Guest Writers
Show us your stuff!
Do you have a short story or poem that you’d like to share? Simply submit it typed in the body of your email at info@markhamvillagewriters.com.
***
Dream
By Katie Spittle
In our state of blackness
We bask in the belief
Of becoming butterflies.
In our flights of fancy
We yearn for freedom
From these foreign folds.
Alas we finally emerge
And our souls escape
Above this earthly empire.
To return at dawn
With fairy dust
And words of delightful divinations.
Katie Spittle began composing poetry and creative writing while pursuing a degree in Geography at Simon Fraser University. From a family of storytellers, she grew up listening to multicultural stories and frontier tales.
***
Castle of Love
By Anna Dynowski
He stood, leaning comfortably on the doorjamb, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of frayed jeans, hip cocked. Like he owned the place, Kate Koperski thought, looking around her with charmed interest. Which, of course, he did, she had to admit.
Thirty-two-year-old Stefano D’Amore, Prince Stefano D’Amore, owned this stately eighteenth-century Victorian mansion situated along the Niagara River Parkway, a few minutes from the historic town of Niagara-on-the-Lake. A secluded country inn nestled in its own nineteen acre working vineyard—she’d done her homework by surfing the net—Castello D’Amore—Castle of Love—radiated classical elegance and a gracious old-world appeal and offered its guests a breathtaking view of the Niagara River to enjoy in peace and relaxation.
There was, however, nothing peaceful or relaxed about the sea-blue eyes staring down the unswerving Roman nose at her or the traditional Italian mouth forming a straight line of displeasure.
He knew. Somehow, he knew. Or at least, a sixth sense made him suspect her identity. And he was none too happy she’d tracked him down. Well, she wasn’t either, but she’d come to say her piece and as soon as she did, she’d get out of his hair. Which, she just happened to notice, was chocolate-brown with a dash of curls and a sprinkle of grays. She itched to brush back that unruly lock falling across his forehead where a frown scored a deep line between his brows, but she tightened her fingers on her purse strap instead.
Drawing in a fortifying gulp of air, she pulled back her shoulders and ignoring the sudden thudding of a pulse in her throat, she met his gaze head-on. Through a dry mouth, she pushed out the words, “Good afternoon, Prince Stefano,” and was instantly rewarded by the narrowing of those sea-blue eyes. Her courage mounting, she relaxed the fingers clamped around the purse strap and flashed him a mocking smile. “I’m Kate Koperski.” His eyes darkened briefly, then turned unreadable. “You might remember me, Stefano?” A heartbeat of a pause, then added, “Your fiancée.”
His face schooled into a mask of composure, Stefano inclined his head, an action that managed to look regal in spite of the jeans, black t-shirt, and bared feet. Silent, he straightened to his full, six-foot-two-inch height, towering over her five-foot-four-inch frame, and with a sweeping gesture of an arm bronzed golden by the sun, he said, in a low, caressing voice, “Welcome to Castello d’Amore.”
Kate dropped an arrogant curtsy before flouncing past him into what had to be the finest of houses in the Niagara region. And caught her breath.
The foyer, a Victorian elegance with quality antiques and artifacts, stone fireplaces and graceful settees, reflected Stefano’s commitment to the finer things in life. Adding to the unequalled ambiance were two sprawling staircases, one on either end of the foyer, each overseen by imposing chandeliers, rising majestically to the upper floors.
But it was the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor, drapeless window overlooking the lush vineyard surrounding the home that drew her attention, compelled her to walk toward it. Row after row, for as far as she could see, ran the trellised vines of Chardonnay and Merlot. In their earthy setting, they complimented the opulence of the inn with a quiet, casual atmosphere that soothed, relaxed. Emptied her mind of all thoughts and cares. She jumped when warm fingers wrapped around her elbow. Her gaze flew to Stefano’s face. His eyes gentled, his lips relaxed slightly, interestingly, into a smile. A smile that hinted at romance and love and passion.
The classic Italian smile demanded a classic reaction from her. With her heart pounding, she tried to brush aside what she saw in his eyes. What she imagined she saw in his eyes. It made her weak-kneed, light-headed, and hot-blooded all at once, chasing any semblance of rational thought clear out of her mind, stalling her voice somewhere in her throat. She shook her head once, twice. Closing her eyes briefly, she drew in a steadying breath and desperately searched for her AWOL voice. With no success.
“Come.” Stefano led her through the glass door. “There’s no better way to enjoy the countryside than from our patio, rimmed by our pristine vineyard, sipping an estate-bottled vintage.”
