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Looking for something to read during the holidays? Like a quick, fun read with a little spice? Look no further –   Second Chance Christmas is now available at Amazon.

 Second Chance Christmas

“Nice ride.” He spoke in a neutral tone.

“Thanks.” I shifted into gear and pulled away. The heated seats quickly warmed the chilly car. I wove my way through the city streets, heading toward I-395. With the hour so late, the highway would be free of heavy traffic and the fastest way to get to Colton’s condo in Shirlington, Virginia.

He broke the silence. “I’m not staying at my apartment.”

“Why not?”

“It’s been rented.”

I pulled into a street parking space and came to a stop, my hands rested on the steering wheel. “Where have you been staying?” If he gave me an address in Maryland, I would reach across the console and strangle him. It was now a quarter past one in the morning. I had zero interest in schlepping him to some friend’s house in Rockville or Bethesda.

“Up until this morning? Walter Reed.”

I exhaled with a rush. Clearly, my assumption that his limp had something to do with the bar fight that caused his head injury was way off base. Walter Reed Medical Center, a prominent hospital located in Bethesda, Maryland, served the DC area’s population of wounded soldiers and veterans. I shifted my back against the door and faced his profile. “How long were you at Walter Reed?”

His jaw muscles contracted as he continued to gaze out the front window. “They flew me in from Ramstein Air Base about two weeks ago.”

I waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “What happened?”

“Caught some shrapnel from an IED.”

Wind whistled through my teeth. “Did you-that is, your leg-is it-?”

For the first time since we’d gotten in the car, he turned, and his sepia brown eyes met my gaze. “Did I lose it?”

I bit my lip and nodded.

“No, it’s still there.” He tapped his thigh. “They dug most of the shrapnel out in Germany before flying me to the States, but they missed a piece and had to cut me open again at Walter Reed. Some specialist worked on it. Caused muscle damage. I may never be able to walk right.”

“I see-I’m sorry to hear that.” I was sorry he’d been injured. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, of course!” His sarcasm cut me to the quick. Our relationship might have ended on an acrimonious note, but I certainly didn’t wish him pain. The tension in the car was so thick you could slice it with an X-Acto. Hurt, anger, and guilt that I thought I’d come to terms with two years ago welled up to form a choking lump in my throat.

Colton clamped his teeth and his jaw muscles flexed, whether from pain or hostility, I didn’t know. His ability to hide his emotions had been one of the strike points in our relationship. That’s what came from dating an Army intelligence officer. They were trained to suppress their true feelings. This wasn’t the first time I had no idea what he was thinking. However, considering our last parting shots at each other, I could surmise his thoughts weren’t pleasant.

I ceded the staring contest. My eyes shifted to gaze blankly out of the windshield at the white Camry in front of us. My chestnut curls fell forward to shield my face and emotions from him.

“So,” I croaked, and then cleared my throat to try again. “If you hate me so much, do you mind explaining why I’m still listed as in your phone as an emergency contact?”

“Why? Did I drag you away from a hot date?” he bit out.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I shot back. “I was at the French Embassy enjoying a holiday concert. Thus, the fancy dress and accoutrements.”

“Please tell me you’re not dating a Frog.”

“He’s not a Frog. He’s French. He’s a security specialist at the Embassy,” I squawked defensively.

“Cripes! You’re dating a French spook.” He snorted with disdain. “A Frog in spook clothing.”

“Philippe is not a spook. And stop calling him a Frog.”

He mumbled something that sounded like, “worthless, cheese-eating Frenchies.”

I flipped off the engine. The heat vents went silent and the dashboard turned dark. “What?”

“How old is he?”

“I don’t know. Mid to late thirties, I suppose. What does it matter?”

“He’s a spook.”

His attack on my dating life churned in my gut and sparked off long, suppressed anger. My temper flared and I fired back. “What does it matter who I date? You no longer have a say in my life. You made that clear two years ago when you called me a selfish bitch, along with some other choice words, and accused me of putting my career ahead of yours.”

“Eight hundred and eighty-four days.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s been eight hundred and eighty-four days, since we split. Two years, one hundred fifty-four days.”

 

Fall is quite possibly my favorite time of year. I live on the East Coast and am privy to some of the most beautiful foliage variations our country provides. Right now my back yard is delivering a show of yellow, burnt orange, crimson and green leaves. The weather is breezy and cool, and except when it rains, the summer humidity has left, which means good hair days. Best of all, autumn is host to the most wonderful holiday ever. Nope, not that one with the Turkey – the one with the witches, ghosts, and goblins – Halloween!

