Restoring Christmas

by Cynthia Ruchti

Genres: Christian Fiction

Synopsis

Alexis Blake has one chance to land her own show on the Home Project Network and nothing-not an uncooperative client, a job site without indoor plumbing, or a challenging videographer-is going to stand in her way. Elsie, at seventy-plus, is far from the ideal client, but she knows exactly what she wants her fieldstone house to look like, and no designer can tell her otherwise. Gabe Langley, the man with the camera, is caught in the middle and it is his wisdom and warmth that just may be the bridge that will bring these two women together. Can they restore more than just a house and bring about special, almost lost forever Christmas memories?

Release date: October 18, 2016

Publisher: Worthy

Print pages: 240

Sample

Praise for Restoring Christmas

“Restoring Christmas is a tug at your heart, laugh out loud, wonderful read for Christmas!”

Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times best-selling author

“I absolutely loved Restoring Christmas and love Cynthia’s captivating writing style. The book was filled with all the things you want in a Christmas story: charming characters, beautiful reminders of the best holiday traditions, and a plot that keeps the tension building all the way to the end, which is—like Christmas stories of old—filled with wonderful and satisfying surprises. Keep the tissues handy. Highly recommended.”

Dan Walsh, best-selling author of The Unfinished Gift and Remembering Christmas

“Reading Restoring Christmas is like settling in with a plate of frosted cookies and a cup of hot tea on a snowy afternoon—perfectly satisfying. While it’s a short novel, the characters are nicely developed and the story well-paced. There are enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing and an ending that’s likely to cause a few happy tears. Restoring Christmas is sweet without being sappy, charming without being cliché, and faith-filled without being preachy. Get your Christmas fix today!”

Sarah Loudin Thomas, author of the Inspy Award-winning Miracle in a Dry Season

“This charming Christmas story should come with a warning label: BEWARE: You will not want to stop reading once you begin. Cynthia Ruchti has done it again, introducing the reader to a delightful cast of characters and spinning an endearing story of restoration and love. I give it 2 thumbs up!”

Kendra Smiley, conference speaker, author, and radio host of Live Life Intentionally

“Come in from the cold, wrap up in this tale, and sit back as your heart fills with hope right along with Alexis, Gabe, Elsie, and the Fieldstone House. A master builder of stories, Cynthia Ruchti has taken the splintered edges of life, gathered them close with grace, and using her trademark tools of symbolism and character, constructed a refuge of healing to find shelter in this season. Restoring Christmas glows warmth into the darkness of winter with soul-deep themes, heart-stealing sparks between characters, a thread of mystery to intrigue and inspire, and just as the title promises, the restoring joy of Christmas.”

Amanda Dykes, author of the critically-acclaimed Bespoke: A Tiny Christmas Tale

“Sometimes restoring an old stone house is merely the means to reveal and restore hurting souls. Let the engaging Restoring Christmas open your heart to the beauty of both Christ’s coming and your own restoration. A wonderful read!”

Gayle Roper, author of Sea Change and Special Delivery

“Thank you, Cynthia Ruchti, for creating another delightful fiction experience. As a fan of old houses and makeover stories, I was enthralled with this story of a home renovation that restores hope and the spirit of Christmas along with an old stone house you’ll want to call home. A touch of humor, a thread of romance, and the backdrop of a snow-blanketed Wisconsin town makes Restoring Christmas the perfect December read . . . or all year ‘round.”

Becky Melby, author of the Lost Sanctuary series

“Ruchti’s well-chosen words drew me into the story until I believed I was there, entangled in the graceful subtleties, the humor and heartache. The love.”

Davalynn Spencer, author of The Wrangler’s Woman

“Yes, the Christmas holidays can be difficult. How many of us are walking around in need of a restored Christmas? Hope restored? Our past converted into something more suitable for how we live today? You simply must read the unfolding of this satisfying and sweet romance from exquisite storyteller, Cynthia Ruchti. I can’t believe I cried at the end . . . but restoration is like that sometimes.”

Lucinda Secrest McDowell, author of Dwelling Places; encouragingwords.net

“Cynthia Ruchti’s Restoring Christmas restores my hope in a season challenged by false expectations. I laughed aloud, spurted some tears, and rejoiced throughout the memorable book. Fabulous characters, witty writing, and a winsome plot combine to create the perfect Christmas read. Good for your heart and your hope levels.”

Jane Rubietta, international speaker and author of Finding Messiah and Worry Less So You Can Live More

“Restoring Christmas made me laugh out loud as well as cry in the same paragraph! Cynthia’s mastery of dialogue allowed me to fall in love with Alexis and Gabe and cheer for the healing necessary in Elsie’s heart. By the end of the book, Hope House was not just a place in a book but a destination I wanted to go to. I am already planning on buying Christmas gifts for all of my book loving friends.”