“If you don’t mind, Stefano,” she said, slipping into the chair he pulled out for her, “I would prefer a tall glass of ice-cold water instead. No offense.” How polite she was, she thought, as the tension began to spread from her neck to her shoulders. She needed all her wits about her for the forthcoming conversation. She needed an agile mind and quick reaction ability. She couldn’t afford to have her senses dulled by an elegant and unique-tasting wine—even one that had won numerous international awards, as her research had revealed. And once again, her heart pounded against the wall of her chest, only this time, not in response to Stefano’s thousand-watt smile, but out of pride for his accomplishments. He hadn’t sailed on the coattails of his name or pedigree.
“None taken.” He gave a quick, completely open smile and stretched out of his chair to open the little cooler of bottled water. Handing her a bottle, he tapped his to hers before reclaiming his chair and lifting the bottle to his mouth.
That lazy smile on his face as he’d taken a long pull from the bottle of water sent shivers scud-missiling straight to her brain, which instead of being alert, attentive, awake, suffered a super-fast meltdown. In this chaotic state, she began to wonder if, maybe, she ought to rethink the carefully rehearsed speech she intended on delivering. The thought, the ludicrous, absolutely absurd thought called for her to take a long drink of water, buying some time so she could peel her heart out of her throat and plant it back into her chest and reaffirm—to herself!—a relationship with the Prince was illogical. Impractical. Downright impossible. They didn’t love each other. They didn’t even know each other.
She came here today for the sole purpose of freeing Prince Stefano d’Amore from a ridiculous, old- fashioned, archaic, hand-shaking pledge their fathers, best of friends since childhood, had sworn to twenty-five years ago, when she was first born, and the Prince, a young boy of seven.
A pledge that sent the Prince, not of royalty but of nobility, into a self-imposed exile, away from Toronto, away from his family, away from his intended, ten years ago, before she could reach the ripe age for marrying. Well before, she thought, a reluctant smile tugging on her lips, and left no forwarding address. Just to be on the safe side.
“What, Miss Koperski, do you find so amusing?”
He reclined in the chair in a very un-prince-like slouch, his hands clasped loosely at his waist, his mouth softened into a little smile, but his eyes, his sea-blue eyes, were sharp, alert and… hypnotic. Every bit hypnotic as she remembered. There was nothing wrong with her memory, but her lips? They seemed to have frozen in place.
Clearing her throat, she forced her mouth to loosen up into a smile. “My, aren’t we formal. Miss Koperski? The name’s Kate.”
“What, Kate, do you find so amusing?”
“You.”
A regal brow winged up.
In a dry voice, she answered the unspoken question. “I never would have taken you, Prince Stefano, for the type to shoot up to the ceiling and cling there, shivering, like the cat in the old cartoons.” She spilled a bit of the water over the side of the bottle and blotted the drops with a finger. As she watched the calm expression on his face settle into cold stone, a thread of fear snaked through her bravado to tighten her throat. One thing you don’t do, Kate, is insult a prince. And especially not on his property.
…
Stefano’s fingers tightened on the bottle, but he caught himself just in time, before the water was pushed up over the mouth to flow down the sides and pool in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he straightened in his chair and set the bottle carefully on the table. “Care to elaborate, Miss Koperski?” he asked, his voice, low, calm and quiet.
Kate sucked in a breath, winced, flushed. She glanced around, as if making sure no one was within earshot, set her bottle on the table beside his and inhaling and exhaling deeply, she leaned forward.
Regret, grief, need coming into her eyes, darkening them to a deep coffee, she said on a rush of air, “I’m sorry, Stefano. I didn’t come here to insult you. Honest,” she added, reaching for his hands and squeezed.
He raised his brows at the breach of protocol but couldn’t prevent the slow smile relaxing his rigid lips when, realizing she’d touched him inappropriately, Kate yanked back her hands, as if scorched and muttered, “Sorry.”
“Kate,” he said, then let her name hang on the air a moment. “Why did you come?” He reached for his bottle of water, not because he was thirsty, but to keep his fingers occupied lest they follow through on the urge to thread through her honey-blond hair.
Deliberately, defiantly, she squared her shoulders and snapped her chin up. “To release you,” she replied, her eyes flashing.
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“To. Release. You,” she repeated, spacing each word out, slow and clear, then crossed her arms at her chest.
“Release me from what?” Stefano frowned, drumming his fingers on the thighs of his jeans, trying to concentrate on the words coming out of her mouth and not on kissing her lips.
