No Place Like Home

by Linda Lael Miller, Kat Martin, Mary Carter, Laura Florand

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

There's nothing more festive than a winter romance, and in these heart-warming stories, love is a gift that can take you by surprise. . . The 24 Days Of Christmas by Linda Lael Miller A matchbox advent calendar first brought Frank Rayner and Addie Hutton together. But that was years ago. There's no way the miracles of Christmas--and the magic of true love--could possibly be hidden under one of its tiny flaps. Or could they? Christmas Angel by Kat Martin When Angel Summers' first love, Josh Coltraine, joined the Army, she vowed to hate him forever. But now he's back in Savannah for the holidays--wishing for a miracle that could heal both their hearts. The Christmas Carousel by Mary Carter Single mom Georgia Bradley can't afford to fight the developers who want to tear down her beloved Rhode Island auction house--especially Adam Cavalier. But when she receives a mysterious gift, Adam becomes intrigued with its origin--and with Georgia. . . A Rose In Winter By Laura Florand Allegra Caldron knew the rule never to talk to strangers. But on a cold winter night in Provence, she breaks that rule--and more--with an irresistible man. Raoul Rosier seems thrillingly dangerous, yet why does Allegra feel so safe with him--even when she believes he's a thief?

Release date: December 1, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 449

Sample

Holiday traditions are as unique and varied as the families who celebrate them. Especially Christmas traditions. Some families allow their little munchkins to open one present each on Christmas Eve, others have to wait until after church Christmas Day. Some people carve into golden-brown turkeys, others succulent hams. Some stockings are hung with care, others carelessly slung over chairs. Some folks send out newsletters braying about their achievements, others Twitter their tragedies. Some real trees look fake, some fake trees look real. Some people’s lawns erupt in a carnival-like display of lights and animation that promptly comes down the second of January, others throw up a single strand of bulbs that choke the house until July.

Some things are the same for all revelers. Televisions up and down the block cascade through It’s a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story, Rudolph, and Frosty. Mailboxes overflow with Christmas cards. Christmas carols blare from department store speakers, and Santa Claus and his elves hit the mall. Everyone’s bank account takes a bit of a hit. Children flock to their windows, clasp their tiny hands underneath their chins, and pray for snow. Once, one of those sets of clasped hands belonged to Georgia Marie Bradley. Christmas was her favorite time of year. And not just because of the carols, and candy canes, and lights, and toy trains, and snow, and Frosty. Oh, she loved all those things, still did, but really it was her father, and their special yearly tradition that lifted the season to the realm of the sacred. She cherished those times with her father more than a miser cherished his piles of gold.

Every year, the week before Christmas, her mother would take her older sister, Virginia, shopping, while Georgia and her father visited the carousel by the ocean. Georgia was in love with it. It was situated in an abandoned warehouse, which had been refurbished to house the carousel year-round. There was something so magical about looking out on the ocean, while they twirled around like snow -flakes. The music, the lights, the tented top striped in blue and gold, the glorious, painted horses bobbing up and down on their regal golden poles. Georgia picked a different horse every time; that was part of the game. As she glided up and down, she eagerly waited to spot her father in the crowd, who in turn would be trying to guess which horse she was on, often pretending not to see her until the third time around. After that, each time she went by, he would make a funny face, or put on a Santa hat, even hold up a bouquet of candy canes. Georgia could hardly wait to come around again, to see what in the world he would do next. Sometimes people gave her father funny looks, but that just made the father-daughter duo laugh even harder. By the time the carousel stopped, Georgia would be giggling so hard, tears would be streaming down her face. Afterward they would stroll on the beach, hand-in-hand, looking for shells to hang on their Christmas tree.

The last year she and her father went to the carousel, she met a friend. A girl about her age, but much thinner, and strange, it looked as if she didn’t have any hair, just a few wispy strands peeking out of her knitted, pink cap. The first time Georgia noticed her, she wasn’t on the carousel. She was standing a few feet away from Georgia’s father, clinging onto the hand of a boy just a few years older. The boy looked very serious for a child; he stared at Georgia with somber sky-blue eyes that burned a hole into her. Why was he so sad? It was only because of the brightness of the girl that she was able to look away. Because the girl certainly didn’t look sad. She looked as if the carousel was the most amazing thing she had ever seen. Georgia felt like that too, so the moment she saw that little girl’s delighted face, her shining eyes, she felt an instant bond.

