The Christmas Gift

  Izzy James

  Copyright © 2021 by Elizabeth C. Hull

  Copyright © 2015

  Book Design by Elizabeth C. Hull

  Cover Design by Kim Killion of the Killion Group

  Edited by Laurie McIntosh

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Created with Vellum

  Mom,

  * * *

  This one is for you.

  I love you,

  * * *

  ~Izaberry

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Other Books by Izzy James

  Excerpt

  Prologue

  “Attention all passengers on Diamond Airlines Flight 3924 to Richmond departing from Gate C15. Our plane is inbound, and as soon as it has landed and we have deplaned, cleaned and serviced it, we will begin boarding. We expect a thirty-five minute delay.”

  Jack Callahan stretched the kinks out of his back, let out a deep sigh, picked up his backpack, and stood up. He’d been still for too long. Sitting in libraries, standing in museums. His very cells were tired of the inactivity. He was sure he had most of the information he needed for his next book and he knew where to look for answers as the inevitable detail questions came up. His mind was full. It was time to percolate. As soon as he got home, he would head out down the trails and start writing. When he was done, he would do a little painting.

  He sat back down in the pleather chair once again waiting as the sun began to set. It’s rose-gold light shot through the window and kissed the hair of the woman sitting opposite him. Her hair was the color of wheat. He could capture it with a blend of raw umber and white maybe, but the rose color and the metallic way it reflected, that would be harder. He stared knowing that the sun was moving fast through its setting. He would have only seconds to capture that particular look. He felt for his phone.

  He shifted his gaze down to her face.

  “Take a picture. It will last longer.”

  Before she could protest, he snapped the picture and said what he had never said to anyone. “I’m sorry. I’m a painter, and I was captured by the light as it touched your hair.”

  “Right.” Her eyebrows shot up, lips thinned to a frown, eyes darted to the side. She turned ninety degrees to the right to dismiss him, which gave him a further view of her wheat colored hair in the sunlight. It was probably creepy, but he snapped another photo.

  Thirty minutes later, he was in his window seat on the plane looking out at the tarmac fading in the dusk.

  “I hope you’ve turned your phone off for takeoff.” He snapped around at the sound of her voice. There she was checking her seat number with the label of the seat next to him.

  “Would you care to inspect it?” He offered up his phone.

  “No, that’s quite all right.” She plopped down in her seat and tucked her purse into the space beside her. Her book, The Secret of Gabriel by Jack Murphy, sat unopened in her hands.

  “What kind of things do you paint?”

  He told her of the woods around his house and the trails that latticed through them. As he told her about the small animals that inhabited his land, her hazel eyes widened in interest and shifted in color from squirrel brown to gray. When she asked him questions, a slight smile formed on her lips, and the smooth and creamy crepe-like surface of her face crinkled with the memories of her life. He couldn’t remember a more beautiful face.

  No, beautiful wasn’t the word. Comely, no. Fetching, no. Alluring, close. Exquisite.

  That was it.

  She was exquisite.

  “So no people then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I asked you what you painted, and you told me about your woods and animals. Do you do portraits of the people you randomly snap in airports?”

  “The picture.”

  “Right.”

  “No, I don’t paint people. But I am often looking at light. I really was caught by the incredible way the light was interacting with the color of your hair.” He had to hold his hand back from reaching out to experience the silky, fine texture.

  “I can understand that.” She dismissed him with a little smile and turned her eyes down to her book. His seat got a little cooler.

  It was a statement of fact, yet he could feel her disappointment. Had she been flattered? She wouldn’t be if he’d actually painted her. He hadn’t told her, his true artistic medium wasn’t paint. It was words. He loved words, and picking just the right word could take him hours. He was the best selling author whose book she held in her hands. He turned toward the window. What would she have done if she’d recognized him?

  Chapter 1

  One Year Later

  “ Jack Callahan is a pig.”

  Erica Thomas plopped down in the chair opposite her best friend and business partner Ann Berry. And Ann Berry, her very best friend since high school, sat there and said with a straight face and a twinkle in her eye, “He’s a real good looking pig.”

  Erica rolled her eyes. “Come on, really?”

  “Yes. You should know. You met him in the airport, not me.”

  “Why do I always feel like I’m a school girl when I talk to you?”

  “Maybe because we were school girls together? Come on now, you have to admit that Jack Callahan is gorgeous.”

  Her anger deflated as she felt herself color at the thought of him snapping her picture. The truth was, what she remembered most about their encounter were his descriptions of his home and the paintings he made of the landscapes and animals. She didn’t think she would ever forget his clear amber eyes. Her attraction had been so strong that she had retreated back into her book. Strong enough that she still thought about him a year later.

