Two unlikely hearts, and a community, come together during adverse times in a moving story of holiday hopes, tender blessings, and love that breathes new life into even the most fragile—from the international bestselling author of the California-set Miramar Bay novels. Ryan Eames is a policewoman and single mother dedicated most of all to her lonely, uniquely gifted son. Stretched thin by double shifts and grappling with an out-of-season coastal wildfire, Christmas cheer feels as far away as a distant carol on a winter night. Until duty draws her into the life of a stranger. Ethan Lange is alive because Ryan reached his canyon home before the blaze. Christmas is weeks away, and Ethan has lost everything. A man reckoning with a painful past, it’s not the first time he’s been forced to start over. At least now it’s in the redeeming embrace of Miramar Bay. Forging an animal rescue operation, Ryan and Ethan first unite by their cause and the rally of a close-knit community. But it’s Ryan’s extraordinary child who draws them into something deeper and surprising. Something to be thankful for. Now with every beat of their hearts, Christmas in Miramar Bay looks to be a season of love, healing, and sweet mercies that will be remembered for a lifetime.
Release date:
October 25, 2022
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
304
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Twelve days before Christmas, Ethan Lange woke to the smell of ashes and the hum of tiny wings.
He’d had the same predawn dream every night since losing his home. It stayed with him as he padded into the kitchen and made coffee. Six months earlier, Ethan had been wandering around the streets behind Miramar’s business district and came upon a nearly derelict home with a FOR SALE BY OWNER sign planted in the front weeds. The house was scarcely nine hundred square feet, an abused vacation home on an oversized yard. The asking price basically covered the cost of land, with a few thousand extra for the building permits already in place. Ethan had no idea why he had bought it. His life was already overfull. He had a second job that brought in a good, if unsteady, income. But instead of flipping the property, as he probably should have, he slowly launched himself into the renovation process and found he loved it.
Once work on the roof and electricity and plumbing and windows were completed, Ethan tore out the kitchen. Then the bathroom. He spent the next two weekends stripping away the rotting carpets and replacing almost a quarter of the floorboards. He then decided the ceiling needed to go as well. Out went the awful drop-down squares, in came a crew to help tear out the insulation, sand and polish the rafters, and set in place a new A-frame ceiling of polished maple.
Ethan ate breakfast standing by the new counter, surveying his open-plan main room. The house still contained the vague smell of paint and sawdust. His kitchen held a few plates, two cheap pots, a meager collection of utensils. All his clothes, except two new business suits, were gifts from neighbors and colleagues. His fridge was full to bursting with food, his cupboards crammed with booze and wine. Almost everybody who dropped off gifts calmly ignored his thanks.
He found an odd sense of comfort being sheltered in a home he had rebuilt. It did not fill the empty spaces caused by the fire. But it helped. A lot.
Breakfast done, he sorted through the three shipping crates seeing duty as his closet, came up with a clean shirt and trousers and tie, and headed out.
He walked the seven blocks to work beneath a china-blue sky. Mid-December usually saw the early winter storms come sweeping in from the Pacific, windswept furies that lashed the town with much-needed rain. But this year, the desert winds continued to push in from the east, months after they normally faded into memory. They gave rise to the driest autumn anyone could remember, following upon the hottest summer on record.
It had rained once in September, a squall that lashed the coast for a day and a half. The locals took it as a good sign, for such winter storms were vital. They filled the reservoirs and eased the threat of fires wreaking havoc through the inland valleys. Only this year, the squall passed, the skies cleared, and the desert winds returned. Blowing acrid and constant right through October and into November. By Thanksgiving, Ethan’s morning drives into work were marked by people standing in clusters, up and down Miramar’s main streets. All of their faces turned east, searching, fretting.
A week later, smoke began staining the cloudless sky.
Nowadays even the softest morning breeze carried a hint of smoke. By midafternoon, the smell of distant fires dominated the town.
Ethan considered California Christmases to be rainbow events—as in, explosive colors fashioned from the locals’ various heritages. Miramar had a strong Latino population, mostly Mexican, but a considerable number of Ecuadorians and Colombians. They were never more passionate about their traditions than at Christmas, which made the town very lively indeed: There were parties and fiestas. Music and lights and fireworks. Singing and laughter and too much food. Even this year, when wildfires streaked the sky with dark ribbons and everyone worried about the future of their town.