When the ride was over, Georgia went over to introduce herself. “Hi,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Cindy.”

“I’m Georgia. Aren’t you going to ride?” Cindy shook her head. “Why not?” Cindy shrugged.

“She wants to,” the boy said. He nodded to his sister and nudged her forward. Then he turned those blue eyes on Georgia and once again she felt as if she’d been struck. But it wasn’t polite to stare, so she tore her gaze away, and glanced at her father. He nodded. Georgia was thrilled. Normally she only went around once.

“I’ll ride with you,” Georgia said. “It’s the most fun ever.” Georgia held out her hand. With a little encouragement from her brother, Cindy clasped Georgia’s hand, and together they hopped on side-by-side horses. Georgia helped Cindy onto a magnificent black inside-jumper, then swung onto a regal, white outside-stander. This time, instead of making funny faces, her father smiled at them as they went around. Soon, a woman and a man appeared next to the boy with the striking blue eyes. They clung to each other and waved and smiled at Cindy. With a little encouragement from Georgia, her father finally made one of his famous funny faces. Cindy got it right away. She threw her head back and giggled. A rush of warmth and pride welled up in Georgia. She made sure to give her father an extra big smile, and as their horses galloped around and around, their laughter rang out like ringing bells. And suddenly, it began to snow.

Georgia didn’t know what that little girl was going to get for Christmas, but she couldn’t imagine a bigger or brighter smile on her face, a smile that was captured forever on their last turn around, by the little boy and his instant camera. Georgia and Cindy parted by waving their mittens at each other, and catching a few stolen glances as they were each led away from the carousel by the ocean. Georgia couldn’t wait to see her friend again. And the next time, she would ask her. How did her brother get eyes so blue? And why did he look so sad?

Georgia’s second-most favorite place in the whole world was her father’s enormous white barn, out of which he ran the family business: Trash and Treasures. They sold pre-owned items, everything from tools to toys. The only thing Georgia loved more than the carousel at Christmas was helping her father sell his wares. Each season offered something special, but everybody in the small Rhode Island town knew it was the place to come for a holiday treat. The barn was covered in twinkling multi-colored lights, while the pair of tall spruces outside glittered with red bows and white bulbs. Plastic reindeer stood on the roof guiding Santa on his sleigh, and Bing Crosby sang from the old-fashioned record player behind the counter.

Out would come the space heaters, and gloves, and scarves, and free hot cider, and powdered donuts, and winter items for sale: sleds, Christmas ornaments, tree stands, lights, and presents. They would gift wrap items for free, oh the hours Georgia spent curling the ribbon on the packages just right, handing them over, wishing she could be there when the recipient opened them on Christmas morning. If they were lucky enough to get a snowfall, the property would fill with kids making snowmen and throwing snowballs. If you bought a pair of ice skates, you could often try them out on the frozen pond. Sleds could be tested on the hill out back. The inside of the barn was stacked with shelves and tables, and crates, and every single space was stuffed full with every item imaginable. And even though the vast array of things you could find inside were varied and complex, the sign that hung out front was simple:

TRASH AND TREASURES

ONE MAN’S TRASH IS ANOTHER MAN’S TREASURE

It was there, underneath the sign, that she next saw the boy with the blue eyes. Suddenly, there he was, standing in the middle of the barn, staring up at it. Georgia didn’t recognize him right away, not until she said, “Hello,” to his back. Then, he turned around and she saw those eyes. Up until now, Georgia had only been obsessed by things. Colored marbles in glass jars. Dainty hand-painted teacups. Carousels. Licking frosting from the bottom of the bowl after making cookies. This was the first time that another person had gripped her as much as her favorite things and it made her feel all funny inside. She wondered if it was okay to feel this way about another person, a boy. She wondered if this was what they called a “crush.” She wondered where Cindy was, eager to see her new friend again.