“Stefano.” Kate threw her hands up in frustration. “Your father, my father agreed to this stupid arrangement.” She made a cute little sound, a cross between a laugh and a groan.
And Stefano had to suppress the sudden need to step up to her, to skim his lips over her face, to glide his hands up and down her arms, to anchor her to his side, where she could be nearest his heart.
“Arrangement.” He lifted the bottle to his mouth, took a pull, slowly, thoughtfully. “You are referring to… our… um… nuptials?”
“You know I am.” She rocked to her feet and gathered her arms around her middle, as if warding off a chill.
Or worse, Stefano thought grimly, like an unwanted suitor, perhaps?
“I just want you to know, Stefano”—she dragged in a deep breath—“I am not holding you to their silly decision. I don’t want you feeling honor-bound to marry me.”
He checked his impulse to command her to sit and gestured, in an informal way, he hoped, to her chair. If she hadn’t sat down as she did, he would have had no choice but to step up to her, glide his hands along her arms, and…
He took another long drink, braced himself. “So…you came to set me free from my obligation—”
“You don’t have any obligation toward me.” Distressed now, she waved her hands in the air. “This… this arrangement should never have happened. It was two old men wanting to see their children settled before they die. They never thought about you and what you want. They ended up driving you away with their crazy ideas.” It was more than distress now, and closer to shame. “I’m sorry you felt forced to flee Toronto.” She dropped her vision to her hands locked in a death-grip on her lap.
“The thing is…”
When the silence dragged on, Kate glanced up from her hands, then quickly lowered her gaze again.
“What… what’s the thing?”
“The thing is”—Stefano set the empty bottle down and leaned over the table—“I never left because I didn’t want to fulfill my… obligation toward you. I left for two reasons.” He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face up. “One, I wanted to make something of myself without my family name and connections opening doors for me.” His eyes panned the rows of vines shimmering in the afternoon sun. “I believe I’ve succeeded in that area.” He couldn’t stop the pride from edging his voice.
“Oh, you have, Stefano. You have,” Kate enthused. “With your endless, tireless hard work, not only have your wines won gold medals for their elegant taste, but your Castello has earned widespread respect. And not just for using only prime Ontario grapes and Canadian oak barrels, but for supporting your Niagara neighbors and their family-run operations.”
She came up for a quick breath of air. “There’s testimony after testimony about how your tasting room and small café allow your visitors a greater degree of relaxation. And your gift shop is renowned for its unique, eclectic wine and food gifts. And—” Another swift intake of air. “Your vinegars, made solely from Niagara grapes, are to die for, with their wonderful balance of clean, crisp tastes and just the right touch of sweetness. And then, there’s your dressings, dips, glazes, drizzles, jellies. And the Castello Harvest Camp, with guests picking grapes, getting a behind the scenes tour, and enjoying the five course menu designed and prepared by your celebrity chef. What? What?” she repeated.
Stefano stood in awed silence, looking down on her face alive with passion. Her eyes gleamed with pride. On her lips, danced a smile of excitement. And her hands wigwagged through the air with gay abandonment. When he found his voice, he breathed softly, “How d’you know so much about my vineyard?”
Color bloomed in her cheeks and with a laugh and a shrug, Kate admitted, “I googled you.”
“Kate.” He reached down and wrapped her hand in his. “I said there were two reasons I left.”
She nodded encouragement.
“My second reason was to protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“I didn’t want you feeling pressured because of our rather spirited”—he said the word with a wry smile—“parents into marrying me. Or my lineage. We’re a package deal. With pressures and stresses, duties and responsibilities,” he said softly, bringing her hand deliberately to his lips for a kiss.
“I wanted you to discover your own identity, determine for yourself your own destiny. Choose your own husband,” he said huskily. He was close enough to hear her hiss of breath and his smile deepened.
“I wanted the decision to get involved with me to be your decision. And yours alone. However, now that you’re older and old enough to make your own decision, I am not above using whatever tactics I have at my disposal to influence you to marry me.” Her eyes widened in disbelief and he chuckled.
“I love you, Kate,” he told her and reached his hand to her face, grazing her chin as she shook her head in negation of his declaration. “Yes, I have,” he whispered against her lips, “for a long time.”
Her hand flew to his wrist when he framed her face. “But… you never said… never hinted. You weren’t around—”
His fingers crept into her hair, tangled there. “I was around. Always around.” He studied her waterfall of honey-blond hair, combing his fingers from the crown to the tips of her long mane, enjoying the silky feel against the pads of his fingers. “I was there to see you walk down the aisle in the Skyline Hotel’s glittering ballroom. In your royal blue gown. At your grade thirteen graduation.”
