That Holiday Feeling (Virgin River #8)(24)

“You…you look lovely.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Carrie teased.

“You look so much like your mother on our wedding day, it’s hard to believe. I can’t get over it….”

Mackenzie threw her a smile and hurried to join the wedding party for the procession down the aisle.

“Be happy,” Jason said, his voice suspiciously low. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

When Carrie glanced his way, she noticed a sheen of tears in his eyes.

“You’ll always be my daughter,” he murmured, fidgeting with his tie again. “I couldn’t be prouder of you than I am right this minute.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she whispered.

They stood at the back of the church and waited for their cue, which came when Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” began. Carrie took a step forward. Toward Philip. Toward love. Toward their life together.

THE PERFECT HOLIDAY

Sherryl Woods

Dear Friends,

Christmas is one of my very favorite times of the year. Any time I’m asked to write a story about this season of joy and great hope, I’m eager to do it. “The Perfect Holiday” was written a few years ago, and I’m absolutely delighted it’s going to find a whole new audience in the company of two of my favorite authors, Debbie Macomber and Robyn Carr.

For many years now I’ve spent my own holidays in Miami, which doesn’t exactly fit the image of an ideal holiday setting. Yes, for you doubters, we do have Christmas here, but it’s definitely not the white Christmas of my dreams. So where better to set a Christmas story than an inn in Vermont? Add in the workaholic owner of a toy factory who’s never really learned how to play and a single mom struggling to get back on her feet. Then stir in a bit of matchmaking by a doting aunt—from beyond the grave, no less—and you have the makings of a very romantic holiday…the perfect holiday, in fact.

I hope you’ll enjoy spending time with Savannah and Trace this holiday season, and that your own holidays will be touched by magic, as well.

Merry Christmas to all!

One

“Mom, it’s snowing,” Hannah shouted from the living room.

Savannah heard the pounding of her daughter’s footsteps on the wood floors, then the eight-year-old skidded to a stop in front of her, eyes shining.

“Can I go outside? Please?” Hannah begged. “This is so cool. I’ve never seen snow before.”

“I know,” Savannah told her, amused despite herself. “We don’t get a lot of snow in Florida.”

“Wait till my friends back home hear we’re going to have a white Christmas. It is so awesome. I am sooo glad we moved to Vermont.”

Though she could understand her daughter’s excited reaction to her first snowfall, from Savannah’s perspective the snow was anything but a blessing. Since her arrival a couple of days ago, she’d discovered that the furnace at Holiday Retreat wasn’t reliable. The wind had a nasty way of sneaking in through all sorts of unexpected cracks in the insulation, and the roof—well, the best she could say about that was that it hadn’t fallen in on their heads…yet. With the weight of a foot of damp snow on it, who knew what could happen?

It had been three weeks since the call had come from the attorney informing her that she was a beneficiary of her aunt Mae’s estate. The bittersweet news had come the day before Thanksgiving, and for the first time since her divorce the year before, Savannah had thought she finally had something for which to be thankful besides her feisty, incredible daughter. Now that she’d seen the inn, she was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t just another of Fate’s cruel jokes.

Holiday Retreat had been in the family for generations. Built in the early 1800s as a home for a wealthy ancestor, the huge, gracious house in the heart of Vermont ski country had become an inn when the family had fallen on hard times. Savannah could still remember coming here as a child and thinking it was like a Christmas fantasy, with the lights on the eaves and in the branches of the evergreens outside, a fire blazing in the living room and the aroma of banana-nut bread and cookies drifting from the kitchen. The tree, which they cut down themselves and decorated on Christmas Eve, always scraped the twelve-foot ceiling.

Aunt Mae—Savannah’s great-aunt actually—had been in her prime then. A hearty fifty-something, she came from sturdy New England stock. She had bustled through the house making everyone in the family feel welcome, fixing elaborate meals effortlessly and singing carols boisterously, if a bit tunelessly. It was the one time of the year when there were no paying guests at the inn—just aunts and uncles and cousins all gathered for holiday festivities. To an only child like Savannah, the atmosphere had seemed magical.

If the house had been in a state of disrepair then and if the furniture had been shabby, she hadn’t noticed it. Now it promised to be one of the world’s worst money pits.

“Mom, did you hear me?” Hannah said again. “I said it’s snowing.”

“I heard,” Savannah said glumly.

Hannah’s blue eyes were alight with excitement. “Isn’t it great?”

Savannah tried to work up some enthusiasm to match her daughter’s, but all she could think about was the probability that too much snow would make the sagging roof plummet down on top of their heads as they slept. Still, she forced a smile.