“Are you looking for toys?” Georgia asked. He simply stared at her. Oh, what had she done? He was a few years older than her, too old for toys. Why didn’t she say, “sleds,” “Are you looking for sleds?” As she stared at him, she was instantly back on the carousel, going around and around, listening to the snap and whine of his instant camera. Maybe he would be interested in all of their old cameras. There were some really cool ones. She liked the ones with the fancy cases and lenses you twisted on and off. One case actually had a red velvet lining. Georgia liked to run her fingertips over it when no one was watching. She wondered if someone royal used to own it, like a queen. She did this with objects that came in, imagined who owned them, and what their lives were like. But suddenly she was too afraid to suggest anything else in case he thought her too young and annoying.

“Where’s Cindy?” she asked. The boy’s mouth dropped open. Instead of answering her, he reached into his pocket, pulled out an instant picture, and shoved it at her. It was the shot of her and Cindy, riding the carousel. Cindy had such a big smile on her face. “Cool,” Georgia said. She looked over his shoulder. “Is she here?” He didn’t answer. After a minute she held the picture out to the boy, but he didn’t make a move to take it back.

“Let’s go,” a man’s voice called to the boy. She recognized him as the man who had joined the boy at the carousel to wave at Cindy. The father didn’t even say hello to her. So strange that the little girl was the only happy one in the family. The boy turned away from Georgia, head down, and began to follow his dad.

“Wait,” she said. “Your picture.” He acted as if he didn’t hear her. She knew he did. Everything echoed in the big barn, and the Christmas music was barely turned up. For some reason, she felt panicked. As if he mustn’t walk off without the picture of Cindy and her beautiful smile. “Hey,” she yelled. Just then, the boy’s father looked at her. He glanced down and saw the picture in her outstretched hand. Then, he looked at his son for a long moment, and, as if something had been decided, gave a curt nod.

“He wants you to have it,” the father said. He put his arm around the boy and they were gone. Georgia ran to the entrance, and stood staring after them. Long after their white station wagon kicked up dirt and disappeared down the driveway, Georgia still stood and stared.

“Georgia. Please come here.” Obediently, she walked up to her father, who stood behind the table that constituted their “counter.” On top of the table was a large box labeled CHRISTMAS.

“What’s that?”

“The gentleman just dropped it off.”

“Do you remember him?” Georgia asked.

“Should I?” her father asked. Georgia handed him the picture. He studied it for a moment. “That explains a lot,” he said.

“What?” Georgia asked. “What does it explain?” She reached for the box. Her father gently placed his hand on hers.

“We’re not going to open it,” he said.

“Why not?”

“In case they come back for it someday.”

“Why would they come back for it? And why don’t they want it?” Her father took her hand and held it. He told her that Cindy had been very sick. Something called “leukemia.” She passed away shortly after that ride.

“Is that why she didn’t have any hair?”

“Yes,” her father said. His voice sounded choked. Georgia didn’t know what to say. She felt hot in the face. She felt like crying. She remembered her little head, with no hair. And her big smile. “I’m so proud of you, Peaches,” her father said.

“Why?”

“Because of you, that little girl had one last ride. One last, wonderful ride.” Georgia had never seen tears roll down her father’s cheeks before.

“Don’t cry, Dad,” she said.

“Your mother and I love your sister and you more than anything in the world,” he said. “Do you know that?” He stared at her, expecting an answer, so she nodded. And she did know that too. But she didn’t like to see her father so serious or so sad. Luckily, he wiped his tears and presented her with a familiar wink. “Speaking of which— she’s expecting you in the kitchen, isn’t she?”

“We’re making cookies.”

“Call me when they’re done. I’ll pretend I’m Santa Claus.”

“You’re not fat enough,” Georgia said. Her father laughed and winked at her. “I want to lick the bowl, too!”

“Virginia and I get to lick the bowl!” Georgia said as she headed for the house.

“We should put the picture in the box,” her dad said. Georgia stopped.

She looked at the picture, then at her father. She didn’t really want to give it back. She knew it wasn’t logical, but somehow she felt if she kept the picture, she’d be keeping Cindy alive. “In case they come back for it?”

“Yes.”

“I want to keep it.”

Her father tapped his head. “You’ll keep it in here,” he said. Then he touched his heart. “And here.” Georgia still wanted the picture.

“I won’t lose it, or rip it or anything,” Georgia said.

