Holiday Connections

Dedication

For Robert Swope, the man that helped to shape our hearts and minds.

F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Swope Parente

Holiday Connections

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, and places, and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the authors’ imaginations.

An e-book edition of this book was published in 2015 by GSP Publishing.

Holiday Connections. Copyright © 2015 by F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Swope Parente. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information contact:

GSP Publishing

4228 Ashmere Circle

Dumfries, VA 22025

Acknowledgements

Although the stories in this book are fiction, any book ever written was inspired by the people the authors have met; the friends they’ve loved; the family that supports them—those that create passion in the writers. Letting Life Flow came about because of the individuals who have sparked the creativity and imagination of F. Sharon Swope. It was helped along by the words and thoughts of Genilee Swope Parente. But it was inspired by being part of our wonderful family. That family was called into action in the middle of creating this book as the entire family went through one of the most difficult periods of our lives—losing Dad. Thank you for being such a strong support system, for not letting the usual pressures get in the way of being a family, for creating what Dad would have wanted: a close-knit, loving unit.

For Holiday Connections, we leaned heavily on the expertise of both our family and our friends. Allyn Stotz was there as always, cheering us on and lending her expertise as a fellow author. Monya Sauernheimer showed us that a skill with precision transfers well from the world of numbers to words. Mark Swope fine-tuned his Web research skills even more.

We also leaned on our friends to provide both advice and support. Mary Carpenter, Alice Sanders and the people of Victoria Park listened to ideas and lent us their expertise on a few points. Alice and Mary also traveled with us to one of our events this past summer to play the part of detective’s helpers.

Our friends back in Edgerton showed us again that they remain part of our foundation despite the fact we no longer live there by showing up to honor Dad.

We also want to thank the corporate office of Applebee’s, its regional franchise—Potomac Dining—and the local Dumfries restaurant for putting on a spectacular party for us when we released the third book in The Fate Series—Violet Fate. Their enthusiasm and support for the two women who show up each week at our local neighborhood grill and bar to discuss plots will continue to inspire us as we release book four—Treasured Fate—and those that will come afterwards.

Despite the fact that we have to continue this journey on a new path, we also want to thank the leaders, the editors and the production crew of Spectacle Publishing Media Group who believed in our skills enough to get us started on this great journey. We hope you’ll all go on to create your own masterpieces.

New Year’s

Letting Life Flow

Martin Luther King Day

The Tree Blooms

Valentine’s Day

Hiding in the Books

President’s Day

The President’s Club

Easter

A Child’s Interpretation

Mother’s Day

Walking the Generation Gap

Memorial Day

A Journey of Love

Father’s Day

Closing the Hole

Fourth of July

The Bride’s Wish

Halloween

Bumps in the Night

Thanksgiving

The Missing Mom

Christmas

Keep the Doors Open

New Year’s

Letting Life Flow

Love is a battle with yourself. Be kind and love yourself before you love anyone else. — Karen Quan, author

Isat on the stairway of my new home, tears running down my face. They seemed to go with the water creeping slowly across the dining room floor from underneath the kitchen door. My hands rose to wipe at the tears then cover my eyes. I was trying to shut out yet another catastrophe I had no idea how to fix. How could I battle the water I was sure would warp the kitchen floor and render this home valueless?

A knock at the door made me drop my hands, but I didn’t get up off the stair until the knocking became pounding.

A tall man with light brown hair, coveralls and a dimply grin stood at the door.

You called for a plumber?

His words cut through my self-pity and left embarrassment in its wake. I rubbed at my eyes, straightened my spine, then glanced at the logo on his shirt. It was the company I’d called. I beckoned him inside.

I’ve got a mess here, my crackly voice began. I didn’t know what to do. I don’t even know where the water is to turn it off.

He looked around the living room, his eyes resting briefly on the sparsity of furniture and the unpacked boxes. He said nothing until his gaze caught the water seeping from under the kitchen door and the soaked towels in front of that door.

Yea, I’d say you’ve got a slight problem there, he said. His grin could not break through the blackness of my mood.

My whole life is a problem right now, I said. Then I sighed deeply and shrugged. But I guess this water is the most immediate disaster. A kitchen pipe burst under the sink.

The tall man set his giant tool box down and withdrew rubber boots, putting them on, then turning to me.

Do you have a back door that leads into the kitchen? And is it locked? he asked. I nodded at the first question; shook my head no at the second. He turned back towards my front door, announcing over one broad shoulder as he departed, I’ll be back in a jiff. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.

I plopped my butt back down on my favorite crying spot—the stairs—as the image of this hero, his pleasant smile and broad shoulders finally invaded my pity party. He must be about my age, I thought.

I shook my head again, this time to clear away the thoughts. The last thing I need right now is to lust after a man. But it was nice to have a few moments of respite.