His hands glided to her elbows and pulled her to standing, then skimmed around to her back, and with the lightest of touches, pressed her against him.
She released his wrist to stroke her fingers through his hair. “Were you there when I graduated from U of T?”
“Yes,” he breathed against her mouth, touching the corner of it with his lips, and smiled when he heard her slow sigh of relief. “Tell me, Kate, do you see yourself clear to taking a chance with me? To love me? To grow old with me?”
“I’ve been in love with you, Stefano, for as long as I can remember. The only thing I don’t understand…” Her brow puckered into a frown as she rested her arms lightly on his.
“What?” He lowered his head to nuzzle her neck. “What don’t you understand?” He trailed soft kisses along her jaw to her cheek. With a final kiss on the tip of her nose, he straightened and pulling back, kept her within the circle of his arms.
“How could our fathers have known? Been”—she shook her head—“so right?”
Her awed expression drew a laugh from him. “Well, that just may be one of those mysteries of life.
He dropped a kiss on her head. “So… you haven’t answered me.” At the quirk of her brow, he added, “Will you marry me?”
“And have a fairytale life?”
Stefano wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know how fairytale-ish it’ll be working the vineyard, but I do promise my princess an exciting reign.” He wiggled his brows meaningfully.
On a giggle, she said, “Then, I’d be delighted to marry you, Prince Stefano, and co-reign with you in this magnificent realm.”
“Kate, Princess of Castello d’Amore,” he began in a solemn voice, “let us seal our rule over our dominion.”
The taste of the kiss was so potent, so powerful, the flavor of it streamed through his whole mind, heart and soul, leaving him breathless. And speechless.
On a low laugh, Kate tucked her hand through his arm and said, “Well, Your Highness, shall we survey our kingdom, now?”
Anna Dynowski, author of seven inspirational romance novels, makes her home in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, Henry, and Misha, the calico cat. Her own “romance novel” began with the meeting of her “hero” through the personal ads, became engaged to him six weeks after that and married him three months later. And that was twenty-five years ago. Being an incurable romantic, she writes what’s in her heart: love; and what’s in her soul: faith in God. Currently, she is working on Book 3 of the Harmony Village series, featuring the rural community’s indomitable matchmaker, Cupid Cat, who isn’t afraid to bare his fangs to secure happily-ever-after. Anna invites you to contact her at annadynowski@yahoo.ca and visit her website, www.annadynowski.com.
***
Hockey Played Under the Lights
By Bruce Barnett
Some fifty to sixty years ago, my Toronto consisted of an area bounded by approximately six blocks. This was my universe and the centre of my universe was the playground of Jesse Ketchum School.
It was a magical place where the rampant imagination of youth enabled one to be whatever one wanted to be. There were no written rules or limits, nor any adults to provide unwanted guidance or instructions. That is not to say there were no rules. For every game played, be it one of the better known sports such as hockey or baseball, or lesser known ones such as ledgers (played with a lacrosse ball against the school wall) or British Bulldog, there were always rules. These rules could change daily and even minute by minute depending on who was playing — but there were rules. Generally these rules were initiated and enforced by the toughest of the players.
Taking up a large area of the beloved playground were two brick structures. One was a massive school building resembling a jail and to many of us attending on a hot June day, it was. The other was a much smaller structure known as the “clubhouse”. The clubhouse housed staff and equipment to maintain the playground, but more importantly, it had a small heated area where you could change into your hockey skates on a cold winter’s day. We loved the clubhouse.
Although we thoroughly enjoyed playing all the sports and games that were available in our magical universe, nothing compared to hockey. Hockey for us started sometime in late November, kicked off with the anticipation of playing hockey. The commencement of our anticipation was marked by the date the School Board delivered the boards and posts to construct two hockey cushions (as they were known then).
These posts and boards would lie in the playground for weeks before workmen arrived to form them into hockey cushions. In the meantime, these materials were used by industrious groups of boys to construct forts in the playground during school recess. Teachers generally ignored the construction of the forts. There were of course many injuries suffered by the neophyte constructors during the construction of the forts, but that was before anyone gave much thought to health and safety.
The day finally arrived when the workmen came to construct the hockey cushions. The anticipation and glee felt by us was indescribable and caused us long sleepless nights. It was an agonizing period for us. Once the cushions were constructed, we then had to wait for freezing temperatures so nature could make ice. Finally, the day came when the thermometer hit the magic mark and the “Parky” and his staff began flooding the cushions and the adjoining large ice rink used for pleasure skating. The few days and nights of anticipation waiting for enough ice base to be built for skating were unbearable, but the day soon arrived.
