A Merry Little Christmas (Songs of the Season) Read online

  Summerside Press™

  Minneapolis 55378

  www.summersidepress.com

  A Merry Little Christmas

  © 2012 by Anita Higman

  ISBN 978-1-60936-688-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates | www.kpadesign.com

  Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in China.

  DEDICATION

  To my beautiful daughter-in-law, Danielle.

  You add such joy to our lives!

  Always know that you are greatly loved.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Much praise goes to Susan Downs for her wise editorial input, her encouragement, and her friendship, and to Connie Troyer for her editing expertise in making this novel a better read. Also many thanks to the other fine folks at Summerside Press who help to make my life wonderful, such as Rachel Meisel and Jason Rovenstine.

  I’m indebted to my agent, Sandra Bishop, at MacGregor Literary Agency, for her solid advice and tireless support.

  Gratitude goes to my brother, Jerry Breitling, for his help in checking my farm scenes for accuracy. Also, I want to thank Andrew Bland for his valuable assistance.

  Any errors in the text are solely the fault of the author.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Martin farm, Oklahoma, 1961

  Franny’s mother always said that if humans ever landed on the moon, the first thing they’d need was music. It was the one essential that made a place inhabitable—you know, to get through all those dark and lonely—not to mention unmarried and dateless—nights.

  Franny sighed and turned up the dial on her transistor radio. Frank Sinatra’s version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” wooed its way over the airwaves like a slow kiss under the mistletoe. She swayed and sang along as she dumped the last of the slop into the troughs of her forty rambunctious hogs. Then she climbed up on the fence for a little swine soiree.

  “You know, I can’t wait to see who Dick Clark features next on American Bandstand, but now that I’m thirty-three, I guess I should be watching The Lawrence Welk Show. Right?” The hogs grunted their replies, but it wasn’t anything worth repeating. “Honestly, you guys can be such boars.” She chuckled to herself at her bad pun.

  The fact was, Franny had a soft spot for her hogs, and with each season it was getting harder to sell off her herd. She felt like Fern in Charlotte’s Web. “Well, gotta go, little loves. You’ll miss me wildly. But I have to attend to the cows and see about the eggs. Any more activities, and I’m gonna need a social secretary.”

  As the last musical ribbons of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” tied up like a bow, Franny hopped down on the other side of the pig fence, picked up her radio and slop bucket, and heaved a sigh. Christmas was coming, and it looked like she was going to spend the holidays alone. Again.

  With that piteous little thought bobby-pinned to her mind, she turned around and came face-to-face with a man. A stranger! She let out a yelp loud enough to startle the man and arouse the poor hogs into a frothing frenzy. The bucket and radio went flying as Franny went slip-sliding onto the muddy ground.

  The man reached out and caught the radio before it landed in the muck. He looked at her and winced. “I’m really sorry. I could only catch one of you.” He stretched out his hand to lift her out of the mud.

  “That’s okay. I’m glad you caught the radio instead of me.”

  The stranger got her upright and steady again. Franny looked at her overalls and wool coat, which were covered in mud. She tried to brush off her clothes, but the thick sludge sort of fell in hunks like flattened Milk Duds.

  “It was my fault,” the man said. “You wouldn’t have lost your footing if I hadn’t scared you. I’m sorry.”

  The stranger offered her a little-boy shrug—even though he looked thirtyish—but Franny couldn’t tell if it was an act of contrition or just an act. “Who are you, anyway?” She’d never been afraid of strangers before—never even locked her doors at night. Who did? But she wasn’t accustomed to strangers appearing out of nowhere.

  “I’m Charles…Charlie Landau.”

  Charlie. Good name. Even better brown eyes. He didn’t quite have that James Dean look to make a woman lose all her senses, but it was close enough. “I’m Franny Martin. And how long have you been standing there watching me, Charlie Landau?”

  “Long enough to know that you love music. And you talk to your pigs like they’re family.” His grin lifted one side of his mouth, but it was a guileless smirk, so she let him off the hook. For now.

  Franny rested her mitten-covered hand over her heart. “Well, who doesn’t love music? I mean, it’s the artistic glue that holds the corners of the world together. It’s our porch view of heaven. Without music, we’d be wallowing in the mire like these hogs.” She glanced at her pigs. “Sorry, boys.” Then she turned back to Charlie and added, “Without music we’d be less inspired, less human. Wouldn’t we?” She stared at him, wondering if he thought she was crazy.

  “Pretty impassioned speech.” He grinned. “Like a politician…only believable.”

  Franny fiddled with the ends of her woolen head scarf, a little embarrassed that she’d gotten so carried away with a stranger. “I don’t get many visitors out this way.”

