The Christmas House

By Elizabeth Bromke

Christmas comes but once a year. Unless you never take down the decorations.

 

When a pipe in her home freezes and bursts, antiques collector Fern Gale knows her holiday season is off to a bad start. Her house was already a mess and all she wants to do is drink hot chocolate and binge-watch Christmas movies. 

 

The winter catastrophe pushes Fern to spruce things up at 313 Pine Tree Lane. And that's when she stumbles across something that belongs to her estranged husband.

 

Stedman Gale thought he moved on from Fern. After all, when her mother died, their marriage died, too. But then he gets a frantic phone call in the middle of the night that changes everything...

 

If the small-town magpie can reconnect with the love of her life then maybe she'll be more than the lonely woman who lives in The Christmas House.

Book Two in the Hickory Grove series is a quirky, stand-alone romantic women's fiction about a second chance that comes a little later in life. Order your copy in time for the holiday season. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Bromke
• Release date: Oct 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386672395

Elizabeth Bromke

Elizabeth Bromke is the author of the Maplewood series, the Hickory Grove series, and the Birch Harbor series. Each set of stories incorporates family, friends, and love.  Elizabeth lives in the mountains of Arizona, where she enjoys reading, writing, and spending time with her family.  Learn more about the author by visiting elizabethbromke.com today. 

Book preview

Chapter 1—Present Day

Clad in a brand new, pine green sweater with mistletoe earrings dangling from below her blonde up do, Fern Gale clutched a serving tray. At the center of the tray, a few errant clumps of leftover white meat lay limp. 

Overhead, radio speakers transitioned from Jingle Bells to Holy Night. The crowd thinned out and the low murmur of jolly eaters was reduced to a few stragglers and the remaining volunteers.

Fern shifted the tray in her hands. Indecision clouded her judgment—either spoon the little bit of turkey into a Tupperware from the kitchen and be on her merry way, or trash it as if she were the Grinch. A forty-five-year-old, female Grinch.

Of course she should save it. What was the point of serving the less fortunate if you were going to dump the leftover food? Didn’t that undermine the whole idea of doing good?

Nodding to herself, Fern lifted a brown boot and started for the kitchen.

Oh, Fern, here. I’ll scrape that for you. Liesl Hart pried the tray from Fern’s grip and bounced to the nearest trash bin. She stopped short, clicking her tongue at the height of the waste, then set the tray down and proceeded to lift her foot over top of the teetering pile of soda pop cans, greasy napkins, and soiled paper plates. At last, she jumped up and into the darn thing.

Fern rushed in behind her. Liesl, let me help, for goodness sake. 

Laughter took hold of both of them, and Fern laced her fingers through Liesl’s, helping the woman to jounce up and down until the trash had sufficiently compacted to allow Liesl to scrape the few leftovers on top. 

Liesl’s hands were smooth and clean. Her nails carefully painted brick red. Short. Squared off. Functional but pretty. She was both masculine and feminine. The duality was quite beautiful, and Fern felt important helping to steady this woman. 

As Liesl descended, Fern caught a whiff of floral shampoo. It reminded her of her mom. Eleanor Monroe always smelled like shampoo. Fern clutched briefly at her chest just as Liesl landed back on the rec hall floor.

There. Whew! Liesl clapped her hands and moved on to do the same with cranberry sauce dregs and leftover potatoes. 

Fern suppressed an urge to cry out, This is for the homeless! Shouldn’t we save the leftovers and dole them back out tomorrow? 

Or, at the very least, maybe the volunteers could divide the remains and tote them home? Turkey sandwiches for a week—wasn’t that the post-Thanksgiving tradition of any true, red-blooded American? 

Then again, who was Fern to judge? She, herself, followed few conventions of society, really. Accepting instead a quiet, lonely life. 

She preferred to stay in. She preferred to keep social interactions for only the most important of occasions. Fern wasn’t one to waste energy and makeup on any old weekend night. She saved all of that for special events. Like holidays.

Fern loved holidays. Even Halloween when there was no charity dinner where she could turn up and help. Still she loved it. She loved watching Alfred Hitchcock films for a week straight. 