On that eventful day we rushed to the clubhouse with hockey stick in hand and skates slung over shoulder to remove our turned-down rubber boots and don our skates. The wiser of us would carry our rubber boots from the clubhouse to the hockey cushions because there were some of us with a warped sense of humour who thought it quite funny to pee in vacant rubber boots left behind in the clubhouse.
We made our way across the field from the clubhouse to the perimeter of the skating rink which had to be traversed to get to the hockey cushions, and hit the gleaming winter ice at full gallop carrying our rubber boots and hockey sticks. Oh what great pleasure it was taking long enjoyable strides and gliding on that frozen mirror. While making our way across this span of ice, we were met by the loud voices of girls informing us that “you’re not allowed to have hockey sticks on the pleasure rink,” which we ignored.
Before jumping over the boards to enter the chosen cushion, we deposited our boots in the corner of the boards and — finally — we were on the ice and ready to play hockey.
Before the game started, there was the usual ritual of picking of sides. Talent wasn’t the main criteria of team selection. Friendship was. The two selectors chose their friends one by one to play on their sides and strange as it may seem, the selected teams were always fairly even in skills.
After teams were selected, the ‘committee of the day’ announced the rules. They were generally always the same: No raisers (since the goalie had no pads or gloves), no goal-sucking, change ends every three goals so that both teams could get the benefit of the wind, and so on. There weren’t any referees or adults, and team numbers could range anywhere from three to ten. Games could last for hours, commencing right after school until eight-thirty at night, but generally, there was an after-school game and a night game because to please the mothers, kids had to go home for supper.
The night games were the ones that remain embedded in the pleasure side of my personal thoughts. Inside the area of those old two-by- ten boards was a place remembered fondly by everyone fortunate enough to have taken part. Players, wearing every kind of winter clothing imaginable, including breeks, lined jeans, earmuffs, toques, scarves, mitts and gloves, flew around the ice in pursuit of the puck. When gaining possession, a player would make a beeline for the opponent’s net. Sometimes the player would pass the puck but that was infrequent. The only interruption to the games was when the snow from the sky or that made from skates on the ice, or both, became thick enough to impede the handling of the puck. Players from both sides would then take turns using available shovels to clear the snow from the ice and the game would then resume.
The game was played under a starlit winter night bathed in the glow of large, elevated incandescent light fixtures installed around the outer perimeter of the boards. One can easily remember the sounds of the sticks on the ice, the puck on the boards and the players cursing and cheering, sometimes all at the same time. Just when the game reached its ultimate pleasure with the very competitive players playing at their highest skill level and skating all out in that incandescent wonderland, everything went black.
Parky had turned the lights out for the evening.
Unwilling to give in to the night, no one left the ice right away. There followed a short period of time when teams tried to play on but soon realized it was futile and surrendered to the night’s cruel darkness. Then there was the process of removing frozen feet from skates to insert them in equally frozen boots, and the happy warriors hobbled home.
It was a glorious time.
Bruce Barnett has been a resident of Markham for the past ten years. He joined the navy in 1959 for a five-year term. He was later employed in many civilian positions, in many fields, retiring from the Toronto Public Library in 2007 as the Senior Manger of Facilities responsible for managing all construction and building operations. Bruce is a married father of two children and grandfather of four. Writing is a personal hobby that began in retirement. His essay, “Retirement Guilt,” was published in the Globe and Mail’s Life section.
***
Christmas Angel in Disguise
By Anna Dynowski
Rebecca St. James had no idea her world could change so dramatically, so irrevocably, in such a short period of time. One minute, she was mistress of her destiny, owner and president of her own business in Toronto—Reba Creations—selling expensive clothes to a rich clientele and making more money than she’d ever thought possible. The next minute—
She sighed, a cold vapor of air streaming out in front of her. Why, Lord?
She huddled in her mink coat, drawing the furry collar snug around her neck, and stumbled her way over the snow-covered sidewalk in her four-inch, slender-heeled leather boots.
While the Town’s snowplows threw up three-foot walls of snow along the curbs, the merchants, having invested in shovels and snowblowers, valiantly attempted to keep the pavements in front of their establishments clear. But the unwilling-to-melt snow continued to bombard, bringing Niagara-on-the-Lake, Canada’s prettiest town, under a fierce siege—not from the soldiers’ muskets and bloody battles of the War of 1812, nor from the shooting cameras of the hordes of friendly tourists descending on the Niagara Region every summer. But a siege nevertheless.