  “Ok, he wasn’t bad to look at. But you and I both know that that is not enough. A man has to have certain qualities that make him suitable.”

  “Here we go again.” Ann let out a frustrated breath, “Erica Thomas. Love is not a statistic.”

  “No, it’s not. But I am a statistician, and numbers do not lie. Good looking is not a measurable quality, but liking women who are too young for you is. It’s an indicator of character. Bad character.” Erica stood up and went over to her own desk.

  “Ok. Ever since high school you’ve had this notion of the perfect man. He doesn’t exist. But the perfect man for you does.”

  “Apparently not. Look at me, I’m forty-five years old. I live with my mother. I’ve never had a serious relationship. I think God decided I didn’t need a man.” Ok, that wasn’t strictly true. She had been serious about Ron Brownly. Ron Brownly had not been serious about her.

  “You live with your mother because you want to, not because you need to.”

  “True, but you get my point. God just didn’t have a man for me.”

  “I don’t believe it. You just haven’t found him yet.” Ann took a sip from the tea cup on her desk. “You have to do this interview. Jack Callahan requested you. By name. He’s probably got a new book coming out. Anyway, it’s been scheduled for over a week, and it will give us that boost we need in December.”

  “I wouldn’t care if it was anyone else.” Erica let out a resigned sigh.

  “He’s your favorite author, I would’ve thought you’d be excited.”

  “That’s a loaded statement. You know I never like to meet new people. And he’s a famous stranger. And any pleasure I would have taken in meeting him evaporated the minute I found out about his dating requirements.” Not that different from the long gone Ron. She’d been dazzled by him. Since then she’d not been dazzled by anyone.

  “He’s not the only man I ever heard of that likes younger women. At least we can be sure that he’s not been mooning over you for the last year…which might be a little creepy.”

  “True. But have you read his books? How can he have such an understanding of human nature and be so…” She slapped her hand on her thigh.

  “Shallow?”

  “No, it’s not shallow, it’s…I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “Well, whatever you do, don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Ann smiled displaying all the confidence that Erica wished she had.

  That was two days ago, and Erica didn’t feel any better about the interview as she left Brightwood in the freezing rain on her way to meet Jack Callahan.

  Erica had always been the quiet, serious one. In high school, Ann Berry had been a cheerleader, always
smiling, always dating. Erica had been studious. After high school, they had gone to the same college. Ann majored in journalism, Erica majored in mathematics. In their late twenties , Ann married Steve Johnson and had three children. Erica took on bigger projects, moving up in her organization.

  “Fraud. The word is fraud,” Erica Thomas said out loud to herself. She knew Ann had thought that it would be a treat for Erica to interview best selling novelist Jack Callahan, writing as Jack Murphy, author of the Friar Aldred mysteries.

  And at first, she’d been delighted about driving the fifty miles to see a real-live successful author. Not just because she liked his books, but because they needed every penny the paper could make. Interviews with a successful local author would expand their readership. Everyone would be interested in reading an article about Jack Murphy. While he wasn’t exactly a recluse, he didn’t give many interviews. Name recognition, according to Ann, was the name of the game.

  Erica’s trouble started when she looked him up online in preparation for the interview. His website had one posed photo of a bearded man wearing flannel. Wikipedia had the same photo.

  Excitement deepened to intrigued when she realized that Jack Murphy, the author, was Jack Callahan, the painter she had met in the airport a year ago. Would he remember her? Probably not. After all, it was just her hair color that had interested him. But she had not forgotten him. She had even been reading one of his books when she met him. Too bad he was a another typical male just like Ron Brownly. You think they have depth and that they are worth your time and effort only to find out that you’re just a notch on their bed posts.

  “New York Times best-selling author of mysteries featuring Friar Aldred.” She had read elsewhere, “Lives on a secluded farm in the foothills of the Appalachians in Virginia. Never married. Only dates women in their twenties.”

  Pig.

  She guessed it wasn’t really any of her business that he preferred younger women. Plenty of men did. Although at age forty-five she had to admit she didn’t find twenty-five-year-old boys in the least bit interesting. Not at all. They were too busy playing video games and eating pizza, or, worse yet, stressing over the fat content of their food.

  What did those girls see in a man old enough to be their father?

  He was good looking. True. When she met him, he had a rugged, outdoorsy look. At the airport, he had been clean-shaven, and had on a blue flannel shirt and a worn brown sack-jacket. Now he had a beard. She had recognized him by his clear, amber-brown eyes.

