<< Go Back

One Starry Christmas

By Mary A. Felkins

Order Now!

Pastor Michael Chandler’s day of reckoning arrived with all the welcome of pneumonia on Christmas morning.
Of course, it did.
Michael tugged up his collar against the blistering wind outside Rosehill Community Church in Wild Rose Ridge. Near the base of a looming, ancient oak, an oddly familiar necklace lay in the snow blanketing the property. Cold air whisked around his neck like a noose. He could nearly hear the truth howling. “Stern discipline awaits those who leave the path.”
Not that he needed reminding.
He pulled off his glove. Cautiously, he picked up the necklace and held it to the sunlight. The crescent-moon pendant held gold and silver star-shaped bangles that sparkled against the light …  purely custom made. One of a kind.
No. It couldn’t be hers.
The community he’d faithfully served for two years in central Washington state knew Michael as a man of great faith, but his belief in miracles didn’t go so far as to believe some other girl owned an identical necklace and let it slip from her neck. Outside his church.
Leave it to God to rout him out on Black Friday.
Should he laugh or cry at the irony? Or maybe—run.
Not today. The top priority was tonight’s annual Bethlehem Star lighting at Rosehill. Not chasing down redemption. 
A car door shut. Michael jolted, the troublesome necklace slipping from his hand. He spun to see Wade Alexander, head of the elder board and pastor-search committee, who smoothed a hand down his trench coat, the buttons pulling over a modest paunch.
Michael set his boot over the necklace and stuffed his hands inside his black leather jacket.
“Hello, Pastor Michael.”
“Wade.”
“Everything set for tonight’s star lighting?”
“Perfect.” Great. Now he could add liar to his resume when he sent it out. Because no reputable congregation would stand for a pastor who wasn’t forthcoming about all the things he’d done prior to surrendering to God’s call. But the long line of Chandler pastors would not end with Michael. He’d resolutely taken the straight and narrow road and nothing was going to cause him to careen off of it. Not even … her.
Wade crimped a jolly-old-elf grin. “Let’s pray the star lights up. The folks of the Ridge can’t get in the spirit of Christmas until it does, you know.”
“Any reason to think it won’t?”
Wade gave a rusty chuckle. “Just thinking about the rumor the die-hard locals like to sling around every year on star-lighting day.”
“I trust it’ll light up the sky as intended, Wade.” It had to.
The necklace burned a hole in the tread of Michael’s boot. He stooped to pick it up. “I, uh, found this in the snow. You have any idea who it might belong to?”
Wade squinted, then shook his head. “Can’t say I do. Odd looking design. I suggest taking it to Hanford’s Jewelers and see if it’s one of theirs. They’d have purchase receipts.”
How many good deeds did it take for a pastor to erase a million bad choices?
Michael gunned the engine of his Land Cruiser and waited for heat to fill the interior. A hazy image flashed across his mind—the last time he’d seen her. A chasm of hot anger and heartache had lain between them. He shirked off the memory and called Rosehill’s longtime office manager, Barbara Schulte.
“Hey, there, Mrs. Schulte—”
“It’s Barbara.”
Barbara, Barbara, Barbara. He could almost see her tiny eyes, beading in aggravation beneath a spire of gray hair atop her head.
“Would you do me a favor and flip the switch on the star outside?”
“What the devil for? Anyway, Wade already checked it.”
“Then we’re good to go?”
“With the star lighting, yes.”
“Is something else wrong?”
“A little blooper I just discovered in tonight’s program flyer.”
“Make sure you correct it before—”
“Too late. Ursula already ran off five-hundred copies. Nearly drained the color ink cartridge.”
“How bad is this one?”
A rustling paper and cough. “As we prepare for Christmas carols, snuggle up with loved ones beneath your blankets and prepare to sin.”
No way.
“Who needs flyers anyway?”
“A church event without flyers?”
“Okay, I’ll make light of it … somehow.” He raked a hand through his hair and gave his head a slow shake. “See you tonight.”
He drove down the ridge into tourist town south of Wild Rose Lake and cruised toward Hanford’s Jewelers at the southeast corner of Main Street and 1st Avenue. A metal banner arched over Main read, “Merry Wild Rose Ridge Christmas”. Yoga instructor, Genevieve Peters—a veritable walking sunshine—stood in a sagging Santa suit fit for someone three times her size and jingled a bell beside a Salvation Army bucket. For reasons known only to God, love had yet to find the girl everybody loved to love. A head-scratcher for sure.
“Merry, merry Christmas everybody! Help Santa and his elves bring all the good little boys and girls their Christmas wishes this year.”
Michael jogged over and added a contribution. “Here you go, Mrs. Claus.”
Satisfaction twinkled in her eyes. “Ho, ho, ho! Santa sure appreciates your willingness to sacrifice for the good of others.”
