Engaging Father Christmas Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Robin’s Ink, LLC.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Unless otherwise indicated, Scriptures are taken from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  FaithWords

  Hachette Book Group

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  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  FaithWords is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The FaithWords name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Book design by Fearn Cutler de Vicq

  First eBook Edition: October 2008

  Summary: “Robin Jones Gunn charms readers with this poignant novella about a woman searching for love, and finding so much more in the arms of a certain Father Christmas this holiday season”—Provided by the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-54474-0

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  For Janet and Paula,

  who gifted me with peace and grace throughout the journey.

  Acknowledgments

  A warm thank-you goes to those who make this adventure of storytelling a joy and a privilege: my agent, Janet Kobobel Grant, who always believes “everything will work out”; my patient and ever-encouraging husband, Ross; our equally supportive children, Ross and Rachel; my fabulous assistant, Rachel Zurakowski; my PPC writing pals, Jaynie and Meg; and my editor, Anne Horch, along with the entire team at FaithWords. Thanks for all the ways each of you makes me smile and nudges me forward as a writer and friend. I’m deeply grateful for you.

  “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

  Jeremiah 29:11

  Chapter One

  Around me swarms of Londoners rushed by, intent on their destinations and sure of their plans. My destination was the small town of Carlton Heath, and my plans revolved around a certain Scotsman who was now officially late.

  I tried to call Ian again. His voice mail picked up for the third time. “It’s me again,” I said to the phone. “I’m here at Paddington station and —”

  Before I finished the message, my phone beeped, and the screen showed me it was Ian.

  “Hi! I was just leaving you another message.” I brushed back my shoulder-length brown hair and stood a little straighter, just as I would have if Ian were standing in front of me.

  “You made it to the station, then?”

  “Yes. Although I was about to put on a pair of red rain boots and a tag on my coat that read, ‘Please look after this bear.’ ” I was pretty sure Ian would catch my reference to the original Paddington Bear in the floppy hat since that was what he had given to my niece, Julia, for Christmas last year.

  “Don’t go hangin’ any tags on your coat,” Ian said with an unmistakable grin in his voice. “I’m nearly there. The shops were crammed this morning, and traffic is awful. I should have taken the tube, but I’m in a taxi now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops. Maybe less if I get out and run the last few blocks.”

  “Don’t run. I’ll wait. It’s only been, what? Seven weeks and three days since we were last together? What’s another fifteen minutes?”

  “I’ll tell you what another fifteen minutes is. It’s just about the longest fifteen minutes of my life.”

  “Mine too.” I felt my face warming.

  “You’re at track five, then, as we planned?”

  “Yes. Track five.”

  “Good. No troubles coming in from the airport?”

  “No. Everything went fine at Heathrow. The fog delayed my flight when we left San Francisco, but the pilot somehow managed to make up time in the air. We landed on schedule.”

  “Let’s hope my cabbie can find the same tailwind your pilot did and deliver me to the station on schedule.”

  I looked up at the large electronic schedule board overhead, just to make sure my watch was in sync with local time. “We have about twenty minutes before the 1:37 train leaves for Carlton Heath. I think we can still make it.”

  “I have no doubt. Looks like we have a break in the traffic jam at the moment. Don’t go anywhere, Miranda. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  I closed my phone and smiled. Whenever Ian said my name, with a rolling of the r, he promptly melted my heart. Every single time. His native Scottish accent had become distilled during the past decade as a result of his two years of grad school in Canada and working in an architect office with coworkers from around the world. But Ian knew how to put on the “heather in the highlands” lilt whenever he wanted. And I loved it, just as I loved everything about this indomitable man.

  I looked around the landing between the train tracks for an open seat on one of the benches. Since none were available, I moved closer to the nearest bench just in case someone decided to leave.

  Balancing my large, wheeled suitcase against a pole so it wouldn’t tip over, I carefully leaned my second bag next to the beast. This was my third trip to England since my visit last Christmas and the first time I had come with two suitcases. This time I needed an extra bag for all the gifts I had with me, wrapped and ready to go under the Christmas tree at the Whitcombe manor.

  Last Christmas and for many Christmases before that, the only gift I bought and gave was the one expected for the exchange at the accounting office where I worked in downtown San Francisco. Up until last Christmas I had no family to speak of — no parents, no siblings, no roommate. I didn’t even have a cat. My life had fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm of work and weekends alone, which is probably why I found the courage to make that first trip to Carlton Heath last December. In those brief, snow-kissed, extraordinary few days, I was gifted with blood relatives, new friends, and sweetest of all, Ian.

