with family and long-lost friends. Gradually, I connected with fellow writers and saw other benefits of FB. Around that time, I also returned to writing—for fun, at first, then seriously.

When I joined an online group called Authors Helping Authors, I learned about the world of social media. Holy cow! I was overwhelmed and ignorant. A tweet? What was that? I was supposed to write a tweet for others to share? How was I supposed to do that when I didn’t even know what it was? With the help of patient people (like our own Alicia Dean), I learned. This old dog learned a lot of new tricks.

All right! I mastered (sort of) Facebook and Twitter. Cool. Then, I heard about Pinterest. A bulletin board where you pinned pictures? Huh? I’d heard about people doing that with pictures from magazines taped to poster boards. I didn’t have time for cutting and pasting. But how did that work online? I understood how it might be useful for crafters, mothers with young kids, but for a writer? No idea. Until I read a blog post about how authors could use Pinterest.

A whole new world opened up. A visual world. I created boards for each of my books then added pins of things that provided inspiration for the book. When I started, I worked backwards. The book was written when I added pins that went with it. For example, for my first book, Switched, (originally pubbed in 2001, re-issued in 2011) I added the following pins (pictures): a farmhouse and farmland (the story begins and ends on a farm), starships, Kaylee (the mechanic from Firefly because my MC is a mechanic), posters from the movie Vertigo (my hero has acrophobia). If I found pictures of actors that I’d choose to play the main characters, I added them, too.

Then I found more uses for Pinterest. Besides being “inspirations” for my story, the pins could be topics for blog posts. In my science-fiction romance, The Protector, my MC thwarts a trafficking ring then captures the ring leader. On my Pinterest board for that book, I added info on human trafficking. When I did a blog tour for The Protector, I wrote a post on human trafficking. I even have a board with pictures of the authors who’ve visited my blog with a link back to their post. (I really need to update that board.)

Once I caught up with the already published books, I began to use Pinterest for ideas for works in progress. That’s when the pins really did provide inspiration. The most fun I’ve had so far is finding wedding dresses for my work-in-progress board “Inspiration for Alex O’Hara #4.” Not just wedding gowns but bridesmaid dresses and mother of the groom dresses, and ideas for bachelorette parties.

Of course, I have more personal boards. Before we built our house, I looked for pins for the “home of my dreams.” I loaded my own pictures from vacations. Tampa Tourism used a picture I took of a dolphin in Tampa Bay for their board—without giving me credit, I might add. I have boards for travel, favorite places and those I want to visit, Dollar Store hacks for the home, recipes, quotations, and books.

But, here’s the kicker. There are only so many hours in the day. Writing is primary. Promotion, next. Can’t forget family and home stuff. Using social media to promote ourselves and our books takes time. I use Facebook and Twitter (add in Triberr, which amplifies the reach of blog posts into tweets). Other social media like Instagram, Tumblr, LinkedIn, Snapchat, etc. sound interesting take more time—first, to learn how to use it, then actually using it. At this point, I can barely keep up with what I’ve already joined.

Of all the social media that I’ve tried, Pinterest is my favorite. I figure if I’m going to use time not spent on writing, I might as well have fun doing it. If you’d like to check out my boards (and pins), here’s the link.  https://www.pinterest.com/dmburton72/boards/

What social media do you like best?

Diane Burton combines her love of mystery, adventure, science fiction, and romance into writing romantic fiction. She blogs here on the 16th and 30th of each month. She shares snippets from her stories every weekend on her blog.  Her latest release is NUMBERS NEVER LIE, a romantic suspense, available at Amazon, free on Kindle Unlimited. 

Amnesia and a New Release by Diane Burton

How did it get to be the 16th of July already? I thought I had days before my post was due. Must be a case of NewRelease Amnesia. I spent last week running from one blog to another promoting my newest book, NUMBERS NEVER LIE, a romantic suspense. The week before, I had to write all those blogs. So, July disappeared in a blink.

A topic lately here has been promotion--what works and what doesn't and how do we know? I like to blog. Short, focused posts with a purpose. I like telling people about my stories. I like finding the perfect (for the topic) excerpt. When I've read other blogs promoting a new book, I skim the excerpt because I've read it before. I try not to use only one excerpt. But, there are only so many excerpts you can add without giving away the book.

Does blogging help? I like to think so. But how can I tell? As an indie writer, I can see the results daily on Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP). How accurate are the numbers? Good question. I have to trust KDP to record them. I've checked a few time since last Monday (release day) and I'm pleased so far. If the comments on the blogs are any indication, the book should be flying off the virtual shelves. LOL People are being polite, kind even.

This weekend while I took a breather from the blog tour, I didn't look at my calendar. I knew I didn't have any posts scheduled for today. Wrong! So here I am late, with apologies. I must have been hit with amnesia.

NUMBERS NEVER LIE

Blurb:

A shocking secret brings danger to Jack Sinclair and his sister Maggie.

As kids, they were the fearless threesome. As adults, Jack's an accountant; Drew, a lawyer; Maggie, a teacher and camping troop leader. Upon returning from a weekend camping trip, Maggie receives horrifying news. She refuses to believe her brother Jack’s fatal car crash was an accident. If the police won’t investigate, she’ll do it herself. Convincing Drew Campbell to help is her only recourse.

