Love lights on christmas.., p.1
Love Lights on Christmas Snow, page 1
Love Lights on Christmas Snow
By Laura Briggs
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2022 Laura Briggs
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Image: “Christmas cabin.” Original art, “Floral Border” by Ellebell, and
“Various buildings house” by Tastyvector. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/
Title Page Image: “Snowy Christmas.” Original art, “Swirl frame” by sjezica, “Various buildings house” by Tastyvector, and “Fashionable young girls” by filitova.. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/
Table of 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
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Dear Readers,
I wanted Maisie's Christmas story to be a happy one, after the lonely scene by the ice rink in New York last time. Of course, that doesn't mean it won't still be complicated — Adele being in the picture guarantees it, after all. That doesn't mean that Maisie won't celebrate the fact that the love she still carries for Alex is not the one-sided affair she imagined.
In this series, of course, Maisie's journey as a writer has unfolded in greater detail and with greater emphasis, particularly where her dream's setbacks are concerned. There's no common woe more detrimental to any struggling professional writer's self esteem (short of the universal ones of bad critics and rejection of cherished storylines) than conceding that their own work simply isn't enough to pull them through a difficult patch.
Fortunately for Maisie, her second opportunity comes in the form of ghost writing under the pen name of a beloved young adult author — a figment reminiscent of Carolyn Keene — for a popular series about a female junior journalist turned amateur sleuth. The world Maisie enters is filled with tropes that lovers of young adult classics will recognize, but her dilemma is one that anybody can sympathize with — that of feeling out of step in a new job, and uncertain of her professional identity in a sudden shift of roles.
Being out of place in a love that had consumed her almost since her first day in Cornwall is causing her the most grief at present, however. Despite her acceptance that Alex is no longer Alistair Davies, the bittersweet proof continues to come that he can never truly escape his gift, topped off by the revelation of what destroyed his idealism for it the first time. Through it, Maisie understands better the pain of Sidney — and the dilemma of Alex — in a way that has her fighting against herself now to resist interfering with his choices. Of course, she's already holding herself back from interfering with his heart's current perception of her, too.
Readers will probably be yelling for her to take the risk and tell him that she still thinks about his promise to her nearly daily, even if two years have passed. Yet we all know how hard it is to tell someone that the balance of power is tipped in their favor when it comes to love. We simply can't be sure that they will ever be gripped by the same level of emotion, which means we're the ones who are in danger if those words are spoken.
Confession time is coming. Maybe in a most unexpected way — but a little help from the Doctor may save the day when it looks bleak. In the meantime, I wish all of you happy reading and a very merry Christmas!
Prologue
There are many things I have accepted in life, with each change to my apparent fate. Loss isn't easier to accept because you've lost a great many things — but losing isn't easier to accept after you win a few times, either. Fate has a way of teaching us that just when we've accepted the balance of our situation, the process of keeping score is about to change.
Score one for me with my dream coming true and my book being published. Point minus for me when the person I had come to believe was the love of my life seemingly slipped out of it, because of a tragedy beyond our control. Return to friendship, then point of realization that our friendship had been and might be something more – so a half point restored to my life’s total.
That's how it works, at least to my mind. My feelings on my fate are sometimes mixed up, and, occasionally, unhappy; I try again when I fail, however, and tell myself that maybe the opportunities missed are for the best. The next ending will be better than the one currently typing itself on life's pages.
I have my book and I have Sidney back in my life. I have a second book making its debut to my ... sort of ... fan base. Things could certainly be worse for my new life in London, the kind of life that any young American writer would dream about, with an authentic city-bred flatmate, an authentic ambitious young agent and snooty young publisher, and dozens of stamps on my train pass to Cornwall ... albeit not for fun but, quirkily, for my second job at the hotel that gave me my first chance to stay abroad.
My role as a hotel maid is as much out of loyalty and love as the need for the kind of monetary 'scratch' that writing still wasn't offering me after my first book's publication. Much like my friendship with Sidney — or, as properly named by law, Alex, as I had been calling him since our friendship resumed — offered me the chance to be part of his life again after I thought this hope had been lost to me.
So much for perfection in life, and for easy pathways. Fortunately, my time waiting tables, washing windows, and, once, for a brief, pre-college summer, grooming poodles, has given me extra endurance for the long haul. I am willing to ride out the storms of misfortune until dry ground is beneath me again, and a brighter future steals over my horizon.
Love Lights on Christmas Snow
by
Laura Briggs
Chapter One
"I simply can't put up with him another minute, Maisie," said Mrs. Graves. "I know it seems rather harsh, but he'll have to go."
The guilty party cowered, ears flat. Kip's one good eye looked to me for salvation as the vicar's housekeeper lodged her grave accusations, pleading for a little sympathy for his criminal urges. Softening me in the face of the housekeeper's woes, involving the chewing of a little wooden patio table's legs.
