Poles Apart
Authors: Marion Ueckermann
By
Dear
Reader
Theme is often the very last aspect
of a story that comes together. Sometimes it’s not until the writer has written
‘The End’ that the theme becomes clear.
When I started writing
Poles
Apart
I didn’t know, as usual, what the theme of the story would be.
Forgiveness and the freedom that comes from extending grace to someone who has
wronged you became the underlying message of this fun Christmas story set in
the hometown of the original Santa—Rovaniemi, Lapland. This is something that I
myself have struggled with in the past, and know I’ll probably struggle with
again in the future. If forgiveness and grace are issues that you perhaps have
battled, or are battling with, dear Reader, I pray that Sarah’s story would
help you realize the freedom that is to be found in forgiveness
—both in giving and receiving it.
There is something so amazing about
grace!
Be blessed.
Marion
Praise for
Poles
Apart
One of the sweetest, funniest Christmas romances
I've read. Stretching from South Africa to Finland, Poles Apart takes you on a
trip you will not soon forget!
~ Angela K Couch, Award-winning
Historical Romance Author
This
contemporary Christmas romance hits the sweet spot with a beautiful love story
you won't want to miss.
~ Heidi McCahan, Author
Unraveled
This
author once again takes us to an exotic location for excitement and love. A fun
Christmas romance to plunge into!
~ Janet Ferguson, Author,
Faith,
Humor, Romance— Southern Style
An
entertaining read with some fascinating glimpses into Santa’s own backyard.
~ Shirley Corder, Author
Strength
Renewed
Poles
Apart is a cute Christmas novella about Sarah, a South African woman who
travels to Lapland at Christmas to find her muse, and finds much more. This was
an enjoyable journey, just a little cold.
~ Linda Rainey, Reader
POLES APART
A Heart of Christmas
Romance
© 2015 by Marion Clair Ueckermann
This
book is a work of fiction set in a real location. Any reference to historical
or contemporary figures, places, or events, whether fictional or actual, is a
fictional representation. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be
re-sold, copied or given away to other people. If you would like to share an
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Contact
Information:
[email protected]
Scripture
taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE(R), Copyright (C)
1960,1962,1963,1968,1971,1972,1973,1975,1977,1995 by The Lockman Foundation.
Used by permission.
Scripture
taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used
by permission. All rights reserved.
Cover
Art by Jessica Sprong, Creative Junkie,
[email protected]
Cover
Image ID 9122333 purchased from 123RF Copyright chaoss
Dedication
To Jesus...
Without Him, this book, written in
the most difficult season of my life, would not have been completed.
Let us run with endurance the race
that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of
faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame,
and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who
has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself, so that you will not
grow weary and lose heart.
~ Hebrews 12:1-3
Writer’s
block and a looming Christmas novel deadline have romance novelist, Sarah
Jones, heading for the other side of the world on a whim.
Niklas
Toivonen offers cosy Lapland accommodation, but when his aging father falls
ill, Niklas is called upon to step into his father's work clothes to make
children happy. Red is quite his color.
Fresh
off the airplane, a visit to Santa sets Sarah’s muse into overdrive. The man in
red is not only entertaining, he’s young—with gorgeous blue eyes. Much like her
new landlord’s, she discovers. Santa and Niklas quickly become objects of
research—for her novel, and her curiosity.
Though
she’s written countless happily-ever-afters, Sarah doubts she’ll ever enjoy her
own. Niklas must find a way to show her how to leave the pain of her past
behind, so she can find love and faith once more.
It was a cold and
frosty night.
The seven words on the screen contained
no magic. No hook. Sarah Jones stared at her laptop. Nothing enticed the reader
to continue. From her chair in the kitchen, she gazed at the Christmas tree
sparkling in the lounge. Tiny white lights flickered on and off, their
reflections dancing in the colored balls that hung on the surrounding green
branches.
Didn’t help.
