Holiday Stories: Christmas Cookies and Holiday Joy

~Story by Beth Hill~

Sarah inhaled the fragrances of cinnamon and sugar and the chocolate chips melting into gooey deliciousness in the oven. Homey smells. Christmas smells.

She wanted to sit, relax, to inhale more than smells. She wanted the peace of the season to wash over her, still her racing mind and ease her fractured soul. But if she stopped moving, sorrow would overwhelm. She knew it. Had given in last Christmas. And again on his birthday. She’d been unable to resist the lure of peace on those two days.

But peace had eluded her. And instead grief had stolen into her home, into her mind and heart. And she’d cried out her anger and sorrow and loss, collapsing on her kitchen floor in a tangle of oven mitts and tears and memories. And standing again, facing life again, had been nearly impossible.

She reached for the oven door just before the timer buzzed, and pulled out the tray of perfect cookies. His favorite. She baked them every year. He couldn’t get enough. And she’d watch as he devoured one after another, following every third bite or so with a gulp of cold milk. And he’d grin, crumbs clinging to his lips, knowing she got a kick out of his passion for home-baked cookies made just for him.

She scoured the kitchen; focusing on making perfect and whole those things she had control over. And pushed far from her mind the events she couldn’t influence or change. But she left the cookies mounded on wax paper since Mac liked them that way. Liked reaching across the counter and plucking one or two or five whenever he wanted them.

The reflection from the tree beckoned her to the living room and the large glass windows that framed it. She’d stop for only a moment, her heart promised her head. Just a brief passage of time to watch the snowfall, to admire the twinkling lights as they pushed against the darkness both inside and out. Just a moment . . .

When the clocked chimed nine, Sarah jumped. Then smiled. Silly to feel guilty over losing herself in memories of her husband. She wouldn’t break down this Christmas. She’d learned that lesson. Plus, the news had been better this year. The better news being they’d actually heard news. The first reliable report since her captain had gone missing sixteen months earlier.

Chaplain Anderson had called in October. One of the Resolute Seven—prisoners held for over four months in a no-name cave in Afghanistan—had mentioned Mac—someone who sounded like Mac, please God—in his briefing. So this year she’d added hope to her arsenal of determination and faith and prayers. This year she wouldn’t give in to despair.

She pressed her fingers against the cold glass. Closed her eyes and lowered her head.

“Keep him warm tonight. Please. Hold him in Your arms since he doesn’t have mine. Fill his heart with Your love, with my devotion. And give Him your peace.”

Sarah leaned against her hand and stared into the night. So quiet. So pure.

So lonely.

“And please hold me. Because I’m afraid I can’t hold on any longer.”

She returned to the kitchen. In the near dark she pulled milk from the fridge and poured a tall glass. She piled cookies on a plate and arranged plate and milk on the reindeer placemat at the head of the table. She fussed with a linen napkin, flattening it again and again until she realized what she was doing and yanked her hands away. Enough of that. She still had presents to wrap, gifts for her brother’s family. She turned. And blinked.

The front door was opening, three men stepping through.

Chaplain Anderson, removing his hat. Colonel Ryan, Mac’s CO, holding the arm of another man. That other man dangling a key from his fingers.

The third man lifted his head at her gasp. Then grinned. And then he was rushing to her and squeezing her and kissing her face.

“Sarah. My God, Sarah.”

And then Sarah was on her knees, holding Mac, holding a dream, and kissing him back. Touching him everywhere. Crying and laughing and shaking so much she thought she’d finally snapped and lost her mind.

But when Mac pulled back and grasped her face between his hands, when she could see his eyes and into his soul, she knew he was not imagined but real and in their home.

In her arms.

She stared in wonder for a timeless instant, then sobs burst from her chest and she burrowed into Mac, clutching him, trying to breathe, trying to think. Trying not to feel because the emotions were stretching her beyond her limits and shattering her mind.

“I smell cookies.” That was the colonel.

Mac laughed. He laughed. Sarah gripped him even tighter.