Why, Lord, Rebecca asked again, in silence. Why did You let this happen to me?
She released the chokehold her frozen fingers had on the coat collar, and in despondence, jammed gloveless hands into warm pockets. With a feeling of melancholy, she staggered along, with no particular destination in mind. Reaching Queen Street, she found it swarming with happy, laughing people, paying no heed to the plummeting temperatures, dodging in and out of stores, spying out the perfect gift for that special someone. It was, after all, one week till Christmas.
Stifling a sob, Rebecca wobbled past the gay shoppers, wanting to escape the festive scene. But images of cheerfulness met her watery gaze everywhere she looked. Bright lights adorned shop windows and tree branches. Multicolored decorations hung on the doors of grand mansions, entrances of businesses, and on lamp posts. The deafening merriment even assaulted her ears. The voices of carolers singing traditional Christmas songs harmonized with the ringing of sleigh bells, mingling with shouts of ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ It seemed everyone anticipated the forthcoming celebrations with excitement and enthusiasm. Everyone except Rebecca.
At a snail’s pace, she approached King Street. Lifting her face to the Clock Tower, she allowed her eyes to roam over her hometown’s focal point, erected as a memorial to the soldiers who lost their lives in the First World War.
She hadn’t lost her life. True. Her shoulders drooped with dejection. She’d just lost everything else that mattered. “Why, God, why?” The agonized question ripped from Rebecca’s dry lips in a tormented whisper.
The wind picked up, howling as if in displeasure at her impertinent query. It whipped at her, tossing her chin-length, blue-black hair across her face in disarray, seemingly to hide its embarrassment. Mechanically, she brushed the dancing strands from her forehead.
As she began to proceed through the intersection, a tingling started at the base of her neck and rippled down her back. Her footsteps faltered. Her eyes scanned. Compelled, she slowed to a stop in front of the Prince of Wales Hotel. Someone was watching her. She sensed it. But who? And why?
Rebecca did a slow, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, her eyes searching for anything suspicious. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone strolled about, engrossed in their Christmas shopping, unmindful of her. Yet, the prickly sensation persisted.
***
Josiah Carmichael’s muse had declared a strike. With a story burning to be told, he had ferociously battered away on his laptop for the past forty-eight hours, breaking only for the occasional five-minute power nap. But his creative mind had now reached a snag and he found himself unable to vilify the plot to increase the tension and raise the stakes for his protagonist. Giving up the struggle, Josiah decided a stroll in the arctic December weather would stimulate his brain cells and he left the hotel room that doubled as his home.
Now, leaning against the wall, a take-out coffee in hand, he breathed in the brisk air while studying passersby. It was then that his eyes captured her. She was still a ways off, but her citified clothing shone like a beacon in this town, which had retained much of its nineteenth century charm. But it wasn’t her fur coat that caught and held his interest. It was the shoulders beneath the coat. They sagged. And her feet, in those ridiculously high-heeled contraptions pretending to be boots, moved woodenly toward him. As she neared, he marked the pained expression on her countenance. Instead of glowing with Christmas joy, her gray-blue eyes seemed dull with somberness. Worry lines bracketed her mouth. A mouth he suddenly wanted to kiss. He tilted his head as he studied her.
Who was this mysterious creature—he’d not seen her about—and why did she wear solemnity like a funereal garment? Her stance shifted and their eyes collided.
His lips tilted up with what he hoped was a friendly smile. Her gaze travelled over him with slow deliberation. When it settled on his face, he saw what looked suspiciously like disdain. Glancing down at his own attire, his smile turned wry. With his knees poking through the holes in his jeans, his beloved, once-brown bomber jacket faded to a tan and his boots—well, he’d better not even go there.
What could he expect from a sophisticated-looking lady but contempt? If she only knew who he was—which judging by her non-recognition it was obvious she didn’t—she’d swoon all over him. His smile grew. With a terse, “Excuse me,” Mystery Lady brushed past him.
It took a moment for her dismissal to register. Banking the coffee cup into the nearby trashcan, Josiah stretched his mouth into a wide, self-assured grin and flicked his gaze skyward. “Never let it be said I don’t accept a challenge.”
With a few quick strides, he fell into place beside her. “I’m Josiah Carmichael.” He offered his hand in greeting.
Silence.
“I didn’t catch your name.” He let his hand drop to his side.
“That could be because I never threw it,” she replied dryly, not bothering to glance at him.
