Manchester Christmas E-Book

John Gray

• Herausgeber: Paraclete Press
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Serie: Paraclete Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 409

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

"Sweet, romantic, and suspenseful, Manchester Christmas is an unexpected gift." —Richard Paul Evans, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of The Christmas Box and The Walk A young writer decides to take her dog Scooter and leave Seattle in search of meaning for her life. She is drawn to Manchester, a small New England town she had often admired through photographs. Soon, she encounters kindness, romance, and is pulled into a mystery centered on an old, abandoned church and the death of a special girl. Are the images that only she can see in the church's stained-glass windows a warning, or is someone trying to reach her, to help heal this broken community? Manchester Christmas illustrates how God often uses the most unlikely among us to spread grace and healing in a wounded world. Full of love, hope, and forgiveness, this debut novel from an Emmy-winning writer will touch your heart and have you longing for Christmas in Manchester.  

Leseprobe

2020 First Printing

Manchester Christmas

Copyright © 2020 by John Gray

ISBN: 978-1-64060-640-1

The Paraclete Press name and logo (dove on cross) are trademarks of Paraclete Press, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Gray, John Joseph, 1962- author.

Title: Manchester Christmas / John Gray.

Description: Brewster, Massachusetts : Paraclete Press, 2020. | Summary: "A searching young writer is drawn to a small town where she is pulled into a mystery centered on an abandoned church and the death of a special girl. This novel illustrates how God often uses the most unlikely among us to spread healing in a wounded world"-- Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020034543 (print) | LCCN 2020034544 (ebook) | ISBN 9781640606401 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781640606418 (epub) | ISBN 9781640606425 (pdf)

Subjects: GSAFD: Christian fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3607.R3948 M36 2020 (print) | LCC PS3607.R3948 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020034543

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020034544

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in an electronic retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Published by Paraclete PressBrewster, Massachusettswww.paracletepress.com

Printed in the United States of America

For CourtneyWho makes every day Christmas

Contents

1 Lost and Found

2 Owen

3 Harlan

4 The Empty Plate

5 The Sleepy Panther

6 Fresh Waffles & Fresh Men

7 St. Pius

8 The Broken Sunset

9 Gavin’s Surprise

10 Has Anyone Seen Rudy?

11 The Unexpected Posse

12 Taco Tuesday

13 Duke’s Call

14 The First Window

15 Of Muffins and Men

16 Midnight Hunt

17 Too Steep a Climb

18 Harlan’s Visit

19 A Call Home

20 Nolly’s Ride

21 When the Branch Breaks

22 Hot Rolls, Cold Light

23 Framing Taylor

24 Bring a Staple Gun, Please

25 The Second Window

26 Just Do Me This Favor

27 The Stupidest Idea

28 An Icy Drop

29 The Sad Panther

30 Confessions of a Pizza Party

31 The Third Window

32 Town Gathers

33 Candle in the Wind

34 Christmas Eve

35 The Last Window

36 The Final Sketch

Acknowledgments

1

lost and found

There’s no question, Scooter, that’s the same barn.” Chase was tired of driving in circles and was about to take the GPS device she’d won in a Christmas party raffle two years earlier and throw it out the car window. She didn’t, because her vintage cherry-red 1967 Mustang convertible was stopped on a dirt road somewhere in the vicinity of Manchester, Vermont, and this perfect country setting, with tall pines and hidden streams, was far too pretty for her to be a litterbug. She’d been driving in circles for a half hour, but Scooter, her passenger, didn’t offer an opinion on which way to turn because the four-year-old Australian Shepherd wasn’t very talkative at the moment. He was busy nosing through her Louis Vuitton bag that rested comfortably on the passenger seat, searching for the snacks she had packed earlier. Sour cream potato chips, if he remembered correctly.

Up ahead, Chase saw a tractor slowly making its way across a faded brown hayfield, so she reluctantly pulled the car forward to ask for help. She put the Mustang in park and stood on top of the front seat to make her five-foot-six frame taller and get the farmer’s attention. He was right out of some old Hollywood Western, with a weather-beaten face and bib overall jeans that were only half snapped at the top, exposing his wrinkled red flannel shirt underneath. He looked like half-folded laundry to her.

The old-timer shut off the tractor and put his hand up to his ear, letting her know she’d better shout whatever she had to say. “I’m lost. Trying to get to Manchester,” she yelled.

The farmer scratched the top of his faded blue baseball cap, looked around, a bit confused, then said, “Let me get my son.” With that he put two fingers in his mouth like a fork and gave a loud whistle. It was so loud, blackbirds taking a nap in the nearby maple tree sprang to life and flew off into the bright blue November sky.

The huge wooden door to the nearby barn she’d already driven by three times suddenly swung open as if Hercules was on the other side commanding it. “My Lord,” Chase said to herself, and for good reason. Out stepped a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of one of those cheesy romance novels they sell by the rackful at the dollar stores back home. He was six foot two if he were even an inch, with the athletic build of a man who did hard labor every day of his life. His thick, dirty-blond hair was untamed as it pushed out in all directions from under a tan cowboy hat. Even from this distance there was something from the squint of his eyes that made her nervous and excited at the same time.