Becky Turner, National Managing Partner for The Barnabas Group and global business and spiritual “fixer upper” specialist

“Cynthia Ruchti writes directly to the heart of women. Her characters face life in ways that instantly endear and engage readers. Restoring Christmas shows how challenges and restoration go hand-in-hand in such a way that you won’t want to put this book down. Cynthia Ruchti truly delights!”

Cristel Phelps, bookseller

“The key to award-winning author Cynthia Ruchti’s special talent is to transform the ideal depiction of Christmas into a truly restorative story that evokes the real meaning of Christmas with charm and eloquence. She takes the meaning of ‘restoring Christmas’ to God’s higher, deeper meaning. I highly recommend Restoring Christmas to read each Christmas season!”

Dianne Burnett, former fiction editor for Christian Book Distributors

“I was not prepared for the depth that Ruchti plumbs into each character, scene, and description. Every word is hand-picked to build the themes of control and letting go, listening or doing, covering or celebrating flaws, and the impossibilities that only God can overcome. Cynthia hits her stride in Restoring Christmas, her best yet. Readers will be wanting to hire Alexis and Gabe for their next restoration project, which I hope Cynthia already has planned!”

Wanda Erickson, Regional Library Director

“Cynthia Ruchti writes fiction that touches people’s hearts. Her work is often as significant as what professional counselors do in their therapy sessions to heal people’s emotional wounds. I highly recommend her novels.”

Dr. Judith Rolfs, author and licensed family counselor





ROASTED CHESTNUT LATTE? How can that be a bad thing?

Alexis Blake shuffled forward in line as two of the three customers ahead of her finished paying for their beverages. The only person left now in the chasm between her and coffee stepped up to place his order. A defensive linebacker–sized guy with espresso-colored hair curling over his collar. Alexis caught sight of the chalkboard boasting the Caffé Tlazo breakfast special of the day. Wild mushroom and crispy shallot quiche. Not her typical organic yogurt and blueberry quick-fix breakfast. And not what she expected from an unpretentious café in an unpretentious town along the western shore of Lake Michigan.

Algoma. She rehearsed it in her head for the sake of any sensitive locals: Al (as in Pal) GO-muh. The town might have shared Lake Michigan with Chicago more than two hundred miles to the south, but it had little else in common with the metropolis. Alexis hadn’t seen much more of shore-hugging Algoma than what edged the road that brought her to town. The highway wove through farmland and orchards, slowing her down with interspersed villages clustered around a cheese factory, winery, or connection to the “Old Country.”

She’d sat at the stop sign in Algoma too long where Highway 54 decided it was done, the highway creators as startled by the view as she was, apparently. The road teed with a wide-sweeping vista of Lake Michigan and the curious, skinny, red lighthouse at the tip of the breakwater. Turning south at the tee would have taken her toward Kewaunee by way of Alaska. The town, not the state. North led to the heart of her destination, home to the most important client she’d never met. Would soon meet. Right after Alexis signed the contract with the videographer.

After a flood of email exchanges, she was about to meet the local videographer who could either propel her career forward or ruin it.

While she waited for the linebacker to finish gabbing with the barista, she checked the clock on her phone. Fifteen minutes. She had fifteen minutes to place her order and get settled before George Langley arrived. Not much breathing space, but the drive from Green Bay, across the stubby base of Wisconsin’s thumb, took longer than expected. As had picking out an outfit that said “confident but approachable.” She unbuttoned her wool coat. Late October. Too warm for wool. Too cold for a lighter jacket.

Alexis scanned the customers already seated. As eclectic a mix as the artsy décor. Nobody matched the description of the George Langley she’d seen on the website, a man with silver hair, distinctive bushy eyebrows, and sparkling deep-water eyes.

The chatty guy in front of her turned after slipping a dollar into the tip jar and headed toward the small, mismatched tables scattered throughout the compact café. A room that looked as if it had lived an earlier life as a screened-in porch held additional tables and chairs—slate-topped wrought iron, patio-style.

No. No, no, no. The ex-football player chose the one table he couldn’t have, the one by the windows in the southeast corner. The spot where she and George were destined to plot out the next eight weeks of her life, and maybe longer. Maybe the next eight, ten, twenty years, if the audition video went well. No. This guy could not have that table.

She corrected the details of her fumbled order—her fault—focused on the task at hand, added more to the tip jar, and launched herself toward the corner table.

“Excuse me, sir. Would you mind moving to another spot? I’m meeting someone here.” She tapped the slate tabletop with her index finger. “Here.”

“No can do.”

Nice smile. Nice try. “I’d really appreciate it. I’ve never met the man before and . . .”

“Blind date, huh? Breakfast blind date?” He nodded as if contemplating. “Uncommon, but not unwise.”

A waitress set a blue-green and chocolate brown pottery mug in front of the irritant. The foamed milk on top sported a design that looked like a cross between a heart and a fern leaf. Classy touch.