And she loved carving a pumpkin with grand plans to roast and salt the seeds soon thereafter. Of course, Fern typically didn’t get around to roasting the seeds. Hauling the rotting pumpkin to the garbage hopper was as much follow-through as she could muster.

But she mostly loved the sweeter holidays, looking especially forward to Little Flock’s Community Thanksgiving. A sweeping title for what was simply the Little Flock Catholic Parish’s charity meal. 

Fern had begun volunteering the year after her mother passed because she knew it was her duty to fill that role and because it was a chance to chat with the locals; many of whom she’d simply never connected with throughout her life. 

Plus, it always felt good. Rubbing elbows with Hickory Grove high society like Liesl Hart gave Fern a bit of a thrill and even inspired her. 

Maybe today would be the day she’d deep clean her house. Maybe today would be the day she’d book a trip to the salon. Maybe today would be the day she’d get back to being her old self. The Fern who everyone saw as a mysterious beauty. The Fern who, though somewhat isolated, was happy and pleasant and normal.

The clean-up was complete. No more picked-over food left. The long, narrow, folding tables had been neatly stacked against the far wall. Warming trays and food storage tubs had been soaked and scrubbed and were now drying along the Formica counter that stretched out from a utilitarian, stainless steel sink. 

Liesl had scuttled away with a few other women from the Ladies Auxiliary. Each likely heading to her very own Thanksgiving dinner. Or maybe to the Thanksgiving dinners that their families were hosting—bustling dinners with men shouting at television screens as other men, uniformed and sweating, stood on a green field with hands on hips. 

In these scenes, Fern could picture children squabbling over toys, or perhaps devices. 

She could picture elegant tablescapes with mixed textures and gleaming candles, somehow safe from the hectic flow of traffic. Cousins and aunts and uncles wondering through fire-warmed homes, bored and plump with turkey. Rowdy affairs, to be sure. 

Fern smiled wanly at Anthony, the only other volunteer left.

Thanks for helping today, Fern, he said as they walked out together. He held the door for her and she passed through, awkwardly waiting as he fumbled to lock the building. 

Those who needed shelter for the night would be back in a few hours. A different volunteer would arrive by then. The chain effect of charity was strong in Hickory Grove. Fern knew this. 

Oh, it was my pleasure, Anthony. Really. What a nice event. She looked off across the cemetery that sprawled up the little hill beyond the church buildings. 

Anthony hesitated, offering Fern a tight-lipped smile. I’ve got to get home. You know Jackie, he added, squinting into the late afternoon sun. 

Fern did not know Jackie, really. She knew of her, as her mother would always trill—her voice perched high in her throat as though Eleanor Monroe had heard of such people but was too busy to know such people.

Was Jackie an overbearing wife? Was she demanding and severe? Did she kiss her husband hello and goodbye perfunctorily or did she kiss him with urgency? Desperate for him to never leave her? Desperate for him to return home? 

Enjoy your supper, Fern offered, smiling as she turned toward her own vehicle.

It was early yet. She had hours to fill before it was time to gear up for Black Friday. Empty hours where she would feel the pull of loneliness. The uncomfortable absence of people. Of noise. No one to irritate her or remind her why she chose to live alone and stay inside that loneliness with such dedication.

Chapter 2–2013

GoneWithTheGale has entered the chat.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Good evening : )

GoneWithTheGale: Hi, Fern!

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: How was your day?

GoneWithTheGale: Great, actually. It’s funny—when you start your morning by talking to a beautiful woman, your day is automatically terrific. No matter what happens!

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: You have no idea whether I’m beautiful…

GoneWithTheGale: You write beautifully. And, what can I say? I’m a sucker for blonde-haired, blue-eyed women with the last name Monroe.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Hah. I’m no Marilyn.

GoneWithTheGale: And I’m no Clark Gable.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: In that case, I’d better go…

GoneWithTheGale: Hey, now!

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Just kidding ; )

GoneWithTheGale: Fern?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Yes…?

GoneWithTheGale: You never answered my question.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Which one?

