Love Finds You at Home for Christmas (18 page)

Annalisa Daughety is the award-winning author of ten novels and novellas. Her previous works include
Love Finds You in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania
and
Love Finds You in Charm, Ohio
. A graduate of Freed-Hardeman University, Annalisa has spent the past twelve years working in the nonprofit sector in marketing and event planning. She is an active member of American Christian Fiction Writers and loves to connect with her readers through social media sites like Facebook and Twitter.

A native of Arkansas, Annalisa has lived in many states and traveled to many countries. However, she recently moved back home to her hometown of McCrory, Arkansas, where she lives in a house in the middle of a cornfield with three spoiled dogs. More information about Annalisa can be found on her website,
www.annalisadaughety.com
.

BY GWEN FORD FAULKENBERRY

Dedication

.........

To Stella Jane Faulkenberry, the biggest—and best—surprise of my life.

Acknowledgments

.........

Thank You, Jesus, for being grace and extending it to everyone.

Thank you to my wonderful family, without whom I'd never be able to write books.

Thank you, Annalisa Daughety, for your refreshing spirit of camaraderie in writing. I'm honored to have my name on the cover with yours.

Thank you, editor Rachel Meisel, for being a genius and having the heart to go with it.

And thank you, Ozark, Arkansas, for being the community of people I love coming home to.

Prologue

.........

The altar was filled with ferns. Their earthy green color provided a simple and elegant complement for the hundreds of white candles that illuminated the sanctuary and produced a romantic if hazy glow. Cedar branches, laden with blue-white berries, decked the window ledges, sheltering more soft candlelight that flickered like rubies in the stained glass. Jon smelled the woods and thought that the cedar was a good idea. If only he could say the same about the wedding itself.

Looking around, he wondered why he was there. But it was no wonder, really. He was there because Sophie had asked him to come. In town the other day, they'd bumped into one another at the checkout counter of the grocery store. They'd wished each other a merry Christmas, and then she'd looked at him with her dancing blue eyes and said, “You'll be there on New Year's Eve, won't you?” And he had answered yes. He had always been there for her.

Jon and Sophie met on their first day of second grade at River Bend Elementary. He was a bus rider and had arrived early to Mrs. Sigman's class. He was settling into his desk when through the door walked Sophie with her red satchel and blond pigtails. She plopped down in the seat beside him and said, “Hi. I'm Sophia Grace Harper. I know how to write cursive already. Who are you?”

“Jon,” he had answered simply.

“Jon who?”

“Jon the Baptist,” he'd responded, trying to be funny and feeling rather clever after learning about John the Baptist in Sunday school. Sophie carefully studied him for a minute and then burst out laughing.

“You'd better be careful not to lose your head then,” she declared. Being a preacher's daughter, she knew the story well.

They had been best friends ever since. That is, until the last few years.

College had been rough on their friendship. They'd chosen the same school and studied together often. They'd also spent some of their time together watching movies, going out for dessert, playing a little music, occasionally jogging. But somewhere along the way, Jon had realized he loved her—a suspicion he'd suppressed for years because it complicated everything. He never told her, because he knew she didn't love him. At least not in the same way.

She was in love with Stephen, a dark-haired, green-eyed musician who was everything Jon wasn't. Stephen was a performer. His presence on stage and off was magnetic—a little dangerous, in Jon's opinion—and he had most of the girls at school swooning over him. In the end, from the stage of a concert at their college, he had asked Sophie to be his bride, and she had giddily accepted. Or so Jon heard later.

He had seen less of Sophie this past year than he had any year since second grade. And now she was walking down the aisle to become Stephen's wife.

Jon caught his breath when he saw her enter on her father's arm. Sophie looked like a fairy-tale princess, and no doubt felt like one. She seemed to Jon to be caught up in a dream. Her elaborately detailed veil could not hide the excitement—no, enchantment—in her blue eyes. As she came toward his pew, she stuck her foot out playfully and showed him that she wasn't wearing shoes. For just a moment their eyes met, and he thought what a child she was.

“Don't ever change…,” he said softly to her back as she floated past, doubting that Stephen was worthy even to kiss that foot. Jon watched her the rest of the way down the aisle till her father gave her away and she joined her hands with Stephen's.

Jon fought back a wave of nausea. Air. He needed air.

He had seen Sophie, and she'd seen him as she walked down the aisle. He'd been there as he said he would be, and that was going to have to be enough. He knew he'd never make it through the rest of the ceremony. So he slipped out of his pew as inconspicuously as possible, lingering just a moment at the door.

“If any man can show just cause why this man and woman should not be joined, let him speak now…” Dr. Harper's sonorous voice was intoning to the expectant congregation. A formality.

“Because I love her?” Jon whispered to himself. Then he stepped outside into the cold, dark night, tears streaming down his face as the snow began to fall.

Chapter One

.................................

Present day

Sophie groaned as she looked in the mirror. The dark circles under her eyes fanned out like shadows on the pale white landscape that was her face. She splashed water over it, as if to wash away the shadows and wake herself up. But the ghostly figure in the mirror just stared back at her, bleakly, like a dead person who could not be awakened.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and then another followed, hitting the sleeve of her white terry-cloth robe and sinking silently into its softness. She lay back down on the bed where Spot, her Boston Terrier, was nestled in the pillows. She stroked his warm, satiny fur. It felt good. He lazily opened one eye to acknowledge her, rolling over for a full belly rub. Inching closer, he realized Sophie was crying and began to lick the tears off her face. She hugged him.