Chase looked down at her ninety-dollar jeans and the leather boots she’d bought on sale at Nordstrom, thinking she’d dressed the part of a country girl, but these two, this father and son, they were the real deal. As the young cowboy walked from the barn toward the tractor and this beautiful young woman in the cool car, his father spoke. “This is my son, Gavin Bennett.” With that he turned back to his son, directing his next words to him. “She’s trying to get to Manchester.”

Gavin took a hard drink out of the half-gallon plastic jug that Chase had just noticed was in his hand the whole time. She was so fixated on his face and strong shoulders he could have been holding a purple ostrich and she wouldn’t have noticed. The jug looked a bit dingy, but the water was clear and refreshing as he took a long swig. She could see his eyes were blue—not light blue, but a darker shade, making them more mysterious. She thought a girl who wasn’t careful could get lost in those eyes.

He just stood and stared at her with those ocean-blue eyes until Chase finally spoke. “Trying to get to Manchester and I seem to be going in circles.”

“What’s your name?” Gavin asked her, wiping the excess water from his chin. “Why does that matter?” she shot back playfully.

He liked that she did that, showing some spunk, and smiled back at her saying, “’Cause I don’t give directions to strangers unless I know who they are.”

She stepped down from the car seat she was still standing on, opened the car door and walked around to the front bumper, giving him a good look at who he was talking to. “I’m Chase. Chase Harrington. I’m from Seattle; I’m lost and trying to get to Manchester sometime this century. How’s that?” she added sarcastically at the end.

The handsome young cowboy and his father shot each other a look and the old man chuckled. “Best not mess with this one, Gavin. Now stop giving her a hard time and tell her.”

The young man pushed his cowboy hat back, revealing the rest of his handsome face, and he smiled wide, changing the entire mood in an instant. “I’m just messin’ with you, Miss Harrington. Turn your car around and go down this road until you see a Christmas tree farm on your left. Take the first right after that and stay on that road until you hit Route 7A. Hang another right and it will take you straight into Manchester.”

Chase smiled back and put those imaginary pistols she seemed to be carrying back in her holster as she told him, “Much obliged, paht-nuh.” Gavin gave her a confused look and then burst out laughing.

“What did you call me?”

Chase was suddenly embarrassed, her cheeks turning red. “Um, isn’t that how you country folk talk?” Chase wondered aloud.

Gavin sized her up as he bit down playfully on his bottom lip. He then unzipped the jacket he was wearing to reveal a sweatshirt that read “Boston University.” He moved a step toward her so she could read it better, which made Chase’s stomach twirl in a good way, and said, “I went to B.U.—master’s degree in agricultural science. So, not so country after all, darlin’.”

Chase smiled warmly and said, “Okay, touché, Mr. Bennett. Thanks for the directions. Maybe I’ll be seeing you around town.”

Gavin climbed up on the tractor, now resting his hand on his father’s shoulder, and said to his dad, “You think I’ll be seeing her again, Pops?”

His eyes never left Chase’s soft auburn hair that framed her smooth white skin and full lips, as his father responded, “Oh, having a front row seat for this introduction between you two, I’d pretty much count on it.”

Chase climbed back in the car and fired up the engine, giving Scooter a pat on the head. “He’s trouble with a capital ‘T,’ buddy,” she whispered so only the dog could hear. Scooter just looked at the two farmers and wagged his tail with approval, still thinking about those potato chips.

Before she could put the car in gear Gavin shouted, “Hey! Chase? Isn’t that a boy’s name?”

Chase shrugged her shoulders and said, “What can I say? Daddy wanted a boy.”

Gavin wasn’t quite done. “By the way,” he asked, “what brings you to beautiful Vermont right before the holidays?” Chase put her sunglasses on and checked her face in the rearview mirror to make certain her makeup held up to all this driving, and this cowboy was getting the best version of her.

She then put the car in drive and yelled back, “License plate, cowboy. License plate.”

As the Mustang made its way toward the Christmas tree farm and the turn that would take her to a new adventure, Gavin spied the back plate on the car and saw one word—W R I T E R.

Gavin glanced back at his father, giving him a look that said he really liked her. Reading his son’s mind, the farmer said playfully, “With a name like ‘Chase’ you better get moving if you wanna catch her.” The two of them let out a laugh so loud it echoed a half mile across the meadow.

2

Owen

Owen Johnson put on one of his favorite sweaters. It was solid black with three buttons at the top and complemented the Lucky Brand jeans he was wearing. It was one of the perks to selling real estate: nobody much cared if you wore jeans or a business suit; they were only interested in the house you were selling and the price. He checked himself in the mirror and felt good about what he saw. A couple of years shy of forty, he still had all his hair and had managed to keep the weight off, something most of his old high school buddies couldn’t boast. His brown, soulful eyes that made the high school prom queen fall for him all those years ago were still engaging, just looking a bit sad today. Why today? There was nothing special about it, just another day. Sadness has a way of dropping in unexpectedly like that for some reason, he thought.