Drew Campbell was too busy to return his best friend’s phone call. Too busy to attend a camping meeting important to his teen daughter. Too busy to stay in touch with Jack. Logic and reason indicate Jack’s accident was just that--an accident caused by fatigue and fog. Prodded by guilt, he’ll help Maggie even if he thinks she’s wrong.

A break-in at Jack’s condo convinces Maggie she’s right. Then her home is searched. What did Jack do that puts Maggie in danger?

Excerpt

“What do you mean no toilets?” Drew Campbell stopped on the dusty forest path, hooked his sunglasses on the placket of his golf shirt, and stared at his daughter.

“Dad-dy.” Ellen groaned. Was she only fourteen? She did exasperation better than his administrative assistant. “I told you we were camping.”

Not for a moment would Drew reveal that camping was not what he remembered her saying a week ago. She said she wanted him to come along on an outing with her little group of friends. He figured a hike, picnic lunch, and then home in time for supper.

After taking a call on his cell in the parking lot near the trailhead, he’d gotten his first surprise. That’s when he found out about the “no electronics rule.” No cell phones, no iPods. All were locked in the vehicles. Only the leader carried a cell phone, for emergencies only.

His second surprise came when he opened the hatch of the Navigator. Five backpacks. Five backpacks with bedrolls. He’d transported four girls. It didn’t take a law degree to figure out who the fifth backpack was for. He was in deep shit. But what could he say in front of Ellen and her friends?

“Of course, sweetie. I knew we were camping.” A lie to save face wasn’t wrong. Right?

“Yeah, sure, Dad.”

She didn’t believe him? What happened to the adulation that used to be in her eyes? The “Dad is perfect” look.

He tried again. “Camping, like KOA. You know, kiddo, shower buildings, restrooms, flush toilets. Right now, I’d settle for a port-a-potty.”

Ellen groaned again. “Da-ad.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d wonder if she had a stomach ache.

As he’d done several times in the past three hours, he took out his handkerchief, looked at it in disgust, and tried to find a clean spot. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was hot and sticky, more like August in Michigan than June. Drew intensely disliked sweating. Clean sweat—in a gym—was all right. Not this . . . dirt. More than sweaty, he hated being dirty.

Considering the rain in early spring, he was surprised at how dry the path was. And how much dust twenty feet could kick up on a forest path. That, however, was not his first concern. He needed a john. Bad.

“C’mon, Ellen. Isn’t there a restroom nearby?” he asked quietly. “Even an outhouse?”

“Dad, this is Prim.” Ellen had mastered the art of eye rolling. As he’d learned in the past few months, that innate skill emerged in girls during adolescence.

“Prim? What is that?” Drew gave her the self-mocking grin that always made her laugh. “A new all-girl rock group?

Ellen wasn’t smiling. She lowered her voice. “It means Primitive Camping. We go in the bushes.”

“What!” He looked around, realizing that the other girls were staring at him. He hadn’t meant to sound so loud.

“You are embarrassing me.” She stomped away, kicking up more dust. Before she got to her friends clustered nearby, she shot over her shoulder, “I wish you’d never come. I knew it was a dumb idea to ask you.”

“Hey, come back here, honey. I’m sure this is a little misunderstanding. C’mon, Ellen.” In the year since his wife died, he and Ellen had had a lot of misunderstandings.

“I think she’s mad at you.”

Drew turned toward the quiet voice behind him. There she was, leaning back against a tree, her knee bent and booted foot propped against the trunk. Maggie Sinclair, Director of Camp Hell. He knew Jack’s sister was an outdoor nut, but he didn’t think she was this bad. Pissing in the bushes, for God’s sake.

Maggie was a tall woman, only a few inches shorter than his own six feet. She had the tan of a person who spent time outdoors, not a sunbather, though, with laugh crinkles around her eyes. Still, the rough-neck tomboy he’d grown up with. Who else would want to spend a summer day backpacking on dusty trails through snagging underbrush instead of out on a perfectly manicured golf course where you only ventured into the rough to retrieve an errant ball?

Despite the heat and humidity, Maggie’s white T-shirt, with its pink ‘Race for the Cure’ logo, was still white and her jeans, though faded, remained clean. With her dark brown ponytail pulled through the back of a Detroit Tigers baseball cap, she looked as cool as when they started on this trek three hours ago. That almost irritated him more than her awareness of friction between him and his daughter.

“Ellen? Mad at me?” He affected mock surprise. “Your powers of observation are amazing. Are you ever wrong?”

She cupped her elbow in her hand and tapped a finger against her jaw. “Let me see now. I was wrong once—fourteen years ago. That’s when I married Roger Dodger.”

Roger Dodger. An appropriate name for the jerk. The guy got out of paying anything even though she'd supported him while putting him through his MBA, because of Maggie’s inept divorce lawyer. It still pissed him off that she hadn’t come to him. Never mind he specialized in criminal law. He would’ve made an exception for her.

“Let me think. Have I been wrong since?” She continued the damn tapping then snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. I was wrong to let Ellen’s city-soft lawyer daddy help chaperone this trip.”

Drew gave her the smile that prosecutors knew better than to believe. “And here I thought it was because nobody else would.”

Available at Amazon  

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Diane Burton combines her love of mystery, adventure, science fiction, and romance into writing romantic fiction. She blogs here on the 16th and 30th of each month. She shares snippets from her stories every weekend on her blog.