Not fully understanding his curiosity, but assuming it was ‘author inquisitiveness,’ he pressed, “Are you visiting for the holidays?” Had he seen her around, Josiah was certain he would have remembered her striking appearance.
Catching sight of himself in a shop window, he groaned. His disheveled shoulder-length hair and scruffy face which last saw a razor four days ago, he reflected, would be enough to frighten even him away. His eyelids fluttered shut. This is not going according to plans, he mused, wishing he had run a comb through his prematurely graying locks before bolting out of his room earlier. A shave wouldn’t have gone amiss either, he thought ruefully, stroking a hand over his stubbly chin. “Well?”
“Well what?” Mystery Lady picked up speed.
His long legs kept pace with ease. “Are you visiting?”
“No.”
“Have you just moved here, then?” Josiah rubbed his hands together before slipping them into his pockets. Remembering to grab his gloves was something else he should have done before leaving his room. “If you have, you’ll love it here. Niagara-on-the-Lake is a very friendly town,” he said, fingering the holes in the pockets. Odd, he didn’t recall them there before. He shrugged. Mystery Lady stopped to face him. “Look, Mr. —”
“Call me Josiah.” He smiled.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Josiah.”
“Did you know my name means ‘healed by the Lord?’”
She stared nonplussed, shook her head, then blurted, almost apologetically, almost, “I don’t mean to be rude—”
“Then don’t be.” His hand whisked out to curl around her elbow. Feeling pleased with himself, he said, “I know this cute little English pub that serves the best Steak and Kidney Pie on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Come on.”
Without taking no for an answer, he steered her back in the direction they had come.
***
As soon as Josiah opened the door to The Olde Angel Inn, mouth-watering aromas wafted out from the kitchen, teasing her, tempting her, and her stomach growled in response. Following the waitress, they skirted the bar, to a secluded alcove. After ordering a couple of coffees and the famous Steak and Kidney Pie, Rebecca settled back in her chair, looking about her with fond memories. The Inn, the oldest in the historic region, with its authentic British flavor, began to work its soothing touch on her. For the first time in months, Rebecca felt the tension coiled inside her loosen and her constant worries ease up.
“Did you know,” she informed her companion as their meal arrived, “that the Inn is reputed to have a resident ghost?”
When the waitress left, Josiah reached for her hand, and bowing his head, he prayed in a quiet voice, “Lord, thank You for this food. Bless it and our conversation. Amen.”
Releasing her hand, he reached for the pepper shaker. “Don’t leave me hanging. Tell me about this phantom.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled.
Rebecca’s tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth as shock coursed through her body. She wasn’t sure which stunned her most. This unkempt stranger praying to God? Or the energy that zinged through her veins when he covered her hand in his? She swallowed.
“Captain Swayze,” she paused to clear her throat, “was a British soldier accidentally killed during the War of 1812 in the cellars of the Inn.” Did her voice have to sound so breathless? she bemoaned. “His ghost,” she continued, making the effort to keep her voice steady, but his green eyes with those amazing gold flecks in them, locked onto her as she recounted the story, unnerved her. “His ghost is said to wander the cellars after dark. Although he rarely visits the upper floors as long as the Union Jack is kept flying over the pub door.”
“Fascinating,” Josiah spoke around a mouthful of pie. “Why did Swayze come to the Inn during the Battle?”
Rebecca reached for her cup and sipped her coffee before answering. “He may have braved capture and dodged musket balls for one final tryst with his sweetheart, Euretta, the lovely barmaid?” She flashed him a conspiratorial smile. “The Inn doesn’t take any chances. After almost two centuries, they still keep the British flag flying—just to be on the safe side.” Her smile widened. “Any guest who stays the night in one of the rooms upstairs—and lives to tell about it—receives a Certificate of Survival!”
Josiah laughed, a deep rumble in his chest. “I could see the makings of a good novel here. That is, if I ever finish my current work-in-progress,” he added wryly.
“You’re an author?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice and felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up her neck.
Josiah laughed again. “Yes. And a very successful one, I might add, with shameful conceit.” He brought the coffee cup to his mouth, and sipping, he watched her over the rim, with an intense scrutiny. Rebecca’s nerves began to hum.
“Tell me, Mystery Lady. If you’ve shared a meal with me and the story of the town’s local spectre, won’t you share your name?”
“Rebecca. Rebecca St. James.”
“Well, Rebecca St. James, how is it you know so much about the Captain? Have you had the, er, pleasure of making his acquaintance?”