Clang, clang, clang.
Back across the street, Michael encountered Jack and Daisy Hanford—an elderly couple who resided at Sunny Day, a retirement and assisted living facility. They stopped their easy stroll outside Rose’s Dance and Yoga Studio that neighbored Hanford’s, the town jewelers managed by their daughter Miriam and her husband Reuben Weaver.
Michael took Jack’s proffered hand.
“Excellent message on Sunday, Pastor Michael.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
Daisy’s smiling eyes shut in half-moons. “If anyone knows how to deliver the truth, it’s you.”
Chuck Berry’s “Run Rudolph Run” piped from speakers. The temperature rose twenty degrees. His pulse kicked up a notch.
“Uh … Merry Christmas.”
When Michael entered Hanford’s, a bell dinged above the achy, wooden door. Near the register, a brass gadget released a curl of incense. Myrrh? In his world, that was used for anointing the dead. Maybe it was a sign.
Had someone in this talkative town found out? No one could know anything.
Michael slipped off his gloves, tucked them in his pockets.
Chattering teenagers bumped his arm on their way out. Voices cluttered the air. Patrons stood peering into the brilliantly lit cases, tapping at selections.
Ellie Jo Bradshaw, a faithful member of Rosehill and jewelry-store staff, strode over. A female version of Hoss with her black Stetson, tan boots, and a plaid button-down tucked into a pair of jeans, she hauled the usual amount of intimidation with her throwback to Bonanza. Once upon a time, she and her Lone Star transplant husband Mac were a big deal on the rodeo circuit.
She offered a buttery smile to match a pair of silvery blond braids. “Way-ul, howdy, Pastor Mike. How was your Thanksgiving?”
Lonely. “Better than I deserve. Yours?”
“Finer than a weaned calf on a warm spring morning. What can I do you for today?”
He pulled out the necklace and set it on the case. “I found this outside Rosehill and thought whoever it belongs to might have purchased it here.”
Please, God?
She inspected the bangles through a monocular and handed it back. “I’m afraid it’s on the far side of contemporary for what we carry.”
To Ellie Jo’s left, a woman approached behind the case, papers in hand. “Ellie Jo, I’ve prepared the—”
Leilah. His heart lurched.
She had to have felt it because she shifted her gaze in his direction, then stutter-stepped back. The papers littered the air and scattered across the carpet.
Those forever gorgeous blue eyes beneath intense brows and stark blonde hair stole his breath. Her snug leather pants and jacket delivered a Marilyn Monroe vibe with a touch of Sandy from Grease thrown in.
Provocative. Dangerous. All that was missing was a cigarette dangling from two fingers. Did she still smoke?
She wore the apt expression of doom. Probably matched his own.
Ellie Jo scrambled to her side. “Heck fire, girl, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Do I need to call Doc Coleman’s office?”
Breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut and pivoted away from the counter.
The store window framed the heavens as the sky—or God—released a brutal downpour of sleet to accompany what had the feel of a dreadful encounter.
Leave it to his past to obliterate the present.
He released a weighted breath and slowly turned to see Leilah’s steeled, arctic gaze above the spike of a too-wide smile. 
“Yes, Ellie Jo. Tell Coleman I need a prescription for vanishing cream.”
A lull in customer chatter left a grating quiet. Ellie Jo cuffed her on the arm. “Your parents would swat your rump with the back of a rusty shovel if they heard you speak to our customers like that.”
Leilah knotted her arms at her middle, lasered her stare at Michael, and emitted a grunt. “Suddenly the planet is the size of a marble.”
The words buffeted him.
Ellie Jo switched a stiff glance between them, her braids snapping right and left. She pressed the Stetson onto her head. “I’ll leave you kids alone so’s you can wrangle whatever it is that needs wranglin’.”
Hands shaky, Michael offered Leilah the necklace.
She removed the fist at her hip to examine it. A thousand volts shot through him at her touch. Her tone thinned to paper. “My necklace.”
A guffaw slipped out. “I found it outside Rosehill church, of all places.”
Her lids narrowed to slits. “Right. Nothing of mine could possibly be found anywhere near sacred grounds.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She bit out a frozen laugh. “Bigger question is why you were on church property.”
Her perfume … still an inescapable mix of amber, roses, and a thousand tomorrows. Why she’d kept the necklace he’d given her ranked among life’s greatest mysteries.
“Listen, it’s good to see you, Leilah.”
“Your face tells a different story.”
He glanced around, schooled his voice, and drew it taut. “We have history. And it’s not one I want shared.”
When she stepped into threat zone, sirens blared in his head. “Because no story that includes me is worth telling.”
* * *