“It’s a business meeting,” Alexis said, pulling her laptop case off her shoulder as if that would convince him.

“Me, too. Here. Right”—he tapped with his index finger—“here.”

“Couldn’t you just—” She surveyed the room. “There’s an empty table in the other corner.”

“Yes. I’m sure you’ll be completely comfortable there for your ‘business meeting.’”

Was it so hard to believe she was a professional? Well, on her way to becoming a professional? She removed her coat and slipped it over the back of the chair she wanted. The chair she intended to occupy. That ought to convince him. Her “confident yet approachable” black suit jacket and sweater paired with her favorite copper statement necklace ought to let him know she was there for serious discussion, not romance.

The linebacker leaned forward. “You connected with him on the Internet, didn’t you?”

“Technically, yes. But not in the way you’re thinking. He’s—”

The man shrugged. “Sometimes it works out.”

Was he trying to cheerlead for her dating life? Or volunteer to be her life coach?

“And sometimes,” he said, leaning back, “you wind up with a man totally different from what you expected.” He sipped his coffee drink and dabbed at the resulting foam mustache with the cloth napkin. It was still wrapped around his eating utensils.

Alexis sighed and glanced at the entrance. No one matching the face, age, or graying hair of the videographer had arrived yet. She still had time to—

“Why don’t you wait here?” He pulled out the chair draped with her coat. “I don’t have to move. You can still connect with what’s-his-name. Win-win.”

She stood her ground, weighing the idea.

The barista approached with her roasted chestnut latte. “Where do you want me to put this?”

“Miss Blake is joining me here.” Moustache Man tapped the table. “Right here.”

That smile. That “is he serious?” smile—wait. He knew her name? Oh. The tag on her laptop case. “Fine. Yes. I’m sitting.”

She took a third chair rather than the one offered and wrapped her hands around her mug, seafoam green with a drizzle of coppery glaze near the lip. Handcrafted mugs. Interesting. If the coffee was as good as it smelled, she might find this a frequent stop during her term in Algoma. But first—

“You’re not George Langley.” Definitely not. But those eyes. She’d seen them before.

“He’s my dad.”

“That’s who I’m meeting. I’m Alexis Blake. I’m hiring him to do a project for me.” The dot-to-dot connecting lines swerved between points. “I don’t have to tell you that, do I?” Not the smooth introduction she’d planned. “He’s coming, isn’t he?” So much hinges on this. Please tell me he’ll be here any minute.

“No.” He took another sip of his coffee and made room for the server to set down his meal order, and a duplicate of the plate in front of Alexis.

Quiche. The man eats quiche.

“My dad is unavoidably detained.”

Oh, no.

“For the next three or four weeks. Maybe six.”

“What? What are you saying?” The production schedule couldn’t afford a three-day delay, much less three weeks.

He sat with his head bowed a moment, then said, “Blew out a disc in his back last night loading camera equipment into the van. We didn’t know how bad it was until he called from the medical center an hour ago.” He spread what looked like blackberry jam on the rustic toast that came with their quiche. “They’re still deciding whether to do surgery or not. But in any case, he’s unavailable for a while. I’m Gabe, by the way.”

“I’m devastated. Pleased to meet you.” As good as it smelled, breakfast would not sit well in her stomach. Ever again. Yes, Aunt Sarah, I came by the title Drama Queen honestly. I earned it.

“Well, Devastated, I hope you don’t mind choosing a new nickname. I’m here to fill in for my dad.”

“I know you meant that to sound comforting, but—” She got as far as picking up her fork. No further. Her mind raced ahead to the disastrous possibilities. George Langley came with credentials and videography awards. Gabe Langley came with . . . jam on his shirt. “You have a little something right”—she pointed to the spot—“there.”

“Now, see? If I’d worn my flannel lumberjack shirt, it would have blended right in.” He swiped at the dark blob with his napkin.

Flannel. Lumberjack.

“Miss Blake . . .”

“Alexis.”

That irritatingly bright smile stole across his face again. “Let me assure you I’ve had more than a little experience behind a video camera. Hey, Kevin!”

From across the room, a young man with tasteful highlights and an unnatural tan waved back. “Gabe.”

“Did I or did I not do a magnificent job filming your wedding this summer?”

“Magnificent. As of today, Melissa and I are still married.”

“And there you go,” Gabe said, as if that settled it. “Try the quiche. It’s great.”

The conversation had gone on too long. “Gabe, I appreciate your willingness to fill in for your dad. But I’m not sure you understand what’s at stake.”

“I think I have an idea. You’re restoring an old house in the area and you need someone to film the process.”

“Yes, but it’s not just for my own use.”

“I know that. I read the contract.”

“Which your father was supposed to sign today.”

The too-bright face darkened. “Miss Blake, I do know how to sign my name.”

The sweater . . .