He went into the garage to grab up a handful of Realtor signs with a photo of a gorgeous woman who looked strikingly like Jennifer Lopez smiling on the front of them. Above her picture it said, “Buy from Amazing Grace,” and below was the Realtor’s phone number, which rang directly to Owen’s cell. “We can’t be missing calls and leaving money to the wind,” Grace used to say. Owen would remind himself of her words every time that phone rang late at night.

His plan today was to place the For Sale or Rent signs in front of the old abandoned and empty St. Pius church that sat on Main Street in the heart of Manchester. But first things first; he needed to go back into the living room for a quick word with his wife.

“Well, Grace, I’m about to head out,” he started. “It’s another perfect late fall day, just the way you like them. Most of the leaves have fallen, so the leaf peepers have had their fill of Vermont, and Manchester is getting quiet again the way we like it.” Owen paused now and collected himself for what needed saying next. “I miss you. I hope you know that. Every single day.” He looked toward the stairs that led up to their family bedroom and continued, “Tommy is doing well. The teacher thinks he’s getting a little bit better, more connected to things.” Owen looked away from his wife’s face now, down at the boots she bought him at L.L. Bean for his birthday a few years earlier. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and realized he really needed to get moving. He wasn’t sure what to say anymore besides telling her he missed her.

The sound of a teenager’s feet stomping down the stairs in the quaint Cape Cod-style home broke the silence, and Owen’s son, Tommy, came bounding around the corner, breaking up this private chat. “You talking to Mommy again?” Tommy asked, giving his dad a big hug. You’d never know he was on the autism spectrum unless you sat and talked to Tommy for a bit. “He’s sharp as a tack, he just lacks some social skills,” is what Grace told people, especially those administrators at school.

Tommy walked over to the table by the big bay window where the late-day sun was drenching the mahogany wood and shining brightly on the neatly framed photo that Owen had been talking to. A beautiful woman with a light in her eyes was smiling. Tommy picked up his late mom’s picture and gave it a kiss before returning it to its home. “We’ll see her again someday, Dad?” he asked his father. It’s a question he asked almost every day since she died. Owen scooped up the real estate signs, tucking them under one arm, and gently grabbed Tommy’s hand. “You bet, sport. Someday.”

Owen popped the trunk to his jet-black Jeep Grand Cherokee and laid the signs with his wife’s image down carefully, as if she’d feel it if he tossed them in with abandon. “Amazing Grace. What a great name for a Realtor,” he said to himself. She’d been gone three years, but there was no way he was changing that name or taking her face off those signs. Owen checked his watch and realized he was going to be late. He had to place those signs in the lawn outside a church that was now for sale, then get to the Empty Plate Diner in the heart of town by 5:00 p.m. Some out-of-towner who had emailed him from Seattle was searching for a house to rent for the holidays, maybe even longer, depending on how things went.

As he drove down Potter Hill Road, past the old mill with the pretty waterfall and the pond where he used to ice-skate as a kid, Owen’s phone came alive with a beep. He would never text and drive, so he pulled off to the side of the road and touched the screen, revealing a one-line message that said, “Got lost but I’m close to Manchester now. Sorry if I’m a bit late. Thanks for understanding, Chase.”

Until this text message, Owen had only communicated with Chase through email. It occurred to him at this moment that he had no idea if this “Chase” was a man or a woman. It certainly sounded like a boy’s name. To his pleasant surprise, he’d soon find out he was wrong.

3

Harlan

Harlan loved this part of the job: parking the big SUV with the word “Sheriff” stamped on the side and walking his rounds down Main Street in Manchester. It was about a mile long with beautiful shops and discoveries on both sides of the street. Harlan’s keys, the ones that hung from his belt and opened the police station’s single cell that rarely had any occupants, jingled as he made his way down the block saying his “hellos” and “how are ya’s” to the town folk who passed him by. They rolled up the sidewalk early this time of the year, so many businesses closed by five p.m., save for the diner, which seemed always to be open.

If a building was dark with the “closed” sign hanging in the window Harlan would grab the doorknob and give it a quick check to make sure the owner had remembered to lock it. If they didn’t, he had everyone on speed dial in this quaint New England town, and they always picked up when Harlan’s name appeared on their cell.

He was breathing a bit heavily tonight. He’d like to blame it on the thin mountain air, but as he adjusted his belt, he saw his belly was not thinning at all. “Too many of Margaret’s muffins,” he said to no one in particular. He glanced down at his gun, the standard pistol they’d issued him when he’d taken the job twenty years earlier, but he’d never had need to take it out of the holster. Heck, he hadn’t even unsnapped the cover that kept it in place.

In his right hand was a small plastic Ziploc bag with saltine crackers inside. His left hand was needed for waving to everyone who called out his name with a smile. “Hey, Harlan,” they’d say. Never Sheriff Harlan, just plain Harlan. That was Manchester for you; formality had little use around here.