“Please, Peaches. Let’s put it in the box for them.” Georgia nodded, handed her father the photo, and watched as he slipped it in the box. And even though Georgia often went up to the box and put her hand on it, she never opened it. The following year, when the time came to visit the carousel, Georgia asked her father if they could go sledding instead. She still loved the carousel, but from now on they would only visit it during the warmer months. To Georgia, it was just like when their cat, Sammy, curled into a sleeping ball by the fire-place. No matter how much she wanted to go up and pet him, there was just something so soft and sweet about it, she didn’t dare disturb the moment. Christmas and the carousel were one of those sleeping moments now. Forever linked with little Cindy, and her last, wonderful ride.

Twenty years later

Georgia was fast asleep when the fire alarm shrieked through her bedroom. She was upright in an instant, swinging her feet over the side of the bed, smelling for smoke. Before she even hit the floor, she called out for her seven-year-old.

“Ranger!”

“Mom?” He came pounding into her room, his soft brown hair sticking up, his Star Wars pajamas way too small. Even amidst the blaring beeps, Georgia couldn’t help but make a mental note to herself to buy him new pajamas for Christmas. Georgia grabbed Ranger’s hand, and together they approached the hall outside her bedroom.

“Did you see or smell any smoke?” she asked.

“No.” Thank goodness, neither did she. They stood overlooking the railing that looked down onto the auction floor. They technically lived in a giant warehouse, although Georgia liked to think of it as a hip loft. Below she ran her business, Rhode Island’s premier auction house, The Treasure Chest. If there was a fire, she would stand to lose everything. She headed for the stairs, still clinging to Ranger’s hand, while mentally trying to remember how much her insurance would cover if worse came to worst. She grabbed the fire extinguisher off its hook at the top of the steps, then together they headed down at a brisk pace.

“Maybe the alarm is broken,” Ranger said.

“Let’s hope,” Georgia said.

“Dad’s watch,” Ranger said. He stopped in the middle of the steps. “I forgot Dad’s watch.”

“No things, honey, remember?” It was hard for Georgia to spit this out, for she, more than anyone, knew how one could come to love objects, especially those that once belonged to a cherished loved one.

“Please?”

“Here, and here,” Georgia said, touching her head and her heart.

“But—”

“I’m sorry. Let’s go.” They navigated the rest of the stairs and were soon on the main floor. The control panel for the fire alarm was at the front of the auction floor by the office. They ducked past rows of stacked oriental rugs, statues, swords, crystal bowls, and a plethora of other treasures awaiting future auctions. The floor was cold underneath their bare feet, and by the time they reached the office, the alarm suddenly stopped.

“It’s off,” Ranger said.

“We’re going outside anyway,” Georgia said. “I just have to grab my cell.”

“No things.”

“We need to call the fire department. Wait for me right outside the door.” Georgia grabbed the phone off her desk, knocking a pile of blue envelopes onto the floor. Georgia resisted the urge to spit on them. Instead, she hurried to Ranger, who was working the numerous locks on the enormous steel door. Georgia joined him and together they opened it and stepped out into the cold, morning air. It was only now that she realized she was only wearing a nightgown. There was no sign of fire anywhere. It must be a false alarm. Still, she wasn’t going to take chances, not with her son. Georgia was about to call the fire department when a figure approached from the shadows. Georgia let out a scream.

“It’s Mrs. Weaver,” Ranger said. Sure enough, Georgia saw her elderly neighbor standing in front of them in a ratty peach house robe, her long gray hair frizzing out above her shoulders, her eyes bright beneath her heavily wrinkled face.

“Three minutes and forty-five seconds,” Mrs. Weaver said, thrusting up a stopwatch.

“What?” Georgia asked.

“Not bad, but you need to get it down to two minutes.”

“You set our fire alarm? How? Why?”

“I rigged mine to yours,” Mrs. Weaver said. Mrs. Weaver had a bakery next door. This stretch of Cranberry Street was where all the shops were located, all owned and run by locals. Mrs. Weaver, at eighty-four, had been here the longest. Her baked goods were the best in town, and during the holiday season, Georgia and Ranger were spoiled with whatever was left at the end of the day. It was sad to see that Mrs. Weaver was becoming slightly crazy and forgetful.

“Come inside,” Georgia said. “It’s freezing.”

Georgia made tea for herself and Mrs. Weaver, and hot chocolate for Ranger. Only after they were warmed up did Georgia speak up.

“What do you mean you rigged your fire alarm to ours?”

“My father was an electrician. He never had a son. So he taught me a few tricks.”

