Christmas in the Cards by Megan Easley-Walsh

Author:Megan Easley-Walsh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Christmas Romance New Release, romantic baking contest, christmas tree farm romance, snowy mountain Christmas, novel about Christmas tree seller, novel about photographer, small town boys romance, sweet contemporary romance, clean romance, Christmas romance, holiday romance, romantic comedy
Publisher: New Historical Fiction
Published: 2021-01-28T00:00:00+00:00

“OH TOM! COME ON. YOU must be freezing!” his mother greeted him, as she opened the door.

“It’s getting colder all right,” he said, stomping the snow off his boots and taking off his coat to hang up on the peg beside the door.

“You want some coffee?” she said, “I just put some on.”

“Sounds great,” he nodded, “Need more wood on the fire?”

“You spoil me,” she said.

“I’m supposed to,” he answered.

“One of these days you should find yourself a wife,” she said, “Then you can spoil her.”

“Sure, Mom. I’ll do that,” he said, distractedly. He’d not yet stepped from the room to put on a log and so the distraction came from the swirling thoughts in his head.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Maybe a better question is what isn’t on my mind...”

“Well then, what isn’t on your mind?” she said, smiling at him.

He laughed and said,

“Oh, I don’t know. How to spend the extra million in my pocket.”

“Ah yes, I’ve never had that problem either. See how lucky we are?”

She smiled as she said it, both of them adept at the game. He nodded and went to the fireplace. He took a log from the pile and added it onto the flickering embers. Fanning it slightly, he waited until it was glowing warmly. Satisfied, he returned to the kitchen.

“So it’s money bothering you then,” she said, as he sat down at the stool. She handed Tom a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” he nodded and took a long sip before answering her.

“I wouldn’t say that I’m worried, just trying to plan what’s best to do.”

“Ah, then that requires a lot of thought indeed. And a little something else.”

She turned her back on him and took something from a jar.

“Here Tom, have a cookie.” He looked at her, with a smile of disbelief.

“Really, Mom?”

“What?” she said, smiling warmly and a bit of sheepishness pressing out from his lips, “It worked when you were five.”

“But I’m not five anymore,” he said, munching into the cookie. A sputter of crumbs flew off in the bite. Mrs. Piper took a paper towel off the holder and slid it across the counter to him.

“Sometimes I wish you were,” she said.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Tom said, shaking his head, munching into the cookie, “‘Thomas Franklin Piper, march those muddy feet out this door. I can’t wait until you’re old enough not to track in all this dirt.’” He quoted the words spoken by his mother some twenty-odd years earlier.

“And I thought you weren’t listening,” she said, shaking her head with a little laugh.

“I’ve always listened,” Tom said, his voice losing its playfulness, “Maybe you’ll do me the favor of listening to me now. I’m glad you’re home for Christmas this year. You just enjoy it. Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort this out.”

“I’m your mother. I’m supposed to worry. It’s in the job description. Just check the fine print. Tell me what’s bothering you,” Mrs. Piper said. Tom sat at the kitchen counter, rolling an orange he had picked up absentmindedly back and forth across it.

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