As he worked his way up the block, he saw a pretty young woman standing next to a fancy old sports car, craning her neck this way and that. “You lost, ma’am?”

Chase was waving her cell phone around as if it was going to tell her which way to walk now that she finally found the town she’d driven 3,000 miles to get to.

“No. Yes. Kinda,” she said, confused.

“Can I ask your name and where you’re trying to get to?” Harlan inquired.

“My name? Oh right, this is the town where nobody will help you until they know your name. Chase, Chase Harrington. Can I ask your name?” she said.

“I’m Harlan, the sheriff around these parts. And it’s Chase, you said? That’s a strange name for a girl. Is there a story behind that?”

Chase was tired and late already, but there was something disarming about this older gentleman, so she played along. “Yes, there is. My daddy loved what he called chase movies. You know where the good guy, who’s kind of a bad guy, gets chased around by the cops.”

Harlan thought for a moment as he noticed her dog in the front seat of the car and said, “Like those The Fast and the Furious movies. What’s your dog’s name?”

“No,” Chased replied. “Older ones with Burt Reynolds. Smokey and the Biscuit or something thereabouts.”

“Bandit,” Harlan corrected her.

“No, not Bandit, his name is Scooter,” Chase answered, clearly confused.

Harlan laughed now. “No, no. The movies you’re talking about were called Smokey and the Bandit, not Biscuit. Hi, Scooter.” He walked over and began petting her dog.

Chase liked this man; he had a kindness about him. “So, now I’m curious; don’t you have a first name?”

Harlan kept playing with Scooter as he said, “Erastus.”

“Erastus? Are you kidding? And you thought Chase was a funny name. Okay, tell me how you landed with that?”

Harlan leaned on the car now, giving his sore back a rest. “Well, since you asked, my grandfather once lived in Albany, New York. It’s about an hour and a half from here. For a time, he found himself unemployed and feeling sorry for himself. One day he was in the park and a well-dressed man sat down next to him on the bench and they started chatting.”

Chase was enjoying this story. “Go on,” she said.

“So, my granddad tells this guy how he can’t find work anywhere. When he’s done complaining, the man gets up and writes a phone number on the back of a business card. He says, ‘Call this number and mention my name and they’ll give you a job.’”

“Just like that?” Chase asked with astonishment.

“Yep, just like that,” Harlan said.

Chased thought for a quick second and asked, “So, who was the guy?”

“Glad you asked, young lady. My granddad turns over the card and it says ‘Erastus Corning, Albany Mayor.’ He got him a job in the water department, and he worked there nearly thirty years. I guess the family figured we owed old Erastus a favor.”

Chase laughed now. “And you’re the favor. That’s a great story.”

“Well, thank you, darlin’,” Harlan said, and then, “Oh wait, not to interrupt you, but my friend is here.”

With that an orange tabby cat emerged from the dark shadows next to a bakery and walked straight over to Harlan. He rubbed up against Harlan’s leg, making it clear they were old friends, and Harlan took a cracker out of the plastic bag he’d been carrying and gave it to the cat. “He looks for me every night,” Harlan said to Chase.

Harlan then remembered his manners, saying, “I’m sorry, rambling on like that. Where was it you were trying to go, dear?” Chase didn’t want the conversation to end, but she knew the Realtor must be sitting in a booth, checking his watch. “The Empty Plate Diner,” she said.

“Easy as pie, Chase. Walk three blocks down and you’ll smell the bacon. The diner is on the left.”

“And what if they aren’t cooking bacon?” Chased asked playfully.

“It’s a diner, sweetie,” the sheriff said. “They’re always cooking bacon.”

Harlan patted Scooter’s head one more time as Chase took him by the leash and started walking those last few blocks. Bacon and eggs sounded fantastic right about now.

4

the empty plate

If Chase had any hope of entering the diner quietly with her dog in tow, that illusion was quickly dispelled by the loud cowbell fashioned directly above the front door. As she pulled the door open, CLANG it went, causing every head in the place to turn and take a look at who was coming in. Chase’s eyes were as big as saucers, taking in the fifties-style diner complete with an old-fashioned counter and shiny silver stools with red leather seats. It was real leather too, not that fake stuff used today. She could tell because of the cracks in it. Booths lined the walls to her left and right, with about a half dozen four-top tables filling in the rest of the open space. The chairs around the tables didn’t match, giving it even more charm.

As Chase slowly moved inside, a familiar country song hung in the air. Kenny Chesney, she thought, but she couldn’t be sure. Strong and delicious aromas hit her nose: pot roast and mashed potatoes, apple pie and syrup. It smelled like everything she’d expect in a small-town diner like this. It had the familiar scent of your grandmother’s house on a Sunday afternoon before she set the table for a family dinner.

Behind the counter was an older woman in a pretty blue dress chatting up the guests, passing out the plates and cashing people out all at once. “If I ever own a restaurant, remind me to hire her,” Chase said to Scooter.