“Sir, those are my cookies. All mine. I’ve been dreaming of them for days. And I’m sorry to say, you won’t get a single taste.”

Sarah wiped her face against Mac’s coat. Trust her man to get to the heart of any matter.

“Sarah? You ready to stand now? I wanna get this coat off and hold you properly.”

“Major, I believe this is where Chaplain Anderson and I bid you goodnight. And Merry Christmas.”

Sarah scrambled to her feet, pulling at Mac, searching his face. Thin. Lined. Hers. “How? When?” She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in an uneven breath. He was still there when she opened her eyes. “Major?” She twisted to look at Colonel Ryan, but turned immediately back to Mac. “I was just asking God to hold you, since I couldn’t. And now you’re here. You’re here.”

Mac saluted the other men as they eased out the door, but didn’t turn from Sarah. “He held me, baby. Every day I felt His protection and your love entwined, binding me in strength and hope.” He stepped close to her and again wrapped her face in his palms. His hands were shaking. “Tonight we hold each other.”

She lifted her hands to his where they framed her cheeks. His gaze was locked on her face. “Why didn’t you call? Have you seen a doctor? What happened? Mac . . . What happened?”

He leaned his forehead against hers, still unwilling to relax his hold. “I needed to be with you before the news broke, baby. I need you at my side to get through the rest of this. To he—” His voice broke and he hauled her against his chest.

“I’m here always. Forever.”

“I know,” he whispered against her neck. “And that’s what saw me through.” His entire body shook, vibrating against hers. “I didn’t break, Sarah. Not once. Not until a couple of Special Forces guys hauled me out. And then I cried like a baby.”

“Mac . . . ”

“My Sarah.” His lips feathered over hers. “Merry Christmas, wife.”

She slid her arms inside his coat and dug her fingers into his back. “Merry Christmas, major. I love you.” She closed her eyes. Thank You. For holding him. For bringing him home. For returning my heart.

My pleasure, Sarah. My very great pleasure. Merry Christmas to you and peace to this home.

Beth is an editor and a fiction writer (contemporary romance and medieval adventure).  Her undergraduate degree is in psychology, her MBA in human resources.  Beth trained as a flight attendant; worked in dinner theatre; managed a dance studio, a framing store, and multitudes of volunteers as a church administrator.  These experiences, as well as many others, have given her a broad base for both her editing and her own writing.

Beth Hill writes fiction and loves words. She thinks that being a writer is the most satisfying and best job, hobby, career, and/or addiction one can pursue.

Beth loves the joys of Christmas.

  

You can reach Beth at her website, A Novel Edit or her blog, The Editor's Blog


 

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

My guest is Alexandra Ivy. She has written and published over thirty historical novels. She recently hit the bestsellers (New York and USA Today) list with her paranormal series, Guardians of Eternity. She says she never expected it and was surprised.

What I appreciate about Alex's story is the fact that she didn't let years of rejections stop her from reaching out to her dream of being published. She had a goal, a belief in both herself and in her ability to reach the goal. She didn't take no for an answer. Instead she used the rejections as a learning tool to perfect her craft as a writer. I have to admire that sort of perseverance.

Her topic today is about the long road to be published and being in the right place at the right time.


I’m always delighted to be given the opportunity to talk about my writing career. Not because I was a fabulous overnight success. Or because I was pulled out of the slush pile and hit the New York Times bestseller list with my great American novel. Or because the movie deal was in the mail before the book hit the stands.

But because it was just the opposite :-)

I began writing after the birth of my first son, (yep, it was a verrrrrry long time ago) . At first I just wanted to see if I could actually finish a book. Or maybe I was just crazy buzzed with the post –birth hormones. Anyway, it took awhile, but I did at last type THE END. It wasn’t very good, in fact, it was freaking AWFUL, but I learned a lot through the process and it gave me a place to start editing (I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to finish a manuscript). From there I started researching publishers who might be interested in my masterpiece…(clears throat) or rather my lump of coal and started sending that baby out.

