BLURB:
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.
Extract
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—”
What
was the use? Hannah knew all this. It wasn’t the first time she’d raised the
subject. Wouldn’t be the last, either.
Shaking
her head, Sarah turned away. She needed to be alone.
“Maybe
you should find another publisher? A Christian one,” Hannah called after her.
“Or relearn God’s language.”
“Why
don’t you tell me to stop writing, Hannah? Find another career?”
Sarah
ran to Matthew’s bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She fell onto the
colorful airplane-covered duvet and buried her face in the comforting arms of
the feather pillow, thoughts of flying away to the other side of the world
consuming her mind. And the more she thought about Lapland, the more appealing
all that snow for Christmas appeared.
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