Farther beyond the counter was a wide window that gave patrons a view directly into the kitchen, where a heavy-set man with salt-and-pepper hair was wiping his hands on his already greasy apron. He put two hot plates up on the window ledge that separated the kitchen from the space behind the front counter. Waitresses walked back and forth, grabbing up the food for table delivery as it came out. If they weren’t paying attention, the cook would hit a small bell, letting everyone know the food was ready. The cheap bell was held down to the counter with duct tape to keep it from hopping around when he smacked it too hard. Better Homes and Gardens this was not, but everything that looked wrong with this place felt just right to Chase.

She surveyed the room, looking for a man who might have his head up looking for her, but there were no takers—not yet. She guessed the Realtor must have been running late too. Before she took another step, the woman behind the counter walked around with a keen eye on the dog leash in her hand and the four-legged guest who was probably violating a half-dozen health codes just by being inside.

“Hi, I’m the owner, Shayla. Is that a service dog?” she began. Chase brought her hand down gently on Scooter’s head, looked sheepishly at the floor and shaking her head. “Don’t you speak, dear?” Shayla asked.

“Yes. I’m sorry. No, he’s not a service dog, but …”

Chase began to explain before she was cut off by a loud, “BECAUSE the only pets we allow in here are service dogs. I’m not crazy about animals being in places where you serve food, but state law says we have to let in service animals. So, I ask you again, is that a service animal?”

“He’s not,” Chase answered a second time. “I’m new in town and haven’t had a chance to get myself sorted out. I would have left him at the inn I’m planning to stay at tonight, but I haven’t even had a chance to check in yet. I’m supposed to meet a Realtor, who must be even later than me, and we’re both starving.”

“You and the Realtor are starving?” Shayla asked, only half kidding.

That made Chase chuckle. “No. Me and my friend here are starving—Scooter. We’ve been driving all day and got lost, which wasn’t a total loss because I met a cowboy who looks like … Well, let me put it this way, if Brad Pitt and a Victoria’s Secret model had a kid and he grew up to be a cowboy, that pretty much nails it on what this guy looked like. I mean, WOW.”

Shayla smiled, enjoying this stranger rambling on this way. “Continue,” Shayla said.

Chase thought for a moment, then said, “Tell ya what. I saw a bench outside. I can tie his leash to it when the Realtor shows up and let him quickly show me some places he thinks I might want to rent. It’s a bit chilly outside, but Scooter can tough it out.”

Chase turned to walk toward the door when Shayla yelled after her, “You didn’t let me finish, dear.”

Chase looked back. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

Shayla bent down and scratched the dog’s belly, and Scooter gave her a fast kiss on her nose. “I was saying I only allow service dogs in here, but I’m not much for paperwork. When someone comes in with a dog I ask them if it’s a service dog and if they tell me ‘Why, yes it is, Shayla,’ well, I just take their word for it and tell them to pick any booth they want, keep the dog under control and by their feet, and we’ll have no troubles at all. Do you understand, dear?”

Chase finally picked up on what the nice lady who ran the diner was trying to say. “So,” Shayla asked for the third time, “is that a service dog?”

Chase looked down at her pup and back into Shayla’s kind eyes and said, “Why, yes he is, ma’am.”

Shayla scooped up a menu and handed it to Chase, adding, “Here’s your menu. Pick any booth you want, just keep your dog under control and by your feet.”

Chase nodded in agreement and chose the booth in the corner with a good view of the room so she could see her Realtor when he arrived.

The table was tiny, but Chase could tell it was vintage too. Probably pulled out of some diner that closed fifty years ago when people came in three sizes: medium, small, and extra-small. Chase’s frame was tiny, though, so the small table suited her fine. She was about to look through the menu when she noticed a mini jukebox mounted on the wall next to her. It was no bigger than a loaf of bread and had a clear glass front with those little tabs you turn showing all the song choices. She’d seen something like this on a TV show once and thought it was so neat. She noticed it took quarters, and the small print told her just twenty-five cents bought you two songs. “Elvis, Aerosmith, Lady Antebellum. Oh, there’s the Kenny Chesney song I heard,” she said under her breath. She’d have to dig a quarter out of the bottom of her purse before this visit was through.

Chase opened the menu, and it offered the usual fare with one exception. There in bold print across the front cover it said, “Home of the World-Famous Blueberry Corn Muffin.” “That’s odd,” she said. “Never heard of that.”

The waitress, wearing a tag that said Brad, overheard her reading the menu and said, “Oh, the muffins, yeah. How about that?”

Chase couldn’t help noticing the nametag and asked, “Brad?”

The waitress giggled at the question every time she got it. “Yep. It’s actually Brenda, but you see that guy in the kitchen talking to himself and slamming plates and abusing that poor little bell?” Brenda said. Chase had noticed him earlier and was looking at him now. “He’s the owner, along with his wife, Shayla, the nice lady who seated you. His name is Colgan. Anyhoo, about my nametag: I’m terrible about losing stuff, and in the eighteen months I’ve been here I’ve lost three Brenda nametags. To punish me, Colgan made me a Brad nametag, and if I don’t lose this one, he says he’ll think about giving me one with my real name on it again.”