“Can you get free cable?” Ranger asked.

“You betya.”

“Mom?”

“No.” Georgia turned back to Mrs. Weaver. “Okay. So why did you rig your fire alarm to mine?”

“So that when my place burns down, you’ll have plenty of warning.” Georgia glanced at Ranger. His cup was frozen halfway to his mouth, his eyes as large as saucers.

“Why don’t you take that upstairs. You can read a little if you can’t fall asleep right away,” Georgia said.

“Your place is going to burn down?” Ranger asked.

“No,” Georgia said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Weaver said. Georgia tried to give her a look but the old lady was too demented or just too stubborn to pick up on it.

“Ranger, bed.”

“Mom.”

“Bed.” Ranger sighed, and pushed away from the table, jostling hot chocolate out of his cup. He leaned down. Georgia thought she was going to get a kiss on the cheek, but instead he whispered in her ear. “Tell me everything,” he said.

“Night, kiddo.”

“Night, Mom. Night, Mrs. Weaver.” Georgia waited until she could hear his footsteps crossing the length of the warehouse floor and heading up the stairs.

“I know what you’re thinking. I’ve lost it. I’m bananas.” Mrs. Weaver raised her hands high in the air.

“You can’t seriously tell me you’re thinking of burning down the bakery.”

“It’s better than selling to those Scrooges!”

“What Scrooges?”

“Have they not come knocking on your door yet?”

“The developers?”

“Who else would I be talking about?” An image of the blue envelopes in her office, well, now on her office floor, rose to Georgia’s mind. Once she knew what they were after, she hadn’t opened a single one. “I’d rather burn her down and collect the insurance than let them turn this block into a mini-mall, or monumental-mall, or whatever the hell they have in mind,” Mrs. Weaver concluded.

“They’re just trying to scare you. They need the whole block to build their mall, and none of us are going to sell.” There were eight businesses on the street, all locally owned. But the land itself was leased. Technically, if the city wanted these developers to have the lot, they could let all of their contracts expire. Which was due to happen at the end of the year, barely a month away. But the city officials, some up for re-election, would never want to be cast as Grinches responsible for closing down a succession of family- and minority-owned businesses. The developers knew this. Which is why they were trying to seduce them into selling.

Big buyouts, quick closings, playing on their fears that the city would eventually look at the bottom line and not renew their contracts at all. Times were tough, and these predators were using it to their full advantage. Georgia wasn’t going to sit back and let them be bullied, or lured in just to crash on the rocks.

“Strength in numbers,” Georgia said holding up her teacup as if making a toast.

“Joe is thinking of selling,” Mrs. Weaver said.

“No,” Georgia said. Oh, no. She wished it were more of a shock, but everyone knew Circle Books wasn’t doing so hot. Georgia bought from him at least once a month, an antiques guide or mystery paperback for her, and a children’s book for Ranger, but that was hardly enough to keep it going. He had a lot of traffic during the touristy summer months, but he said most of them just browsed, and wrote down titles that they were later going to download.

“I’ll talk to Joe,” Georgia said. “But even if he does sell, they can hardly do much with his little section.”

“Three others are thinking of jumping ship, too.”

Georgia clanked her teacup down on its saucer. “Who?”

“Jess, Roger, and Sue.” The butcher, the hardware store owner, and the florist.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“This new mini-mall is going to have a meat section, a hardware section, a florist, a baker, discount books—”

“Don’t say ‘is.’ It isn’t. It’s never going to happen.” Georgia looked around at her brick walls covered in oil paintings, her ceiling from which a hundred chandeliers shone, her shelves stacked with treasures. Stories, actually, for each item carried with it the lives of the previous owners. She couldn’t fathom seeing discount detergent in place of crystal goblets and oriental vases. How could people let go of the past so easily? Didn’t they recognize the quality, the history, the stories? Didn’t they want to stay connected to those who lived, and toiled, and learned before? Everything was being tossed aside to make room for progress.

What progress? How many families spent dinnertime engrossed in their own little smartphones or tablets? Auctions brought people together. There was always an excitement in the room like opening night at the theater. Treasures from the past brought people together. Even bidding wars were friendly. The investors didn’t care about any of it. Instead, they wanted people to come in here and crush each other over Black Friday sales. Over Georgia’s dead body. They would have to make her into a wax figurine if they wanted her to leave this place.