For the past six years, Christmas had been little more than a time of marking the anniversary of his divorce and the end of his marriage. He had found it almost natural to retreat from the town and its festive air. He did not resent others celebrating. He simply felt excluded.
Central Coast Savings and Loan occupied the largest building on Miramar’s main business street. It was also the town’s oldest bank, founded in the early days of the twentieth century and still possessing the stolid grace of earlier times. Ethan arrived at precisely ten minutes to nine and stared at his reflection in the glass doors, a tall and slim and precise man in his mid-thirties. Finally Dolores, the head teller, unlocked the doors and ushered him inside.
The bank was decorated with a small tree and three holly wreaths and a long stream of ivy above the teller windows, all holding lights that blinked a cheery welcome. The bank’s main chamber was huge, with a granite-tiled floor and a mahogany central standing-desk. The ceiling was twenty-four feet high, with lovely Spanish-style painted rafters and a trio of brass chandeliers. Ethan’s desk was situated behind a waist-high barrier of carved redwood, with a little swinging door as his entry.
The day proceeded along its holiday season course. Slow and cheery, with a pause at lunchtime for a miniature office party. Ethan pretended to drink a cup of mildly spiked eggnog and enjoyed the gentle pranks of exchanging mystery gifts with people whose names were drawn from a hat. What was not to love.
As the afternoon wound down, a call came in on his direct line. His closest friend in Los Angeles greeted him: “I know you said never to call your office. But I’ve been trying to reach you for a week.”
“I lost my phone in the fire.”
“If that’s a joke, it’s a bad one.”
Ethan had been working on and off for Noah Hearst since the year after his divorce. What had once been a secret passion had gradually become a second profession. Ethan enjoyed working with Noah, even under the high-pressure conditions that dominated everything to do with the world of Hollywood. “No joke. The fire swept down my valley in less than half an hour. All I took out was the T-shirt and jockey shorts I was wearing. Not even a pair of shoes.”
Noah said, “I’m so sorry.”
“Life goes on,” Ethan replied. He gave Noah the number to his new cell.
“I’d be happy to offer you space in my operation.”
“You mean, move to LA?”
“Just for a few months.”
“Not even for a few minutes.”
“Put a little more venom in that response. Tell me what you really think of my town.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you? A mortgage on a vacation home?”
“I need your help with a new project. Harvey Chambers, head of Chambers Broadcasting, heard of him?”
“The name, sure.”
“He wants to resurrect a Christmas story that’s been out of print for decades. He was raised on them. They’re seven books in all, and Harvey thinks they’ll be a hit with a new generation.”
“Seven books, you said.”
“Right.”
Ethan felt a kindling of unaccustomed excitement. “Not the Elven Child.”
Noah went quiet. Then, “Okay, this is spooky.”
“The Elven Child books were my absolute favorite stories as a kid. My grandparents had a full set. I read them until they fell apart.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“Those were almost Harvey’s exact words. Apparently, he was orphaned at an early age. Raised by his grandparents. His grandfather introduced Harvey to the books. It formed a bond that got him through some very tough times.”
“I like the man already.”
“So do I, and I was with the guy for exactly ninety seconds. Less. Their in-house producer thinks the world of Chambers.” Noah paused. “There’s a kicker.”
“There usually is.”
“CBC is notoriously tight when it comes to production budgets. The executive board sees this whole project as a huge risk. Chambers has ordered them to resurrect a series that hasn’t been in print for almost fifty years. They’re talking a minuscule budget.”
“I’d do this work for free.”
“For the record, that’s not the smartest negotiating tactic I’ve ever heard.”
“I mean it. Count me in.”
“They’re tentatively planning the first film for next year’s Christmas special. Wait, I’ve got the name down here somewhere.”
“The Crystal Pipe.”
“Which means we’ve got to jump on this.” Noah’s words accelerated. “They want this as a mix of live action and CGI. Did you ever see the film Beetlejuice?”
“Years ago.”
“Shot in the late eighties, won an Academy Award, big hit. It uses a miniature village for part of the action, supposedly shrinking down the characters for those scenes. Chambers wants us to use a similar setup to introduce the elves. Apparently he plans on staying personally involved. Which may be good and may be an awful waste of time.” Noah waited. “Hello?”