Chased smiled. “So, Brad it is. I was curious about these muffins.”

The waitress looked around to see if anyone was listening, giving dramatic effect to what she was about to say. “Legend has it, one day Colgan was out drinking all night with his buddies and forgot it was his turn to cook breakfast in the morning. So, he comes in on no sleep, still half in the bag, and he can hardly see straight. Idiot that he is, he accidentally mixes a big can of blueberries into the corn muffin mix. He’s cheap as they come, so there was no way he was gonna dump it in the trash. Instead, he baked them as is, and a new muffin was born. I have to admit, they’re pretty incredible. Total fluke.”

Chase immediately went for her bag and pulled out a notepad and pen. “What’cha doin’?” Brenda wondered.

“Oh, I’m a writer. Whenever I hear nutty stuff or something I love, I immediately write it down. This place is great. I mean, that duct tape on the bell: priceless.”

As Chase jotted down some notes, Brenda shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well, let me know when you want to order.”

Chase kept her head down, continuing to write. “Yeah, I’ll just yell for Brad.” Brenda snapped her gum and giggled as she made her way back toward her grumpy boss in the greasy apron.

Chase had turned her attention back to the menu when the cowbell on the door made another announcement. She turned, looking for the Realtor, but her hopes were dashed when a teenaged boy came through and yelled, “Hi, Shayla.” Chase could see the boy was older, yet he talked like a small child.

The lady in the pretty apron lit up immediately and said, “Thomas James Johnson, how’s the handsomest young man in town?”

Tommy smiled and made a beeline for the tip jar on the counter, stopping himself before reaching in. “Can I?” he asked Shayla.

“Sure, hon. You know I can never say no to you.”

He reached in deep and fished out a shiny quarter, then ran over to the nearest empty booth, pushing it in the slot on the tiny jukebox, making it light up. He quickly flipped through the pages that he knew by heart, resting on the second-to-last one, punching in R-17.

A moment later the sound of beautiful piano music filled the diner, and Chase looked up as a memory stirred. “My mother used to play this song when I was a little girl,” she said out loud to anyone who would listen. “What’s this song?” she asked louder to the customers in the diner, hoping someone would answer.

Tommy did. “‘The Gift.’ Music by Jim Brickman. The singer is Collin Raye.”

Before Chase could try to remember the lyrics, Tommy started singing them loud enough for all to hear: pretty words about snow falling and a perfect town that resembled something from a fairy tale.

Just then came another clang of the cowbell, and a good-looking man in his thirties bounded in, wearing a black navy pea coat with a red scarf tied neatly around his neck. Chase saw he had wavy brown hair and sad brown eyes, gentle eyes that looked as if they’d been broken and put back together again. Owen Johnson heard the music that was already playing as he shouted, “Tommy, really? Again?”

He looked at Shayla as if he were sorry, but she didn’t care, she loved Tommy. “He can play that song every day of the year if he wants, Owen.”

Shayla then went over to Tommy and took hold of his hands as if to dance with him, singing along to this song she’d heard far too many times. As the last note sounded, Shayla pulled Tommy close and gave him a loving hug. There were only about a dozen people in the diner at that moment, but all of them spontaneously burst into applause, and that brought a roar of laughter out of Tommy. Even Chase was clapping, and they hadn’t even met yet.

When the applause died down the metal bell taped down on the kitchen counter gave a ding, and Colgan called out in a playful tone, “If Cinderella is finished with her dance we have some pancakes that need delivery to the kingdom. By that I mean table five.” Shayla gave her husband a wink and went back to work. Chase could see these two really loved each other.

Owen scanned the room and saw a beautiful young woman who looked about thirty studying a menu, and he just stared at her. He felt guilty for what he was feeling at this moment; it was something he hadn’t experienced since Grace died. He wasn’t ready to feel anything for another woman, not yet. He thought, My, she’s pretty. But I doubt that she is … “Chase?” he said, loud enough to get her attention. Don’t look up, don’t look up, he was saying to himself. Then she did.

Chase smiled, and the two locked eyes for what felt like a minute but was merely a second. “Yes. I’m Chase. Are you Owen?” The handsome Realtor moved with ease across the diner and extended his hand to shake hers. Instead of using just one hand like he normally did, Owen brought his second hand down over the top of hers with its perfectly manicured pearl-white nails. It was more holding hands than shaking. What theheck are you doing? he thought in that instant. She didn’t seem to mind, though.

“Is that your doggie?” a child’s voice asked, breaking up the moment. Chase looked up and saw the teenaged boy who had been singing and dancing a moment earlier, standing next to her booth now. “Can I pet him?” he asked politely.

Owen jumped in, “I’m sorry, this is my son, Tommy. He loves animals. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. His name is Scooter, and you can pet him all you like, Tommy,” Chase offered with a smile.

