Oh, Christmas Night Read online

  Oh, Christmas Night

  Jane Porter

  Oh, Christmas Night

  Copyright © 2019 Jane Porter

  Kindle Edition

  The Tule Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  First Publication by Tule Publishing 2019

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-951190-30-9

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  Dedication

  For Maggie Marr who encourages my dreams!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Love on Chance Avenue Series

  Excerpt from Not Christmas Without You

  More Books by Jane Porter

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Alissa Callen for sharing her bookstore, Paradise Books, and her lovely characters Lesley and Nash with me. I am grateful for your generosity and how Marietta magic lives on!

  Thank you to the magnificent Kelly Hunter for editing Oh, Christmas Night. Your suggestions were spot on and helped shape Atticus and Rachel’s story, giving them the happy-ever-after they deserved.

  Thank you to the Tule team for having my back, especially Cyndi and Meghan for brainstorming and Jenny for being an early reader. Couldn’t have gotten through this one without you!

  Thank you Ty Gurney and my boys for being patient while I rewrote chapter 1 twenty times, and then chapter 2 about twenty five times….and so on, and so on.

  Thank you to my favorite librarian in the world, John Charles. John, I’m lucky to call you my friend, and grateful you always look out for me.

  Thank you to my readers who encourage me and keep me wanting to tell new stories. You are truly the best.

  And lastly, thank you to Brenda Novak, who is something of my very own guardian angel. So much love to you for all your support over the years.

  xo

  Chapter One

  Rachel Mills felt positively ill. She sat down at her desk, and covered her face with her hands, struggling to breathe.

  She didn’t get the promotion.

  She’d been passed over, again.

  Her throat thickened and her eyes burned, hot and gritty. It didn’t make sense. No one in her department had more experience, or a better work ethic, than she did. No one at Novak & Bartley put in more hours, or handled more, clients than she did.

  How could they promote Jay Shields over her? He’d been hired three years after her. He used up every bit of his vacation time each year, every year, and then some. He frequently made mistakes requiring her to go in and clean up after him. She routinely solved problems he couldn’t. So why reward him?

  Rachel didn’t want to believe it was because Jay was a man. She really, truly didn’t want to go there… but every person promoted these past few years had been a man. Plenty of women worked at Novak & Bartley, but most in support positions. She’d known this going in, too, but she’d viewed the lack of female leadership as an opportunity to prove herself.

  And she had.

  She’d gone over and above, time and again. She’d brought in new clients, increased the firm’s revenue, and had saved important accounts that were unhappy and wanted to go.

  She’d done the research and crunched the numbers, and knew what was required to be promoted, too. She understood that one couldn’t ask for, or expect, more responsibility if one wasn’t adding sufficient value, which was why she was handling big accounts, and big money, and she didn’t make mistakes.

  So why was she not recognized?

  Rachel squeezed her eyes closed, air bottling in her lungs. She was hurt, but even more so, she was angry. The first oversight had been disappointing, but to be passed over three times? To be given flimsy excuses by upper management?

  She wasn’t a child. She didn’t appreciate being patronized. But, really, she had no one else to blame. She’d known during the interview process eight years ago that she’d be one of the only female accountants at the firm, but it hadn’t worried her. She’d naively thought she’d be able to prove to them they’d hired the right person, and she’d demonstrate competency and excellence and she’d be the first of many women to work for Novak & Bartley.

  But that hadn’t been the case.

  Yes, a few female accountants had been hired after her, but none of them had been given a chance for advancement. None of them were invited to participate in Novak & Bartley’s annual golf tournament or the other VIP client events, either. It was as if they’d all hit a glass ceiling—and in this case, the ceiling was very, very low.

  A light knock sounded on her door and Rachel lifted her head to see Alicia, one of the young women that worked in administration, standing in the doorway with a bright yellow package.

  “I knew you’d be here,” Alicia said confidently. “Lots of the others have already left for Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanksgiving isn’t for another two days,” Rachel answered, sitting taller, squaring her shoulders. “What are your plans for the holiday? Going anywhere?”

  “Heading to Santa Barbara. My boyfriend’s family is there.”

  “Nice.”

  “What about you?”

  Rachel gestured to the boxes stacked in the corner. “Probably here, preparing for the SynTan audit.”

  “That’s not for months.”

  “Early January, but it’s better to be prepared.”

  “You’re the queen of prepared,” Alicia said, smiling as she handed the package over. “This just arrived. It’s from Australia. Do we have clients in Australia?”

  “I don’t,” Rachel answered, straightening. “Not sure about the firm.”