  “I came to buy your farm.” Charlie straightened his shoulders. “I have plenty of money, and I’ll pay cash. I’m determined to be a farmer, you see.”

  Franny lifted her chin, studying him. “It’s been for sale for almost twelve years. You really want this old ramshackle dirt farm with a hundred-year-old house? Just you and the coyotes, scraping along, trying to make a living?”

  “Yes, I really do want to buy your farm. That’s it.”

  “How d
id you find out about it?”

  “Your Realtor had a small ad in one of the papers.”

  “Oh. Well, are you willing to pay me what I’m asking?” Hmm. Maybe Charlie would mention whether he had a wife.

  “I saw the asking price.” Charlie raised his chin a mite. “And I’m willing to pay you every penny. More if I have to.”

  More? Franny wondered if he were the crazy one. It was a lot of money, but then he looked well-off, dressed as he was in his tailored trousers and leather jacket. Certainly not country-boy clothes. She paused to take a peek at the dreams she’d folded away in the hope chest of her heart, remembering how she’d always longed to move to the city. It didn’t take but a few seconds to pull them out, give them a good shake in the fresh air, and try them on again—only this time for real. The dream fit just fine.

  “Well, then, Mr. Charlie Landau…” Franny’s smile widened with every word. “I have to congratulate you on investing in a one-of-a-kind charming farmhouse, which sits on two-hundred-and-fifty acres of the finest Oklahoma farmland in the state…where the wheat crops rise to meet you, the sun shines always on your back, and the fatted cows just get fatter.” Franny grimaced. “I think I just made a mess of an Irish blessing.”

  “I think you did.” Charlie chuckled. And then he smiled at her—a devastating smile.

  “All right.” Franny pulled off her head scarf. She no longer needed it anyway. Charlie had made her forget all about the autumn chill. “How about a tour of the property and then a cup of coffee? I have the best: instant Folgers.” She fluffed her hairdo.

  “Do you have any Ovaltine?”

  “No, but I can make you homemade hot chocolate.” The deejay, fuzzing in and out on the radio, said something about Christmas and Brenda Lee, but Franny didn’t absorb the announcement. She’d gotten lost in the eyes of a man who’d just made the most romantic offer she’d ever heard—a way out of farming, a way to fulfill her ultimate dream to be closer to the music. The transistor whirred to life again like a tiny alien spacecraft, this time playing Brenda Lee’s “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”

  Charlie took a purposeful step toward her. “We can’t miss this. It’s got a great tempo. Know how to do the Swing?”

  Franny cocked her head at him. “You’re kidding. I’m covered in mud.”

  He shrugged and held out his arms. “Shall we?”

  His spontaneity and smile were too charming to dismiss, so she latched onto Charlie’s hands and they danced the Swing. As he spun her back and forth, their laughter rose up as bubbly as a freshly shaken bottle of soda pop. When the tune closed, another melody took its place. This time the deejay played Elvis Presley’s “Blue Christmas.” Franny stepped away from him, a little embarrassed that she’d gotten so carried away—after all, they’d only just met.

  But Charlie held up his hands and said, “Who can say no to an Elvis classic?”

  Franny moved toward him again and replied softly, “Well, that’s what I’ve always said.”

  Then they melted into a slow dance to the smooth serenade of Elvis.

  “Seems a mite early for holiday tunes. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”

  She gazed up at him. “This deejay says it’s never too early for a little Christmas music.”

  “Well, that’s what I’ve always said.” His grin warmed her all the way to her toes.

  Along with the music and mirth, Franny wondered why, after all her lonely years on the farm, God would finally send a pleasant man with possibilities to her door just to have her life go full speed in the opposite direction.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Once their dancing wound down to a mutual gazing session, Franny broke away from Charlie’s scrutiny. “How about a grand tour of the farm?”

  “I’m more than ready.”

  “All right.” Franny led Charlie toward the fields of winter wheat. She wished she’d taken the time over the years to paint and repair some of the older buildings, but it was too late for that now. Charlie would have to love the farm just as it was.

  Franny showed him the creek, the barn, the chicken house, the windmill, a working outhouse for emergencies—which came with its own tarantula under the toilet-seat rim and was said to cure anyone of a sluggish constitution—a herd of beef cattle, two gardens, the brooder house, the orchard, and the farmhouse. Whew! No wonder she wanted to flee to the city!

  About a hundred questions and answers later, they both settled in the kitchen with some hot chocolate. “So, what do you think? About the farm and the house?” Franny blew on her beverage but watched Charlie over her mug to get his immediate reaction.