As Tommy sat on the black and white checkered linoleum floor, Owen took out a binder and started leafing through some of the properties available for rent. They were all fine, and most looked identical, except for the last one. “This one may seem strange to you, but I want you to give it a serious look,” Owen said. It was a beautiful, small gray stone building with a lot of character.

“Wow, this is pretty cool,” Chase reacted. “What’s the deal with this place?”

Owen leaned in so she could see the photos better, close enough that she could smell his cologne. If he wasn’t attractive enough with the jacket and scarf and hair a girl could run her fingers through, he smelled like the kind of guy who surprises you with dinner in front of the fireplace and a dozen roses.

Focus, girl, focus, she thought to herself. Chase looked at the photos and saw this stone building had everything she was looking for: a cozy bedroom, full kitchen and a den with a leather couch parked right in front of a gorgeous old fireplace. It also seemed to have a big empty space that looked like a dance floor. That could be a fun spot for Scooter to play.

“Technically, Chase, this isn’t even on the market yet,” Owen said to her. She liked how he said her name. “The reason I’m late is because I had to put signs out in front of the place. The owners told me I could sell or rent it; they’re okay with either.”

Chase told him she loved it.

“So, why don’t you get some dinner and check into your hotel, and we can agree to meet here at nine a.m. tomorrow morning,” he said.

Chase smiled and liked the idea of seeing him again that soon. “Sounds like a plan,” she responded.

As Owen got ready to collect Tommy from the floor and pry him away from Chase’s puppy, Shayla walked over with her ordering pad in her hand and pen behind her ear with a big grin on her face. She’d been watching the two of them chat in her booth and could see by the body language there was more than just real estate being appraised.

Shayla nodded and kept smiling at Chase as if she knew something Chase didn’t. Finally, Chase said, “What? Have I got ketchup on my face or something?”

Shayla looked at her and Owen and said, “Remember earlier you told me you met some cowboy when you got lost?” Chase swallowed hard, a bit embarrassed; she did not need Owen knowing about that earlier conversation. So, she faked confusion asking, “Cowboy? Giving me directions? Hmm, yeah, I vaguely remember that. What about him?”

Shayla shot a look toward the front window that faced Main Street. “He just pulled up in his pickup truck. I’m guessing he’s hungry.” Shayla paused now and laughed, adding, “For something.”

Right on cue the cowbell clanged and in walked Gavin Bennett. He’d changed out of the dusty barn coat and Boston University sweatshirt. Now he had on a crisp white dress shirt and painted-on jeans that stretched down to a pair of work boots. He’d seen Chase’s Mustang down the block so he knew she was likely here, but he played it cool, walking over to the front counter and grabbing up a menu. “What’s good tonight, Colgan?” he asked, loud enough for all to hear. He glanced at the specials and said, “Well heck, I’m gonna go with the pot roast.”

Gavin reached into the tip jar to borrow a quarter, shooting Shayla a look like the cat that ate the canary, asking innocently, “May I?” He then strutted over to the booth where Chase and Owen were sitting and reached right between them, depositing the quarter in the little jukebox. He didn’t need to flip through the song list to see what he wanted to play. Without hesitation he punched in B-4, as if he’d done this before.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Harrington. You’ll have to excuse my crude country ways.” As he pulled back his strong arm and got ready to walk away, he exchanged a glance with the Realtor, who was looking right back at him. Chase thought they looked like two red-tailed hawks about to claw each other over the same piece of territory.

“Owen,” Gavin said in a manly low tone, tipping his cowboy hat the way knights do before a joust.

“Gavin,” Owen said back, matching his intensity.

Gavin returned to the counter and put his muscular frame down on the cracked red leather stool, taking his hat off and resting it next to him. Just then the song he played on the jukebox came on. Chase recognized it from the first few guitar chords. It was an old country song by Toby Keith, “Should’ve been a cowboy.” The statement Gavin was making about Chase’s boothmate wasn’t lost on anyone in the diner.

“Seriously?” Chase said out loud, causing everyone to look at her. The only person not looking was the cowboy at the counter. Gavin’s blue eyes were fixed on the kitchen and Colgan, who was looking back, smiling. They gave each other a wink that said the game was on.

5

the sleepy panther

Chase wrapped up her business with Owen, and then took hold of Scooter’s leash, saying, “It was great to meet you, Tommy. Thanks for playing with my dog.” The special boy smiled broadly, giving the pup one more hug before Chase made her way toward the door, saying to Owen, “So, we reconvene in the morning and we go look at that property, Mr. Johnson?”

Owen ran ahead to get the door for her and said nervously, “Owen, please. Call me Owen.”

Chase made certain not to give Gavin the satisfaction of looking back at him and said, “Owen it is. See you tomorrow.”

The Mustang’s seats were chilly as she hopped back in and turned the key. It had grown dark since she went into the diner, and the streetlights were on. “How pretty. See that, Scooter?” She was looking at the lampposts that lined Main Street; the white globes on top looked like something Bob Cratchit from A Christmas Carol might recognize. A light snow had fallen while she was in the diner talking to the Realtor and trying to ignore the handsome cowboy, making the sidewalks and trees all the more enchanting.