  Christmas shopping this year had been a new experience. While my coworkers complained about the crowds and hassle, I quietly reveled in the thought that I actually had someone — many someones — in my life to go gift hunting for.

  I had a feeling some last-minute shopping was the reason Ian was late. He told me yesterday he had a final gift to pick up this morning on his way to the station. He hadn’t explained what the gift was or whom it was for. His silence on the matter led me to wonder as I wandered along a familiar path in my imagination. That path led straight to m
y heart, and along that path I saw nothing but hope for our future together — hope and maybe a little something shiny that came in a small box and fit on a certain rather available finger on my left hand.

  Before my mind could sufficiently detour to the happy land of “What’s next?”, I heard someone call my name. It was a familiar male voice, but not Ian’s.

  I looked into the passing stream of travelers, and there he stood, only a few feet away. Josh. The last person I ever expected to see again. Especially in England.

  “Miranda, I thought that was you! Hey, how are you?” With a large travel bag strapped over his shoulder, Josh gave me an awkward, clunking and bumping sort of hug. His glasses smashed against the side of my head. He quickly introduced me as his “old girlfriend” to the three guys with him.

  “What are you doing here?” He unstrapped the bag and dropped it at his feet.

  One of the guys tagged his shoulder and said, “We’ll be at the sandwich stand over there.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Josh turned back to me. “You look great. What’s been happening with you?”

  “I’m good,” I said. “What about you? What are you doing here?” I was still too flustered at the unexpected encounter to jump right into a catch-up sort of conversation after the almost three-year gap.

  “Just returned from a ski trip to Austria with a group from work. Incredible trip. I’m in a counseling practice now. Child psychologist. I don’t know if you knew that.”

  “No. That’s great, Josh. I know that’s what you wanted to do.”

  “Yes, it’s going well so far.” He seemed at ease. None of the stiltedness that had been there right after I broke up with him came across in his voice or demeanor.

  “And what about you? What are you doing in England?”

  Before I could put together an answer, Josh snapped his fingers. “Wait! Are you here because you’re looking for your birth father?”

  “You remembered.” Once again he surprised me.

  “Of course I remembered. You had that picture of some guy dressed as Father Christmas, and it had the name of the photography studio on the back. That was your only clue.”

  I nodded.

  “So? What happened?”

  “I followed the clue last Christmas, and it led me here, to my birth father, just like you thought it would.”

  “No way! Did it really?”

  I nodded, knowing Josh would appreciate this next part of the story. “The man in the photo dressed like Father Christmas was my father. And the boy on his lap is my brother, or I guess I should say my half brother, Edward.”

  “Incredible,” Josh said with a satisfied, Sherlock Holmes expression on his unshaven face. “What happened when you met him?”

  I hesitated. Having not repeated this story to anyone since it all unfolded a year ago, I didn’t realize how much the answer to Josh’s question would catch in my spirit and feel sharply painful when it was spoken aloud.

  “I didn’t meet him. He passed away a few years ago.”

  “Oh.” Josh’s expression softened.

  “You know, Josh, I always wanted to thank you for the way you urged me to follow that one small clue. I’ve wished more than once that I would have come to England when you first suggested it four years ago. He was still alive then. That’s what I should have done.”

  “And I should have gone with you,” he said in a low voice.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Josh’s eyebrows furrowed, his counselor mode kicking in. “I felt you needed that piece in your life. By that I mean the paternal piece of your life puzzle. I didn’t like you being so alone in the world. I wish you could have met him.”

  “I do, too, but I actually think things turned out better this way. It’s less complicated that I didn’t meet him while he was still alive.”

  “Why do you say that?” Josh asked.

  I hesitated before giving Josh the next piece of information. In an odd way, it felt as if he needed the final piece of the puzzle the same way I had.

  “It’s less complicated this way because my father was . . .” I lowered my voice and looked at him so he could read the truth in my clear blue eyes. “My father was Sir James Whitcombe.”

  Chapter Two

  Josh slowly leaned back, stunned. He raised an eyebrow and let out a low whistle. “I can see what you mean about its being complicated. No one will want to believe Sir James had a child outside of his reportedly idyllic marriage. Except the tabloids, of course. He was an incredible actor, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  I realized we were in a noisy, crowded train terminal, but I still didn’t want to take any chance of being overheard. Leaning closer and lowering my voice I said, “Only a few people know, so please don’t say anything to anyone.”

  “I understand. Don’t worry. Holding onto confidences is what I do for a living.” Josh reached over and gave my shoulder a squeeze.