  Alicia disappeared and Rachel turned the thick, padded DHL envelope over to read the address label. It had been sent from Lesley Hart, Rachel’s godmother, a godmother Rachel had only met a couple of times in her life, the last time being at Rachel’s mother’s funeral twelve years ago. Rachel had been a senior in high school and the funeral had been a blur of tears and hugs, as well as her father’s stoic silence, and after it was all over, she just wanted to put it behind her. She wanted to forget the pain and grief and she buried herself in her studies, because the one thing in life that didn’t let her down was numbers. Numbers never failed, and numbers never lied. Little wonder she chose accounting as her college major.

  Uncertain as to what this mythical godmother had sent her, Rachel opened the envelope and drew out another envelope, this one bumpy with a letter, a folder of papers, and a key on a small key ring with a painted decorative accent that read “Big Sky.”

  Frowning, Rachel held the key ri
ng for a moment, the key pressed to her palm. Years ago her mother talked about being from Big Sky country, but Rachel had only been there once, and she was so young at the time that she didn’t remember it. Setting the key aside, she read the brief letter, and then read it again, more baffled with every reading.

  It seemed that her godmother, the one she’d only met a handful of times, was gifting her a bookstore. In Montana. In the town where Rachel’s mother had grown up.

  Perplexed, she read the letter a third time.

  My dear Rachel,

  I apologize for missing your 30th birthday last month, but hope it was happy. I thought of you on your special day, and I thought of your mother, too, and how proud she’d be of you. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better godmother but please know I carry you and your mother in my heart.

  To celebrate your 30th birthday, and your impressive accomplishments, I am giving you Paradise Books, my bookstore in Marietta. I can’t imagine anyone more deserving. May it bring you the joy it brought me.

  With all my love,

  Lesley

  Rachel blinked hard, the sudden rise of emotion catching her off guard, not just by the gift, but by the mention of her mother. No one mentioned her mother anymore. Dad certainly didn’t discuss her, and Rachel didn’t think of her, either, finding the memories too painful.

  Rachel folded the letter, hiding the words and the emotion, and reached for the paperwork. There was a great deal of paperwork, too, as the gifting of a business, even a small business, wasn’t a small thing. The government didn’t just let one “gift” a business. There were taxes and paperwork, and more taxes, things Rachel knew well as a corporate tax specialist.

  The paperwork included a description of the business—a historic red brick building which included an apartment carved from the attic rafters, allowing the owner to both live and work on the historic premises—along with the most recent tax returns on the building which indicated that the store hadn’t been open in several years.

  Lesley shared in a handwritten note that the turn of the century brick building was paid for, and the property taxes had been taken care of for the next year, but she was aware that Rachel would incur some taxes with the gift and she hoped that the taxes wouldn’t be an undue burden. There was value in the store, but to be honest, most of the value was in the building itself, and Lesley suggested Rachel visit Marietta and see the store for herself. In fact, Lesley added, if she had time, she should go soon since Christmas was one of the nicest times of years in Marietta.

  Exasperated, Rachel pushed the paperwork away, and turned in her chair to glance out the office window with its view of the 405 freeway and the tall Ferris wheel at Irvine Spectrum.

  What was she supposed to do with a bookstore in Montana? Rachel’s entire world was here. She’d been born and raised in Irvine, attending UC Irvine where she’d studied accounting, and Irvine was where she lived now, just seven miles from Novak & Bartley’s main office. How did one just pop into Marietta for a visit? It wasn’t close. It wasn’t convenient. And this wasn’t a gift Rachel could use.

  Weren’t fairy godmothers supposed to show up when you needed them? Weren’t they supposed to swoop in and make things better?

  Rachel turned from the window, her gaze sweeping in her office with the towering pile of files, and boxes of documents stacked in the corners, and it struck her quite forcefully that she’d sacrificed almost everything for this company and suddenly she wasn’t sure the sacrifices had been worth it. She’d let go of relationships and friendships for longer work hours, and how had it mattered? She wasn’t getting anywhere. And even if she stayed with Novak & Bartley, it was unlikely she’d ever make partner.

  Exhaling hard, she reached for the keychain with the Big Sky accent, and turned it over, the worn brass smooth against her skin. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so devastated.

  She’d poured herself into her job. She’d sacrificed virtually everything for work. There had been a plan, and it had looked so neat and tidy on paper. X number of clients times Y number of years and she’d be a manager, and then a director, and eventually a partner. Only it wasn’t working out that way. Her numbers were letting her down—no, Rachel stopped herself, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t the numbers that let her down. It was people.

  So, what was she going to do? Go somewhere else, do something else, or just put her head down and work harder? Rachel didn’t know. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t get perspective.

  She craved air, and space, and a chance to relax. Breathe.

  Maybe a visit to this old bookstore in the middle of nowhere was exactly what she needed.

