âYouâre here, youâre here!â the little girl cried, wrapping herself around Miaâs thighs, as Grant looked on.
âArenât you forgetting somebody?â Mia whispered to Haley. âMaybe your daddy would like a welcome back hug, too.â
âBut I just saw him this morning!â Haley said. âAnd âsides, he doesnât know how to hug.â
âThen maybe,â Mia said softly, âyou could show him how.â
Haley glanced over at Grant and then looked back at Mia. âHeâs the daddy. He has to hug first.â
Oh, for heavenâs sake. She hauled Haley up, dangling her in front of her father. âHug, already.â
As sheâd hoped, Grant grabbed for his daughter, and Haley â bless her â threw her arms around her fatherâs neck, and ta-da!
âNow, was that so hard?â Mia asked.
But when she next looked up, Grantâs gaze briefly touched hers, swarming with a world of unspoken emotions, setting off a volley of a whole bunch of the suckers inside her head, as well.
KAREN TEMPLETON,
a bestselling author and RITA® Award nominee, is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty nappies are not mutually exclusive terms. An Easterner transplanted to Albuquerque, New Mexico, she spends far too much time trying to coax her garden to yield roses and produce something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasising about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.
Dear Reader,
Like every other five-year-old, at some point I asked my mother if Santa was real. Since the gifts were all piled in a corner of my parentsâ bedroom, the whole Ho-Ho-Ho Delivery Service thing was kind of shot, anyway. So Mama told me Santa Claus was a spirit (cagey woman, my mother), and off I went, satisfied. Not until much later, however, did I really appreciate the wisdom behind her response.
Because even the most secular version of Santa is still about the message, not only behind the trappings of the season, but also beyond a particular religious belief. Santa Claus symbolises love and generosity and joyâ¦and, perhaps most of all, hope. So little Haleyâs plea to the jolly old elf isnât about asking for stuff, itâs an unselfish faith in something beyond her small self to bring healing and happiness to the people she loves.
Leave it to a small child to really get the true meaning of Christmasâ¦just like that long-ago kindergartener who intuitively understood her motherâs off-the-cuff explanation about something far more substantial than mere myth.
Karen Templeton
To Tristan, my first grandbaby
Trust me â Santa will have nothing on your grandparents! Merry First Christmas, little one.
Chapter One
âMr. Braeburn? Are you still there?â
âYes, yesâ¦â Grant released a long, strained breath, pressing his fingers into his eyelids. âIâm here.â He blinked at the rain-drenched vista on the other side of his home office window, watching distractedly as sixty-foot pines cowered and shuddered under the leaden skyâs relentless onslaught. âHowââ He carefully cleared his throat. âHow did you know to call me?â
âMrs. Braeburn had emergency contact information in her purse. And the glove compartment.â The doctorâmiddle-aged, still not comfortable with making these sorts of calls, Grant guessedâpaused. âAnd her briefcase.â
A humorless chuckle released the vise constricting Grantâs lungs. Catching himself, he sank into a leather club chair facing the window. âIâm sorryââ
âShock often produces seemingly inappropriate emotions,â the doctor said kindly. âItâs a coping mechanism. So the pain doesnât overwhelm us.â
âItâs notâ¦â Outside, rivers slammed against the paned windows. Grant shook his head to clear it. âJustine and I were divorced more than a year ago.â
âAh. Yes. Of course.â A pause. âI understand you have a daughter?â
Grant shut his eyes, willing his brain to assimilate⦠anything. âYes. Sheâs here. Itâs my weekend.â
âThenâ¦youâll tell her?â
âOf course,â Grant said, even as he thought, How the hell do you tell a three-year-old her motherâs dead? He sucked in an acid-tinged breath, then asked, âJustineâ¦she was alone? In the car?â
âYes.â
âWhat happened?â
Another pause, then a measured, âShe apparently took a curve too quickly, hit a patch of wet leaves and lost control. She may have been on her cell phone.â
Typical, he thought bitterly. Justine would practically have a panic attack if she lost contact with the outside world for more than five minutes. With each breath, Grantâs lungs eased. Slightly. âI suppose Iâll need to make arrangements?â
âThereâs no other family, then?â
âNot to my knowledge.â
âMr. Braeburn, I couldâ¦give you some names if you, or the little girl, would like to talk to someone?â
âThank you. But I have my own contacts. Should the need arise.â
âOf course. If thereâs nothing elseâ¦?â
âNo. No, waitâ¦â
âYes?â
A secondâs wrestling preceded, âHer face?â