"But you can't get rid of Kip," I said. "He's Si — he's been here forever, he's like part of the vicarage family. Besides, you like Kip, I know you do. You wouldn't want to do that to him."
The little terrier was a fixture at the vicarage, and had been since he'd been hauled out of a fish and chip stall's dustbin. Scruffy, yes, a digger of tulip bulbs and fresh petunias on occasion, but still the smartest of the pack of mongrels that lived in the vicarage's work shed. The one who rousted rats from the old barn and scurried away the mice in Mrs. Graves's earth cellar.
Moreover, he was Sidney's. Kip went everywhere with him when he was still living in Cornwall, as if he was his rescuer's shadow. Removing him would be a travesty, like dishonoring a sacred bond.
"Of course I don't want to send him away," said Mrs. Graves, sadly. "But he's behaving so very badly these days, there's no other choice, really. I simply can't control him, no matter how I try — and it's getting worse by the week. First the good Irish lace tablecloth dragged off the clothesline, then it was the damage to the vicar's best house slippers, not to mention the stolen ham from poor Lenny Dyson's drying shed."
"But those were just a few bad apples in a barrel of mostly good ones," I pleaded. "Surely you wouldn't toss Kip for a few infractions like those. It's not the first time he's availed himself of a few seemingly-free treats, or tracked a little mud on some laundry."
"Those incidents are only the latest on the list," said Mrs. Graves.
"Maybe it's not as long as it seems?" I suggested, although my heart was sinking.
Kip snuffled some leaves in the grass. The rest of the pack lay sprawled near the vicar's favorite bed of summer wildflowers, Mick snoring and Bugsy licking a patch of fur while the rest snoozed peacefully. At least they weren't involved in this bad behavior, proving the whole pack hadn't gone wild.
"He's been on his very worst behavior this autumn — he's turning to a dog's life of crime. And with the vicarage hosting this year's garden society's end-of-season tea, I can't have flower bulbs strewn everywhere — or, heaven forbid, dirty pawprints all over the tea table's linen," she answered. "But I simply can't control this dog, he won't listen to scolding or pleading from me. I can't let this occasion be ruined, not when the vicar has his heart set on making a lovely gesture."
The vicar was a keen gardener, even if his soft spot for ne'er-do-wells like Sidney led to the vicarage having a less-than-talented groundskeeper to trim the hedges and help lay in the new annuals each spring. Hosting the long-awaited tea for this year's winners of the garden society competition was an honor, I had no doubt, with the vicarage waiting patiently in line behind other promising venues, like the chur ch commons in the neighboring village, and that quaint little garden by a popular tea shop.
"I know, but ... but it's Kip," I pleaded. I glanced down at the little dog, who still had his guilty look as he hunkered by my feet.
The sunshine painted squares of yellow cheer on every corner of the vicarage's back garden, except the one patch of unhappiness where the three of us stood amidst the late blooms of summer, and the ones which were now wilting on the vine. Dejected-looking roses with faded petals did not supersede the piteous state of a little dog about to be sent who knows where.
"I haven't the faintest idea where to find a new home for him, but I suppose I'll have to try," she said, sighing. "I've been quite patient about looking after these dogs, and heaven knows if Sidney intends to come back and collect them at this point, but I certainly can't look after one that misbehaves so dreadfully."
The escalating bad behavior was tied to one simple problem, I suspected — Kip missing Sidney. The little dog was showing out, as if trying to earn the kind of attention that would summon the notice of the person who cared the most about him — or show the world that he was rebelling against his abandonment.
"Surely there's another way," I said, pleadingly.
"What else can I do?" The housekeeper spread her hands helplessly. "I can't have him here, not digging great holes in the garden and gnawing that poor rhododendron like one of those North American beavers on telly. What if the day of the celebratory tea comes and he takes one of those mischief moods? He'll pull the tablecloths off in the midst of tea — or pull one of the prize rose cuttings from its pot." She shuddered. "The poor dear vicar would never forgive himself for the likes of it."
"Kip won't," I assured her, firmly. My mind raced ahead for a reason why, exactly. "I'll take him with me," I continued. "To London, I mean. He'll stay with me until Sidney can look after him."
"Will you?" said Mrs. Graves.
"Absolutely," I said. "He'd rather be with Sidney any day, I'm sure."
"I suppose that would be best, really, wouldn't it?" Her mood brightened a little, her brow unknitting. "Poor little mite. I shouldn't blame him, since the vicar would say a hard life is what's given him such bad instincts." She sighed again, which told me she was thinking more of the doggy's supposed ne'er do well owner at this moment, with his supposedly-wicked ways.
Since I thought about him every day, I knew the signs.
I stroked Kip's ears. "It'll be fine," I said, reassuring them both. The terrier's shaggy little tail wagged.