“Ugh, this is impossible.” Sarah closed the
laptop lid and slumped back in her chair. Maybe if she ate something, her muse
would come out to play. She glanced at the cereals and toast her sister had set
out on the table, the knot in her stomach refusing to budge. No. Not going to
help either.
She turned to look out the window at Cape
Town’s Table Mountain and the blanket of mist clinging to the top like a white
cloth. The day was young—the mist would soon lift from this beautiful South
African landmark, her muse for so many stories.
Not this one.
Shutting her eyes on the welling moisture,
Sarah raked her fingers through her hair. For a few moments she sat in
blindness, obliterating the world around her. If only she could obliterate the
looming deadline or give sight to the nothingness in her mind.
The tap on her leg brought a smile to
her lips. She took a deep breath then exhaled as she opened her eyes to the dark
gaze from below.
“Hey, Jonathan. What are you up to?”
“Nuffing.” The pajama-clad five-year-old
smiled as his chubby hand tapped Sarah’s leg again. “An’ you, Auntie Sarah?”
Another heavy sigh escaped her lips. “Nothing,
too.” She wrapped her fingers over Jonathan’s. For a brief moment his hand
disappeared beneath hers before he pulled away and scrambled onto her lap. The
wooden kitchen table scraped against the tiles as it made way for his small
body. He placed his palms on Sarah’s cheeks, focusing her gaze on him.
How she loved those chocolaty orbs.
“Whatssa matter, Auntie Sarah? Are you
sad?”
“No, Jonathan. I’m not sad.”
“You sure?” He smoothed his hands down the
sides of her head before twirling some strands around his fingers, following
the long winding path until he ran out of hair.
Sarah nodded. “I’m sure. I’m struggling to
start this story, that’s all.”
“What’s it about?” Matthew, Jonathan’s
older sibling by three years, thumped across the kitchen, pulled out a chair and
plopped onto it. He poured a glass of milk before stretching to grab a piece of
toast from the basket in the center of the table. After spreading the toast
with butter, he twisted the lid off the peanut butter jar. His knife disappeared
inside. Soon a thick layer of brown covered the slice of white, which he topped
with a generous drizzling of maple syrup. Mouth wide open, Matthew sank his
teeth into the gooey meal and closed his eyes. “Mmm, good.” He licked a stray
sticky strand from the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, Auntie Sarah, what’s your story
about?” Jonathan echoed.
Sarah gave a weak smile. “Nothing at the
moment, boys, I’m afraid.”
“You got building blocks again?”
Jonathan’s dark eyes held a seriousness Sarah adored.
Matthew giggled. “It’s writer’s block,
silly.”
Twisting around, Jonathan screamed. “I’m
not silly, silly.” As he turned back to face Sarah, his bottom lip rounded into
a pout.
“No, you’re not.” Sarah planted a kiss
on her younger nephew’s forehead, shooting a frown at Matthew.
Matthew eyed Sarah and his brother over the
syrupy horizon before sinking his teeth again into the gooey layers. “So,
what’s the story meant to be about?”
“Matthew Grant Olson, how many times
have I told you not to talk with food in your mouth?” Hannah strode across the kitchen
and dumped the basket of ironing on the counter.
Matthew chewed fast, swallowed, and then
grinned. “Sorry, Mom.”
Jonathan wiggled around on Sarah’s lap
and wagged his head at Matthew, seemingly happy that his mother’s admonition
was just retribution for his brother calling him silly.
A laugh slipped from Sarah’s mouth. She
should write a book about kids instead of a romance. She’d gathered enough fodder
staying with her sister the past fortnight. Building on her new townhouse dragged
on far longer than anticipated. Summer rains and availability of stock already delayed
construction by two months, rendering her homeless after she’d given notice at
her rented apartment. And now, in a few days’ time, the building industry would
close for the Christmas holidays. Nothing would happen for five weeks. Why did she
have such specific and unusual taste in finishings? Couldn’t settle for an
alternative? And why did she decide to build when she did, knowing the
challenges she’d face this time of the year?
