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My six-year-old granddaughter Lucy runs up to me, her baby doll in hand, asking if I know what Santa is bringing her this year.
I look around, wondering if anyone will notice Lucy and I sneaking away. “I can’t tell you Santa’s plans, but I think I might be able to show you what I’ve been making in my workshop.”
Her eyes light up. She is our only grandchild – so far – and she has me wrapped around her little finger.
I take her hand and we weave our way through the cabin. Passing Sugar, I kiss my bride, who after all these years, still makes my heart flip-flop every damn time I see her. Her honey-blond hair is in a bun on top of her head, and she wears an apron. I kiss her cheek as I pass her, pausing to pull her to me. “I love you, Sugarplum.”
Tanner groans. “You guys are so bad.”
“No,” Sugar admonishes with a laugh. “We’re just sentimental this time of year.”
“Grandpa is taking me to his workshop!” Lucy says with delight.
Sugar and Tanner smile, knowing what I built her.
“Well you better be careful out there, Lucy,” Tanner says. “Because it’s my workshop too ya know.”
Pride swells through me. I love the fact my one and only son is taking up my trade. He is an even finer carpenter than me.
“I know, Uncle Tanner,” she says with an adorable voice of exasperation. “The rule is no touching.”
Sugar kneels down and kisses Lucy’s cheeks. “Merry Christmas, Lucy.”
“Merry Christmas, Grandma.”
“Now you two be quick. Breakfast for dinner is almost ready.”
“Why is this the tradition?” I hear Tanner ask as I leave through the back door with Lucy.
I smile, chuckling to myself remember that first Christmas Eve with Sugar all those years ago. Once inside the workshop, I flip on the lights and take Lucy’s hand. “’Kay sweetie, your gift is over here. The one that is wrapped up.”
“This is for me?” she asks, eyes big. She walks over to the package and unwraps it carefully. She gasps when she sees what I’ve made her. “A baby cradle for Julie?” she asks, placing her baby doll in the miniature cradle that I carved, sanded, and painted pink and white.
“Do you think she likes it?” I ask, knowing the answer by the look of pure joy in my granddaughter’s eyes. Tucked in the cradle is a small quilt Sugar made, and Lucy tenderly tucks her baby doll in.
Tears prick my eyes. I may be getting old, but damn, I can’t help but get sentimental this time of year. Sugar and I dreamed for so long of creating a family that would have a legacy, and that we would be lucky enough to watch our kids grow up, knowing my own parents were not so lucky. And somehow, we’ve made it though. We beat the odds and came out ahead. We’ve come out together.
“It’s perfect, Grandpa,” Lucy says. “I love it. And I love you.”
She wraps her arms around me, and I hold her tightly, the miracle of Christmas still not lost on me.
~The End~AboutHome Is Where The Beard IsYou could call me a Grinch.
But instead of green fur, I grew a beard and a brooding attitude.
Sure, I’ve got a chip on my shoulder — but we all have our issues.
I live in the woods. Alone. That’s the way I like it.
Until this December.
When Maple St. Claire knocks on my cabin door and everything changes.
I may be a grump, but I’m a sucker for sweet things.
And this girl? I’ve been in love with her since I was six years old.
It’s the season for miracles and maybe just this once I’ll get the present I’ve wanted all my life:
Maple St. Claire in my arms under the mistletoe.Dear Reader,
It’s Christmas and I was feeling generous… so I gave you not one, but two virgins.
That’s right, this filthy-sweet romance features an alpha hero who is saving himself for his one and only… and a sweet as sugar heroine who’s been dreaming of this moment all her life.
They’re both about to get a really good Christmas gift!
xo, frankieFilsonWith my shirtsleeves rolled up and an axe in the air, I slam the blade down, splitting the chunk of wood in two. I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm, assessing the stack of firewood. More than enough for the rest of the long-ass winter that’s ahead of us here in the Northern Cascade Mountains. Hell, there’s already a few inches of snow at my feet.
I turn, hearing tires crunch against the freshly covered gravel of the driveway. A car is pulling up and my springer spaniel, Sammy, starts barking. “It’s okay, girl,” I say, burying the axe in the stump, the thick scent of pine trees and the smoke from the chimney swirling around us. The tires come to a stop and I wonder who would be coming out here today when the forecast predicted a flurry of snow for later this morning.