  “I think it’s a one-of-a-kind, charming farmhouse, which sits on two-hundred-and-fifty acres of the finest Oklahoma farmland in the state.”

  Franny grinned.

  “It’s just what I need, actually. As I mentioned earlier, if I can make a profit, hopefully my father will see that I’m capable of running his enterprises.”

  She bobbed her marshmallows up and down with her spoon. “What enterprises?”

  “Oh, scintillating businesses such as construction, pipeline operations, and oil-field equipment. That sort of thing.” He looked bored with what he’d just said, but his eyes lit up when he added, “But ever since I was a kid I’ve been intrigued with farm life. You know…growing things for a living.” His gaze darted around the kitchen and landed on a cluster of photographs of her parents. “Is this your mother and father?”

  “Yes.”

  “They look happy.” Charlie pointed to the photograph at the end. “And I assume that’s you next to them.”

  “That’s me with pigtails and two of my Christmas presents, a Slinky and my first bicycle.”

  “Pretty adorable. And who’s the colored gentleman standing next to you?”

  “That’s George Hughes. We called him Uncle George.” Franny paused. “He was our farmhand, but after a few years he became like family to us. At Christmastime he used to dress up like Santa Claus and give us all homemade gifts.” She waited for Charlie to disapprove, like so many people had in the past, but he merely nodded.

  “I hope you don’t miss this place too much,” he said. “It seems like a wonderful home.”

  “I grew up in this house. It was always full of laughter.” Franny ran her finger around the rim of her mug. “But my parents died in an accident over a decade ago.” She looked at him. “Now I’m surrounded by faded memories and yellowed photographs on the wall. But after all these years there are traces here and there of love. I can still feel it.”

  “Sounds like a sweet and sad love song.”

  “Yeah? Maybe I should write it down.” Franny smiled, feeling a wistful tug at her heart. “Sometimes I think in lyrics.”

  Charlie leaned toward her. “So how did your father and mother pass away?”

  Franny took a sip of her cocoa, but it was still too hot. With very little encouragement, the scene of her parents’ death played in her mind. “We were having stormy weather that day, and we’d gone down into the cellar. But the door kept banging open, so Daddy went up to secure it. And Momma followed behind him—to help him, I guess. Anyway, in that brief moment, an elm tree crashed through our enclosed porch. The tree fell on the cellar door and killed them instantly.”

  Charlie reached out to her but didn’t touch her hand. “I’m so sorry, Franny.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “But it must have been hard on you. How did you ever get over it?”

  “Some part of me recovered, but I’m convinced there’s another part of me that will never mend. Anyway, I’ve never been back in that cellar since that day. I always use the hall closet when there’s a storm.”

  “It’s pretty heavy. And you must have been very young at the time.”

  “I was eighteen.”

  Charlie blew on his cocoa and took a cautious sip. “So you stayed. But I’m curious. How did you run a farm all by yourself? You were just a kid.”

  “Well,
the neighbors all knew what had happened. And even though it was unusual for a girl to run a farm, I didn’t want to leave my home. So, some of the neighbors said they’d give me a hand with the work for a while until I could do for myself. I never did plant and harvest the wheat, though. I’ve always leased the land out to my closest neighbor, and we share the profits from the harvest. But after a few years, I realized that I didn’t want to do this for the rest of my life. So that’s when I put the farm up for sale.”

  Charlie’s gaze lowered to her left hand. “And you didn’t get married? At least a man could have helped you with the chores.”

  “Yes, a husband would have come in handy, since I’ve had backaches for a decade.” Franny grinned. “But I have this little problem.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I want to marry for love.” It wasn’t necessary to look at Charlie’s empty ring finger. It was the first thing Franny had looked for when they were dancing. “I see you never married?”

  “Never found it…love, that is. I’m thirty-five, and nothing’s ever happened. Nothing real, that is.”

  “Real?”

  “I’ve met lots of women, but I’m beginning to think it’s impossible to find love. But then, who really knows the interworkings of romantic love except God, who invented it?”

  Charlie’s comment surprised her. He wasn’t at all shallow. But for someone as appealing as Charlie, she could easily imagine love arriving at his door in a golden coach. “You’ll find out soon enough that most men around here don’t have many romantic notions about love. They think of women in practical terms. They’re valuable for four things: cooking, cleaning, keeping the house…” She held up her fingers, counting. “Well, and for making lots of babies, especially boys to help with the farming.” Heat rose in Franny’s face, and she chuckled at herself. Nonsense. It was the 1960s, not the ’30s. “So, I’m assuming you’ll want to farm your own land and not lease it out as I do. Do you know about plowing and planting and harvesting wheat?”

  “No.”