GoneWithTheGale: Are you single?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I’m a couple years older than you.

GoneWithTheGale: That wasn’t my question.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Okay, well. My best friend is my mother…

GoneWithTheGale: Hm. Did you lie to me?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: About what?

GoneWithTheGale: Are you sure you’re a blonde woman and not a dark-haired motel owner by the last name of Bates?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: You like Hitchcock, too?

GoneWithTheGale: You’re avoiding all my questions now.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I am a blonde woman. And yes.

GoneWithTheGale: Yes?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Yes, I’m single. All right? There. I’ve said it.

GoneWithTheGale: So what have you been doing for the last forty-one years?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: What do you mean?

GoneWithTheGale: You work at Dotson. You love movies, especially classics. Ever married?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Never, actually. You?

GoneWithTheGale: Almost. Came close.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: What happened?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: If you don’t mind my asking…

GoneWithTheGale: Not at all. I’m a homebody. She wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy going out for drinks. And to the movies, obviously. I travel a lot for work, and it’s exhausting. So, when I’m home, I just want to be home. She was opposite. A social butterfly, always on the move.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I’m similar.

GoneWithTheGale: You like to go out a lot?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: No, I mean I’m similar to you. A homebody.

GoneWithTheGale: Hey, is that you?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Is what me?

GoneWithTheGale: You changed your profile photo on the page.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing…

GoneWithTheGale: You’re right—you’re no Marilyn.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing…

GoneWithTheGale: You blow her out of the water.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Well, that’s ridiculous.

GoneWithTheGale: If you look like your photo, then it’s true. You’re beautiful.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: It’s a flattering picture. I admit.

GoneWithTheGale: I probably don’t own a flattering picture of myself. Here’s a recent one, though.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I just got your attachment. You have kind eyes, Stedman. It’s a nice photo. You’re handsome.

GoneWithTheGale: Aw, shucks. Thanks : )

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I’ve never done this before.

GoneWithTheGale: Exchanged photos with a man online?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Exactly.

GoneWithTheGale: Why didn’t you ever get married, Fern?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn is typing…

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I’m not sure. I’ve always liked the idea. Just never found the one, I guess.

GoneWithTheGale: Any serious relationships?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: No. A few dates over the years. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a homebody. A little weird, huh?

GoneWithTheGale: I don’t think so.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: If I’m not careful, I’m going to turn into a cat lady.

GoneWithTheGale: Do you have lots of cats?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: No. None, actually.

GoneWithTheGale: Don’t go buying any!

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I won’t. My apartment won’t allow it. Anyway, I’m looking to move back to Hickory Grove.

GoneWithTheGale: Is that where you’re from?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Yes. Heard of it?

GoneWithTheGale: Nope. Is it a suburb?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: No. It’s a small town just north of the Ohio.

GoneWithTheGale: Oh, so you’re a Yankee.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Hah. As much of a Yankee as one can be when you grow up in a small farming town on the river.

GoneWithTheGale: Why do you want to move back?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: My father passed a couple years ago.

GoneWithTheGale: I’m so sorry to hear that.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Oh, thank you. It’s fine. But my mother has become lonely. She doesn’t have any family left, and since I’m not the sort who needs to be in a big city, I decided to go home.

GoneWithTheGale: Are you going to live with her?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I’m not sure. Probably. Our house is big. There’s enough space. I should live there.

GoneWithTheGale: I would, if I were you.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: You would what?

GoneWithTheGale: I would live with my mom. If she were alone and I were alone and if we had a big house out in the country. It sounds idyllic.

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Stedman, we should do this every day.

GoneWithTheGale: Do what?

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: Chat. I like talking to you.

GoneWithTheGale: Okay. Let’s do it every day.

GoneWithTheGale: Chat, I mean ; )

MiracleOnPineTreeLn: I knew what you meant.

GoneWithTheGale: I knew you would.

Chapter 3

Once she pulled into her driveway, the sadness dissipated a little. Toffee would be waiting for her Thanksgiving dinner, and Fern was looking forward to their nightly routine. 

Peering over the steering wheel, she rolled up