I sighed deeply and stood, then spent the next few minutes looking around my living room area, trying to imagine what my visitor saw: a small, mostly bare, never-quite-finished Christmas tree with only one old recliner to keep it company. The gloom that hung over my head in a heavy cloud these days descended to surround me, and anger at my used-to-be husband returned. He was living in our nice little McMansion, along with most of the furniture we’d picked out together.

How had everything gone to hell so fast?

Fifteen months ago I woke up next to Brent, this man that had been my first and only lover, with a mission in mind for that day. Brent was snoring softly, so I was quiet as I got out of bed, dressed quickly and crept downstairs to finish what I’d started the previous evening, decorating the Halloween cookies for the benefit Brent had planned. I was known for my spectacularly decorated cookies but had run out of steam the previous evening halfway through the process.

The kitchen was a complete disaster – I’d had just enough energy to put away the frosting with a promise to myself and my husband to finish in the morning. I was determined to make the cookies works of art to really impress his office mates. I never got that chance.

As I stood at the counter, putting the tiny orange and black stars on one of the last cookies, I felt the heat of Brent’s gaze. I looked up and saw my husband standing at the kitchen door. His focus was traveling around the room, and suddenly I saw what he saw—a kitchen sink full of dirty baking sheets and bowls, the counter covered with an array of different colored frosting and different spreading knives, candied bits I used to make my always popular cookie creations.

Brent’s hands were on his hips, a look of deep disapproval ruining his Ken-doll face.

I’m just about to finish these, dear … I … But something in his look stopped me and sent a shiver down my spine.

You’re a mess, Susan. You’re always a mess, and I really can’t live this way. I’m bored with your messes, and I’m bored with you.

What? I asked dumbly, not sure what I was hearing.

I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you. I need something fresh and orderly and clean. Is that clear enough for you?

And quite abruptly, he turned and pounded back up the steps.

I wiped my hands on the nearest towel and followed him, finding him back in our room, packing a suitcase. I stood in the door frame.

What is wrong with you this morning? I asked, annoyed now with his attitude. I told you last night I’d clean it all up.

He didn’t stop his packing, or even look at me, and I felt razor-sharp moth wings begin to flutter in my stomach.

Brent, answer me. What’s wrong?

Nothing. Everything. You, he hissed.

Brent, look at me. What are you trying to say?

He stopped his packing, stared for a few moments into the suitcase as if searching for the right words, then slowly lifted his eyes to glare at me. I will never forget the look of distaste.

"You don’t do anything but sit around this house. You have a housekeeper to clean up your messes, a psychiatrist to help you figure out how to feel, a massage therapist to make you feel good. Yet, you’re overweight; you have nothing to talk about except your social teas and this stupid house, which you can’t manage to keep clean between visits from the maid. I don’t want to live with you. I don’t want to have sex with you. And I don’t want to stay with you any longer!"

I walked to the bed, turned and sank down on the opposite side from him, completely shaken by his rough words. But we’ve been married for twenty years, I squeaked. And it’s almost Thanksgiving. I was shocked at my own words. What the hell difference did it make that it was a holiday season?

I’ve found someone else, he said.

He was cheating on me, and I hadn’t even suspected, despite the long hours at the office, the lack of a sex life or even an affectionate hug once in a while. How long had it been?

I’m going to go stay with her for a couple of days until I can figure out what to do.

The harshness of what he was telling me didn’t seem to penetrate my fog. I heard rustling on the other side of the bed, but didn’t turn to look at him. I heard him snap the suitcase shut, pick it up. He walked to the door and turned back. But he didn’t say a single word as he shrugged, then turned back around and left for good. I sat there on that bed unable to move for a very long time.

How could I have suspected nothing?

Finally, I rose, shook off my clothes and got back into our bed, covering my body and face completely with blankets. I stayed there for most of the next two days, ignoring the phone and getting up only to pee or eat, letting my housekeeper Charlotte wait on me and try to coax me out of bed. Somehow I knew from the moment of Brent’s departure that this was not a momentary spat or a workable rift, but an earthquake that left me with a crumbled foundation.

For two days my mantra was: this is the worst that can possibly happen to my world. It wasn’t until after I’d managed to crawl out of that bed, calling my mom to cry on her shoulder, then spending a few zombie days considering my future, that I found out I was wrong: the worst was yet to come.

A lawyer appeared at my front door two weeks after Brent left with orders for me to vacate the premises by a certain date, taking only my clothes and whatever I could legally prove was mine. Within one month my fancy house and my loyal housekeeper were gone, or at least I was gone from them. The furnishings and the house remained, taken over by the person who had insisted on the fanciness in the first place ‒ the man of the house. I now knew that phrase meant the man who had the money and the know-how to hire a better lawyer than my parents or I could afford.

The marriage was battled out in court, but it wasn’t much of a