“Auntie Sarah has writer’s building
blocks, Mommy.”
“Writer’s block, silly.” Matthew rolled
his eyes.
Jonathan shot his brother another look,
his voice rising with each emphasized word. “I’m not silly.”
“Whatever.” Matthew took another bite of
his toast, and then a swig of milk.
Hannah removed the ironing board and
iron from the tall cupboard beside her and set them up. “You’re struggling with
the story, sis?”
“A little.”
“How much have you done? Are the boys a
distraction to your writing?” She filled a jug with water and topped up the
steam iron’s water tank.
Sarah shook her head. “The boys are
fine. If only my publisher wanted a Christmas story involving children and
sunshine, not one with Santa, kisses, and snow.”
Glancing up, Hannah smiled. “You wanted
to be a romance writer.”
“I know. And I love it. But it’s so
weird—I have no inspiration for this story. I feel like an artist up against a
blank canvas.” Tears stung her eyes as she whispered. “I’m afraid the canvas is
winning.”
“I have inspiration for you, Auntie
Sarah.” Matthew took a deep breath and then belted out the familiar Christmas song,
I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus.
With a titter, he puckered his lips.
“Not mommy,” Jonathan squealed as he
wiggled off Sarah’s lap. “Mommy’s married. We must sing ‘I saw Auntie Sarah kissing
Santa Claus’.” He wrinkled his nose and grinned at Sarah as his giggles joined Matthew’s
laughter.
“Oh you boys. I don’t think you’re
helping your aunt at all.” Hannah folded the ironed pillow slip and set it to
one side of the counter before pulling a pair of creased jeans from the basket.
She straightened them on the board. “How much have you managed to write?” Steam
hissed as the iron met the thick blue fabric.
“Seven words. And they stink.” Sarah
lifted the laptop lid. Extending her index finger, she pressed the power button.
The sleeping screen woke.
“What? Only seven? You’re kidding.” Hannah’s
eyes widened before a frown formed on her forehead.
“I wish I was.”
“But you’ve been tapping away on that
keyboard for days.”
“And I keep erasing everything. Like
now.” Sarah hit the backspace key several times, clearing her latest attempt. “I
can’t get started on this novel.”
“When’s your deadline?”
“End March.”
“Word count?” The iron hissed again and steam
billowed into the air above the ironing board once more.
“Seventy to eighty thousand.”
“Ouch. That’s a lot of words. Will you
get done in time?”
“I would if I could get my mind around a
solid story. I really need some inspiration. What do I know of snow? Or Santa Claus
for that matter? It’s been years since I’ve had anything to do with either.”
“You do know that Christmas is about far
more than snow and an old man in a red suit that lives in the North Pole.”
“Lapland, Mom. Santa lives in Lapland,
not the North Pole. I saw it on a TV program last week.”
“Of course, Matthew.” Hannah slipped the
pressed jeans onto a hanger which she hooked onto the clothes stand—last year’s
Christmas gift from Grant.
So unromantic.
She’d
certainly give Hannah’s husband a few pointers this year.
Pulling the next pair of jeans from the
mound of clean laundry, Hannah leaned against the kitchen counter. “Lapland
aside, you know what Christmas is really about, Sarah.”
Jonathan shot his hands in the air. “Jesus.
Christmas is about Jesus. It’s his birthday.” Singing at the top of his voice,
he danced around in circles. “Happy birthday, Jesus. Happy birthday, Jesus
.
”
“Another aspect of Christmas you’ve had
little to do with in years.” Hannah raised one eyebrow in her typical big
sister way.
Sarah drew in a breath and silently
counted to ten.
“You should so go to Lapland, Auntie
Sarah.” Matthew grinned as if he’d found the solution to all her writing
problems.