A rebuttal boiled in Michael’s throat, then cooled to a simmer when a gaggle of women entered—three of the infamous meddling mothers whose radar capabilities should be outsourced to the Pentagon.
A rush of icy wind slammed the door behind them. Diana Alexander, Wade’s wife and co-owner of ACRES commercial real estate brokerage, stole away from the other two—her sister Margaret Walcott and Darlene Coleman of Rose Cove Vineyards.
Michael suspected the meddlers held secret-society meetings under the guise of a knitting circle at Hooked on Ewe where they discussed the status of every eligible man and woman in the community. But they were as adept at matchmaking as they were at obliterating budding romances. Thus far, Operation Michael Must Marry had failed.
Thank you, God.
Darlene and Margaret busied themselves studying the sparkly offerings in a display case. Part-time employee Julie Weaver, Reuben’s forty-something daughter, stepped behind the counter to assist.
Diana broke from the meddlesome trio. She flitted a momentary gaze at Leilah before cornering him with a studied gaze. “Are we Christmas shopping for anyone special?”
“No, ma’am.”
The heat of Leilah’s gaze burned his cheek.
“By the way, Max Hanford agreed to play Joseph for the live nativity on the 23rd. But we still lack the right girl to play Mary.” There went another side-eye Leilah’s direction.
Michael coughed. “I’m confident the right girl will surface.”
The gap of tension between Michael and Leilah broadened.
Diana tugged off her leather gloves. “What brings you to a jewelry store?”
“I found something that was—” He fixed a lonesome gaze on Leilah. “lost.”
“Oh?” The lilt in Diana’s tone prodded explanation.
Leilah’s expression could shred sheets of metal.
The LED lighting intensified. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—give Diana the satisfaction of nibbling on crumbs of gossip. Even if she and Wade’s financial contributions had helped sustain the faltering, divided congregation he’d been hired to save.
Slowly, Diana pivoted toward Leilah. Her eyes awakened, and she tapped a finger at her chin. “Now I know who you are. Reuben and Miriam’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
No, no, no. He refused to believe Leilah had any association with the Ridge.
“Miriam has kept me apprised of what you’ve been up to since graduation. A nasty breakup was the last I’d heard. She must be thrilled to have her only daughter back home.”
“I’m only managing the store while they’re gone.”
“I see.” Diana angled her stare. “And they left you in charge?”
Leilah stiffened, opened her mouth, then shut it in a restrained sigh.
“Wade, our daughter Nicole, and I spent several summers here in the Ridge. But after Nicole died six years ago, we relocated from Seattle.”
“I remember her. She was a nice girl.”
At Leilah’s kindness, Diana perked up, gaze blazing with intention. “Last spring, my son-in-law Jon found love again in Wild Rose Ridge and moved here with our granddaughter Lindee. We are simply over the moon about it.” With the flair of a game show hostess, she made a sweeping gesture toward Michael. “Have you met the dashing Pastor Michael Chandler who, for reasons no one can figure, has never married?”
A headache pricked at his temples. Would Leilah use this opportunity to spill? Because if the locals knew everything he’d done, they’d institute a pastoral search as fast as Weaver’s Bakery could deliver pastries.
Darlene and Margaret elbowed in beside Diana. Probably detected her ultrasonic matchmaking signals.
“Hmm, are you Leilah’s Michael? The one Miriam has told us about?”
He answered Darlene with a swift headshake and shifted an undercover spy gaze at Leilah whose glacial glare frosted his conscience.
Margaret stood primly in front of Michael, teeth like a shark. “Did you receive your exclusive invite to the Wine, Dine, and Shine event at the guest ranch? It includes two tickets.” She raised one, then a second finger as though he’d needed help figuring the sum.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A cluster of customers breezed in.
Leilah addressed the three formidable towers. “Excuse me, please.” She cut Michael a stabbing glower before slipping free from the meddler’s claws.
Darlene spoke out of the side of her mouth. “I think Leilah Grant should have the pleasure of being your special guest at the gala. God may be using you to restore her confidence in love ever after, the poor thing.”
“Lord knows she could use a man of your upstanding character to drive the wild out of her. Her reckless choices with that scoundrel boyfriend of hers nearly sent her parents to an early grave.”
Diana drew clasped hands to her chin, the attempt to appear angelic failing miserably. “If you are struggling to narrow down your options, please do avail yourself of our suggestions.”
Suggestions that would inevitably lead to the death of a guy’s vocation and prove what his naysaying father—Pastor Joseph Chandler—had alleged, that Michael was unworthy to feed the hungry and lead the lost.

Order Now!

<< Go Back