“I … I used to live here. In another lifetime.” Hearing the sadness in her voice, she winced.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “And where have you been living up till now?”
An air of urgency swirled around them.
Rebecca lowered her eyes. “Toronto.”
“Tell me what troubles you, Rebecca St. James.”
Her jaw clenched. She didn’t reply until she’d mastered control of her quivering lips, which always accompanied reflection of her recent past. “I owned Reba Creations. High-class fashions for the elite.” She traced a finger over the rim of her cup. “I was rolling in the dough, as they say. Then poof.”
***
When Rebecca lifted her face, she sported a smile. The trouble was it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Josiah felt his chest tighten with unexpected emotion. He wanted to take her in his arms, to hold her tightly against him, to comfort her. He knew better. Rebecca St. James, business executive, CEO of her own company, woman extraordinaire, wouldn’t appreciate it. So he did it anyway.
Shuffling his chair to her side, he drew her in the circle of his arms and held her in silence. Sometimes, the most effective witness of God’s love is an unspoken display of sympathetic support.
For Josiah, however, it was more than this. Much more. For this captivating woman had captured his heart. He was still basking in this astonishing discovery when Rebecca began to speak again.
“The landlord of the building I was in got greedy and sold it to a developer for an undisclosed amount. Evidently, a very classy, very expensive condo is going up. He never even gave the tenants warning until the very last possible moment.” She drew out of his arms. “I didn’t have time to regroup. I tried.” She shrugged. “I tore around Toronto like a madwoman, trying to plug up all the holes.” She sighed. “There were just too many holes, it seemed.”
Josiah fingered her silky blouse. In a tender voice, he suggested, “Perhaps the Lord wanted to simplify your life.”
“He did that all right.” She concentrated her attention on some invisible spot on the table.
With a gentle finger, he lifted her chin. “Maybe He wants you to stop and smell the roses. Maybe He wants to take you away from the rat-race of Toronto and plant you here. Among friends.” With me. “Maybe He’s testing you so you’ll come forth as gold. You can start over. You can do anything.”
She remained silent, thinking.
“You know, you ought to trust me on this.” He smiled. “I am, after all, an angel.”
Rebecca laughed.
“‘Do not be forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,’” he quoted solemnly.
“You sure don’t look like one.”
“I know. The angel Gabriel despairs of me.” Josiah palmed his bristly face.
A group of carolers, dressed in nineteenth century costume, entered the Inn singing.
Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing o’er the plains,
And the mountains in reply,
Echoing their joyous strains.
Gloria
In excelsis Deo,
Gloria
In excelsis Deo.
Their gazes met and held for a moment before Rebecca and Josiah smiled at each other. She lifted a hand to caress his rough cheek. “You, Josiah Carmichael, are my Christmas angel in disguise.” When she traced his lips with a forefinger, he kissed it.
“I feel renewed. Hopeful. Affirmed. Thank you.” Her mouth brushed against his, a gentle, tentative whisper of lips to lips. She pulled away and with a sparkle in her eyes, she said, “Oops. I shouldn’t kiss an angel like that. What would Gabriel say?”
“Not much,” Josiah answered in a hoarse murmur. “I lost my wings.”
“Because of me?” Her eyes widened in feigned alarm.
“That’s right. I fell under your captivating charm and now I’ve been cast down to the earth to live a mortal life.”
“I feel just awful.” Her eyes danced with delight. “What can I do to make it up to you?”
Kissing her, he said, “Well, the way I see it, you’ll just have to marry me.”
“Mmm. I think I can handle that. You did say I can do anything.”
“Merry Christmas, wife-to-be,” he said softly.
“Merry Christmas, husband-to-be.” She punctuated the words with kisses.
Josiah put his hands on the arms of his chair and hoisted himself to his feet, drawing Rebecca with him. “Come on.”
“What’s the hurry.” Her words came out on a breathless laugh.
“I don’t want Captain Swayze falling under your spell.”
Anna Dynowski, author of seven inspirational romance novels, makes her home in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, Henry, and Misha, the calico cat. Her own “romance novel” began with the meeting of her “hero” through the personal ads, became engaged to him six weeks after that and married him three months later. And that was twenty-five years ago. Being an incurable romantic, she writes what’s in her heart: love; and what’s in her soul: faith in God. Currently, she is working on Book 3 of the Harmony Village series, featuring the rural community’s indomitable matchmaker, Cupid Cat, who isn’t afraid to bare his fangs to secure happily-ever-after. Anna invites you to contact her at annadynowski@yahoo.ca and visit her website, www.annadynowski.com.
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