  *

  Atticus Evan Bowen, much like his namesake Atticus Finch, was an attorney from the South, unlike the fictional Finch, Atticus Bowen was from Houston, Texas, not Maycomb, Alabama, and his specialty was real estate law.

  Atticus loved making deals, and nothing was more rewarding than closing a very challenging deal. After a stint as a litigation attorney, he’d switched to real estate law and had found his niche because he wasn’t afraid of hard conversations and tough negotiations. Where others might shrink from conflict, he felt encouraged, even empowered. Through experience he’d learned to rely on reason, not emotion, and so far, reason had never let him down.

  His mother—who’d named him Atticus because To Kill a Mockingbird was her favorite novel—had said that her Atticus was pragmatic from the start, refusing to put in an appearance for nine days after his due date, choosing to stay put until the torrential rains flooding Houston had ended, and the streets had dried. No, Atticus Bowen was nothing but practical, and he exhausted his parents and teachers with his logic, as well as his ability to withstand stress and uncomfortable situations, virtually guaranteeing that, in the end, he got what he wanted. As a boy, it was winning chess tournaments and baseball games. As an adult, he acquired buildings, businesses, opportunities.

  There was an opportunity before him now, and he was determined to seize it.

  “Lesley, you know I want that building,” he said calmly, shifting the cell phone to his other ear. “We’ve been doing this for over a year. Tell me what you want. I want to make this happen, and I’ll be more than fair.”

  “Atticus, it’s out of my hands now—”

  “Do you want me to fly to Australia? Would you feel better if you met me in person? I’ll get on the next flight, if that’s the issue.”

  “Of course I’d love to meet you, Atticus, but that’s not the issue. You see, I don’t own Paradise Books anymore. I’ve given the bookstore to my goddaughter. Rachel is the owner now. It’s up to Rachel to decide what she’d like to do with the place.”

  Atticus had to hold his breath and count to five. “When did this happen?” he asked when he was certain he could speak calmly.

  “Rather recently. It was a belated birthday gift.” Her tone turned apologetic. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I just wasn’t ready to see my beloved bookstore become a barbecue joint.”

  “Galveston doesn’t serve barbecue. It’s a steak house. An upscale steak house.”

  “But it still meant the books would go, wouldn’t it? And that would be such a shame.”

  He counted to five again. “Your goddaughter, Rachel. She lives in Marietta?”

  “No. She’s from Southern California. She’s an accountant and very clever, very successful. I’m terribly proud of her.”

  Atticus was glad the older woman couldn’t see him roll his eyes. “What is Rachel going to do with a bookstore if she lives in California?”

  “I don’t know. That’s up to her.”

  “I’d like to reach out to her.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Lesley said primly.

  He smashed his sigh of exasperation. “Would you mind sharing her contact details with me?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure I should, not without her permission. However, I understand she’ll be spending the next week in Marietta, so you might be able to catch her
at Paradise Books.” She hesitated before adding lightly, “If you are willing to jump on a plane.”

  So, to Montana he went, even though it was Thanksgiving weekend.

  He flew in Saturday night, checked in to the Graff Hotel, and then walked the three blocks to have a look at Paradise Books on Main Street.

  The wind gusted and howled as he stood on the corner, looking up at the two-story, corner building he’d admired ever since he first visited the charming Paradise Valley town two and a half years ago. This building would be the perfect location for his first Galveston Steak House in Montana.

  Atticus had started Galveston ten years ago with friends. He hadn’t put a lot of money into the first restaurant, but he’d handled all the paperwork and contracts, and proved his value when the new restaurant was hit with its first lawsuit filed by a disgruntled former chef. Atticus handled the lawsuit quickly and quietly and, before long, one location became two, and then four, and then seven. But as the Galveston brand grew, so did the problems, and maybe they were just little things to other people, but little things added up to big things, and when a huge financial setback threatened to close the seven restaurants dotting Texas, Nevada, California and Colorado, he stepped in, bought his partners out, and became the sole owner.

  He liked being the sole owner, too, and as sole owner he’d made changes to the restaurants, improving the menu, improving the service, and bumping up prices, because when people went to a good steak house, they expected great steaks and expensive wine. People never minded paying for excellent cocktails and the best wine, and liquor was where the profits were anyway. Now he was ready to add an eighth location, the first in Montana, right here in Marietta, right in the old bookstore.

  “Excuse me, I think I’m turned around,” a young woman said, approaching him on the street. Her purple knit cap was pulled down low on her forehead, and her arms bundled across her chest. Her coat didn’t look quite adequate for a Montana winter, and her cheeks were blotchy from the cold. “I was told there are several places serving dinner on Main. Grey’s was mentioned, and then a diner.”