A Merry Little Christmas
Summerside Press™
Minneapolis 55378
www.summersidepress.com
A Merry Little Christmas
© 2012 by Anita Higman
ISBN 978-1-60936-688-9
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates |
www.kpadesign.com
Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group |
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Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Printed in China.
To my beautiful daughter-in-law, Danielle.
You add such joy to our lives!
Always know that you are greatly loved.
Much praise goes to Susan Downs for her wise editorial input, her encouragement, and her friendship, and to Connie Troyer for her editing expertise in making this novel a better read. Also many thanks to the other fine folks at Summerside Press who help to make my life wonderful, such as Rachel Meisel and Jason Rovenstine.
I’m indebted to my agent, Sandra Bishop, at MacGregor Literary Agency, for her solid advice and tireless support.
Gratitude goes to my brother, Jerry Breitling, for his help in checking my farm scenes for accuracy. Also, I want to thank Andrew Bland for his valuable assistance.
Any errors in the text are solely the fault of the author.
The Martin farm, Oklahoma, 1961
Franny’s mother always said that if humans ever landed on the moon, the first thing they’d need was music. It was the one essential that made a place inhabitable—you know, to get through all those dark and lonely—not to mention unmarried and dateless—nights.
Franny sighed and turned up the dial on her transistor radio. Frank Sinatra’s version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” wooed its way over the airwaves like a slow kiss under the mistletoe. She swayed and sang along as she dumped the last of the slop into the troughs of her forty rambunctious hogs. Then she climbed up on the fence for a little swine soiree.
“You know, I can’t wait to see who Dick Clark features next on
American Bandstand
, but now that I’m thirty-three, I guess I should be watching
The Lawrence Welk Show
. Right?” The hogs grunted their replies, but it wasn’t anything worth repeating. “Honestly, you guys can be such boars.” She chuckled to herself at her bad pun.
The fact was, Franny had a soft spot for her hogs, and with each season it was getting harder to sell off her herd. She felt like Fern in
Charlotte’s Web
. “Well, gotta go, little loves. You’ll miss me wildly. But I have to attend to the cows and see about the eggs. Any more activities, and I’m gonna need a social secretary.”
As the last musical ribbons of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” tied up like a bow, Franny hopped down on the other side of the pig fence, picked up her radio and slop bucket, and heaved a sigh. Christmas was coming, and it looked like she was going to spend the holidays alone. Again.
With that piteous little thought bobby-pinned to her mind, she turned around and came face-to-face with a man. A stranger! She let out a yelp loud enough to startle the man and arouse the poor hogs into a frothing frenzy. The bucket and radio went flying as Franny went slip-sliding onto the muddy ground.
The man reached out and caught the radio before it landed in the muck. He looked at her and winced. “I’m really sorry. I could only catch one of you.” He stretched out his hand to lift her out of the mud.
“That’s okay. I’m glad you caught the radio instead of me.”
The stranger got her upright and steady again. Franny looked at her overalls and wool coat, which were covered in mud. She tried to brush off her clothes, but the thick sludge sort of fell in hunks like flattened Milk Duds.
“It was my fault,” the man said. “You wouldn’t have lost your footing if I hadn’t scared you. I’m sorry.”
The stranger offered her a little-boy shrug—even though he looked thirtyish—but Franny couldn’t tell if it was an act of contrition or just an act. “Who are you, anyway?” She’d never been afraid of strangers before—never even locked her doors at night. Who did? But she wasn’t accustomed to strangers appearing out of nowhere.
“I’m Charles…Charlie Landau.”
Charlie. Good name. Even better brown eyes. He didn’t quite have that James Dean look to make a woman lose all her senses, but it was close enough. “I’m Franny Martin. And how long have you been standing there watching me, Charlie Landau?”
“Long enough to know that you love music.
And
you talk to your pigs like they’re family.” His grin lifted one side of his mouth, but it was a guileless smirk, so she let him off the hook. For now.
Franny rested her mitten-covered hand over her heart. “Well, who doesn’t love music? I mean, it’s the artistic glue that holds the corners of the world together. It’s our porch view of heaven. Without music, we’d be wallowing in the mire like these hogs.” She glanced at her pigs. “Sorry, boys.” Then she turned back to Charlie and added, “Without music we’d be less inspired, less human. Wouldn’t we?” She stared at him, wondering if he thought she was crazy.
“Pretty impassioned speech.” He grinned. “Like a politician…only believable.”
Franny fiddled with the ends of her woolen head scarf, a little embarrassed that she’d gotten so carried away with a stranger. “I don’t get many visitors out this way.”
“I came to buy your farm.” Charlie straightened his shoulders. “I have plenty of money, and I’ll pay cash. I’m determined to be a farmer, you see.”
Franny lifted her chin, studying him. “It’s been for sale for almost twelve years. You
really
want this old ramshackle dirt farm with a hundred-year-old house? Just you and the coyotes, scraping along, trying to make a living?”
“Yes, I really do want to buy your farm. That’s it.”
“How did you find out about it?”
“Your Realtor had a small ad in one of the papers.”
“Oh. Well, are you willing to pay me what I’m asking?”
Hmm.
Maybe Charlie would mention whether he had a wife.
“I saw the asking price.” Charlie raised his chin a mite. “And I’m willing to pay you every penny. More if I have to.”
More?
Franny wondered if
he
were the crazy one. It was a lot of money, but then he looked well-off, dressed as he was in his tailored trousers and leather jacket. Certainly not country-boy clothes. She paused to take a peek at the dreams she’d folded away in the hope chest of her heart, remembering how she’d always longed to move to the city. It didn’t take but a few seconds to pull them out, give them a good shake in the fresh air, and try them on again—only this time for real. The dream fit just fine.
