The Writer (10 page)

BOOK: The Writer

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"Not blondes!" Luke called after us.

Marion shot me a look that just said, boys! "I swear, Rochelle, if you ever have a teenage boy, keep him away from girls! Or pray to God he doesn't think he's God's gift to women like Luke does!"

"Present, Ma, I am a present, it's Christmas," Luke called, the back door slamming behind him.

"I don't know how you do it, M," I said, taking a seat at the wide breakfast counter that was laden with cookies of every shape, size, and color. I chose a particularly tasty looking one akin to a candy cane. The peppermint and white chocolate flavor was exquisite.

"I need a nanny," she said, pulling more treats out of the oven.

"If I have four boys, a nanny would be at the top of my Christmas list!" I exclaimed, devouring a chocolate looking sweet.

"Watch, just watch, you'll have all girls, and they will all be smart and gorgeous, just like you."

"Ma!" Levi called in the front door. "Da's here, he's bringing in firewood!"

Less than a minute later, both Leo, Marion's husband, tramped through the door in heavy boots. He still had on his bright orange reflective vest, and through the frosted glass of the oak front door I could see his power truck parked safely in the driveway, the white ladder tucked nearly on top. He was a big man, with a belly built of whiskey and a head of shoulder length blond hair he tied back in a ponytail. He had a stack of 5 split logs in his hands, that he dumped in the bin by the roaring fireplace.

"Hallo, Chelle," he nodded towards me. "My boys causin' ya some trouble?"

"No, although I did almost suffer death by football the minute I walked in the door." I smiled. Although they had immigrated here about 10 years ago, Leo O'Malley had retained nearly perfect accent. It was a refreshing.

"Football?" he stripped off his vest, hanging it in the closet behind the front door. His boots echoed heavily on the floor. He grabbed a handful of cookies as he crossed to the back door. "Lukey m'boy, toss one to ya ol' Da!" and shut the door behind him. Liam and Levi jumped up to join them.

"Man of few words, he is," I said to Marion.

"I could be so lucky a wife," she replied, pushing her thin framed glasses up on her nose.

"I hope I can find a man like that – strong, silent, and hard working," I said wistfully, without realizing I had said it out loud.

"Aye, I love my Leo but sometimes I wish he wasn't a' dumb a' a bag o' rocks."

I stared. My mouth was probably open.

"Oh, don't ya look a' me like that," Marion chided, putting the large bird in the oven. "He's good for the boys, and puts this roof over my head. But just sometimes, I wish we could discuss Hemingway or Hughes, Stephen King or James Patterson. He's just not much on th' talkin'... or the thinkin', really."

Hemingway. Elijah and I had discussed "Hills like White Elephants" forever, debating the real meaning behind the dialogue. Our heated discussion had turned to laughing hysterically over what kind of beer they were drinking. Good times.

"I supposed I'll just take a man who works hard but also likes to read. I'd be happy with that." I'd be happy with Elijah.

Marion only smiled.

After a few more snacks and a glass of sweet red wine, it was time for presents. Even Luke, a senior in high school, squealed with delight at his video games, football helmet, and new cleats. Levi and Liam was excited to find a new basketball hoop for the garage, and a video game system. The living room was littered with paper, boxes, and shreds of sticky tape before long.

Dinner was a delicious roasted goose, while Leo complained of the price of a good bird in America. There was broiled cabbage with cracked pepper and fresh shaved garlic, wild rice with bacon and cranberries, parsley and butter laded mashed potatoes, and never ending wine that flowed for the adults. Marion was an amazing cook, and I was delighted to pass on my compliments to the chef.

It was a meal fit for royalty, and a day that celebrated all that was good about the holidays.

As I went to leave, Marion and Leo stopped me while I shrugged on my coat. "This is for you," Marion said, pushing a small package into my hands. "Open it later," she whispered in my ear.

I nodded, and thanked them for a wonderful Christmas.

Backing out of the driveway, I finally allowed myself to cry. It was the best going-away party a girl could ask for.

As I waved good bye to the American Coastline on Monday morning, the plane tilting with its accent, I wiped away the tears and urged my ears to release pressure. I was leaving so much behind, but I had so much to look forward to.

Just before the Electronics Nazi – some called them stewardesses – made us shut down devices, a text message from Marion beeped on my phone:

I just got a call from Elijah's mom. He and Alicia were in a car accident, and are in the hospital, he's unconscious, looks bad –

"Excuse me," the stewardess said, ripping my phone from my hand and holding down the power button. "ALL electronics off, please," and threw my phone in my lap.

I was frantic. Oh my God, Elijah. I had to go back; I had to see if he was okay...

The rush of the engines clouded my sensitive ears as we rapidly soared into the air, and I realized there was no going back.

THE END OF BOOK ONE

Continue the story by reading the rest of the romantic

Postcards from Paris series by Author Rebekah Dodson.

Book Two: The Runaway

Book Three: The Dependent

Book Four: The Independent

Book Five: The Choice

Book Six: Heart and Soul

Be sure to “Like” Rebekah Dodson on Facebook and find out

early when her next books will be released!