This weekend I spent about four hours decorating my home with Halloween décor. I have skulls, pumpkins, eyeballs, and decorative candle holders littering table tops and mantles. A motion sensing, insult comic, skeleton greets my guests by the front door with comments such as, “Nice Halloween mask. Oh! That’s your face.” Upon entering the kitchen a sound sensing spider drops down onto unsuspecting visitors – the children have named him Boris. A bubbling cauldron on the piano sits next to various potions and ingredients, such as Eye of Newt, and Elixir of Life. A hairy spider with a leg span as large as my kitchen table is crawling up the dining room ceiling. These are just a few of the decorations scattered through my house. Come Halloween, the yard will be turned into a spooky grave yard complete with creeping fog and eerie sound effects.

My children love October as much as I do, and as soon as school begins they start asking when the Halloween décor will make its appearance, and making plans for their costumes, which invariably changes three or four times before the actual day.

Unfortunately, where I live, political correctness, has allowed the schools to suck the fun out of Halloween. Children, even elementary school age kids, are not allowed to wear costumes to school. Yup. That’s right, no costumes. Remember when we were kids and you excitedly woke up the morning of Halloween. You’d climb into your Princess Leia, or Tweedle Dee costume, race down stairs to scarf your breakfast, and after impatiently posing for photos, you’d hot foot it to the bus stop so you could compare what everyone was wearing. I remember it was a tradition to have the younger grades parade through the classrooms, showing off their plastic Strawberry Shortcake outfits.

This is just one of the many creatively “fun things” the schools have discarded over the years. I’ve heard a number of excuses as to why this is. Distraction, inappropriate costume choices, religious offensiveness, blah, blah, blah the litany of excuses goes on and on. Sadly, administrators have taken the joy right out of a day that used to be filled with excitement and fun. I mean, really, if you have to go to school on a holiday, such as Halloween, the least they could do is allow you to dress up as your favorite super hero. Right? After the first three years of banging my head against the brick wall of the school system administration, I gave up and have simply found as many outlets as I could for my kids to wear their costumes outside of school.

What happens where you live? Do schools still allow this little bit of childhood fun to continue?

Hooray, it’s September and all the kiddies are back in school. Whew! What a long summer it seemed to be. Trips to the pool, a family beach vacation, visits to and with friends, movies, skating, bounce housing, so many activities to be organized while the kids were at home. I felt like a cruise director. Then Labor Day weekend arrived. The end was in sight. New backpacks hung on hooks by the door, overloaded grocery bags stuffed full of school supplies slumped in the front hall ready for the first day of school. My youngest was excited to ride the bus, my oldest – more jaded – walked around the house in a funk complaining that summer wasn’t long enough. Friends moaned about missing the lackadaisical summer days and whined about the busy school year full of extracurricular activities and homework ahead.

Not me. I counted down the days, hours-minutes until Tuesday morning. Up early, bright-eyed and bushy tailed I welcomed school day. I packed lunches for both the kids, fed them a delicious and nutritious breakfast, double checked the back packs and drilled the youngest on his bus number. I walked around house singing the Andy William’s Christmas song; It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.  I was excited to have a whole day to myself. The first day I’d have to get my work done without juggling whiny, hungry, bored kids. I had all sorts of plans (only half of which were accomplished). Then the bus came, I waved my kids goodbye, got in my car and followed the bus to school so I could get photos of the kids getting off the bus and walk them to class. I said my final goodbyes and wandered to the cafeteria where the school’s PTO hosted a “Boohoo-Woohoo Tea.” A place where parents could meet other parents, grab a cup of coffee, and commiserate or celebrate over the start of school. I chatted with friends, had a bite to eat, then it was over and I returned to my silent home.

Shockingly, I actually missed my kids. Yes, I started working on edits for an upcoming publication, and began writing my next manuscript in blessed silence. I didn’t have to stop to feed them in the middle of the day, or organize an outing, or break up a fight. But, still I found myself a little teary-eyed over the loss of my rowdy, bickering kids. I’d been one of those moms dancing around, anxious for the new school year to start, yet when it actually came to pass, my feelings could only be described as…bereft.

Luckily, that only lasted for a few days. Now we’re starting week two and we’ve gotten into our routine. So far, the kids are cooperative in the morning. I’m getting to the gym on a regular basis, and work is moving along at a good clip, although not as quickly as I’d originally expected. (Isn’t that always the way?)

So what about you? Do you have kids heading back to school? What were your feelings about the return to a routine? Did you start something new in your life? Perhaps you’re heading back to school yourself? Are you a Boohoo or Woohoo parent when it comes to the new school year?