She reached for the radio, but there was no point turning it on, because a purple and black sign jutted out from a building just ahead with the words Sleepy Panther Inn. Just below the name on the sign was a painting of a black panther, sound asleep on a tree branch.

The car trunk was full of bags, but Chase was too tired to bother dragging them all in tonight. A set of white wooden doors with purple trim and etched glass greeted her at the top of the wraparound porch. The gray paint was peeling on the porch, but it seemed to suit the Victorian structure that had to be at least a hundred years old. Chase stopped before going in and looked up at all the windows that were looking back, each one jutting out with a different story to tell—some open, some closed, some with pretty curtains, others with shutters. “Nice,” she said to herself as she turned the knob on the front door and went inside.

As she stepped onto a thick rug that covered a beige hardwood floor, the inviting smell of a fresh wood fire filled her nose. And another nice scent. “What is that?” she wondered. It was so familiar. Then she saw the source, resting on a plate that sat on the front desk right next to a vintage cash register. It was fresh oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies. She wasn’t even hungry, having just left the diner, but she wanted one anyway. Scooter looked up with ravenous eyes that said, “Grab two of them, please.”

As she considered the cookies, a man with a straw hat and a long beard came around the corner, stomping his feet to get the fresh snow off of them. “Right with ya, miss. I’d shake your hand but …” He was holding a healthy stack of firewood that had already been cut into the perfect size logs to toss on the fire. The gentleman dropped the wood into a wrought iron basket that sat next to the fireplace, wiped his hands on his dusty pants, and walked straight over to where Chase waited patiently by the front desk. “Ned Farnsworth. Proprietor, manager, and official head cheese at the Sleepy Panther.”

Chase let her one bag fall to her side on the floor, freeing up her hand to shake his. “And I’m …” she began to say, before he cut her off.

“You’re Chase Harrington. Driving in from the West Coast and said you’d be here sometime today,” he finished her sentence.

“That’s right, Mr. Farnsworth. Sorry I’m a bit late,” Chase offered, while still glancing at the cookies but trying not to be obvious.

“First off, it’s Ned, and you’re not late, Miss Harrington. You said “today,” and it’s still today until it ain’t. You want a cookie? My wife Abigail makes ’em fresh every afternoon.” Chase stared at the cookies, which looked lumpy and delicious, and was about to decline when Ned added, “I’m not supposed to eat them, so you’d be doing me a favor because every cookie I get a guest to eat helps keep me out of Dutch with the missus.”

He was smiling at her now as he picked up the plate and moved it closer. Chase obliged. “Well, I will take two, one for me and one for Scooter here.”

“Yes, yes, you did mention you had a dog. He’s sweet. There’s no extra deposit, just promise me you’ll clean up after him if nature calls and he can’t make it outside in time,” Ned said in a friendly tone.

Chase nodded with approval. “Of course, Mister—I mean, Ned.”

There was no computer set up behind the desk, just a big leather ledger that Ned flipped open and began thumbing through until he found a page marked November. He had what looked like an antique pen hiding by the register and gave it a dip in the ink well before handing it to Chase. “Just need your John Hancock right here, my dear,” he said. “You’re paying for twenty-four hours, so since you’re checking in late you can stay this late tomorrow if you like,” he added. Chase had never heard such generosity from any hotel she’d ever stayed at.

She responded, “Well, that’s very kind of you. You don’t see Marriott doing that for guests.”

Ned looked over his shoulder, making sure his wife wasn’t watching before grabbing up a cookie and giving it a big bite. Then with his mouth full he said, “Well, this ain’t the Marriott.”

Chase nodded in agreement and said, “Oh, I love the name, ‘The Sleepy Panther.’ Who came up with that?”

Ned finished his cookie and said, “Me. We took a tour of a zoo once in California and it was a hot day, so none of the animals were doing much of anything. Most just sat there or hid in the shade, but up on a branch was a beautiful black panther, fast asleep. I thought to myself, what a sleepy panther. I guess the phrase just stuck in my head.”

“Well,” Chase came back, “it’s a great name.”

She reached for her wallet and Ned put his hand over hers to stop her. “Don’t worry about that now, dear. We can settle up tomorrow.” Chase couldn’t believe how kind the people in Manchester were. Was it the Christmas season making them this way, or had she stumbled onto the nicest place on earth? She retrieved the bag from the floor and led Scooter up the narrow staircase to the second floor. All along the wall she noticed pretty oil paintings that were framed and hung with great care. They were beautiful paintings of nature, and each seemed to be signed by the same person in the bottom right corner of the frame.

Attached to the room key was a tag that didn’t have a number on it but a name instead. The tag said “Taylor.” She stopped near the top of the stairs, about to call down and ask which room that was, but Ned was already reading her mind.

“The rooms upstairs are named after my kids because they used to live in them. We had three: Scott, Brian, and Taylor. You’ll see names on the doors, can’t miss it.”