“They are offering really good money. I mean really good. What have they offered you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I haven’t opened the letters or answered their phone calls.”

“Rebel. Good for you. Let the rest of them sell. We’ll go down with the ship. Up in a blaze!”

“Hold up there, Pyro Patty. I won’t have you messing with fire. I have a kid to protect, remember? If you pull any more stunts, I’m going to have to report you.”

“And the rebel falls.” Mrs. Weaver pushed her tea away and slumped in her seat.

“I’m serious. How can you even think of messing with a fire with my business and my seven-year-old son next door? I’m shocked at you, Mrs. Weaver.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to do it. I just hate the thought of everything changing. I always thought the bakery would be my legacy. Twenty, even thirty years after I was gone, people would come in, look at a photo of me hanging prominently on the wall as you enter, and say, ‘There’s Mrs. Weaver. She’s the reason we have such heavenly treats.’”

Or big thighs. Georgia tried not to imagine the picture of Mrs. Weaver looking like she did right now in a pink ratty robe and science hair. Besides, she understood her point. We all wanted to be remembered, honored even. Which is what Georgia strove to do every day of her life. Honor the past.

Mrs. Weaver was in her eighties. She didn’t have children and her husband died many years ago. The bakery should be her legacy. And she should be enjoying retirement instead of literally working herself to the bone. In fact, Georgia was the youngest owner on the block. The others could sell and retire with ease. Georgia would not only be out of a job, she’d be out of a home. If her father were still here, he would tell her to fight. She couldn’t believe they were going to have to celebrate this Christmas without him. Before tears could well in her eyes, Georgia stood and picked up her teacup. Mrs. Weaver got the hint and stood up.

“Don’t worry,” Georgia said. “I’m going to do something about this.”

“You’re a fighter. Like James.” Georgia always suspected Mrs. Weaver had a little crush on her dad. They certainly got a lot more free sweets when he was alive. And Georgia didn’t blame her. Her father remained handsome and charming until he died last year at the too-young age of sixty-eight. But James Bradley showed no interest in women after her mother passed away five years prior. Just antiques, and family. Yet another thing she and her father had in common. Georgia hadn’t had a single date since Paul died. Four years.

Who had time? Life was hard enough without inviting heartache in the door. Paul had been a good man, a loving man. He loved her. He would’ve been a great father. It seemed impractical, greedy even, to expect to find that kind of a match again. Yes, Georgia knew there were probably any number of men she could love as much as she loved Paul, and vice versa, but actually finding them was another matter entirely. Someone who loved her love of collectibles and auctions, and most importantly, Ranger. That was certainly a rare find. And she didn’t want to take the risk that some man would swoop in and then abandon or hurt Ranger. Not even a tiny bit. Not even unintentionally. He’d had his share of hurt and loss.

“We need to have an emergency meeting with all the owners,” Georgia said. “I’ll get on it.”

“I don’t think it will do any good.”

“It’s the holiday season,” Georgia said. “Sales should be picking up soon.” Oh how she hoped it was true. But so many people were pinching pennies these days, and shopping for sales online. People might buy more cookies this time of year, but not fourteenth-century silver candlesticks. Although she did have a pair fit for a king’s cupboard.

“Nobody wants to celebrate Christmas this year,” Mrs. Weaver said. “That man! He’s Scrooge! A good-looking Scrooge, but a Scrooge nonetheless.” A good-looking Scrooge? This was news to Georgia. It shouldn’t be, but it was funny to hear something like that come out of the old lady’s mouth. We aged on the outside, but stayed the same on the inside. Mrs. Weaver, boy-crazy in her eighties. How marvelous life could be. Better her than me, Georgia thought. She didn’t realize she was smiling until Mrs. Weaver snapped at her. “What? I can’t say a man’s good-looking? Why? Because I’m an old hag?”

“Absolutely not. I’m just sleepy is all, and when I’m sleepy everything seems funny.”

“Well this isn’t a bit funny.”

“I know. I’m going to do something. I promise. Now go home, and the next time you get the urge to wire something, steal a car. Preferably not mine.”