That should be it, you say? Presto I’m a published author?

Not quite. In fact, it took ten more years and countless more manuscripts before I ever got the CALL. Most of my friends and family thought I was nuts to keep trying. After all, who keeps putting themselves into the position of being rejected over and over and over and over…well, you get the picture. And each and every one hurt as bad as the first one.

I told myself I was persevering, although I think my husband muttered something about being stubborn, mulish, and pig-headed :). In any case, I at last did make my first sell. It was a traditional regency and while the sales were hardly earth shattering, I was over the moon. I, at last, was doing what I loved, even if I did have to keep my day job.

For several years I continued with the traditional regencies. They had a small, but loyal audience and enjoyed writing them. But it became increasingly obvious that the traditional were a dying genre and so I moved to the longer, meater historicals. Thank goodness I had an editor who believed in me because once again I didn’t set the world on fire. I had decent sales, but the trend was for the tortured brooding hero (which I adore to read) while I always ended up writing a comedy of errors.

I didn’t mind. A midlist author isn’t a bad gig. I loved being able to write and I was delighted to be able to connect with readers. I wasn’t world-famous, but hey, I didn’t have to worry about getting mobbed at the grocery store or having my face pasted all over the web (something I can guarantee that none of us want). I was getting steady contracts and doing what I loved. How many people can actually say that?

Fast forward another ten years and I made the plunge into paranormals. I wrote When Darkness Comes just for myself. I not only wanted to see if I could write the book, but I wanted to do it without the pressure of a deadline. It turned out that I had an absolute blast with the Guardians. I could combine my love of horror with my naturally smart-ass nature…a perfect fit :-)

Astonishingly the book led to more books and I recently hit the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists, which shocked the heck out of me. I never even considered the possibility. Sometimes being in the right place at the right time really does pay off!

In any case, I do have a point to this less than dazzling story of publication :-)

I believe that in the end that it’s the tortoise not the hare who wins the race, and that if you continue to follow your dreams, no matter how many obstacles or set-backs you have to overcome, or how many disbelievers tell you to quit, you will eventually reach your goals.

• What's your attitude towards reaching goals: Tortoise or Hare?

Back Cover Blurb:

Salvatore Giuliani is not a happy werewolf. It’s his duty as leader to track down the pureblood females who can keep his people from extinction. But the moment he catches scent of Harley, a pureblood held by a pack of mangy curs, his savage need for her obliterates all other instincts. And the only thing worse than being captured is finding that beautiful, independent Harley defiantly refuses to become his mate.

Harley has been taught to distrust all Weres, especially their arrogant king. She won’t be used for breeding or bonded against her will, not even to a man who makes every nerve tingle with awareness. Yet Salvatore is her key to saving the family she never knew she had—if she dares to succumb to his dark, predatory desire, and face a vicious enemy sworn to destroy them both…

Read a Excerpt/chapter

• Information on the series

Alexandra Ivy's Blog/News

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I’m not exactly sure when I fell in love with books. Probably on my mother’s knee listening to her read Dr. Seuss to me. I do remember that I was barely old enough to cross the street by myself when I discovered the delights of the local library. Could anything be more wonderful than spending summer days surrounded by stacks of Nancy Drew mysteries? Over the years I fell in love with Victoria Holt, Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, and J.R.R. Tolkien just to name a few. I read poetry, essays, biographies, and plays. In fact, I read anything I could get my hands on.



Years later (no, I’m not admitting how many) I’m still an avid reader, and my tastes are still as varied as they were in my youth, which I suppose helps to explain why I enjoy writing regency historicals under the name of Deborah Raleigh, as well as my contemporary paranormals as Alexandra Ivy. For now that is enough to keep me busy, but who knows what the future might hold!



I do have a few other loves in my life besides reading and writing, the most important being my unbelievably patient husband, David, and my two sons, Chance and Alexander. Without their constant support and belief in me, I never could have been able to follow my dreams. They are truly my heroes.