  He had told her he was a painter. Had he lied to maintain his privacy? At the time, she had believed him, but her career had taught her time and again that instincts could be wrong. Not enough data.

  Word was, he was hard to interview and kept to a strict script.

  Why the young women?

  Why did she care? Was she jealous?

  Yes.

  Jealous of what? He was successful. Well, so was she. Not in the newspaper business yet, but she was a top-notch statistician.

  She was happily unmarried. And she didn’t want to be married. God had not sent her a man, and she was content as she was. She had no need of companionship with a person who was bound to wish she was someone or something she couldn’t be. She was forty-five-years old. She did her hair the way she liked, wore what she wanted to wear, and lived as she pleased. And it was Christmas time, her favorite time of year. The songs, the lights, the promise of redemption, she loved it all. Regretted nothing. She was happy, despite the nervous thrill in her mid-section that bubbled to life every time she thought of Jack Callahan over the past year.

  Unable to reconcile her inexplicable attraction to him while still comparing him to certain barnyard quadrupeds, she tried to focus on what she had to ask him. Ann had given her a list of questions. They were typical and boring.

  Where do your ideas come from?

  How do you deal with writer’s block?

  What does your typical day look like?

  Erica was more interested in the soul of the man who gave Friar Aldred the understanding of the shadows associated with even the most mundane of human behaviors.

  What fascinates you about light?

  How could the man who gave Friar Aldred his insights only date women in their twenties?

  Erica sat up straight and adjusted her black power-suit. The freezing rain had turned to snow, which was melting on contact with the road. She was glad she had thrown her big winter coat, a change of clothes, snow boots, and knitting bag in the back just in case the weather worsened. Preparedness was something she’d learned from so many years on her own. The knitting bag, she had to admit, was just eccentric. Erica hated to be bored. Anywhere she went, she always had two things with her: books and her knitting. Whether she needed them or not, they made her comfortable.

  Snow in her part of Virginia was always an uncertainty. This time the weatherman was calling for fifteen inches to fall overnight, but she didn’t believe it. There weren’t any statistics to back it up that she knew of, but in this part of the state, they only got a good snow every five years or so. That happened last year, so while it wasn’t looking very good right now, she expected it would turn right back to rain before her interview was over. A quick glance a the clock confirmed she was right on time as she made the turn down the gravel driveway to Jack Callahan’s.

  Chapter 2

  The long gravel driveway was wooded on both sides. Snow was gathering on the trees. The drone of windshield wipers and beating rain quieted with the soft fall of snow. Thanking God for four-wheel drive, she pulled out of the woods into a large clearing. In the middle sat an enormous two-storied log cabin. On the side, set a good bit way from the house, was a large wood pile.

  A man reached down, picked up a log, and placed it on a large wooden stump, raised an ax above his head, and brought it down in a controlled swing. Erica could almost feel the muscles of his shoulders and back flex as he cut through the log in one blow. Leaning on the ax, he reached down, picked up the pieces, and placed them on a the large pile. He turned to face the driveway and began to walk toward her.

  This was a man.

  Her mouth went dry.

  She got out of the truck just in time for his arrival.

  “Hello,” he smiled.

  Now I know what they see in him, she thought.

  “Erica Thomas.” She stuck out her hand. He stepped closer, grasping it. His smile warmed his face but did not soften his sharp amber-brown eyes. He was wary.

  The interior of the cabin was still.

  It glowed honey-gold and peace. Its warmth contrasted with the view of the cold, gray day framed in floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides of the large rectangular room. The first floor was wide open with a spiral staircase leading up to a second-story loft. In front of the staircase was a massive Christmas tree decorated with large, old-fashioned, multi-colored lights. Erica couldn’t help the smile she felt. She loved multi-colored lights. A couple of wrapped packages already waited under the tree.

  On her left, the main floor contained a kitchen area set off by a half-wall in one corner. Diagonally across from it, sitting between two large windows was a desk flanked by two tall bookcases. To her right, on the far wall, was a large stone fireplace with a banked fire.

  Jack hung her coat on a peg near the door.

  “Have a seat.” He waved to a long trestle table that was dark and scarred with age. A bench ran along the side she was facing, and chairs were on the opposite side. It looked like a table for a large family.

  Erica couldn’t take her eyes off of him as he moved through the room toward the fireplace to place a log on the embers. The way he moved jarred her with its controlled smoothness. It reminded her of a powerful, well-oiled machine. He could probably pick her up and carry her wherever he had a mind to. She pushed away the image that thought brought to mind.