“Thinking.”
“According to Harvey, the idea is to shoot several scenes when they pan over this model village. Credits, dream sequences, the first time the child sees the elves. They do live in a village, correct?”
“Yes, Noah. Inside a tree.”
A silence, then: “How do they get a town inside a tree? Do elves shrink in this story?”
“That’s part of the magic. Have you even read the stories?”
“I’ve got orders out with two rare-book stores. The producer’s promised me a script as soon as it gets in-house approval. Back to the subject at hand.”
“A miniature elven village, built on a miniature budget. Got it.”
“I’ll pay you what I can,” Noah promised. “If it’s a hit, we’ve been offered a seven-film deal. And a bigger budget moving forward. So, when can I expect your initial designs?”
Ryan entered the party wondering if she would ever get the smell of smoke out of her hair. The crowd was good natured and well-oiled and getting both noisy and loose. She saw a couple of younger men shift their attention to her, and wondered if there was going to be trouble. But before they could make a move, their boss waved and started over.”
“Ryan Eames, did I get that right?”
“Thanks for inviting me, Mr. Acosta.”
“Please, I’m Berto to my pals.” He was big and ruddy and strong in a manner that belied his fifty-something age. “Any officer working with Porter Wright is a friend in my book. Can I get you a drink?”
“Thanks, but I’m on duty.”
He surveyed her outfit, a Versace pantsuit she had found on the designer rack at Off Fifth. “Miramar’s police ladies are definitely going up market.” He gestured with the hand holding his drink at the mostly male crowd watching them. “There’s about sixty dozen of my buddies out there who are waiting for the chance to make your acquaintance. A few of them might even be single. And a lot more who wish they were.”
“Do us both a favor, and tell them my badge is in my purse. Along with my faithful companion, Mister Glock.”
He had a big laugh, open and happy. “I like you, Ryan. Okay if I call you that?”
“It’s my name.”
He pointed them across the room. “Why don’t we take this over to where my wife can see I’m not trying out any rusty moves of my own. She’s the lovely lady watching us like a hawk.”
Berto Acosta owned one of the central coast’s largest home builders. His annual Christmas party filled Miramar’s town hall and spilled onto both front and rear porches. A band was setting up on the chamber’s stubby stage, while a dozen bow-tied waiters hovered around the bar and buffet line. Ryan asked, “What can you tell me about Ethan Lange?”
Berto lost his smile. “Who wants to know—the cop or this nice-looking lady?”
“I told you, sir. I’m on the job.”
Berto did not speak again until they stood before his wife. “Hon, this is Ryan Eames. Ryan, Amelia. Officer Eames is interested in Ethan.”
The woman’s gaze was dark, glacial. “Why are you asking about my friend?”
Ryan took note of the woman’s protective anger, decided it actually worked in her favor. “It’s a highly sensitive matter.”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh, lady. That doesn’t work in my book. Not with Ethan.”
“He’s not in any kind of trouble, if that’s what concerns you. I have a very special assignment. I need his help.”
Her husband offered, “Porter vouches for her.”
Amelia continued to burn Ryan with her gaze. “So tell us about this assignment.”
Ryan heard the woman’s challenge. Loud and clear. “It’s best if you didn’t discuss this with others.”
“Do I look like I want to gossip? Me, refusing to talk about Ethan until you clarify just exactly what it is that you’re wanting from my friend?”
Ryan decided she liked this woman. “About half of the homes under threat from the fire are currently vacant.”
“Sure. Second homes used for weekends and vacations,” Berto said. “They’re some of my best customers.”
“We need to check out homes after they’ve been caught in the fire line,” Ryan said. “Some of the structures remain partially intact. Others have safes or fireproof cellars. I’m hoping I can convince Mr. Lange to help secure items that haven’t been destroyed—”
“Ethan’s perfect,” Berto declared.
“He’s a good and honest man,” his wife agreed.
Ryan looked from one to the other, saw a pair of confident expressions. She found herself wondering if her own friends would be so, well, definite. “Can you give me a little more to go on?”
Amelia said, “We have an expression, ‘Tiene muchos trasfondos.’”
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