Of course, now I had to actually do what I said — which meant taking Kip to London with me in two days' time, something I now reflected might be easier said than done. Did one simply board a train with a dog on a leash?
"I'll take him with me this week," I said. "He won't have a chance to dig up any more bulbs, I promise."
Mrs. Graves looked dubious now. "However will you take him there?" she asked. "I recall Sidney took him on the train once, to Boscastle for a day, and they threw him off. He was an absolute terror in the passenger car, apparently. Scrapping with another dog — and he bit the conductor's finger when he intervened. I doubt they'll allow him back."
I hadn't heard this story before, and my heart sank in response. "There must be a way, surely," I said. "That's for me to worry about, not you, so I'll take care of it."
"We'll figure it out," I told Kip, dubiously, as we walked to work with him on the end of a red leash I had found hanging in the old shed — Mrs. Graves insisted that I take Kip with me now, to prevent further incidents on the vicarage lawn. He glanced up at me with his one good eye bright and keen, as if listening, then stretched his leash the full length to roll in some grass on the side of the road.
He was blissfully unaware of our predicament, being a dog, but it was preying on my thoughts as we reached the top of the hill where the Penmarrow sat, overlooking the rocky path to the beach and the endless blue bands of sea and sky in contrasting shades. The rosy-hued brick and sandstone manor house gazed at it in a state of perpetual dignity, as if remembering its former glory as a private family estate before it became a Cornish hotel.
I opted for the side staff door, the one through the little closed-off courtyard by the kitchen gardens, where the hotel's Rolls-Royce was parked. I started to tie Kip to one of the posts, then decided he would be better off in my room upstairs. If he chewed through this nylon leash and went after the hotel's autumn floral topiaries that Brigette had positioned on either side of the grand doors, I would be in deep trouble.
The aforementioned head of housekeeping — interim, that is — was tidying the front desk whilst the receptionist was taking their tea break. I spotted her ginger hair and her trim — possibly tailored-to-fit — uniform waistcoat with its extra-shiny staff badge.
No sneaking past to the main stairs that way. With instinctive timing, Brigette looked up to see me before I could retreat back towards the manager's private stairs instead.
"No dogs are allowed in the hotel without permission — guests only, Maisie," she scolded me. "You know the rules. Take that little ...whatever ... out to the garden directly, if you please."
"Could I keep him in my room, Brigette?" I asked. "Just for the next two days until I go back to London."
"What?" she asked, looking shocked. "It's against the rules. We can't have staff keeping pets in their rooms, the possible exception being goldfish."
"Please, Brigette. I have to take him with me to the city, which I have no idea how to do as it is, and I have no other place to keep him until then," I said, ready to do my best to wheedle into her good graces, in desperation. "He'll be on his best behavior, I promise."
Brigette bestowed a suspicious glance on Kip, who didn't look the picture of innocence with grass stains in his patchy black and white fur, and bits of heather and twig caught in its shagginess. He wagged his tail, gazing up at her with his shaggy chin full of leaf bits also.
"You want to keep him here until then?" she said, dubiously. This idea was clearly not palatable. It involved breaking rules, for one thing.
"Scout's honor," I answered, holding up what I hoped was the correct number of fingers.
"And you're taking him away with you on Monday?" she said. "Directly that morning?"
"If I can figure out how, that's the plan," I said. "When you were the concierge here, did you ever help anybody ship a dog by train? Who can't — well, has a reputation with the national rail?"
She frowned. "What do you mean, precisely?" she said.
"Do you know what sort of steps are involved to taking one as luggage, maybe? I probably need some kind of ... I don't know ... doggy travel tags? A veterinarian form?"
Kip was a biter — I wondered if I needed a certificate of good health to prove he didn't have any mad dog diseases, or any conditions that were dangerous to human health. But this would depend on me finding a way to put him in something for transport. I pictured crates at the airport — the kind with a St. Bernard stuffed inside it, and dozens of 'Live Animal' stickers and registration forms attached.
This was much closer to reality than me skipping onto the train with Kip on his leash after the Boscastle incident, I suspected, if a dramatic version of events.
"What sort of forms?" asked Brigette.
"If maybe ... the train personnel are wary of this particular dog?"
"I suppose it's possible," said Brigette, frowning. "You'll have to contact the rail to see if they'll make an exception for an animal previously barred from travel. I suppose there might be contingencies to getting permission. It may be up to the individual staff with each rail."
"Do you know anybody who could loan me an animal crate?" I asked. "Or if there's any chance they'd let me get away with a simple cardboard box with air holes and a little window cut through instead?"
"Me? I don't know anyone who travels with pets, except by leash," said Brigette. "There is a veterinary surgeon nearby who might do some sort of physical exam if it's necessary, I suppose. She might have some sort of crate they could loan you — I rang her once for a client with a sick Corgi. I've heard she's rather busy, though, so it probably would have been better to have contacted her sooner."