  “I really mean it, Josh. If the truth got out, it would damage the lives of some people I really care about.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. You can trust me, Miranda. I think you know that. But in my experience as a counselor, I’ve found that truth has a way of rising to the surface. Sometimes you must wait for the truth to float to the top. Other times you must go to it, take it by the hand, and pull it up with all your might.”

  Josh’s summary statement was typical of the way many of our conversations went when we were together. To me, he often sounded as if he had read one too many motivational books on inner healing.

  An older gentleman who had been sitting on the bench behind me stepped around to the side and said, “Pardon me.” He turned his cell phone away from his ear, and stepping closer he pointed at the open seat and said, “Were you waiting for a place to sit?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He tipped his cap and walked away.

  “I’d better go.” Josh glanced to where his friends had congregated, waiting for him. “Listen, here’s my card. Call me if you want. Any time. I’d like to keep in touch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you live here now?” Josh picked up his heavy bag and threw it over his shoulder. “In England, I mean.”

  “No. Not yet. I hope to move here when . . . well, soon.”

  “My e-mail is on the card too. Merry Christmas, and again, Miranda, I’m really glad you connected with your family. You needed that.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  I was watching Josh walk away when I heard another familiar male voice behind me. This voice was the one I heard in my dreams. All the good dreams that included a white wedding dress and a cottage in the glen.

  My Scotsman had arrived.

  “So, that’s how it is, is it?” Ian MacGregor stood there with his fists on his hips. “I ask you to wait on me for a quarter of an hour, and you take to giving out kisses to the first man in a ski cap who comes your way. What was he peddling? Mistletoe, was it?”

  I turned to Ian slowly, enjoying the chance to play along with his teasing. “Those are the chances you take when you leave a woman waiting, you know.”

  Ian’s eyes lit up at the sight of me. His light brown hair looked windblown, and his handsome face had a ruddy glow. I tumbled into his arms and gave him the kiss I’d been saving for seven weeks and three days. Then he gave me the kiss he had been saving for seven weeks and three days. It was the best Christmas gift exchange ever.

  I think we might have kept kissing, except our train had arrived and passengers were boarding. As we drew apart from our tight embrace, my watch caught on the strap of the messenger bag Ian used in lieu of a briefcase. I pulled it off his arm.

  In the fumble to untangle ourselves, the bag tipped open, spilling his car keys, cell phone, and an old-fashioned, ivory jewelry box just large enough for a diamond ring.

  Ian knelt down to gather up the items, and I knelt right along with him, trying to unclasp my wristwatch. Our faces were inche
s apart as he hurriedly tucked the jewelry box in his coat pocket and turned with a shy expression as if to see if I’d noticed.

  Of course I’d noticed. What should I say?

  Without hesitation, the truest impulse on my heart strode right to the edge of my lips and did a lovely swan dive into the deep end as I said, “Yes?”

  Ian gave me one of his fake growls. “I haven’t asked you yet, woman.”

  “Asked me what?” I said, equal to his mock naiveté.

  He kissed me soundly. “I believe you and I have a train to catch.”

  Chapter Three

  I love the train ride to Carlton Heath. But I loved it more that afternoon because I was cozied up next to Ian, and both of us were smiling. I’m sure that to observers our grins were sophomoric and comical. I don’t know about Ian, but I couldn’t make my face behave seriously.

  Neither of us spoke for the first little while as the train rolled out of the station. We sat close and settled in, remembering how it felt to have our arms linked and our fingers laced together. I leaned my head on Ian’s broad shoulder and released a contented sigh. He kissed the top of my head.

  His cell phone rang. He let it go unanswered.

  “I’m ready to hear your confession,” Ian mumbled in my ear.

  “My confession?” I sat up and looked at him. “Do you mean you want to know who the mistletoe peddler was in the ski cap?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “That was Josh. My old boyfriend. I’ve told you about him.”

  “And what was he doing at Paddington? He doesn’t live here, does he?”

  “No. He was on a ski trip to Austria.”

  “Is that it?”

  “You mean is that all I have to say?”

  “Yes. Is that it?”

  “Yes. That’s it, Ian. If you had arrived a few minutes earlier, I would have introduced you to each other.”

  “And if I had arrived a few minutes earlier, I would have —”

  Before Ian could issue me a benediction of constant protection, his cell phone rang. Once again he ignored it. I had a feeling that was because his phone was in his coat pocket along with “the box.” He seemed intent on ignoring the box for the moment.