“You're right,” she said. “No more tears!”

Spot's nub of a tail wagged as Sophie sat up and wiped her eyes. Pulling herself together, she got up and padded to the back door, her oversized slippers making a squishing sound on the old hardwood floors. Spot followed, toenails clicking, and went out to do his business in the yard. Sophie started the coffee pot. When Spot came back in, she went to her room briefly, threw on some clothes, and then sat down at her desk with a cup of Southern Pecan and her To Do list. She was grateful it was a long one. That list would take her all day.

Before the divorce, Sophie never thought she'd end up back in River Bend. That was never part of the plan. As far as she was concerned, it was a good place to be from—truly—but she'd had bigger fish to fry.

Opening her laptop, she typed in “Catfish Fillets,” smiling weakly to herself at the pun. Rubbing her temples, she scowled at the clock. The menu had to be at the printer's by five o'clock to be ready for opening day on Thursday, and even though she had worked and reworked it for the past few days, it was still as unfinished as the rest of her thoughts. She forced herself to focus on the short list of her specialties, carefully wording each item. Spot went in and out, and Sophie drank the whole pot of coffee in lieu of lunch. Finally she finished the menu, ending it with the salad and sandwich options. Grabbing her sunglasses and leaving her dog staring out the window after her, she dashed off on her bicycle to the print shop.

Sophie parked her bike on the sidewalk next to the window boxes that spilled over with English ivy and all colors of petunias still in bloom. There was no place to lock the bike, so she left the chain lock in the basket that hung between the handlebars.

The print shop was located on the corner of the town square, behind the courthouse and conveniently tucked in an old building along with the offices of the
River Bend Record,
the newspaper Harvey's family had run for years. Sophie knew the place well from high school, when her friend Jon worked there.

The ancient door creaked and a bell jangled when she opened it and stepped in. She inhaled the musty odor of the building—burning wood, melted plastic, and fresh paper and ink. Some things never changed.

Harvey Weinberg, the owner, rose from his desk when he saw Sophie. His face lit up with delight. Like the shop, Harvey looked the same as he always had, except that his hair was now gray. He still wore it brushed back, and his blue eyes twinkled over round spectacles. Sophie had always thought he resembled pictures she'd seen of Benjamin Franklin.

“Everybody's excited about your new eatin' place,” Harvey told her when she handed him the menu, requesting fifty laminated copies. “It's the talk of the town.”

“Uh, yeah.” Sophie tried to smile at him from behind her glasses. She squeezed his arm. “Thanks, Harvey.”

“Say, are you going to have food from all those exotic places you been?”

“Maybe I'll try them once in a while as daily specials,” she told him. “I'm just open for lunch for now—kind of playing this by ear.”

“Well, you always been good at that.” He smiled warmly at her, and she felt his kindness wrap around her like a blanket. She remembered all of those Sunday mornings when she'd played the piano while Harvey led the singing for the senior adult Sunday school class. Playing by ear wasn't intimidating when your audience could barely hear you in the first place. And Harvey was so good-natured and fun. She'd been just a kid, and he a step away from the senior adults. Looking into his wrinkled face, she supposed he'd joined the class by now.

“Come see me, Harvey,” she told him as she turned to leave.

“I'll see you on opening day.”

Sophie walked out of the print shop and into the breezy sunshine of a perfect October day in the Ozarks. She hopped on her bike and pointed it toward River Bend's town square.

Being back at the print shop made her think of Jon. Throughout high school, he'd spent a few hours there most days after school, writing, editing, tinkering with the press, and getting covered with printer's ink. She'd stop in sometimes with a vanilla Diet Coke, Jon's favorite drink from the Dairy Freeze, and keep him company. He always liked to have her proofread his stuff, even though—or perhaps especially because—she could be brutal. Her mother was an English teacher, and she'd inherited the gene for perfect grammar. She loved catching Jon in a rare mistake.

Sophie remembered the funniest mistake she'd ever seen him make—and how lucky they were that she discovered it. Her dad had paid Jon to run an ad in the paper for the church's annual pancake breakfast. Just before he printed it in the
Record,
she happened to drop by, and he showed it to her. It read:

Jon had almost died from embarrassment, quickly changing the typo to “griddles” while Sophie rolled on the floor laughing at him. She had never let him live it down. She could still see his face blushing in horror before he finally joined her laughter.

Chuckling at the thought and feeling a little more lighthearted, Sophie turned her bike in the direction of the Dairy Freeze. She needed a Dr Pepper. She had it on her drink fountain back at the restaurant, but as Jon always said, the Dairy had the best ice.

Cycling around the square before heading up Main Street, Sophie almost felt like she was sixteen again. The crape myrtles were still blooming in their places along the sidewalk. The “pocket park” between two buildings was there with its lamppost, wrought-iron benches, and shady trees. There was the hardware store, where her father's friend Mr. Worley worked, and where she'd been sent on countless errands for pieces of pipe, or wire, or screws, for whatever project her father was in the middle of and couldn't leave. Next door was a law office, which adjoined Turner Abstract Company. Sophie remembered going there with her parents and her younger brother, Tom, when they signed the deed to the Harbor House. Mr. Turner was a family friend, but he had shaken his head at their plan to restore it.