Ceasing his dance, Jonathan came and
stood beside Sarah, taking her hand in his. “No, you should go to Bethmel… Bethelme…”
He looked across the room at his mother.
“Bethlehem, silly,” Matthew prompted
before Hannah could.
“I’m not silleeeee.” Jonathan dragged
out the word for as long as he had breath. He’d turn blue and pass out if he
didn’t breathe soon.
My word, I don’t know if I’d ever be
able to do this mothering thing. It’s just as well that—
“Matthew, stop frustrating your brother,
or you’ll go to your room.”
“I don’t have a room. Auntie Sarah’s in
it. Remember?”
“Then you’ll go to your brother’s room.”
Hannah shook out the jeans and began to give them the same hot treatment as
their predecessor. “You should go to church.” She kept her eyes on the jeans.
Not this again.
Sarah drew in a sharp breath. “Hannah,
please, don’t preach.”
“Not all men are like Andrew Palmer, you
know.”
“No, they’re not. Maybe only preachers’
sons?”
With a huff, Hannah stood the iron
upright. It sputtered, trying to expel steam in its vertical position. Hands on
hips, her eyes bore into Sarah’s. “You can’t keep running, trying to find love
only in the words you write.”
“At least that love is pure. And safe.”
Sarah’s eyes stung again. She swallowed hard. She’d shed enough tears over the
pastor’s son.
Pinching her eyelids with her fingers, she
blotted out the light, trapping the tears.
“Boys, run along and get dressed.”
“Aw, Mom...” Jonathan’s little hands
wrapped around Sarah’s waist a moment later, offering her a tiny hug, before
his feet hurried across the kitchen floor with Matthew’s.
“Lapland, Auntie Sarah,” Matthew shouted
before his feet pounded down the passage, too.
Jonathan’s voice grew softer as he
followed his brother’s path. “Bethme— Bethlehem.”
Hannah strolled over to Sarah, her hands
coming to rest on Sarah’s shoulders. “You need to forgive Andrew so you can
move on, love again. It’s been nearly four years. That’s a long time.”
“I know exactly how long it’s been, down
to the very minute.” Sarah squirmed out of her chair. Hannah’s hands fell away as
she did.
Snatching up her laptop, Sarah hurried across
the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. The memory of it all made her nauseous. Her
world swirled, and she grabbed the doorjamb. “Forgive? How long should it take
to forgive, Hannah, especially when there’s a congregation of faces on that ‘To
Do’ list?”
“Not everyone believed Andrew’s story.
You know that.”
“No, not everyone. But most did.” Heat
rushed through her. “What was it they whispered behind my back? Oh yes, ‘Probably
doing research for those books of hers. Such a shame, tempting sweet, innocent
Andrew that way.’” Sarah swiped a disobedient tear from her cheek. “Sound about
right, sis? If they’d bothered to read any of my work they would’ve known there
was no way I’d need
that
kind of research.”
“Sarah, people are just…people. Fallen.
Fallible. Desperately in need of forgiveness.” Hannah took a step toward Sarah
then stopped. “And Andrew did try to do right by you.”
“Oh yes.” Sarah brushed her hand across
her stomach, immediately wishing she hadn’t. “Until he no longer had to.”
“I’m sorry you’ve suffered so much, but
don’t block God out because of man’s mistakes. He loves you. And He’d go to the
ends of the earth to prove it to you.”
Hannah spoke the truth, but Sarah didn’t
want to hear it. Not now. Maybe never.
“Heaven to earth’s a pretty long way—a
whole lot of love, Sarah. That’s what Christmas is really all about. Not Santa.
Not snow. And certainly not Lapland. Focus your Christmas romance on the
Bethlehem babe rather.”
There was no way Sarah could stop the sneer
twisting her lips. “What? And risk my publisher rejecting my manuscript after
all the hard work I’ll put into it? Besides, God and I don’t speak the same
language. Haven’t since—”