Georgia began the next morning by putting on Bing Crosby’s Christmas CD and opening the little storage unit where she kept the decorations. She waited for Ranger to hear the music and come bouncing down the steps to help her decorate. He took after his mother: it was his favorite time of year, too. Oh how her father loved joining in the festivities. It was so hard not to have him around this year. What would she do if she lost this place? It was the only thing she knew. She wouldn’t even be qualified for a minimum-wage job. Who was going to hire someone who put Antiques Roadshow under the Special Skills section of a resume?

“Ranger?” she called up to the second floor. When there was no answer, Georgia headed up. She found him on his bed with his head buried in the pillow. “Honey. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Turn it off,” Ranger said. “Turn it off.” He was clutching a picture of her father, one they took last Christmas.

“Hey,” she said, sitting on the bed. “Come here.” Ranger allowed her to fold him into her arms. She knew this wouldn’t last, the phase where it was still okay to let your mother hold you. “He’s with us. In spirit. And I know he would want us to celebrate, and decorate, and enjoy.”

“How can we? I miss him.”

“I miss him, too. But that’s why we have to do it. Grandpa loved Christmas. And he loved us.”

“Mrs. Weaver said nobody in the whole town wants to celebrate Christmas this year!”

“I thought you were in bed.”

“This place echoes.”

“It sure does. What else did you hear?”

“Something about Scrooge. Was she talking about A Christmas Carol?”

“I think she sees it every year and it gets her worked up,” Georgia said. She didn’t want to out and out lie, but now was not the time to worry him about the investors.

“But he turns out nice in the end. He helps Tiny Tim and buys them a goose, and gives pennies to the poor.”

“I know.”

“Grandpa watched it with me once.”

“Come on. Let’s just get the decorations out. We don’t have to put them up today.”

“All right.” Ranger wiped his nose on his sleeve. Georgia ruffled his hair. Ranger raced in front of her, and was already tearing into boxes before she even reached the bottom step. That’s my boy. She was on her way to help when the office phone rang. “Be right there,” Georgia called as she passed Ranger. He barely looked up. She was humming along to “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas” when she finally reached the phone.

“Finally,” her sister said when she answered. “Aren’t you ever in the office?”

“Hello to you too, sis. We’re decorating.”

“God, remember how much of a fuss Dad used to make?”

“I loved it.”

“Of course you did.” There was a sigh and then a baby crying.

“How’s my niece?”

“Teething.”

“Ouch. Give her a kiss for me.”

“Will do. Listen. We need to talk.” Uh, oh. Georgia knew this tone of voice. Virginia was upset with her over something. What was it this time?

“About?”

“Why didn’t you tell me someone made an offer to buy out The Treasure Chest?”

“How could you possibly know that?” Had someone from the town called her? No, her neighbors didn’t have her sister’s number.

“I had a visit from a pair of investors, that’s how.” Georgia rose from the edge of the desk where she had planted herself.

“They came to your house? In California?”

“I am part-owner, you know.”

In name only. Because when Georgia opened up the auction house, part of the money was their father’s. Virginia didn’t need it. Her husband made a gazillion dollars a year as a consultant. “What exactly did they say?”

“I’ll get to that. First, I want to know why you didn’t tell me.”

“Because I wouldn’t sell to them in a million years. That’s why.”

“It’s not your decision. It’s ours.”

“They’re just bullies, Gin. They want to buy out this entire street and turn it into a mini-mall.” She realized as she railed against it that her sister wouldn’t really care. She was in California now, and didn’t even seem to miss their little New England town. Virginia had never been a Trash and Treasures girl.

“They weren’t bullies. One was incredibly good-looking. A bit moody maybe, but hot.”

“So I’ve heard. I’m telling you—they’re predators. Mrs. Weaver almost burned her bakery down because of them.”

“She’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

“She’s got to be as nutty as her fruitcakes by now.”

“She is. But that’s not the point.”

“Look. There are a few things I haven’t told you either.”

“Like what?” Georgia listened to Virginia sigh. She loved to draw out the drama.

“Devon lost his job.”

That was a shock. Devon was all about consulting and sales. Georgia could only imagine how he was dealing with it. Or Virginia for that matter. That was the other thing about having a man around. You had to put up with them. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. When?”

“Four months ago.”

Georgia glanced out at the floor. Ranger was barely visible, hunkered down with Christmas decorations all around him. It gave her a rush of joy to know he was still . . .